"Sean McMullen - Pacing the Nightmare" - читать интересную книгу автора (McMullen Sean)

The changes resulting from such an experiment might remain latent until the subject had been given
intensive, military-style training to focus upon: karate, for example. So was it an experiment... or a
standard procedure for a science far more advanced than Corric's. If some unimaginable recruiting
brigade was to medicate a group of unknowing human parents, their children would seem normal until
introduced to a regimen of training, and they would be gathered up before that happened. Were the early
hominoids introduced to this world to provide a breeding population for warriors? If so, for who?
Would they return and turn the genetic determiners on when there was some conflict requiring humanoid
soldiers? Had it happened before?
Melissa had to be told, but I felt foolish and kept putting it off. Then one night I decided to shower
quickly after training and meet her at the main entrance. I was just in time to see her leaving. I followed
without hurrying, I only had to call out as she reached her car, after all. She had not brought her car. She
walked briskly, and through increasingly dangerous streets. She was headed toward her parents'
townhouse, yet walking home was simply... asking for trouble!
"Melissa!"
She stopped, and I caught up. "I'm going to walk you home. I know what you've been doing."
"I do not follow," she said, but her voice quavered.
"It must have been my remark about your style being too mechanical. Have you killed anyone?"
She looked down, yet she was as proud as a cat with a large rat in its jaws. "Nine."
Nine murders. Worse than Jack the Ripper. Melissa the Hitter. I teetered on the brink of hysterical
laughter as she earnestly reassured me that there was currently a drug war in London: her contribution of
dead muggers was lost in the overall toll.
"Melissa... you prowled the streets to find muggers to kill?"
"No, I just walked home."
"But the streets are too dangerous to walk at night."
"Muggers have no monopoly on darkened streets."
"You did it to learn good fighting spirit for karate. It's my fault. I told you that your style was too
mechanical."
"But you were right. I thought about it for a long time."
My comment, my frustrated, impatient, jealous comment.
"Melissa, this is too much-- this is the end. I'm not going to train with you unless the sensei orders me
to do it."
From the look on her face I could see that I had struck home.
"But I still have to get my black belt."
"You can get your black belt without help from me."
"But I need a sensei."
"You have the club sensei."
"I must have my own sensei."
"What gives you the right to special treatment?"
"I work hard enough to deserve it, that's what!"
I walked her home, for the safety of London's muggers, then returned to college and flopped into bed,
exhausted by the stress of the hours just past. Sleep came quickly, but dreams came too. I was training
alone, in a deserted gym. Whenever I made a move there was raucous laughter, as if invisible, spiteful
deities were mocking me. Whenever I glanced at my belt it changed colour, and always with the laughter
echoing above. I soon awoke.
I sat awake reading Cytology Abstracts until I could barely keep my eyes open, but with sleep the
nightmares returned. I was being attacked by street gangs. At first I could fight them off, but they became
faster and more skilled. Some had knives, one had a gun, but even as I dodged past his arm and drove
the heel of my palm into his jaw, a foot snared mine, and down I plunged-- into my bed. I stayed awake
until dawn.
On the following night the nightmares returned. I was being presented with a belt, but instead of Third