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

"Now oncemore. Is that better?""Much," I lie.He seems satisfied. "Yeah,
they're good arms. We didn't need to refurbish themall that much.""What's
important is you," says another voice. A tense, acidic voice. Steppinginto
view, the plant manager conjures up a look of haggard concern. To
themaintenance man, she says, "They need help at the oven."He makes a grateful
retreat.I gesture with my tight arms. "What do we know?""About the phage? It
was built for sabotage." She speaks in a confidential tone,admitting the
obvious. "Officially, we're reporting it as a contaminate fromoutside. The
sloppiest bug ovens are making some free-ranging parasites....""Why lie?""Do
you want to deal with Security troops? Do you, Jusk?"The obvious occurs to me:
Who's in the best position to sabotage a bug oven? Itsline foreman, of
course.She watches as I flex my new arms, then she steps close to me, using a
sparetool to make her own adjustments. I forgot that she began in Maintenance,
backin that remote era when the plant was new. Her face belongs to His mother
t astrong handsome face that was popular in the early shifts but isn't seen
muchanymore. She looks young, exactly the same as she looked when He saw her
as ayoung boy, complete with the wise sparkle in the pale brown eyes.Leaning
closer, her mouth to my ear, she whispers, "That new man. How exactlydid you
find him?" I tell, in brief."Due? Due?" She keeps saying the name, softer and
softer. Then finally, withouthope, she asks, "Do you know where that wagon was
taking him?""No."The wise eyes are distant. Who can she contact, in
confidence, who mightactually know something? Who can help us without Security
finding out that we'reinvolved in an unthinkable crime?Again, I lift my arms.
"They feel fine now. Thanks."Once more, she says, "Due?""Good arms," I say,
for lack of better.Then she looks at me, asking, "You know where they came
from, don't you?"From the recent suicide, sure. But I was rather hoping to get
away withouthaving to mention that.I am Jusk.In my locker, set between a flesh
patch kit and a sample of the first bone thatI helped build, waits a frazzled
piece of Memory. I found it in Personnel.Whenever I place it against my
forehead, I see my face just as He saw it. Notunhandsome, I like to think. But
there's a vagueness about the edges, which iswhy this Memory is here. A tangle
of imperfections make it unworthy when itcomes to His glorious rebirth.I know
precious little about the man behind that face.A loyal deputy, he is.And
judging by the clues, someone trusted. Practically a friend.In the Memory, the
deputy tells Him, "You look twenty years younger, sir. It'sremarkable what
these treatments can accomplish."He laughs in response -- a calm and wise and
enormous laugh -- and with a voicethat I have always loved, He promises, "And
this is just the start of things."He lifts His hand before His own eyes.I'm
helping to rebuild that hand. Inside it is the bone that I am making; in
afashion, I'm one of His deputies, too."In a few years," He says, "we'll all
be gods....""Yes, sir -- ""Just fucking wait!" He roars.Then the hand drops,
and I can see my face smiling, and the man behind that facesmiles, saying, "I
can hardly wait, sir --"THE BUG OVENS are down for inspection, every line
useless, and for the timebeing, a holiday holds sway. People distract
themselves with talk and littleparties. The usual orgy claims its usual
corner, perched on a mat of scrapaerogel. Lubricated with grease, the bodies
almost glow, limbs twisting andmouths crying out, the participants working at
their fun with an athleticdespair. I pause for a moment, watching faces. Where
I should be is on my bellyinside my own oven; foremen should show the proper
interest, even if they can'thelp make repairs. But I want to speak to Mollene