"Greg Egan - Dust" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

DUST
By Greg Egan
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

Born in 1961, Greg Egan lives in Australia, and is certainly in the running for the title
of “Hottest New Writer” of the nineties to date, along with other newcomers such as
Ian R. MacLeod, Maureen F. McHugh, Mary Rosenblum, Stephen Baxter, and
Tony Daniel. Egan has been very impressive and very prolific in the early ‘90s,
seeming to turn up almost everywhere with high-quality stories. He is a frequent
contributor to Interzone and Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, and has
made sales to Pulphouse, Analog, Aurealis, Eidolon, and elsewhere. Several of his
stories have appeared in various “Best of the Year” series, including this one; in fact,
he placed two stories in both our Eighth and Ninth Annual Collections, the first
author ever to do that back-to-back in consecutive volumes. His first novel,
Quarantine, has just appeared, and it was sold as part of a package deal that
includes a second novel and a collection of his short fiction—a pretty high-powered
deal for such a new writer. He may well turn out to be one of the Big Names of the
next decade.

Here he gives us an unsettling and brilliantly original study of just what it is that
makes us human . . .

****

I open my eyes, blinking at the room’s unexpected brightness, then lazily reach out
to place one hand in a patch of sunlight spilling onto the bed from a gap between the
curtains. Dust motes drift across the shaft of light, appearing for all the world to be
conjured into, and out of, existence—evoking a childhood memory of the last time I
found this illusion so compelling, so hypnotic. I feel utterly refreshed—and utterly
disinclined to give up my present state of comfort. I don’t know why I’ve slept so
late, and I don’t care. I spread my fingers on the sun-warmed sheet, and think about
drifting back to sleep.

Something’s troubling me, though. A dream? I pause and try to dredge up
some trace of it, without much hope; unless I’m catapulted awake by a nightmare,
my dreams tend to be evanescent. And yet—

I leap out of bed, crouch down on the carpet, fists to my eyes, face against
my knees, lips moving soundlessly. The shock of realization is a palpable thing: a red
lesion behind my eyes, pulsing with blood. Like . . . the aftermath of a hammer blow
to the thumb—and tinged with the very same mixture of surprise, anger, humiliation,
and idiot bewilderment. Another childhood memory: I held a nail to the wood, yes
—but only to camouflage my true intention. I was curious about everything,
including pain. I’d seen my father injure himself this way—but I knew that I
needed firsthand experi-ence to understand what he’d been through. And I was
sure that it would be worth it, right up to the very last moment—

I rock back and forth, on the verge of laughter, trying to keep my mind blank,
waiting for the panic to subside. And eventually, it does—laced by one simple,
perfectly coherent thought: I don’t want to be here.