"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - The Retrieval Artist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

discovered, by accident, that they were good at it, usually making that discovery in their jobs for human corporations
or human crime syndicates.
I got in through a different kind of accident. Once I'd been a space cop assigned to Moon Sector. A lot of the
Disappeared come through here on their way to new lives, and over time, I found myself working against the clock,
trying to save people I'd never met from the people they were hiding from. The space police frowned on the work -- the
Disappeared are often reformed criminals and not worth the time, at least according to the Moon Sector -- and so, after
one of the most horrible incidents of my life, I went into business on my own.
I'm at the top of my profession, rich beyond all measure, and usually content with that. I chose not to have a spouse
or children, and my family is long dead, which I actually consider to be a good thing. Families in this business are a
liability. So are close friends. Anyone who can be broken to force you to talk. I don't mind being alone.
But I do hate being manipulated, and I hate even more taking revenge, mine or anyone else's. I vigilantly protect
myself against both of those things.
And this was the first time I failed.


III

After the girl left, I stayed away from the office for two days. Sometimes snubbed clients come back. They tell me
their stories, the reasons they're searching for their parent/child/spouse, and they expect me to understand. Sometimes
they claim they've found more money. Sometimes they simply try to cry on my shoulder, believing I will sympathize.
Once upon a time maybe I would have. But Sir Galahad has calluses growing on his heart. I am beginning to hate
the individuals. They always take a level of judgment that drains me. The lawyers trying to find a long-lost soul to
meet the terms of a will; the insurance agents, required by law to find the beneficiaries, forced by the government to
search "as far as humanly possible without spending the benefits"; the detective, using government funds to find the
one person who could put a career criminal, serial killer, or child molester, away for life; these people are the clients I
like the most. Almost all are repeat customers. I still have to do background checks, but I have my gut to rely on as
well. With individuals, I can never go by gut, and even armed with information, I've been burned.
I've gotten to the point where coldness is the way of the game for me, at least at first. Once I sign on, I become the
most intense defender of the Disappeared. The object of my search also becomes the person I protect and care about
the most. It takes a lot of effort to maintain that caring, and even more to manage the protection.
Sometimes I'll go to extremes.
Sometimes I have no other choice.
On the third day, I went back to my office, and of course, the girl was waiting. This time she was dressed
appropriately, a pair of boots, cargo pants that cinched at the ankles, and a shirt the color of sand. Her personal items
bag was gone -- obviously someone, probably the maître d' at the exclusive hotel she was most likely staying at, had
told her it made her a mark for pickpockets and other thieves. Thin mesh gloves covered her enhancements. Only her
long hair marked her as a newcomer. If she stayed longer than a month, she'd cut it off just like the rest of us rather
than worry about keeping it clean.
She was leaning against my locked door, her booted feet sticking into the street. In that outfit, she looked strong
and healthy, as if she were hiring me to take her on one of those expeditions outside the dome. The rent-a-lawyer next
door, newly out of Armstrong Law, was eyeing her out of his scarred plastic window, a sour expression on his thin
face. He probably thought she was scaring away business.
 I stopped in the middle of the street. It was hot and airless as usual. There was no wind in the dome, of course, and
the recycled air got stale real fast. Half the equipment in this part of town had been on the fritz for the last week, and
the air here wasn't just stale, it was thin and damn near rancid. I hated breathing bad air. The shallow breaths and the
increased heartbeat made me feel as if there was danger around when there probably wasn't. If the air got any thinner,
I'd have to start worrying about my clarity of thought.
She saw me when I was still several meters from the place. She stood, brushed the dust off her pants, and watched
me. I pretended as if I were undecided about my next move, even though I knew I'd have to confront her sooner or
later. Her kind only went away when chased.