"William Gibson, Bruce Sterling "The difference engine"" - читать интересную книгу автора

"You keep your card in your bag," he said. "I took that number to a rum
magistrate I know. He ran it through a government Engine for me, and
printed up your Bow Street file, rat-a-tat-tat, like fun." He smirked. "So
I know all about you, girl. Know who you are . . ."
She tried to put a bold face on it. "And who's that, then, Mr. Radley?"
"No Sybil Jones, dearie. You're Sybil Gerard, the daughter of Walter
Gerard, the Luddite agitator."
He'd raided her hidden past.
Machines, whirring somewhere, spinning out history.
Now Mick watched her face, smiling at what he saw there, and she
recognized a look she'd seen before, at Laurent's, when first he'd spied
her across the crowded floor. A hungry look.
Her voice shook. "How long have you known about me?"
"Since our second night. You know I travel with the General. Like any
important man, he has enemies. As his secretary and man-of-affairs, I take
few chances with strangers." Mick put his cruel, deft little hand on her
shoulder. "You might have been someone's agent. It was business."
Sybil flinched away. "Spying on a helpless girl," she said at last.
"You're a right bastard, you are!"
But her foul words scarcely seemed to touch him--he was cold and hard,
like a judge or a lordship. "I may spy, girl, but I use the Government's
machinery for my own sweet purposes. I'm no copper's nark, to look down my
nose at a revolutionary like Walter Gerard--no matter what the Rad Lords
may call him now. Your father was a hero."
He shifted on the pillow. "My hero--that was Walter Gerard. I saw him
speak, on the Rights of Labour, in Manchester. He was a marvel--we all
cheered till our throats was raw! The good old Hell-Cats . . ." Mick's
smooth voice had gone sharp and flat, in a Mancunian tang. "Ever hear tell
of the Hell-Cats, Sybil? In the old days?"
"A street-gang," Sybil said. "Rough boys in Manchester."
Mick frowned. "We was a brotherhood! A friendship youth-guild! Your
father knew us well. He was our patron politician, you might say."
"I'd prefer it if you didn't speak of my father, Mr. Radley."
Mick shook his head at her impatiently. "When I heard they'd tried and
hanged him"--the words like ice behind her ribs--"me and the lads, we took
up torches and crowbars, and we ran hot and wild . . . That was Ned Ludd's
work, girl! Years ago . . ." He picked delicately at the front of his
nightshirt. " 'Tis not a tale I tell to many. The Government's Engines have
long memories."
She understood it now--Mick's generosity and his sweet-talk, the
strange hints he'd aimed at her, of secret plans and better fortune, marked
cards and hidden aces. He was pulling her strings, making her his creature.
The daughter of Walter Gerard was a fancy prize, for a man like Mick.
She pulled herself out of bed, stepping across icy floorboards in her
pantalettes and chemise.
She dug quickly, silently, through the heap of her clothing. The
fringed mantelet, the jacket, the great sagging cage of her crinoline
skirt. The jingling white cuirass of her corset.
"Get back in bed," Mick said lazily. "Don't get your monkey up. 'Tis
cold out there." He shook his head. " 'Tis not like you think, Sybil."