"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Dancers Like Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

again, this time to one that left everything looking gray and grainy, probably
the colony's equivalent of dawn. Shadows seemed darker, and the dome filter
leached the color from the plants. Only the white plastic seemed unchanged,
but startling for the contrast against the physical environment.
People had stepped to the edges of their gardens and were watching us
pass. The street seemed unusually quiet. I waited for someone to say something
or to follow us. No one did. They stared as if we were a two-man funeral
procession and they were distant relatives there only for the reading of the
will.
We turned the corner and arrived at the murder scene. A dozen people
stood in a half-circle on the cultivated lawn. Netta and Saunders crouched
near the door. I pushed through the people and walked up the sidewalk.
"Netta?"
She turned, saw me, and moved out of the way. This body was headless. I
stared for a moment at the gap where the head should have been, noting as
calmly as I could that no blood stained the white plastic door. This child was
smaller than the others. Its chest had been opened, and its hands were
missing.
"You need to see this, too, Justin." She walked down the steps and
rounded the building. I followed. There, in between two spindly rosebushes,
the head rested. I stared at it, feeling hollow, noting other details while my
stomach turned. Michael Dengler's empty eyes stared back at me. His mouth was
caught in a cry of pain. His hands were crossed in front of his chin, but I
couldn't see his heart or his lungs.
The last time I had seen him, he was smiling, running with the other
children. I crouched down beside him, wanting to touch his face, to soothe
him, to offer to take his place. My life was empty. His had just been
starting.
"Michael Dengler," Netta said, startling me. I took a deep breath. "His
sister, Katie, was one of the earlier victims. His mother is over there."
A woman stood at the very edge of the semicircle, her hands clutched to
her chest. The silence was unnerving me. I could hear myself breathe. The rose
scent was cloying. I turned back to Michael and thought, for a moment, that I
was staring at myself.
"This is the first time we have ever found the missing body parts. We
have to confirm, of course, that the hands are his, but they look small
enough," Netta said.
I made myself concentrate on Netta's words. Michael Dengler was dead. I
was part of the investigative team. I had to remain calm.
"I need a light," I said. Someone came up behind me and handed me a
handlight. I cupped my hand around the metal surface and flicked the switch,
running the light around the head. The boy was pale, the pale of a human body
that had never, ever tanned. "How old was he?"
"Eight."
Eight. Too young for puberty, even on the outside edges of human
physiology. If he had been female, maybe. But even that was doubtful. This was
a little boy, a child, with no traces of adulthood -- and no possibilities for
it. _Mom says they should take me for who I am,_ he had said. _What do you
think?_
Professional, I reminded myself. I had to be professional. I took a