"Chalker, Jack L - Quintara 1 - The Demons at Rainbow Bridge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chalker Jack L)

"I still think your quitting is a waste," the star-shaped creature told her, "although it's certainly better than having a Modra like this. We can not undo our mistakes, usually; we can only learn from them. But -- do what you must. As for Tris -- I wonder sometimes, after viewing him on this trip. To be sure, he is a cymol, and, to be sure, much of what we see was read back into his head, but -- I still wonder. When does illusion become reality?"
She frowned. "Huh? What?"
"There was a phrenax -- pardon, in your culture the closest word would be cousin, which isn't exactly it but is close enough -- Hmmm . . . This is difficult. Let me discard reality and put it in what I believe are human terms. The crime the -- cousin -- was accused of was the Durquist equivalent of incestuous rape. Nothing could be proven, so the head of the clan secretly arranged for one of the rare Durquist hypnos to visit on a pretext. Evidence gained in that manner is, of course, not admissible most anywhere, but the hypno was pretty well able to confirm the act by hypnoing not the accused but one of her victims."
She sat up. "Huh? A her raped little hims? Now that's a switch!"
"Not if you're a Durquist. At any rate, by drawing on clan loyalties and also the promise of great rewards, the clan head convinced the hypno to violate the law and do a job on the accused -- cousin -- that couldn't be traced. The clan drugged the cousin, then she was put in a room alone with the hypno, and the hypno proceeded to imprint on the cousin that when she awoke she would discover that she was now in the body of one of her victims. The child had already been spirited away, and by common consent the clan treated the cousin as if she were this young male. The cousin felt as if she were the recipient of some supernatural revenge. Within a few months of living the illusion, she molted, and emerged a male -- a virtually unheard-of thing, although it is, of course, biologically possible."
"Of course," she responded, hoping she didn't sound sarcastic.
"Yes, but the point was, an illusion had been created out of revenge, but the illusion ultimately became the reality. Descent, inheritance, and much more comes through the female line in my people. Later on, by chance, the cousin discovered what had actually happened, but it didn't matter. She was now a he and would remain so."
"That is fascinating," she told him, "but I assume this story also has a point for me somewhere?"
"Perhaps. We hold the brain sacred and we don't even know what the Guardians are, let alone understand the technology that lets them create a cymol. We do, however, hold the brain as special. If we lose a limb, we can grow another -- or, in your case, have one grown by medical procedure. If our organs are damaged, they can be replaced with synthetic ones that work just as well. Our brains are merely sophisticated organic computers, after all. It's the data, the experience, that makes them unique. A lot of genetic chemistry goes into helping shape who we become, but by our age we're pretty well fixed. They got the data and memories out of Tris. They got a sense of his behavior patterns from us. They then read all that into this cymol brain, which contains what was the real Tris. To be sure, there are problems -- various chemical stimuli, some emotional interactions -- but, basically, Tris is there. All that he was is there. Is that illusion? Or is that really Tris? And becoming more and more the old Tris as time passes,"
She thought about it. "I see what you mean. I don't know. But if you're trying to cheer me up, forget it. You forget that I'm an empath, Durquist. No matter how much of the old Tris is there, even if he's all there and secretly reveling in the fact that he got even with me, he's still cold and not there to me. It's like a hole where he should be; more like he was a holographic projection. If I could feel him, as I feel you and McCray and Tran and even that little bastard on McCray's back, then it would be something I could live with, guilt aside. But I can't. I'm quitting, and that's that."
'Very well. There's nothing more to say, then."
'Uh -- one question."
'Yes?"
'I never really thought to ask this, but -- which sex are you?"
'Why -- male, of course. I should think that would be obvious. If I were female, why would I be out in the galaxy, surrounded by aliens, cut off from my own kind, trying to become totally independent?"
She'd been around other species enough not to be surprised at the comment. After all, the Durquist's motivations weren't all that far from her own.
"Uh -- pardon me for asking, and if I am out of line just tell me where to go, but -- you weren't by any chance one of the victims of that cousin, were you?"
"Certainly not!"
The Durquist left her and continued on down to the wardroom, leaving her there, a bit shocked but at least thinking of something other than herself.
The Durquist had forgotten, as usual, that she was an empath. Most people never thought twice about empaths unless they were trying to lie or cheat or con you. He had been telling the truth in his response to her question, but something else had come through, both in his telling of the story and in his response to her query. There were only two possible explanations for the feelings emanating from him and one was now eliminated. It explained much that had been a mystery about the Durquist, and told her, too, that the star-shaped creature also carried a fairly heavy load of guilt.
So much, in fact, that since he hadn't been one of the victims, the only other possible explanation was that he had been the victim izer.
They all were there in the wardroom, a bit of apprehension in all of them, since meetings of this kind after a commission were rare and generally only called in emergencies. Most thoughts ran to the possibility that the damage suffered in the whiplash effect was more serious than originally believed, but there didn't seem to be quite the sense of urgency that something like that would entail.
Tris Lankur didn't keep them waiting long.
"A little more than an hour ago, we picked up a subspace tightbeam all-call on the emergency bands," he told them. "It's a very strange message, but -- well, I'll let you hear it first. Computer -- play back message."
"All ships . . . any ships . . . Exchange registry . . . This is Research Vessel Wabaugh. Coordinates based on special map frontier zone one one four eight two stroke five. Coordinates are Rainbow Bridge. Send assistance fast. They're all dead. They're all in there with the demons and they're all dead. Only one left. Can't leave. Approach with extreme caution! Power adequate for maintenance only. Any Exchange registry. Approach with caution. Demons at Rainbow Bridge! Coordinates ..."
"That's enough," Lankur told the computer. "It just keeps repeating."
"It sounds like somebody's gone stark staring bonkers," Jimmy McCray noted. "Either that or it's some kind of trap. That's pretty far out in the frontier. Almost No Man's Land."
Tris Lankur nodded. "We looked it up, though, and it's a valid claim and it is ours. I've reported it, but it'll take hours, maybe days, before my report gets through and others are dispatched. I have no idea if we're the closest Exchange ship or not, but we've gone over the coordinates, and because we're approaching a charted wormhole, it appears that we could divert and reach there in less than three days."
"It's no scales off our appendages," the Durquist commented.
"I'd say forget it. Somebody else better-armed and in better shape will get it."
That seemed to be the general sentiment, but Lankur was prepared for that.
"The way this beam's bouncing around I can only figure that it's gone out in all directions. That area of the frontier is pretty dicey. A sliver of Mycohlian claims lies just to the right on the charts and the Mizlaplan has a sliver just beyond that. It's even money that the message would just as easily be picked up by either or both, and being in, as McCray put it, No Man's Land, a lot of nasty stuff could be pulled before any of our people could get there. Just knock off this one sending the distress signal, if that's what it is, and a claim easily changes hands."
"All the more reason for us to forget we heard it," remarked Trannon Kose.
Lankur sighed. "I wish I could, but I can't. As you all know, I'm not a hundred per cent master of my own destiny anymore. If this were a private claim, I could still ignore it, but the Wabaugh is not merely an Exchange registry vessel, it's owned and operated by the Exchange itself. I'm obligated to override any of my own interests if the interests of the Empire are involved. I have little choice."
"Then why call the meeting?" Trannon Kose asked him.
"Because it doesn't necessarily involve you beyond the diversion. We can lay well off, and I can use the shuttle to go in and investigate on my own. It just means an extra few days, and if overwhelming unfriendlies show up, you can scram and leave me there." He paused a moment, then added, "Of course, if you're willing to fully participate, there's definitely the possibility of salvage, maybe even a takeover claim here. I'd like to have us work as a team, but I can't force you. The point is, if I go in alone, I'll be going in as an agent of the Guardians, not the team; anything of value that I find will become the property of the state. But if the team participates as part of the normal response to a distress signal, then the team will have a claim on anything that turns up."
"Unless we get stiffed, we're going to get a potload of money as our fee on the Hot Plant," Jimmy McCray pointed out. "The only thing more dangerous than a First Team operation is a rescue mission. If we'd failed at the Hot Plant, or if this was another team in trouble, I'd be more inclined to do whatever was needed than going after a government research vessel when I'm due a big pay."
"You'll get paid, McCray," Modra said flatly. "It's a point, Tris."
"All right, then, I go alone. But while the Hot Plant fees will free us from First Team work and allow us to spruce up Widowmaker and maybe have a good time someplace, that's all it'll do. We'll still be a subsidiary operation -- employees." He looked straight at Modra on that one. "I should think we might like to be our own bosses at the next level."
"The point is well taken," the Durquist admitted. "Although, having experienced the first really good luck this team has ever had, I feel unease at testing it too far."
"There's security in being a subsidiary," Modra pointed out. "Besides, the likelihood of anything being there that's really worth much is pretty slim."
"Perhaps," said Trannon Kose thoughtfully. "But I am not a great believer in luck, good or bad, and I have to wonder why they kept this one for themselves instead of putting it up for Exchange auction. And with Tris's position we'll be able to call on the whole navy if need be to back us up."
Jimmy McCray shrugged. "We have to go there anyway. Why not?"
"I do what Jimmy say," Molly piped up.
Lankur looked them over. "Durquist?"
"Oh, why not? We may be having a streak."
"I say no," Modra said firmly.
"I make it three, maybe four, to one," Lankur responded. "This team is going in as a team. Modra, if you want to skip it, just give us a release that you have no claim on what we find and stay aboard."
She sighed. "No, I'm in. I just was wondering what the hell you said to a demon."