"Alastair Reynolds - Revelation Space 04 - Absolution Gap" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Alastair)

Grelier flicked through the plastic-laminated pages of the log, satisfying
himself that all was well. Although most of the bodies in the factory had
never been decanted, this specimen—an adult female—had been warmed
and used once before. The evidence of the injuries inflicted on it was
fading under the regenerative procedures, abdominal scars healing
invisibly, the new leg now only slightly smaller than its undamaged
counterpart. Jasmina did not approve of these patch-up jobs, but her
demand for bodies had outstripped the production capacity of the factory.
Grelier patted the glass affectionately. “Coming along nicely.”
He walked on, making random checks on the other bodies. Sometimes a
glance was sufficient, though more often than not Grelier would thumb
through the log and pause to make some small adjustment to the settings.
He took a great deal of pride in the quiet competence of his work. He
never boasted of his abilities or promised anything he was not absolutely
certain of being able to deliver—utterly unlike Quaiche, who had been full
of exaggerated promises from the moment he stepped aboard the Gnostic
Ascension.
For a while it had worked, too. Grelier, long the queen’s closest
confidant, had found himself temporarily usurped by the flashy newcomer.
All he heard while he was working on her was how Quaiche was going to
change all their fortunes: Quaiche this, Quaiche that. The queen had even
started complaining about Grelier’s duties, moaning that the factory was
too slow in delivering bodies and that the attention-deficit therapies were
losing their effectiveness. Grelier had been briefly tempted to try
something seriously attention-grabbing, something that would catapult
him back into her good graces.
Now he was profoundly glad that he had done no such thing; he had
needed only to bide his time. It was simply a question of letting Quaiche
dig his own grave by setting up expectations that he could not possibly
meet. Sadly—for Quaiche, if not for Grelier—Jasmina had taken him
exactly at his word. If Grelier judged the queen’s mood, poor old Quaiche
was about this close to getting the figurehead treatment.
Grelier stopped at an adult male that had begun to show developmental
anomalies during his last examination. He had adjusted the tank settings,
but his tinkering had apparently been to no avail. To the untrained eye the
body looked normal enough, but it lacked the unmarred symmetry that
Jasmina craved. Grelier shook his head and placed a hand on one of the
polished brass valve wheels. Always a difficult call, this. The body wasn’t
up to scratch by the usual standards of the factory, but then again neither
were the patch-up jobs. Was it time to make Jasmina accept a lowering of
quality? It was she who was pushing the factory to its limit, after all.
No, Grelier decided. If he had learned one lesson from this whole sordid
Quaiche business, it was to maintain his own standards. Jasmina would
scold him for aborting a body, but in the long run she would respect his
judgement, his stolid devotion to excellence.
He twisted the brass wheel shut, blocking saline. He knelt down and
pushed in most of the nutrient valves.
“Sorry,” Grelier said, addressing the smooth, expressionless face behind
the glass, “but I’m afraid you just didn’t cut it.”
He gave the body one last glance. In a few hours the processes of cellular