"Walter Jon Williams - Metropolitan - 01 - Metropolitan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

EARTHQUAKE IN PAJ1TAD.

40,000 BELIEVED DEAD!

DETAILS ON THE faTRE!

Aiah has learned to ignore the pain the heavy black ceramic headset inflicts on her ears. At least the headset blots out the volume that comes from Jayme's healthy lungs.

'09:34 hours, Horn Twelve reorientation to degrees 112.5. Ne?' The tabulator on the other end of the line has anything but healthy lungs. There are gasps between each word,, and a dry cough punctuates each phrase. Occasionally Aiah can hear him suck on a cigaret.

'Da,' Aiah repeats. '09:34, Horn Twelve reorientation to degrees 122.5 confirmed.' 09:34 is about six minutes from now. She jots in her log as she speaks, then dials the numbers into her computer. Inside the metal matte-black console there are clicks and whirrs.

122.5 degrees. That would be Mage Towers.

'09=35> Horn Twelve transmit at 1800 mm. tfn. Ne?'

'Da. 09:35, Horn Twelve transmit at 1800 mm. Till further notice. Confirmed.'

1800 megamehrs. That was a lot of demand even for Mage Towers. Who wants so much? she wonders.

She wonders if it's Constantine.

Aiah writes the numbers into her log, and notes that column six of her transmission scalar is free. She dials column six into her computer, then slides the algorithmic scale on the scalar until it points to 1800. She pulls an insulated cable from her cable bank and plugs it through the scale into the socket behind, pinning the scalar in place and completing an electronic circuit.

There are no more calls for power until 09:34. Aiah fidgets with her lace and feels the back of her neck burn. To avoid thinking about the burning woman she looks at the picture of Gil in its frame.

09:33. Computer gears whirr. A little mechanical flag at the top of column six clicks over from white to white-and-red. Atop the building, the huge bronze transmission horn shifts slightly to 122.5 degrees.

A minute passes. The flag clicks over to all red and the electric circuit on the scalar goes live, triggering another, far bigger plasm circuit within the webbed steel skeleton of the building. Power pours from the transgression horn. Mage Towers begins reception of the colossal charge of plasm.

Tfn. Till further notice. Enough plasm to fly Mage Towers halfway to the Shield.

Aiah reaches out her hand, touches the face of the scalar, hoping to get a taste of power, light a glowing candle in her backbrain, charge her nerves with a taste of reality ... and of course nothing happens, nothing, because the plasm isn't hers, because she lives in a building filled with the stuff and she can't have any of it.

She wonders if it's Constantine on the other end of the circuit.

Probably not. Probably this is another sizzling salute to consumerism, a thundering display for a soft drink or a new brand of shoe.

What's the worst thing in a city that covers the world?

To live forever with the object of desire, and not to possess it. 2

LIFE: YOURS, MINE," OURS ZIOO, CHANNEL 2

All leaves are cancelled: everyone's going to be working shifts-and-a-half. Mengene has the meeting only vaguely under control: panic's infected everyone from the Inten-dant down and there's a lot of shouting. Aiah, far too junior to shout, sits across the shining glass conference table from Niden, the only other brown Barkazil face in the room. She was hoping for comfort but it turns out he has a streaming cold, and she winces every time he coughs or sneezes, mentally willing the viruses to the nasal membranes of upper management.

Visible through the wall behind Mengene, a floating billboard drifts past. Why so tense? it asks.

Sometimes advertisers have a sense of humor.