-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Ричард Морган
-
- Видоизмененный углерод
-
- Стр. 170/560
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Deck
grinned
and
produced
a
small
weapon
from
his
back
pocket
.
"
That
’
s
right
,
Mr
.
Badass
Cop
.
You
go
this
way
.
"
They
marched
me
through
another
set
of
doors
into
a
commercial
capacity
elevator
which
,
according
to
the
flashing
LED
display
on
the
wall
,
sank
two
dozen
levels
before
we
stopped
.
Throughout
the
ride
,
Deck
and
the
woman
stood
in
opposite
corners
of
the
car
,
guns
levelled
.
I
ignored
them
and
watched
the
digit
counter
.
When
the
doors
opened
there
was
a
medical
team
waiting
for
us
with
a
strap
-
equipped
gurney
.
My
instincts
screamed
at
me
to
try
and
jump
them
,
but
I
held
myself
immobile
while
the
two
pale
-
blue
-
clad
men
came
forward
to
hold
my
arms
and
the
female
medic
shot
me
in
the
neck
with
a
hypodermic
spray
.
There
was
an
icy
sting
,
a
brief
rush
of
cold
and
then
the
corners
of
my
vision
disappeared
in
webbings
of
grey
.
The
last
thing
I
saw
clearly
was
the
incurious
face
of
the
medic
as
she
watched
me
lose
consciousness
.
I
awoke
to
the
sound
of
the
ezan
being
called
somewhere
nearby
,
poetry
turned
querulous
and
metallic
in
the
multiple
throats
of
a
mosque
’
s
loudspeakers
.
It
was
a
sound
I
’
d
last
heard
in
the
skies
over
Zihicce
on
Sharya
,
and
it
had
been
shortly
followed
by
the
shrill
aerial
scream
of
marauder
bombs
.
Above
my
head
,
light
streamed
down
through
the
latticed
bars
of
an
ornate
window
.
There
was
a
dull
,
bloated
feeling
in
my
guts
that
told
me
my
period
was
due
.
I
sat
up
on
the
wooden
floor
and
looked
down
at
myself
.
They
’
d
sleeved
me
in
a
woman
’
s
body
,
young
,
no
more
than
twenty
years
old
with
copper
-
sheened
skin
and
a
heavy
bell
of
black
hair
that
,
when
I
put
my
hands
to
it
,
felt
lank
and
dirty
with
the
onset
of
the
period
.
My
skin
was
faintly
greasy
and
from
somewhere
I
got
the
idea
that
I
had
not
bathed
in
a
while
.
I
was
clothed
in
a
rough
khaki
shirt
several
sizes
too
big
for
my
sleeve
and
nothing
else
.
Beneath
it
,
my
breasts
felt
swollen
and
tender
.
I
was
barefoot
.
I
got
up
and
went
to
the
window
.
There
was
no
glass
but
it
was
well
above
my
new
head
height
,
so
I
hauled
myself
up
on
the
bars
and
peered
out
.
A
sun
-
drenched
landscape
of
poorly
tiled
roofs
stretched
away
as
far
as
I
could
see
,
forested
with
listing
receptor
aerials
and
ancient
satellite
dishes
.
A
cluster
of
minarets
speared
the
horizon
off
to
the
left
and
an
ascending
aircraft
trailed
a
line
of
white
vapour
somewhere
beyond
.
The
air
that
blew
through
was
hot
and
humid
.
My
arms
were
beginning
to
ache
,
so
I
lowered
myself
back
down
to
the
floor
and
padded
across
the
room
to
the
door
.
Predictably
,
it
was
locked
.
The
ezan
stopped
.
Virtuality
.
They
’
d
tapped
into
my
memories
and
come
up
with
this
.
I
’
d
seen
some
of
the
most
unpleasant
things
in
a
long
career
of
human
pain
on
Sharya
.
And
the
Sharyan
religious
police
were
as
popular
in
interrogation
software
as
Angin
Chandra
had
been
in
pilot
porn
.
And
now
,
on
this
harsh
virtual
Sharya
,
they
’
d
sleeved
me
in
a
woman
.
Drunk
one
night
,
Sarah
had
told
me
Women
are
the
race
,
Tak
.
No
two
ways
about
it
.
Male
is
just
a
mutation
with
more
muscle
and
half
the
nerves
.
Fighting
,
fucking
machines
.
My
own
cross
-
sleevings
had
borne
that
theory
out
.
To
be
a
woman
was
a
sensory
experience
beyond
the
male
.
Touch
and
texture
ran
deeper
,
an
interface
with
environment
that
male
flesh
seemed
to
seal
out
instinctively
.
To
a
man
,
skin
was
a
barrier
,
a
protection
.
To
a
woman
it
was
an
organ
of
contact
.
