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

shape? "You'll be myexpeditor. That's a critical job. Before you begin, you'll
need to find anidentity. A name and face, and a body suit."It nods."Culture a
sense of self," I advise. "My strongest workers have the
strongestidentities."It says nothing."You'll find everything you need in
Personnel. Mock-flesh. Eyes. Everything." Iwatch it for a moment, then add,
"Most of us pattern ourselves after someonefrom His past. A trusted friend, a
lover. Whomever. Just as long as it honorsHim."The newborn is a head taller
than I, and strongly built. Simple eyes gaze at myface. At my workers.
Everywhere. Then it speaks quietly, warning me, "I'm notsupposed to be here. I
was intended for another duty.""Except you're needed here." I have given these
tours to more than a hundrednewborns, and none has ever acted disappointed.
"Come with me," I tell it. "Iwant to show you something."The stairs and high
platform are a blue corundum mesh. The ceiling and distantfloor are polished
diamond, smooth and lovely, and the walls are a rougherdiamond, catching and
throwing the light. I point to Personnel, then the backdoorway leading to the
warehouse, and I name each of the five assembly lines.Every line has its own
bug oven, squat and rectangular, the exteriors platedwith gold."You're my
expeditor," I promise. "You'll feed my oven whatever raw materials
itneeds.""Your expeditor," it repeats."Once you've got your name and face,
visit the warehouse. Ask for Old Nicka.He'll show you what else you need to
know.""How big is this place?""Huge, isn't it?" I love this view. I always
have. "It's nearly five thousandstandards long, from Assembly to
Shipping.""Yet this is all so tiny," my expeditor observes. "Compared to Him,
this isnothing."I look at the faceless face, uncertain how to respond."How
many workers?" it asks."Including you and me, five hundred and eleven.""And
who am I replacing?"Newborns never ask that question. They're too grateful to
be alive, and theprospect of anything else should be unimaginable."Was it a
suicide?" I hear."No. An accident."Beyond the eyes is doubt. Clear and
undeniable doubt."Why bring up suicide?" I have to ask.The tiny, simple mouth
seems to almost smile. "I must have overheard something.I'm sorry."New ears
might have heard one of my people whispering, yes."We run a careful clean shop
here," I warn it.Softly, very softly, it says, "Due.""What's that?""My name."
With a long delicate finger, it writes Due against its own brightchest, in His
language. "That is me.""Fine," I allow.Gazing clown at my home, and his, Due
tells me, "It's surprising. You only makebone, but look how beautiful this
is...."As if it should be anything else, I think."I think I'll stay,"
proclaims Due.As if any of us, in any large way, has the burden of choice.AGES
AGO, WHEN the construction teams were erecting our plant, there were plansto
include a large chapel where we would have worshipped Him in our sparemoments.
It would have been a glorious chamber filled with inspiring Memoriesfree for
the touching, plus likenesses of His family and trusted followers.
Butaccording to legend, a sudden decree put an end to that indulgence. Instead
of achapel, the workers were told to build a fifth assembly line, increasing
theproduction of bone by a long ways. And what's more, every existing chapel
insideolder plants were to be converted immediately, their space dedicated to
makingmore of whatever those plants produced.Time is critical, the decree
tells us.Maybe not with its words, but in the meaning that the words carry
between them.Hurry, He calls to us.Hurry."That new man --""Due?""Gorgeous."
Mollene giggles, dancing around her work station. "I just wish he'dnotice
little me!"Nothing on or about Mollene is little."So he found himself a pretty