"Anderson,_Kevin_J._-_Identity_Crisis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Kevin J)

*XI*
Morning in the mansion, time to exercise again. Another day at work.
The sheets retracted, and Eduard crawled out, aching. His muscles were sore, even his bones felt somehow bruised. "I should take better care of my own body instead of just exercising Ob's all the time." He wanted to remain in bed, but he didn't have that luxury. Not today, not any day.
Worse, his mouth tasted awful, as if Mordecai Ob had eaten cold squid and garlic. He rinsed with a strong mouthwash, but the foul flavor lingered. On mornings like this, Eduard gladly traded bodies with the Bureau Chief.
Out in the main conservatory, Ob sat in a white wrought-iron chair eating his breakfast. Eduard reported for duty, dressed in a nice suit, just in case Ob needed to go into BTL Headquarters.
"Have you eaten yet?" Ob hadn't bothered to change out of a thick bathrobe. "I'm going to need the energy for a long day."
"Sorry." Eduard bent over to the fruit plate and wolfed down some pineapple and bananas.
"Enough." Ob gestured impatiently, and the two men hopscotched. After his stiffness and pains, Eduard breathed a sigh of relief to be in a fit body. The Bureau Chief bustled out of the conservatory without saying goodbye, in a hurry to be off to work.
Eduard sat back down in the white garden chair, wishing he could enjoy the remaining breakfast on the plate -- but Ob had already eaten his fill, and this body was no longer hungry. Now Eduard had to run it off.
As he went into the gym to change from the bathrobe into exercise clothing, Eduard reminded himself that he was pampered here, living in a mansion with all the food and comfort he could want ... and he only had to do a few hours of exercise in a fine-tuned physique that _enjoyed_ the physical workout. No problem.
Daragon came to visit the estate once every few weeks, ostensibly on a work-related errand. The BTL Chief was pleased with Daragon's work, and Eduard was happy for his friend. But he felt separated now, a servant who shouldn't engage in friendly chit-chat with a uniformed Inspector.
Eduard had plenty of quiet time to himself, though he was growing more and more dissatisfied. He often felt ill-used when he swapped back into his own body, sore and tired. He frequently had that foul taste in his mouth, and he couldn't understand why. What was Ob doing to him?
* * * *
Moving furtively in his own mansion, Mordecai Ob locked himself in his study. There would be time to go to BTL Headquarters later. He looked out into the leafy covering of hibiscus vines draped across the window; the foliage obscured his view, granting him the privacy he required. He couldn't let anyone see what he was doing.
As he prepared the items he needed, Ob let his mind wander. He was proud of Daragon, and he hadn't felt that way about a trainee in a long time. He worried how Daragon might react once Eduard was no longer useful, but by that time, the young Inspector would be so wrapped around Ob's finger that it wouldn't matter anymore. The Bureau Chief wouldn't be able to keep his secret forever. But he could last longer than Eduard....
So far, Daragon had restored some exhilaration to Ob's work. With the BTL running so smoothly, he had wondered if he could ever experience that excitement any more. He recalled when he himself had been so enthusiastic, so full of energy, so driven to do his work. But those days were long gone, swallowed in cynicism and boredom.
He ran the powerful Bureau of Tracing and Locations; he had more money than he knew what to do with; and he felt as if he was doing a great service by apprehending criminals, finding fugitives, and reuniting families. However, as with so many celebrities and politicians who had everything they could possibly want, ennui had set in several years ago. Ob looked for ways to enjoy life again, challenges to face ... or at least some sort of stimulus.
It was then that he had fallen into the trap of Rush-X.
The potent, illegal drug was distilled from an extract of shellfish found off the Yucatan coast, a glistening powder like crushed pearls suspended in a glycerin solution, meant to be delivered under the tongue. BTL investigators had tracked down a major manufacturer of the drug, and the samples had come to Ob as evidence.
Over time, Rush-X caused a body to disintegrate, scrapping the neurons so that muscular control fell apart. Despite its known hazards, people paid enormous amounts and risked their own health just for the stimulus the drug provided.
At the time, Ob hadn't understood why.
When he had so much of the drug available to him, entrusted to him, Ob -- against his better judgment in a moment of intense boredom and indecision -- felt adrift. One dose couldn't cause significant harm, or so he'd hoped. The inventory had already been documented, and all the samples were to be incinerated. No one would question him, no one would notice a slight discrepancy.
Before he could change his mind, Ob had placed a vial of the pearly liquid under his tongue. He broke the thin gel capsule, and the drug penetrated soft sublingual tissues. At first it tasted awful, fishy and spicy, like squid and garlic, mixed with cleaning fluid.
Then the effect hit.
The experience was amazing. Though he had been bored and depressed, now his mind opened. He _cared_ about things again. He was energized, exhilarated. In only a few seconds Mordecai Ob rediscovered a passion for life.
Later, because of his connections with the Bureau, he was able to get his hands on Rush-X often enough to keep his habit going. The contraband drug was destroyed weekly, and the Bureau Chief could "inspect" it whenever he wished.
But Ob had seen dying Rush-X addicts, and vowed never to let that happen to his own body, to let himself waste away for chemically induced thrills. Then he'd remembered his personal caretaker, and a solution came to him....
That had been years ago, and the glamour and drama of Rush-X had never grown old.
Now, inside Eduard's borrowed body, he leaned back in a padded chair inside his locked office. He cracked a vial of pearlescent frozen fire under his tongue ... just the precise amount. He rode the racecourse of energy that burned destructive flames through Eduard's flesh. As the euphoria hit, a smile froze on his face.
* * * *
As he finished his jogging circuit of the grounds, Eduard came across the quiet and introspective gardener. The massive Samoan wrestled with an ornamental tree, digging his feet into the ground and trying to heave it upright so he could lash on a support strut. His arm muscles bulged, but he managed to prop up the support long before he exhausted himself. Finished, Tanu straightened the bindings and touched bent branches, like a fussy mother tugging the collar of her son's shirt.
Eduard stopped short, wiping sweat from Ob's forehead. He had made up his mind to ask an important question. Swallowing thick phlegm in a burning throat, he strode over to the gardener. "Tanu, you've worked here for a long time, haven't you? I need to ask you something."
The Samoan turned to him; his expression was open and uncertain. "Years," he said, his typical extensive conversation.
Eduard jogged in place to cool down. "You must see a lot of things going on around here at this estate."
The Samoan looked at him with sad, dark eyes. He nodded, then found the Japanese maple beside him intensely interesting. Tanu plucked a small leaf off a branch. Finally, after a long moment, he said, "You're not like the other ones."
Eduard raised his eyebrows. "Other ones? You mean Ob's previous trainers? How many have there been, besides me?"
Tanu looked longingly back at his trees. "Some."
"What happened to them?" Eduard couldn't imagine why anyone would give up such a plum of a job.
"They're gone."
This conversation was harder work than two hours of exercise. "Care to tell me about any of them?" The gardener refused to explain what was going on. "Well, I'm here to stay."
The Samoan looked back at him, dark eyes filled with infinite sadness.
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*XII*
Daragon set out, armed with information and a set of thin active-screen images. For the first time in his life, he knew what his real mother looked like (at least what she looked like today). The woman lived in a much younger body now, and spent a great deal of time in a place called Club Masquerade. He could see her face to face -- if he could maintain his nerve.
As he stood in front of the club entrance, Daragon took a moment to fuss with his appearance. He had worn nondescript clothes -- a BTL Inspector's uniform would never do, not for this. Before heading out to the streets he had spent long minutes looking at himself in a mirror. He wanted to make a good impression.
He stepped inside the Club and stood motionless. Feeling wobbly, he scanned his handful of surveillance images again, though he had memorized every line in her face. _His mother's face_, though she couldn't possibly bear any physical similarity to him anymore. Maybe with his special vision he could see a similarity in her soul, a family resemblance.
The floor of Club Masquerade was a sea of people, lights, and music. He couldn't imagine how he'd ever identify a single person in the midst of such chaos, so many minds and gyrating bodies, each one able to swap at will....
Then he spotted her, as if a telepathic link already existed between them.
She sat alone, waiting, available. Under the changing bath of lights, his mother looked healthy and sexy, flushed with a sheen of glitter and spray-on pheromones. She nibbled on a stim-stick, legs crossed on a floating stool as she hung by the bar.
Daragon stood frozen, watching her for a moment. He could see her aura, her identity, recognizing a flicker that bore connections to his own. He noted details in her _self_ that were obviously related to him. This was her, no doubt about it.