"Marianne de Pierres - Parrish Plessis 1 - Nylon Angel" - читать интересную книгу автора (de Pierres Marianne)

was imaged in Jamon Mondo's eyes.
"Be there, won't you, Parrish?"

I nodded and hated my guts for it.

Chapter Two



The aged Trans-train limped out of the station and headed south past Fishertown where the view wasn't
pretty. I often wondered who paid who to keep it running. Mostly its passengers were like me, locals
taking the quick way from one end of The Tert to the otherтАФTorley's to Plastique in a couple of hours.
The rest of the passengers either couldn't afford the Hi-way bypass, or were bent on glimpsing real
misery.

The Tert stretched for a hundred klicks or more between the sea and the snaking river, a turtle-shaped
strip of land that should have been priceless. Instead, it harbored the wretched, the sick and the
downright sicko. No dinkum straight would dream of going there, with its toxic soil and crazy
population.

Years ago it had been a massive foundry and industrial siteтАФwhispers of long-buried tek as wellтАФway
out past the limits of the expanding city, Viva. Now, Viva was called Vivacity, one of the world's
carnivorous supercities, spreading down the east coast of Australia.

The industrial structures had long since been demolished. A spanking plastic villa metropolis arose on its
remains, complete with pocket courtyards, identical black lacquer front doors and palm trees.

It took fifty years of high-density living before the side effects of the poisoned soil became obvious. Now
the long-termers in The Tert were either morons or nutters. Short-termers paid a fortune in protectives or
took their chances with the rest.

The villa metropolis was no longer recognizable as distinct pieces of architecture, only a morass of living.

The seaside of The Tert was known as Fishertown, a gray stretch of ilmenite black radioactive sand.
Slums huddled like clumps of seaweed along it, home to a miserable collection of fishing families.

Not the place for romantic moonlight walks.

I was headed to pay a visit to Minoj Armaments and Software, on the south side of The Tert. The
"scenic" Trans-train was the quickest way there.

I found I was spending more and more time at Raul Minoj's, ogling his range of weapons. It gave me a
kind of peace when nothing else would. Peace from things like my evening "date" with Jamon.

I stared at my reflection in the dull chrome piping of the train interior. Wear something interesting, he'd
said. Well, interesting he got! I'd changed to a funky black nylon suit with lime pleats interweaved into the
flared legs and a leather tank top underneath.

And dangerous. The tank had specially worked compartments into which I slipped evil-long poisoned
pins. Handy in a fight! Underneath the pants I wore a string that stretched like a cobweb, front and back.