"Michael Swanwick - The Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

It must have been devastating.

The fight went on and on. It was a strange and alienating experience for me. After a while I couldn't stay
focused on it. My thoughts kept slipping into a zone where I found myself studying the line of Courtney's
jaw, thinking about later tonight. She liked her sex just a little bit sick. There was always a feeling, fucking
her, that there was something truly repulsive that she really wanted to do but lacked the courage to bring
up on her own.

So there was always this urge to get her to do something she didn't like. She was resistant; I never dared
try more than one new thing per date. But I could always talk her into that one thing. Because when she
was aroused, she got pliant. She could be talked into anything. She could be made to beg for it.

Courtney would've been amazed to learn that I was not proud of what I did with her—quite the
opposite, in fact. But I was as obsessed with her as she was with whatever it was that obsessed her.

Suddenly Courtney was on her feet, yelling. The hologram showed Koestler on his feet as well. The big
guy was on the ropes, being pummeled. Blood and spittle flew from his face with each blow. Then he
was down; he'd never even had a chance. He must've known early on that it was hopeless, that he wasn't
going to win, but he'd refused to take a fall. He had to be pounded into the ground. He went down
raging, proud and uncomplaining. I had to admire that.

But he lost anyway.

That, I realized, was the message I was meant to take away from this. Not just that the product was
robust. But that only those who backed it were going to win. I could see, even if the audience couldn't,
that it was the end of an era. A man's body wasn't worth a damn anymore. There wasn't anything it could
do that technology couldn't handle better. The number of losers in the world had just doubled, tripled,
reached maximum. What the fools below were cheering for was the death of their futures.

I got up and cheered too.

In the stretch afterward, Koestler said, "You've seen the light. You're a believer now."

"I haven't necessarily decided yet."

"Don't bullshit me," Koestler said. "I've done my homework, Mr. Nichols. Your current position is not
exactly secure. Morton-Western is going down the tubes. The entire service sector is going down the
tubes. Face it, the old economic order is as good as fucking gone. Of course you're going to take my
offer. You don't have any other choice."

The fax outed sets of contracts. "A Certain Product," it said here and there. Corpses were never
mentioned.

But when I opened my jacket to get a pen Koestler said, "Wait, I've got a factory. Three thousand
positions under me. I've got a motivated workforce. They'd walk through fire to keep their jobs. Pilferage
is at zero. Sick time practically the same. Give me one advantage your product has over my current
workforce. Sell me on it. I'll give you thirty seconds."

I wasn't in sales and the job had been explicitly promised me already. But by reaching for the pen, I had