The Genome: A Novel

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  Alex closed his eyes.

  Was it fear? No … not fear. More like excitement, the kind a teenager feels before his first kiss, when it is already sure to happen, lips nearing each other … but everything still undiscovered, wonderful, never experienced by anyone ever before …

  Alex had been a master-pilot on ships far larger than Mirror, but had captain’s access only on the old training-vessel, a Heron, one of three at the flight academy.

  To continue the analogy—the Heron was a whore. An experienced, skillful, good-natured prostitute, each day instructing another young novice in the art of flying. Alex remembered his first ship, thought of it often with warmth and gratitude, but now everything was different.

  Or would be …

  “Contact …” he said, dropping back in his pilot’s chair.

  And felt a warm wave take root in the back of his head, and then, flaring up, rush through his body. The altered neurons of the occipital lobe of his brain entered into a resonance with the neuro-terminal.

  The world vanished. It died away in a blinding flash, and then was reborn.

  Alex turned into his ship.

  He stretched. Every bit of his discus-shaped body quivered slightly on its supports. Felt the beat of the ship’s gluon reactor. He turned on his sensors and took in the space around the port. The newly-landed Manta Rays, a Cayman just entering the stratosphere, sharp needles of gliders, dipping and soaring over the city, beyond the no-fly zone …

  But this was not yet the complete confluence. Somewhere very close, almost interwoven with his consciousness, the ship had its own life. It was lending him its body—it became an extension of his mind—and yet it was watching him from a distance. Alex turned off the sensors and remained in the dark silence of the inner space.

  One-on-one with the rainbow-colored haze.

  “Touch me …”

  Iridescent fog, sun-illuminated clouds, swarming lights.

  “Become one with me …”

  The rainbow trembled and spilled into a rain of flares.

  They became one being.

  Spaceships, like supercomputers, fully automated factories, ocean liners, and other semi-animate creatures, were not true individuals. Humans did not need competitors. Some people thought that the artificial minds of ships were limited to the intelligence level of dogs; others compared them to rats. Which comparison was most flattering was a matter of opinion.

  But at this moment, none of that mattered.

  They had formed a whole—the man, with all his memories, skills, and experience, and the ship, a collection of specialized programs—connected to each other by a single moral and ethical matrix. The ship could be sad, or happy; it knew fear and enmity, attraction and disgust. Sure, maybe only at the level of a dog or a rat, a cat or a pig. But he would let all those who had never experienced a confluence have their endless battles of wit.

  Alex knew a simple, secret truth. Every ship had a soul.

  And only those who became captains could fully know this soul.

  “I won’t hurt you …”

  The ship could not reply. Words were used by the service programs, which were intricate, well trained, capable of keeping up a conversation, and utterly brainless.

  But as for that which made up a ship’s soul, there was only non-verbal communication, in the brief instant of unity with its captain.

  “I love you …”

  The ship had no face, no age, no gender, no voice.

  Only a rainbow-colored web of emotions, forever frozen on the brink of self-awareness.

  Loving a ship was as absurd as having sex with an animal. Officially, no one ever used the word “love” to describe the relationship between a ship and its captain. They called it “empathy” or “emotional contact.”

  Yet everyone knew the truth.

  This was what made up the very attractiveness and the sharp bitterness of the captain’s position. To leave your ship was like leaving your sweetheart. Sure, this relationship could diminish—its brightness could fade. A captain could even wish to leave his ship, and a ship, by the same token, could refuse to accept its captain. There were those who went from ship to ship with the flippancy of a Don Juan. And then there were ships that did not accept anyone, did not go for any “emotional contact.”

  Still, being a captain was nothing to be flippant about. Sooner or later, everyone who had ever said “contact” while in the captain’s chair reached this realization.

  Now this moment had arrived for Alex.

  The rainbow-colored web touched him, shyly, tenderly, carefully …

  Alex waited, now just as incorporeal, stretched out over black darkness, wide-open to everything.

  “Love me …”

  And a warm rainbow washed over him.

  Chapter 3

  His legs were slightly shaky. Alex got up from the captain’s chair as it softly pushed him up, just the way he liked it to.

  Everything had changed.

  The world had acquired meaning. A unique and all-important meaning.

  He wondered if those who could love other humans ever felt this way. He doubted it.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Now the ship was all his. It could fly with another pilot and obey the orders of the flight control or a military patrol officer, but only if Alex did not cancel the orders. Although “order” was the wrong word. They were not orders or even requests; they were more like wishes.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he said. “Prepare my quarters. And quarters for a couple more people—no, make it three more, just in case.”

  “Your quarters are ready,” reported the ship’s service computer.

  “Good. See you tomorrow.”

  This time, there was no reply. Alex’s words had been addressed to that part of the ship that could not talk.

  “Sushi, sir?”

  A waitress stopped next to his table, a small aquarium cart hovering near her shoulder. Alex stretched his neck a bit to take a look at the cart.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Traditional-style or roasted?”

  “Roasted.” Alex did not bother mentioning to her that it was not his mistrust of the local cuisine, but a habit, well established from his school days, of cooking, if only slightly, any protein that was not from Earth. “I’d like a large serving, please. From the right corner, at the very bottom.”

  “At the bottom, the krill’s already asleep,” said the girl uneasily. She lifted up a glass colander. The cart obligingly lowered itself and drew out little panels with cooking forms, an oven, and a small press. “I could make a few runs at the top …”

  “No, no. Right from the very bottom,” said Alex, looking at the iridescent dots inside the aquarium. “When krill is slightly drowsy, the flavor is better. Oh, and double the spices, please.”

  “All right.” The waitress seemed to like the order. Alex watched her as she gingerly scooped out the slumbering krill from the bottom of the aquarium, skillfully poured it into a bowl, stirred in the seven-spice mixture, squeezed the krill mass with a small hand-press, then sliced it into thin strips and tossed it onto a burning-hot stone plate.

  “Please don’t fry it all the way through,” hastily added Alex. “Just a little, to make the chitin a bit crunchy.”

  In a moment, he had a serving of sushi on his plate. It was wonderfully fresh, with a lot of spicy, fragrant steam rising from it. Amazingly enough, Quicksilver Pit’s oceans remained practically unpolluted, and all the seafood was natural. Alex knew that artificial protein was much cheaper, more nutritious, and less dangerous than the natural stuff. But a marked preference for natural foods was a tradition among pilots.

  Besides, Alex rather liked it. He was grateful to his parents for not including a modernized digestive system into the parameters of his specialization. Of course, it took up extra space, required extra time for eating, and extra energy was expended on digestion. But the alternative—forever eating artificial protein at McRobb
ins—no, thanks!

  He poured some light soy sauce over his sushi and took a taste. Wonderful! The Maguro sushi had not been brought yet, but the spaceport’s Japanese cafe was so good that Alex already expected all the food he ordered to be delicious. Although, judging by the price, the Maguro sushi would probably be made with cloned tuna tissue, growing in a bucket in the kitchen somewhere. Still, it wouldn’t be pure synthetic protein with added artificial flavors.

  By the time a waiter changed his plate, Alex was already full and quite content with life. He surprised the waiter by asking him for a telephone. He had changed out of his motley outfit and into a standard captain’s uniform with master-pilot badges, but had simply forgotten to bring a communicator from the ship. Confluence did have its aftereffects. An odd mixture of exhilaration and languor still lingered within him.

  He dialed the number of the hotel room computer. Kim answered almost immediately. The display screen of the borrowed telephone was tiny, and the hotel equipment was also far from perfect. Still, he could tell that the girl’s expression was calm.

  “Everything’s okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” She sniffed. “I’m practicing.”

  “What?”

  “Trying out my muscles. Is it normal that I don’t get tired?”

  “Probably. But don’t overdo it, okay?”

  They were both silent for a few moments.

  “You coming back?” she said at last.

  “Yes. Will you be there?”

  Her smile was barely discernible, or maybe Alex was just imagining it.

  “We’ll see. Probably.”

  “Get some rest. Don’t wear yourself out,” said Alex. Hung up and handed the phone back to the waiter, who had tactfully stepped aside to give Alex a bit of privacy.

  Too bad the long sleeves of his new uniform hid the Demon. He toyed with the idea of cutting out a little window in the sleeve’s deep-blue cloth and covering it with a piece of see-through plastic …

  His crew would die laughing … that is, when he got a crew.

  Actually, the crew was the very reason he was still at the spaceport. In the rare instances when the hiring was left to the captain’s discretion, there were two ways to do it. You could consult the official search on the infonet. Hardly anyone ever did that. Or you could hold a series of personal interviews—the method preferred by anyone with any common sense. The spaceports’ watering holes were the places to conduct such interviews.

  Alex wondered how many people were already watching him from afar, curious, anxious, waiting for him to finish his lunch.

  The Maguro sushi was good, but Alex had to force himself to finish it. He ordered some sake and an expensive Earth-made cigar. He liked sake, but didn’t care for cigars. But it was a signal well understood by every astronaut, so he had to forget about cigarettes for now.

  The waiter stood nearby with a tray, upon which was a box of cigars, a guillotine cigar cutter, and a massive crystal lighter. Alex took his time lighting up.

  “Happy hiring, sir,” said the waiter, and he left.

  Everyone who had worked at a spaceport for at least a week would know exactly what it meant if a captain smoked a cigar.

  “May I?”

  Alex threw an appraising glance at the first candidate.

  He was a young or recently rejuvenated man. Dark-haired, with features that revealed a predominantly Asian genetic heritage. He was dressed in civilian clothes. The outward traces of his specialization were very faint—his pupils were too narrow in the dim cafe light, his forehead was high, and his posture unnaturally straight, as though he was a well-drilled soldier. This was a pilot. A master-pilot.

  “Please …” Alex gently pushed the bowl of hot water holding the bottle of sake towards him. This, too, was a sign.

  They had a drink in silence, openly evaluating each other. At this point, the interview could be cut short. The pilot could simply get up, thank Alex for the sake, and leave. Or Alex could put down his cigar and look away. That would mean “no.” They would not work together well.

  “You’re also a pilot.” The man broke the silence first.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “A master-pilot,” he was thinking aloud, “and you’re looking for another master-pilot? You must have a large ship.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. But what I have is a small, multi-functional vessel.”

  The pilot winced. He asked with a hint of hope, “Are there a lot of duties besides piloting?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then what you need is a regular pilot,” said the man firmly. “Two master-pilots on the same ship is kind of odd.”

  “You’re right. But I have orders from the ship’s owner. The co-pilot has to be a master.”

  There was a spark of curiosity in the man’s eyes. He hesitated for a second, but then shook his head.

  “No … It won’t do. Good luck to you, Captain.”

  “Not interested in the terms of the contract?” Alex asked him. He liked the stranger, and the man did not look as though he’d been riding high lately.

  “No, thank you.” The pilot smiled dryly. “Don’t want to be tempted.”

  He gave a quick nod and got up. That was it. And everyone saw that it was he who had refused the offer, and not the captain who rejected his candidacy.

  Alex drew in the cigar’s thick, heavy smoke. No, cigars weren’t his thing.

  He understood the pilot’s position perfectly. For a master to agree to co-pilot, he would have to be really desperate. He would rather drag a clumsy Hamster full of pig iron around the orbit than play second fiddle on the most interesting routes. But the owner’s instructions were perfectly clear.

  A six-member crew.

  A captain with the specialization of master-pilot. Another master-pilot. A navigator. An engineer. A fighter. And a doctor.

  No cargo specialist, no trade expert … Or, to be more precise, these positions were optional, in case they were an additional specialization for one of the crewmembers. So they were not being hired for trading missions. There would be no linguists or xenopsychologists. That would mean no contact with the Others was expected. All the work would be taking place within the Human Empire.

  And yet …

  The requirement for two master-pilots could only mean lengthy and difficult routes.

  A fighter on board meant possible visits to troubled planets.

  A doctor meant very long trips.

  All this was hard to reconcile. Even more disquieting were the possible reasons for giving Alex such easy access to the rank of captain and carte blanche in hiring the crew, when its odd composition could only mean highly unusual and difficult trips.

  “May I?”

  Alex looked up.

  A very serious and intelligent face. A light-haired Europeoid of a rare, unmixed genotype. Judging by the badges on his uniform and the visible signs of specialization, he was an engineer. A Star of Valor on his lapel meant he was a retired military man. And if an honor ever truly had to be earned, it was the Star of Valor. He was an ideal candidate … But … but Alex did not like him for some reason.

  They studied each other for a few seconds.

  “You are probably right, Captain,” said his would-be engineer politely. “We won’t get along. Too bad. I’ve been out of work for a while.”

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No, thank you. You obviously have a long day ahead of you. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.” He walked away. Alex followed him with a gloomy stare.

  A professional. A good spesh, and a good man. But they wouldn’t work well together. When you spend half your life in a hermetically sealed tin can, you learn to see that at first glance.

  His hiring spree had started out badly. And in some places, they believed that if a captain rejected the first three candidates right off the bat, you shouldn’t bother approaching him. You wouldn’t have any luck. Astronauts were th
e most superstitious people in the universe.

  “Captain?”

  The woman hadn’t even observed the customary interval. Leaned on the table with both hands, inclining slightly towards Alex.

  “Looking for a crew?”

  She was not young. Tall, almost as tall as Alex. Black. Beautiful. But not a natural kind of beauty. It was the work of plastic surgeons who make a transformed body look more attractive. Her face had a kind of geometrically precise diamond shape. Her eyes were too large, almost like Kim’s. Her hands and nails were oddly shaped … She had the pin of a cargo specialist on her blouse. The expression on his face had probably given something away.

  “Don’t need a cargo tech?” asked the woman bluntly.

  “Unfortunately not. My ship is small. Not a freighter.”

  “Excuse my intrusion then, Captain …”

  “Wait!”

  “Yes?” The lady slightly raised her eyebrows.

  “Your specialization is not cargo technician.”

  “You’re right. But a small ship won’t need a doctor, either.”

  “Actually, we do.”

  “Curious …” After a few seconds’ hesitation, she sat down. “Will you offer me a drink?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Alex hastily filled up a small cup, handed it to the woman. They clinked their cups.

  “What kind of ship do you have?”

  “Mirror is an unclassified vessel assembled on Earth. Most parameters are of a modernized discus yacht of moderate tonnage. A six-member crew, myself included.” Alex caught himself cajoling the woman. Almost trying to ingratiate himself to her.

  “Curious,” she said again. “Does it at least have a sick bay? Or is that combined with the galley?”

  “A fully equipped sick bay. Must have been stripped from a destroyer.”

  “Hell.” She laughed a bit uneasily. “Must have been? Have you been the captain for long?”

  “A couple hours.”

  “Right. Who else is in the crew?”

  “Just me.”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  She twirled the sake cup in her fingers, still not in any hurry to drink.

  “Details?”

  “Union base pay for unclassified ships, plus a twenty percent bonus. A two-year contract.”