"Alastair Reynolds - Digital to Analogue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Alastair)

variety of stimuli.тАЩ

тАШPlease donтАЩt hurt me ... I promise I wonтАЩt tell anyone if you let me
goтАжтАЩ

She flicked ash on the floor then took another dismissive draw.
тАШSubject is now entering the plea phase, as youтАЩll have observed. The initial
euphoric state induced by the drug is fading; terror is replacing confusion
and ambivalence about his situation. Soon his pleas will lose coherence;
weтАЩll observe the onset of hysterical shock, infantile withdrawal, regressive
Oedipal complexes. These facades exactly mirror the usual psychoses
observed in situations of extreme trauma, but are little more than mimetic
survival ploys.тАЩ Then she leaned closer, so that I could see my expression
in her black shades. Not looking too good, actually; IтАЩd devel-oped a
spontaneous tic on one eyelid. She placed a set of plastic earplugs over
my head, then returned to her MIDI hook-up. Touching keys, a
multicoloured graphic of wave-form profiles sprang on to one of the
screens. Another lit up showing an annotated musical score, a third
showing a plan view of a piano keyboard, overlaid with numbers and
symbols. тАШDonтАЩt know if you recognise this,тАЩ she said, tapping the waveform
with a black fingernail. тАШBut weтАЩve been acquainted with it for some time
now. And weтАЩve been following you for over a year.тАЩ Followed by an aside:
тАШMental note: must refrain from any communication with the subject outside
of program parameters. Difficult, though: they look and smell human, and
IтАЩm only human myself. CanтАЩt help establishing weak emotional ties. Had the
same problem with rhesus monkeys at the instituteтАжтАЩ

тАШI promise,тАЩ I said. тАШLet me go ... I wonтАЩt even recognise you, will I ...
we could pass in the street and I wouldnтАЩt notice . . . please donтАЩt hurt me,
IтАЩm begging you . . .тАЩ

She stubbed the cigarette on the back of my hand. тАШUh, uh, uh,тАЩ she
said. тАШNo talking till I say so, not until I expressly request a verbal response.тАЩ
She ripped off a strip of paper; when IтАЩd opened my mouth, the pen-trace
had zigged dramatically. тАШHmm,тАЩ she said to herself. тАШThis is very poor
indeed, much worse than we assumed.тАЩ Then she reached over to the table
for the industrial stapler, flicking open its steel jaw like a soldier checking
the clip on his rifle. Gripped the trigger and pumped it twice, to free the
action, sending tiny projectiles across the room. Then leaned over my
couch and stapled the strip of paper on to the plaster of the wall, ker-thunk.
 While she did this IтАЩd begun screaming, not merely because of the
pain in my hand.

She cuffed me. тАШI said quiet, you rascal! No screaming or IтАЩll have to
cut your vocal chords . . .тАЩ Then she laughed. тАШNot that anyoneтАЩs going to
hear us, mind you.тАЩ And as she spoke, I heard the throttling up of a plane
preparing to take off. We were in the vicinity of an airport, I guessed. I
thought of the many bunkers and sheds youтАЩd find within the perimeter of
any small airfield. No one was going to wander in on us by accident, that
was clear.