"Нейл Стефенсон. Snow Crash (Снежная лавина, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"I work for RadiKS. We protect our own."
"Not tonight you don't. Tonight you took a pizza from the scene of a
car wreck. Left the scene of an accident. RadiKS tell you to deliverS that
pizza?"
Y.T. does not return fire. The MetaCop is right; RadiKS did not tell
her to deliver that pizza. She was doing it on a whim.
"So RadiKS ain't gonna help you. So shut up."
He jerks her arm, and the rest of her follows. The three-ringer gives
her a quick look, just long enough to make sure she is really a person, not
a sack of flour or an engine block or a tree stump. He leads them around to
the fetid rump of the Buy 'n' Fly, dark realm of wretched refuse in teeming
dumpsters. He unlocks the back door, a boring steel number with jimmy marks
around the edges like steel-clawed beasts have been trying to get in.
Y.T. is taken downstairs into the basement. First MetaCop follows,
carrying her plank, banging it heedlessly against doorways and stained
polycarbonate bottle racks.
"Better take her uniform-all that gear," the second MetaCop suggests,
not unlewdly.
The manager looks at Y.T., trying not to let his gaze travel sinfully
up and down her body. For thousands of years his people have survived on
alertness: waiting for Mongols to come galloping over the horizon, waiting
for repeat offenders to swing sawed-off shotguns across their check-out
counters. His alertness right now is palpable and painful; he's like a
goblet of hot nitroglycerin. The added question of sexual misconduct makes
it even worse. To him it's no joke.
Y.T. shrugs, trying to think of something unnerving rqd wacky. At this
point, she is supposed to squeal and shrink, wriggle and whine, swoon and
beg. They are threatening to take her clothes. How awful. But she does not
get upset because she knows that they are expecting her to.
A Kourier has to establish space on the pavement. Predictable
law-abiding behavior lulls drivers. They mentally assign you to a little box
in the lane, assume you will stay there, can't handle it when you leave that
little box.
Y.T. is not fond of boxes. Y.T. establishes her space on the pavement
by zagging mightily from lane to lane, establishing a precedent of scary
randomness. Keeps people on their toes,
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makes them react to her,~ instead of the other way round. Now these men
are trying to put her in a box, make her follow rules.
She unzips her coverall all the way down below her navel. Underneath is
naught but billowing pale flesh.
The MetaCops raise their eyebrows.
The manager jumps back, raises both hands up to form a visual shield,
protecting himself from the damaging input. "No, no, nor' he says.
Y.T. shrugs, zips herself back up.
She's not afraid; she's wearing a dentata.
The manager handcuffs her to a cold-water pipe. Second MetaCop removes
his newer, more cybernetic brand of handcuffs, snaps them back onto his
harness. First MetaCop leans her plank against the wall, just out of her