"Charles Stross - Remade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

like ..." She glances past me. There are a handful of other people in the bar, a few bushujo and a couple
of cyborgs, but most of them are wearing orthohuman bodies. She's glancing at a woman with long
blonde hair on one side of her head and stubble on the other, wearing a filmy white drape and a sword
belt. The woman is braying loudly with laughter at something one of her companions just said: berserkers
on the prowl for players. "Her, for example."

"But you were orthohuman once?"

"I still am, inside."

The penny drops: She wears xenohuman drag when she's in public because she's shy. I glance over at the
group and accidentally make eye contact with the blonde woman. She looks at me, stiffens, then
pointedly turns away. "How long has this bar been here?" I ask, my ears burning. How dare she do that
to me?

"About three megs." Kay nods at the group of orthos across the room. "I really would avoid paying
obvious attention to them, they're duellists."

"So am I." I nod at her. "I find it therapeutic."

She grimaces. "I don't play, myself. It's messy. And I don't like pain."

"Well, neither do I," I say slowly. "That's not the point." The point is that we get angry when we can't
remember who we are, and we lash out at first; and a structured, formal framework means that nobody
else needs to get hurt.

"Where do you live?" she asks.

"I'm in the" - she's transparently changing the subject, I realise - "clinic, still. I mean, everything I had, I" -
liquidated and ran - "I travel light. I still haven't decided what to be in this new lifetime, so there doesn't
seem much point in having lots of baggage."

"Another drink?" Kay asks. "I'm buying."

"Yes, please." A warning bell rings in my head as I sense Blondie heading towards our table. I pretend
not to notice but I can feel a familiar warmth in my stomach, a tension in my back. Ancient reflexes and
not a few modern cheat-codes take over and I surreptitiously loosen my sword in its scabbard. I think I
know what Blondie wants and I'm perfectly happy to give it to her. She's not the only one around here
prone to frequent flashes of murderous rage that take a while to cool. The counsellor told me to embrace
it and give in, among consenting fellows: it should burn itself out in time. Which is why I'm carrying.

But the post-excision rages aren't my only irritant. In addition to memory edits I opted to have my age
reset. Being post-adolescent again brings back forgotten hormonal torments. It makes me pace my
apartment restlessly, until I pull on a duellist's sash and go out in search of random violence. Sex, too, has
acquired an obsessive importance I'd forgotten. These urges are hard to fight off when you wake up
empty and unable to remember who you used to be. And they're a lot less fun the second time through
the cycle of rejuvenation.

"Listen, don't look round but you probably ought to know that someone is about to - "