"Robert Reed - 555" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

nothing to do but wait for my next scene, and to the best of my ability,
think.



EACH WORLD HAS its rules and unimpeachable logics. Every body is
built from small parts and algorithms drawn around a steady red heart.
No soul can be stored like a computer program or a lifelong diary. An
authentic consciousness, once born, must live at some state of being, if
only sleeping inside a dark file or in the covers of a warm bed. And when it
dies, only a gross approximation of the original soul can be reborn again.
By cloning or digital retrieval, the process is limited. Death is death. And
what is lost is always lost forever.
Mitchell tells me to shoot Claudia in the heart.
And my immediate response is to say, "That would kill her."
"We can certainly hope so," he says, laughing with hope and menace.
Then his projected self winks at me, and he says, "Tell the truth. Do you
want to shoot the bitch?"
I say, "Yes."
"I know you do."
I drop my gaze. "She stole away my lover."
"Honestly, Joan... that's a minor crime in Claudia's resumi."
Little time remains. Even in my realm, thirteen seconds is just a little
while, but most of that has been spent. In "the real world," there isn't even
time enough to mutter a word of warning.
I think about that.
At the same instant, I ask, "What happens to me?"
"Afterward?" He grins. "A fine question." Then with a big wink, he says,
"I can't tell you everything. But you're going to survive, and you're to play
an increasingly important role in the City. And in my world, too."
"Your world?"
"How would you feel about being the next Claudia?"
I shake my head in disbelief. And with the time leaking away fast, I
admit, "I'd prefer to be the first Joan."
"Good response," he says.
He shifts his weightless body in the chair and says, "I have to leave
now."
"But what happens next?" I ask. "After I shoot her, what?"
"For a little while, you'll be on vacation. The entire City will be. We want
to give your audience ample time to obsess about Claudia's murder."
I nod.
Mitchell watches me, and perhaps sensing something in my emotions,
he feeds me a second dose of purposeful rage.
My face colors.
My hands tremble.
Mitchell grins and tells me, "Good-bye, Joan."
I reach into my handy purse, pulling out the tiny pistol, and almost
smiling, I aim my weapon at the Head Writer--at the approximate
position of his projected heart--telling hint quite simply, "Yes. Goodbye."
The Producer is a powerful man, and wealthy in ways that I can't begin