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

With a bored and impatient expression, she scanned the people on the floor, looking for no one in particular -- but definitely looking for _someone_. She leaned back languidly, tossing ginger hair over her shoulder.
Daragon marched up to her before his resolve could fail. He drew on all the confidence and firm body language he'd been taught in the BTL. He knew how to confront violent fugitives, but this seemed even more intimidating.
His mother's eyes locked with his. Her mouth tightened, then smiled as she appraised him. "Not a hint of hesitation." She flashed a hungry smile. "You look like you know what you want." She sat straighter, close to where he stood nonplussed. She wrapped her arms around his neck, to draw him down for a kiss.
"I -- I just wanted to find you," Daragon said. He paused a beat, took a deep breath. "You, you're my mother."
Her bemused expression froze, then fell into a scowl. "What did you say?"
"I'm your son, but we've never met. You gave me away as an infant -- " His words came in a rush.
"_That_ baby? Ah, that was a long time ago."
"I've always wondered about you. I wanted to know who you were, what you were doing. My own mother. I tried to track you down."
"For what?" She was unimpressed. "That child came out of a different body. What does that matter to me?" She ran her fingers over his wrist, still trying to grasp his hand. Maliciously, she seemed more determined than ever. "It shouldn't matter to the two of us right now."
Daragon withdrew, but she slid off the floating stool, more aggressive now. She kissed him, quickly and passionately, on the mouth. Daragon backed toward the dance floor, but she followed. "Stop! I just wanted to talk to you."
"Why? Now you've got me intrigued. If you want us to get to know each other, I can think of a better way. What was your name again?" She pressed against him, rubbing hips and pushing the spongy firmness of her breasts against his ribs. "Don't you think this body is sexy? It's new, and I paid good money for it."
"But you're my mother!"
"Kind of kinky, isn't it?" She laughed at him, made him feel small. "What are you worried about? Incest? That was an old, genetic-based taboo to prevent inbreeding. Nothing to worry about here." Her voice got huskier. "Hey, not many people have a chance to try out something like this."
Daragon stopped resisting and stood firm, remembering what Ob had taught him, remembering that he was a BTL Inspector. He couldn't let this woman dominate the conversation. This was _his_ encounter, and he could take the lead. "Stop being so immature!" he snapped, using a voice of command. "You're supposed to be more of an adult than I am."
She laughed. The music kept playing in the background, growing louder. People talked and chuckled, milling about. "It's obvious I'm older, yes. Today, someone else has the flesh that gave birth to you, and by now it's old. But you and I can still get it on, right now, just like two young, virile people."
"I don't want to have sex with you, Mother. I want to know about you, know about my father."
He could see bright recollections parading behind her retinas. "You might find it surprising, but I do remember the man who was your father -- a very special man. We only had one night, and I could never find him again ... but then disappearing is what he was good at."
She pulled Daragon closer so she could whisper in his ear with a hot breath that smelled of the spicy stim-stick. "Your father's been alive for a hundred years, hiding, swapping bodies every so often, staying out of the spotlight." She chuckled. "But I guess he liked to get laid every once in a while."
Daragon could barely believe what he was hearing.
"You'll never find him," she continued. "He knows how to vanish, and it's been years. How long has it been, anyway? How old are you? In fact ... what did you say your name was?"
"I'm Daragon. I'm twenty-two." Bitterness crept into his voice, resentment that his own mother had to ask him such questions.
She had managed to maneuver him out onto the dance floor. "I just want to stay young as long as I can -- your father taught me that. Keep swapping bodies, keep yourself alive, trade up whenever you can. Is there something wrong with that?" She tried to press close, but now Daragon just wanted to be far away from her.
"Well, _I_ don't have that option, Mother. I can't hopscotch at all -- I'm an anomaly. I have to make do with what I have." He finally pushed her away. "With what you gave me."
"That was some other body. Don't get hung up about it. We can still -- "
But Daragon turned and marched out of Club Masquerade, his hopes and illusions shattered.
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*XIII*
Outside the window, the gardener's trowel chopped, chopped, _chopped_. Each blow pounded like thunder through Eduard's splitting skull.
He rolled off the narrow bed, feeling his muscles ache, his intestines twist. It felt as if he had the mother of all hangovers. The afternoon sunlight hurt his eyes, piercing his pupils like little spears. Mordecai Ob had returned at midday asking to hopscotch back into his own form, and now Eduard felt so bad he had no choice but to take a nap, sleep it off.
Or try to.
Tanu worked in the flowerbed under his window. Just weeding. He might as well have been using a jackhammer.
Groaning, Eduard stared at the ceiling for several minutes until he stood up, trying to fight the wave of nausea. His ears rang, and a film of sweat broke out on his forehead. He must be afflicted with some kind of slow-acting flu. Eduard remembered selling his body, enduring all kinds of agony for a few credits. He could get through this, too. He just wanted to know what it was; then he could put it out of his mind.
He had already run a viral and bacteriological scan to see if he was getting sick, but he found no infections, no cold. And this didn't have the same _feel_ as the severe illnesses he endured. Maybe Ob would let him go for a thorough medical scan, a professional assessment.
He looked forward to when he could swap into the boss's body, just to feel healthy again, for a change. He staggered over to the window and waved his hand to shift the polarized curtain film. Below, Tanu worked shirtless in the soil of a petunia bed. Normally at this time of day Eduard would have been up and around, reading or playing games.
Sweat trickled like oil down the gardener's bronzed back. He dug up old flowers, clearing the colorless bed for new flats of bachelor's buttons and phlox. Sensing the scrutiny, Tanu looked up, blinking in the afternoon sunshine.
Eduard stared through the window, seeing his ghost reflection: His own eyes were sunken, shadowed with pain, and his cheeks were gaunt. He wasn't doing well at all. When he pushed the controls to open the window, he noticed his hands quaking with an involuntary tremble. They'd never done that before.
"I didn't know working with flowers could be so loud." He rubbed his temples.
Tanu looked at him for a long moment, then hung his head. "It's happening again." He gathered an armful of the wilting petunias he had just uprooted.
Eduard leaned out the window, but the smell of the fresh air and plants and soil made him queasy. "What? What's happening again?" Tanu trudged away toward an enclosure where he dumped his mulch.
"Hey, Tanu!" The desperate sound in Eduard's voice struck a chord in the gardener, because he slowly turned around. "What happened to Ob's other physical trainers? Why did they quit this job? I need to know."
The Samoan shook his head; the rustling petunias quivered in his arms.
"At least tell me who the last one was. What was his name?"
"Sandor, his name was Sandor Perun. But he never took the time to talk to me, like you do."
No matter how much Eduard pleaded, Tanu refused to offer any further details and went back to his gardening. But now at least Eduard had a name to track down, a place to start.
Eduard took several potent analgesics, stood under a gushing hot shower until he felt refreshed enough to tackle his questions. He went the main COM terminals in Ob's mansion. Time to do a little hunting.
* * * *
On the interactive filmscreen he searched through the jungle of information, trying to track down Mordecai Ob's previous personal trainers. Any connections with the Bureau and BTL business were naturally restricted, but the workings of Ob's private estate should be subject to the same COM-accessible requirements as any other piece of public information.
_Sandor Perun_. Eduard found a subset of data behind several pseudonyms and translucent filenames. First step, clear. He opened up the relevant information on employment at Ob's estate, searching for the man's hiring history.
To his astonishment, he uncovered a recently placed posting for a new job. His own job. _He's already looking for a new physical trainer!_ Without saying a word to Eduard, Ob intended to replace him. He glanced at the interview notice, read the words. Identical job description, identical pay; starting time, "in the near future."
"You bastard," Eduard mumbled.