"Rajnar Vajra - Viewschool" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vajra Rajnar)

Last year, I'd taught youngsters who were allergic to the universe, or had fiercely communicable diseases,
or who were too disabled to be moved. Piece of cake. This year I'd drawn the dregs of the lost souls.
Two of these adolescents were hair-trigger violent, one was semi-catatonic, one was brilliantly malicious,
one wouldn't or couldn't stop grinning, and one shivered in perpetual terror. All were supposedly well
above average intelligence, although the IQ tests must've been run before they'd rotted on the vine. All
had been declared unsuitable for even the most тАЬspecialтАЭ physical classroom. A word any self-respecting
dictionary would spit out: тАЬunteachable,тАЭ appeared in every report.

Such rejects would never be mainstreamed but the law demanded an effort, so they'd been
тАЬside-streamed,тАЭ a term with deliberate Internet connotations. It boiled down to one grotesque fact: I
was stuck with thoroughbred losers. I'd done my best, spent months preparing some unique educational
materials, but I was sure I'd wasted my time and the time of a lot of good folks at my ViewNet provider.

Releasing the grandmother of all sighs, I focused my fake eyes on the left upper rectangle. His name was
Curtis Bouden and his tag was Q-Ball: a skinny black sixteen-year-old with an upsetting resemblance to
my older son, Tai. But my son had never glared at anyone or anything that way in his life. I'm sure of it.
And Tai lacked a constellation of cigarette-burn scars across his forehead. Q-Ball's proxyтАФor тАЬenvoy,тАЭ
тАЬonview,тАЭ or тАЬe-con,тАЭ if you preferтАФwas a huge black bouncer-type with a scarred nose and shaved
head, vaguely familiar. Maybe a pro football player. I love basketball and baseball but can't bear football
or hockey because they've become such a celebration of brutality. Besides, who can stand football
commentators?

Below Q-Ball, Madeline Broms gazed at nothing with empty eyes. She'd selected no tag and since she'd
requested no proxy, ViewNet had defaulted to one with her own bland features. Broms was responsive
enough to make her part of this class, but just barely, as if she'd gauged her evaluation team precisely.
She was blond, tall, solidly built, and might've seemed like a young Valkyrie if her face had even a trace
of animation. She'd been a very smart, normal girl until eighth grade and then something had happened to
herтАФperhaps only she knew what; her records were incomplete.

The upper middle square contained the other ragemeister, Anthony P. Nakanelua of Honolulu, tagged
Kekipi. This one was big, appeared more Samoan than Hawaiian, and in real life his fury was concealed
behind a fat and dull facade. He probably wasn't at his best because it was only 3:30 am in Honolulu. His
proxy wasn't human. On ViewNet, he was a four-armed man-sized cobra with a foot-long tongue,
constantly tasting the air.

The pathetic boy in the lower middle, Daniel Greenburg, had skipped two grades before he'd been
crippled by some experience so hideous, he'd wound up in a nearly constant panic. He was only fourteen
and had the full-body cramp of a mouse blinded by headlightsтАФno deer could've looked so scared. On
ViewNet, he was buried in silver armor and his handle was White Night. Along with Madeline, he was a
mystery victim. He wouldn't tell a soul what had terrified him so much.

Upper right, Chris Lowry's permanent grin was a rictus of hysteria, sickening to look at. His proxy wore
a far more pleasant expression: Jack Nickolson as The Joker. Lowry's tag was, get this, Buddha.

I'd saved the worst for last. Elaine Carpenter's green eyes gave nothing away. She was a thin pale girl
with a short nose and wide lips twisted into a subtle sneer. Her proxy was male: Sherlock Holmes with
deerstalker hat, pipe, and a sneer that matched her own. Strangely, her tag was Cher.

Q-Ball, Madeline, Kekipi, White Night, Buddha, and Cher. To break up routine, every session they'd be