"Greg Egan - Dust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

For a moment, this conclusion seems unassailable, but then a countervail-ing
voice rises up in me: IтАЩm not going to quit. Not again. I swore to myself that I
wouldnтАЩt . . . and there are a hundred good reasons not toтАФ

Such as?

For a start, I canтАЩt afford itтАФ

No? Who canтАЩt afford it?

I whisper, тАЬI know exactly how much this cost, you bastard. And I honestly
donтАЩt give a shit. IтАЩm not going through with it.тАЭ

ThereтАЩs no reply. I clench my teeth, uncover my eyes, look around the room.
Away from the few dazzling patches of direct sunshine, everything glows softly in
the diffuse light: the matte-white brick walls, the imitation (imitation) mahogany desk;
even the Dali and Giger posters look harmless, domesticated. The simulation is
perfectтАФor rather, finer-grained than my тАЬvisualтАЭ acuity, and hence indistinguishable
from realityтАФas no doubt it was the other four times. Certainly, none of the other
Copies complained about a lack of verisimilitude in their environments. In fact, they
never said any-thing very coherent; they just ranted abuse, whined about their plight,
and then terminated themselvesтАФall within fifteen (subjective) minutes of gain-ing
consciousness.

And me? What ever made meтАФhimтАФthink that I wonтАЩt do the same? How
am I different from Copy number four? Three years older. More stubborn? More
determined? More desperate for success? I was, for sure . . . back when I was still
thinking of myself as the one whoтАЩd stay real, the one whoтАЩd sit outside and watch
the whole experiment from a safe distance.

Suddenly I wonder: What makes me so sure that IтАЩm not outside? I laugh
weakly. I donтАЩt remember anything after the scan, which is a bad sign, but I was
overwrought, and IтАЩd spent so long psyching myself up for тАЬthisтАЭ . . .

Get it over with.

I mutter the password, тАЬBremsstrahlungтАЭтАФand my last faint hope van-ishes,
as a black-on-white square about a meter wide, covered in icons, appears in midair
in front of me.

I give the interface window an angry thump; it resists me as if it were solid,
and firmly anchored. As if I were solid, too. I donтАЩt really need any more convincing,
but I grip the top edge and lift myself right off the floor. I regret this; the realistic
cluster of effects of exertionтАФdown to the plausible twinge in my right elbowтАФpin
me to this тАЬbody,тАЭ anchor me to this тАЬplace,тАЭ in exactly the way I should be doing
everything I can to avoid.

Okay. Swallow it: IтАЩm a Copy. My memories may be those of a human being,
but I will never inhabit a real body тАЬagain.тАЭ Never inhabit the real world again . . .