The Genome

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  Alex was thinking, drumming his fingers on the firm plastic of the pages.

  What’s the good of a feeling that constantly causes pain? Should it have any place in human life?

  He had still not managed to feel this love thing. And tomorrow night, the blocker’s action would wear off, and he would turn back into a pilot-spesh.

  Of course, he could just keep popping the drug. And waiting … but would that be worth it?

  Love wasn’t there yet. But the anguished yearning was.

  “My mom chewed me out,” Nadia is saying. She lights a cigarette, and makes herself more comfortable in the deep armchair. A sunbeam reflection plays on her naked body—the wind is swaying the curtain at the open window.

  “Because of me?” Alex inquires, just in case. His fingers are dancing on the sensory field of a computer, entering long rows of numbers. It’s a rather old machine, no neuro-interface on it … “I’m almost done, Nadia. Just a minute, okay?”

  “Yes, because of you …” The girl stretches out a suntanned leg, moving it into the sunshine. Her other foot scratches a mosquito bite on her calf. “My mom says I have the wrong attitude toward you. That it’s stupid to go beyond just sex with a future pilot.”

  “She’s wrong,” Alex replies. “I tell you, I’ll keep loving you anyway.”

  “I know …” Nadia agrees.

  A shout comes from the street:

  “Alex! Nadia! Alex!”

  “It’s Fam,” says Nadia. “He’s tracked us down. You know, I think he might be jealous.”

  “You think?” Alex begins to enter the last block of data.

  “Alex! Nadia!” Fam keeps yelling in the street at the top of his lungs. “I know you’re home! Let’s go to the river!”

  “What a pest,” Alex grumbles. “You wanna go?”

  “If you want to.”

  Alex casts a sidelong glance at the slim, tanned leg, then spreads his fingers decisively, shutting down the computer. Leans out of the window up to his waist and shouts, “You go on, we’ll catch up!”

  Alex smiled at the memory. No, that wasn’t love, after all. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be smiling now, but “choking back tears,” as the poet had supposed.

  And poets should be trusted, right?

  The door signal beeped, and Alex slapped the book shut.

  “Enter.”

  It turned out to be Dr. Watson.

  “Excuse me, Captain …”

  “Come in.” Alex sat up on the bed. “It’s all right. I wasn’t asleep yet.”

  The woman nodded, sat down in the armchair. Alex was smiling, but said nothing, leaving it to her to start the conversation.

  “Holmes has fallen asleep,” said Jenny, somewhat out of the blue, “so I thought …”

  “Are you lovers?”

  “No.” Dr. Watson shook her head. “You already know he isn’t all that emotional… . Sex with a detective-spesh is a purely mechanical process. And who needs that?” She stopped short. “Forgive me, Alex.”

  “No, no. It’s a perfectly reasonable opinion. Is something bothering you, Dr. Watson?”

  “Yes. Captain, something was odd about the crew tonight.”

  “Really?” Alex seemed surprised.

  “You noticed it, too, Captain. Stop pretending.”

  “So what is bothering you?”

  “I would say that … it’s absurd, of course … but the speshes started behaving … like naturals.”

  Alex raised one eyebrow emphatically.

  “Let’s start with you, Captain,” said Dr. Watson firmly. “Are you noticing any changes within yourself?”

  “I am.”

  “You see! And today? Janet Ruello—she practically didn’t react to the Zzygou at all. Well, she did, but … sort of by inertia. Not seriously. Kim O’Hara … she’s in love with you, right? Janet has told us that the girl has a specialization of a fighter and a hetaera simultaneously. But I wouldn’t say that it was noticeable!”

  “And what do you think about this, Jenny?”

  “Captain, could someone … the word ‘poison’ wouldn’t really be right here … let’s just say, give the whole crew some kind of potent psychotropic drug?”

  “Possibly.” Alex nodded. “It could’ve been anybody. Me, for example. Everyone came to see me today, one after another, and I offered every member of the crew some wine and cognac. What would be simpler than to add the drug to the drinks? Except … what kind of drug?”

  Dr. Watson shrugged.

  “That’s exactly it. I can’t imagine what could have this effect.”

  Alex nodded. Then inquired:

  “Purely hypothetically … suppose there was a substance that could block all the mind alterations characteristic of speshes …”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them at once.”

  “You told Holmes something of the sort … I don’t know of any such substance.”

  “But just suppose it existed. That the crew was under its influence. What should we expect?”

  “From the murderer?” Dr. Watson squinted.

  “You catch on faster than your literary prototype.”

  “If Holmes is right, and I’m inclined to believe him …” Dr. Watson was quiet for a moment. “An assassin-spesh is deprived primarily of the sense of fear and the sense of pity. Even if it’s not the work of underground geneticists, but is just an ordinary agent-spesh, those would be the required parts of his personality. He felt no doubt, murdering the Zzygou. And now he’s biding his time, one hundred percent convinced he is doing the right thing. When the personality alterations vanish … it’s hard to imagine what could happen.”

  “Remorse?”

  “I doubt it. Personality is formed by more than just chemical reactions. There’s also experience … habits, memories. More likely, the agent will be overcome by panic. Especially if he doesn’t expect such an effect.”

  “That’s what I think, too.”

  Dr. Watson sighed.

  “Captain, you know way more than you’re telling me.”

  “It has to be this way. Believe me.”

  “And what if I go back to Holmes now and report our conversation?”

  “Are you blackmailing me?” Alex smirked. Got up from the bed, walked over to Jenny. Bent over—the woman tensed, as if expecting him to do anything, even the most unexpected.

  “What are you …”

  Her lips were so unskilled that it was as if she was kissing for the first time in her life. A natural, what could you do …

  “You really shouldn’t neglect this side of human relationships, Doctor,” said Alex softly. “Your literary precursor didn’t avoid life.”

  “What in the world …”

  “Dump your wizened detective.” Alex looked her straight in the eye. “You’re a smart woman, but you’ve already had enough fun with intellectual games. Catching crooks is not your type of thing. Don’t make a spesh out of yourself … thank God you aren’t one. Don’t squelch your human feelings. Be alive, Jenny. Alive and real. Love, be jealous, hate, dream, raise children, and make your career! Create paintings, give people their shots, go waterskiing, grow your garden flowers. Don’t turn yourself into … into the way the rest of us are.”

  Jenny Watson jumped up. Leaped over to the door, hurriedly readjusted her blouse, which had come unbuttoned. Cried:

  “What’s the matter with you … you’re a pilot-spesh!”

  “Uh-huh. But, you know …” Alex was slowly moving towards her. “Somewhere very, very deep inside, I remain simply human. With an ordinary human genome. Of course, there, inside, is a clever boy, who can go on doing his homework right next to a girl who’s in love with him … the girl who kept trying to turn a spesh into a human. Also there lives a studious young recruit, learning the secrets of piloting. And an inexperienced young captain, whose most normal crewmember is a hysterical, affected gay guy who hates clones. All of them are there, inside me. But there is one more little person insid
e there. A master-pilot, long awaited on a distant planet, by the woman he loves. Probably the same woman he’s loved since he was a child. And when this master-pilot is piloting his ship, he isn’t bound by a genetic order—to protect the technology, the crew, and the passengers. He will fight till the end simply because it’s his favorite ship, and his friends, and the people who have put their trust in him. And also because somewhere far, far away, his beloved is waiting for him, and the children, for whom he chose no specialization.”

  “There is no such person, Alex,” quickly retorted Dr. Watson. “I … I don’t understand what kind of crazy game you’re playing. Why are you making all this up—how can you say such things—but …”

  Alex put his finger to his lips.

  “Sh-sh-sh! Doctor … he’s there. Inside. You see this little Demon on my shoulder? That must be him. Weird, really weird master-pilot Alex Romanov …”

  Dr. Watson was pale.

  “You’ve lost your mind,” she whispered, fumbling for the door lock behind her back. “You’re psychotic! You’re a regular loony!”

  “I cannot be regular.” Alex bowed politely. “Only naturals can be regular. And I—am a spesh.”

  Dr. Watson bolted from his cabin. Alex waited till the door closed, and only then burst out laughing.

  He kept laughing while he put the book away in the desk drawer, and turned off the light, and got back into his bed. He kept laughing until his laughter turned to tears.

  Chapter 4

  Holmes was playing the violin.

  Alex stopped short in the entrance to the recreation lounge, listening, spellbound by the music. And he wasn’t the only one.

  Her legs folded under her in an armchair, Kim sat motionless, propping her chin on her hand. Right on the floor next to her sat Morrison, his legs crossed at the ankles. Generalov was sprawling comfortably on the couch … it seemed that he had taken up this pose of lazy indifference as soon as Holmes started playing and then forgot to change it. Tears ran down Puck’s cheeks, blurring ornate spirals of facial paint. From time to time, the navigator sniffled and wiped his face with his hand.

  Holmes kept playing.

  The old Toshiba violin was probably not equipped with an acoustics compensator unit. Perhaps the recreation lounge had been built to accommodate chamber music concerts, or maybe Holmes’s mastery managed to overcome the instrument’s limitations.

  The violin sang. The violin spoke to each one of them. The music contained it all—the deadly chill of boundless space, and the living fire of lonesome stars, and planets, gliding on the very edge of life and death. The violin’s virtual strings flashed as iridescent sparks under the bow, and entire civilizations were born and died in their afterglow. Reason found and lost itself again, tormented by unanswerable questions, and vanished in the darkness of time.

  Holmes’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed. This performance was nothing like the little concert he had given in Alex’s cabin. This time, the great detective’s whole life was in his instrument, the bow, and the flowing melody.

  Very, very quietly, the Zzygou entered the lounge, dressed in yellow and black, the colors of mourning. She stopped—perhaps in surprise, or perhaps she, too, was enchanted by the music. C-the-Third followed in her wake, like a mournful shadow. Then Lourier approached as well. And after him came Janet. Dr. Watson was the last to appear.

  When Holmes briskly took the bow off the strings, everyone was listening.

  “Bravo,” said Janet softly. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes.”

  Generalov wept openly, not hiding his tears. He was wearing his kilt, a blue shirt, and moccasins. His hair was braided into an intricate pretzel, and the half-smudged ornament on his cheeks had been drawn with particular care. He seemed to have prepared for anything—a fight, or even death. Alex was about to say something to him about his dress code violations … when he noticed that everyone had ignored the rules today.

  Morrison got up and cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes … but what are you doing as a detective? Paganini himself couldn’t have played his own twelfth concerto with more virtuosity. I dare say … since Paganini’s death four hundred years ago, no such violinist has been born.”

  “I wasn’t born, either,” said Holmes softly. “I was created this way … what’s to be proud of?”

  “A clone cannot surpass the original, and that’s an axiom,” persisted Morrison. “Does that mean that Peter Valke was a genius violinist? You shouldn’t … you shouldn’t demean your own talent …”

  “I am a detective.” Holmes shook his head. “I’m a detective who loves playing the violin. I’m happy to see you all here, my friends. Today we must resolve the sad problem that precipitated my coming to this ship. Please, be seated.”

  His words seemed to have an effect. Alex watched as every one of his crew found a seat. Generalov, Lourier, Morrison on one small couch. Kim and Janet on the other. Across from them, C-the-Third and the Zzygou sat in two armchairs, as did Holmes and Watson. And Dr. Watson, for the first time, ignored her habit of sitting on an armrest.

  Alex unhurriedly took a seat between Janet and Kim. After a moment’s reflection, he threw his arms around both women’s shoulders.

  “So …” said Holmes pensively. “First of all, I have a few things to tell you, which aren’t directly related to this case. The Imperial Council has made the decision … and it has already been signed by the Emperor … that in case of a massive-scale military conflict, the isolation field will be taken off the planet Eben. And after that, the Empire will make a direct plea for help to the Board of Cardinals. Ms. Janet Ruello …”

  The woman started. Her face was tense with a mixture of both joy and alarm.

  “Do you suppose Eben will answer the call for aid?”

  “Yes,” replied the black woman, without hesitation. “No doubt, they will.”

  “Thank you … Lady Sey-Zo, do the ruling females of the Swarm comprehend this situation?”

  “It change nothing …” the Zzygou whispered.

  “I believe you. And one more piece of news … a small one. The Sky Tourism Company is undergoing bankruptcy proceedings. All of its assets will be redirected to an aid fund for war victims. I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that you are unemployed.”

  “This is just my luck!” cried Generalov, throwing his hands up. “It’s always this way! Just when I find a decent job and a good crew—”

  The navigator fell silent, glaring at Holmes, as though the detective was responsible for the decision to liquidate the company.

  “Am I supposed to resign my commission officially?” Alex asked.

  “As soon as the investigation is closed.”

  Alex nodded.

  “And now let’s move on to the most grievous question,” said Holmes. “By the way, Captain … could you assist me with the issue of the listeners’ attention?”

  It took Alex a few seconds to understand the request.

  “Yes, of course. Computer! Captain’s access! Prepare the recreation lounge for dynamic maneuvers!”

  “Completed …” replied the service program. Little orange lights flashed on the armrests of chairs and couches. Outwardly, nothing seemed to have changed, but when Alex tested it by attempting to half-rise from his seat, an invisible strip of force field softly tossed him back onto the couch. The Zzygou lifted her hands to touch the invisible barrier. Threw a questioning look at Alex.

  “I hope nobody minds these little safety precautions?” Holmes inquired, and laughed dryly. “But of course, someone does mind. Well, nothing to be done.”

  He took out his pipe and began to fill it. Alex, after a brief hesitation, lit up a cigarette. Slow movements were easy to make, though you could still feel the firm resistance of the force field.

  “This is ridiculous! And useless, too!” said Generalov nervously. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Holmes, but I get really irritated by any restriction of my freedom of movement!”

  “A killer
-spesh is a good reason for force barriers,” said Lourier. “Puck … don’t argue. Holmes will only consider it incriminating.”

  Holmes let out the first puff of smoke.

  “So, what do we have, ladies and gentlemen? A group of criminals—one person simply couldn’t have pulled this off—has set the goal of instigating a war between the Empire and the Zzygou Swarm. To achieve this, a crew was gathered whose every member could kill Princess Zey-So. And the preparations, mind you, must have began at least five months ago. That is the precise time when Alex Romanov was badly wounded and left on the planet where Zey-So and Sey-Zo were to transfer to a human ship. I believe everyone here will be interested in the fact that the hospital staff received a hefty bribe for making Alex Romanov’s treatment a month and a half longer than necessary.”

  Alex nodded. It was easy for him to believe that.

  “This was serious preparation,” said Holmes, without a hint of humor. “Very thorough. Lady Sey-Zo, when did you make the decision to tour the Human Empire?”

  The Zzygou heaved a deep sigh.

  “Eighteenth day of January, by Earth calendar. During the diplomatic visit of the Imperial Council delegation to the Zzygou realm.”

  “I … was wounded on the twenty-seventh of January,” Alex said.

  “Nine days. Very speedy work.” Holmes nodded. “The choice was probably made from among all the astronauts who were on Quicksilver Pit or on the ships that had entered planetary space. You were unlucky, Alex. That is a fact. Unfortunately, that doesn’t guarantee that you were not a part of the plot. You could have landed in the hospital willingly… .”

  “Holmes, have you any idea what it’s like to be deprived of your rump, member, and legs for months on end?” asked Alex angrily.

  “To a degree. I lost both my legs once,” rejoined Holmes imperturbably. “And I had to use mechanical prostheses for a month—there was no time to go to the clinic for transplants.”

  Alex involuntarily looked away. Everyone else also seemed rather uncomfortable. Holmes had admitted this unsavory and shameful detail of his biography—using mechanical artificial organs—with the genuine fortitude of a detective-spesh. But still, it was awkward for all of them to hear him admit it.