The Genome: A Novel

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  Edgar paused, looked at Alex with a smirk. “Have you heard this song?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a very, very old Russian song. From the epoch when all were naturals. But it perfectly expresses the very point of specialization. Well, back to our young couple … so, they meet …”

  He slowly joined his hands.

  “Surprise … confusion … laughter … it’s so romantic! Moonlit night on the seashore, as I said. Gentle caresses in the wet sand. We had to make sure these two citizens, so different, but equally useful to society, never suffered because of their differences. We had to make sure their baby could become a human-amphibian, or a female steeplejack, or simply an ordinary natural. Whatever they wanted. And so, when the great promise of love is fulfilled”— the boy locked his fingers—“enter the S-organelle. The nucleic chains spin open, ferments shuttle along the DNA strings, checking for specialization. Snap! A gene is altered! Then there is a check of whether both parents have the altered gene. Both do? We leave it. Only one does? Move over, please! A spare copy of the gene is extracted from the organelle—the necessary bit is cut out and pasted in. The DNA strings quickly repair themselves before the fusion. Well now, let’s see what we got? An ordinary baby-natural! And if the little mermaid fell in love with an amphibian-human—no intrusions would be necessary. Their baby would be born in the water, easily drawing its first breath with the little gills inherited from the mother … And if there were two steeplejacks, male and female …”

  “I get the picture, thanks,” Alex interrupted him.

  Edgar stopped short. He smiled apologetically.

  “I’m just in awe of my … predecessors’ mastery. You see, they had to create structures that were self-sustaining—who knows what might happen to a group of speshes, if they found themselves cut off from genetic engineers. And at the same time, these structures had to be able to return to their initial state in the course of one generation. The engineers accomplished that goal beautifully!”

  “And what if a spesh-couple wanted to give their child a different specialization?”

  “Well, then the engineers have to work on that some more,” Edgar admitted. “But can you imagine this situation actually happening? You decide to have a traditional nuclear family, wife and kids, the way it ought to be … and not wish your kids to have the kind of life you’ve had?”

  “No, I can’t imagine that.”

  “And there you have it.” Edgar smiled triumphantly. “Alterations of the body are a mere trifle. A task for beginners. The main thing is to change the psyche. To manipulate emotions. That is the hardest problem of all.”

  “Great. Then help me solve it. Kim must fall out of love with me.”

  “Why?” Edgar looked closely at Alex. “After all, I understand everything, and I don’t mind. Why should her love bother you?”

  “No, not me. But with every passing day, Kim will be hurt more and more because her love can’t be requited. Right?”

  “Right.” Edgar nodded.

  “And I can’t even pretend to return her feelings,” Alex continued. “The tension will keep growing. And that will result … might lead to trouble.”

  “And what do you want from me?”

  “If you’re really the genius genetic engineer …” said Alex in an ingratiating tone, “you must know how to eliminate Kim’s feelings.”

  “Whatever gives you that idea?”

  “It is commonly known that there are several methods for doing it. When a certain profession is no longer needed, the speshes get reoriented for another one.”

  “That’s the psychologists’ job. I can’t chase Kim back into a zygote and do corrective surgery.”

  “You’re absolutely sure that nothing can be done?”

  Edgar hesitated.

  “I’m not a genetic engineer,” Alex said. “But I’m no idiot, either. Altered emotions are not only … not so much a result of reconfigured synapses. They are a result of altered adrenal glands. It’s about blood chemistry.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “Block some hormones. You know which ones.”

  Edgar sighed and shook his head.

  “Right. Block some hormones … The pituitary is not a campfire you can splash a little water on to extinguish a couple of coals. It’s all or nothing. Changes in character are brought on by a single, though very complicated, polysaccharide chain produced by the pituitary. A temporary block of its synthesis is possible, but that would lead to a shutdown of all the personal particulars at once.”

  “And what would those be for Kim?”

  The boy adjusted his glasses. Thought for a moment.

  “Ruthlessness … first and foremost. Love—the one that was the result of artificial stimulation. That’s about it. Intellectual changes are not connected to pituitary hormones.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “You think it’s so easy to interfere with a spesh’s organism? We’ll need a top-notch biochemical lab, with organic synthesis equipment. The ship’s sick bay won’t do.”

  “We’re on a planet, Edgar. It may not be the most developed planet, but it’s quite civilized. An order could be put in and completed in two or three hours.”

  Edgar said nothing.

  “Are you really a genius geneticist? Or has your value been exaggerated?” asked Alex with a smirk.

  “All right,” Edgar said, giving up. “But I think you’re making a mountain of a molehill, Alex. For Kim, love is a normal work mode, nothing bad would’ve happened… . Scribe!”

  A small bent figure emerged from somewhere behind the columns. The skinny, hunched-up old man in a florid pointy hat and a brightly colored robe was holding a parchment roll in his hand.

  “You won’t have any problems administering it,” said Edgar to Alex. “The active ingredient is stomach-acid resistant, so you can just mix it into food or wine.”

  “Dosage?”

  “Five or six milligrams. Put in a bit extra, a slight overdose won’t cause poisoning. Scribe, take this down!”

  The old man nodded vigorously, sitting down at the foot of the throne. Squinted myopically at Alex and hurriedly averted his gaze. Extracted an inkwell and a long feather from somewhere. All Alex could do was shake his head at the sight of this pitiful entourage.

  “Synthesis instructions …” Edgar began dictating.

  Of course, Alex had overestimated the New Ukrainian science labs. The synthesis took a full five hours. The delivery robot, a flying disc of about three feet in diameter, landed near the ship shortly before the Zzygou and C-the-Third returned.

  Alex waited for the identity chip to finish its work-cycle and a small green light to turn on in the polished metal side of the robot. Then he came up to it and opened a tiny trunk compartment.

  The tiny vial had cost him an entire month’s salary. Three grams of white, opalescent liquid. Alex squinted his eyes, looking closely at the product Edgar had ordered.

  Had he lied or not?

  Could it really be that this liquid was capable of slowing down that most complicated of all biological mechanisms, which started up the minute a spesh was born and, after the metamorphosis, began working at full force? The ruthlessness of fighters, the cold benevolence of pilots, the nymphomania of haeteras—could all that be reduced to naught? And if so, how exactly would that occur? Abruptly, as when a device’s power is suddenly cut off? Or gradually, as when a car, with its engine turned off, slows down? Maybe the feeling induced by the geneticists really would disappear—but what if it had been so thoroughly internalized by the person as to become genuine?

  These were questions that could not be answered theoretically—they had to be tested in an experiment.

  He caught a glimpse of the approaching Barracuda and hid the vial in his pocket. The empty delivery robot floated away over the field at a leisurely pace.

  C-the-Third scrambled out of the car first, then extended his hand to the Zzygou. The two aliens couldn’t have looked more pleas
ed … although that seemed to be their usual disposition.

  “You’ve been standing on the field all this time, eh, Captain?” cheerfully cried out C-the-Third.

  “Had some mail delivered.” Alex preferred to explain the robot’s appearance himself. “I’ve decided to have some fun.”

  He winked conspiratorially at C-the-Third, hinting at having ordered some illegal drug or some particularly elaborate sex simulator. C-the-Third winked back.

  “You should’ve come with us, Captain. It’s a really funny sea.”

  “I know. I’ve been here once before.”

  “So nice, so nice, friend Captain!” the Zzygou reported. They were holding each other’s hands and exchanging glances. “Much pity that you were not there!”

  “I’m really sorry, too.” Alex nodded.

  He stepped aside to let the Zzygou and the clone pass on their way back into the ship. Then he lit a cigarette. The tobacco from a different world somehow seemed to taste worse … as if the New Ukrainian air didn’t want to accept it.

  Thirteen more minutes passed, and the minivan with the crew appeared.

  It was immediately obvious who had fared well on shore leave and who hadn’t—who got Fortune to smile upon them, and whose hopes had been dashed. Generalov, all gloom, went back inside the ship without saying a word. Paul came out of the minivan with a stolid air of a space wolf that had seen a hundred planets. He threw Alex a sharp, formal salute and also went inside.

  “Your cigarettes, Captain,” said Janet. Handed him a carton. “They seem all right.”

  She was smiling, obviously content with her life.

  “What’s with Puck?” Alex inquired.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Janet smirked. “Found a boyfriend at the bar, dreamed up all kinds of things … now he’s all hurt. Decided it was the love of his life.”

  “Can you fall in love in just five hours?” asked Alex rhetorically.

  “Oh, Captain, my Captain …” She kissed him playfully, touching her plump lips to his cheek. “Anything’s possible, trust me. But don’t worry about Puck, he just wants to squirm and suffer a bit … he’s just that type of person.”

  “How irrational …” Alex shook his head. “I am ready to accept the expediency of love, though I lack the ability. But you should fall in love exclusively by mutual consent, making extra sure in advance that your partner agrees to reciprocate your feelings for a long enough period of time. Otherwise, all you end up with are negative emotions instead of positive ones … Janet!”

  The black lady had pressed her hands to her mouth, but her laughter still broke through.

  “Alex … no, forgive me, for Angry God’s sake … you’re right … of course … theoretically speaking …”

  The pilot went silent.

  Slightly embarrassed, Janet went back to the ship. Kim, who had been patiently waiting for them to finish talking, came up to Alex.

  “This is for you.”

  The thick brown paper packet was small but rather weighty. Alex unwrapped it with that sudden happy feeling that touches anyone receiving an unexpected gift.

  Of course, it was the very thing New Ukraine was so proud of—a piece of fresh lard.

  “They cut these off the piggies right out there on the pasture,” Kim said. She was bubbling over with new impressions. “But it doesn’t hurt the piggies at all—the skin heals up in a day, and the pig gets more fat, just walking around. Here! Try some—it’s already smoked. When the layer of fat gets to be over a foot and a half, the piggies start secreting special ferments … Isn’t it neat?”

  Alex took out his pocketknife and cut off a small piece. Chewed it, then nodded. “Yes, it’s neat. Very tasty. And a green apple aroma, right?”

  Kim nodded. Behind her, Morrison’s face was contorted in disgust. “Aroma … you should smell the aroma of those pastures—Good Lord! This lardy mammoth lumbers around the steppe, gorging itself on everything it can find, and shits continuously, excuse the unsavory details!”

  “It’s a natural process!” Kim retorted.

  “Of course it is. But the aroma is disgusting. Why can’t they grow their meat and lard in containers, as it’s done on any decent planet?”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” Kim’s quick temper flared. “The taste would be completely different! Besides, pigs are good for the planet’s ecology. And they’re cheaper to keep. Three shepherd-speshes can manage a huge herd, and there are no other expenses!”

  Alex, like Xang, was not at all inclined to see New Ukrainian animal husbandry as an engaging topic for conversation.

  “Kim …” He took the girl by the shoulder. “We take off in thirty-nine minutes. I think everyone wants to take a shower and change …”

  “So you’re not even a little bit interested in this …” she replied, slightly offended.

  “I am. But I’ve already visited the Animal Husbandry Museum.”

  “And did they take you to see the main genetic lab?”

  “They did.”

  “They didn’t let us in. There was some experiment on …”

  The three of them entered the ship.

  Chapter 5

  Heraldica.

  One of the strangest human colonies Alex had ever heard of …

  The mouth of the hyper-channel was located some six hundred miles away from the planet, orbiting it like an ordinary satellite. There was only one battle station here, though it was rather powerful. The security of the channel was guaranteed by the stationary installations on the planet itself. They were spread out all over the surface—in the arid, hot deserts, atop forbidding mountain ridges, and even on floating oceanic platforms. Their construction must have cost a lot more than the building of a few space citadels would have, but from the point of view of Heraldica’s inhabitants, their solution had been the only option. As the channel made its orbital loops around the planet, control over it was transferred from one battle installation to the next.

  Heraldica was a planet of aristocracy. Gathered here were the remnants of the ancient Earth lineages, now dying out, such as the British royal family and the Arabian sheiks. But also the more recent aristocracies—for instance, the New-Russian dynasties, who had amassed their enormous fortunes at the end of the twentieth and the beginning of the twenty-first century by selling off the lands, natural resources, and population of their earthly homeland. Several aristocratic lineages from other colonies—planets that had made a transition to other forms of government—also dwelt here. Rumor had it that there was even an enclave of the Bronins, descendants of the once-ruling nest.

  Alex had no intention of landing on the planet, of course.

  They were waiting their turn to enter the channel, and everyone—Alex had no doubt about that—was peering down at the planet revolving below. The ship’s optical systems were powerful enough to provide the observers with a richly detailed view.

  Alex himself had chosen to watch a small, cozy town in a mountain valley. Its little houses, only five or six stories high, were roofed with carmine-red tiles. Its streets were buried in greenery, and everywhere, fountains ran. Close to the town was a palace—the pilot would not have been surprised to learn that the building had been brought to Heraldica from Earth. There was also a spaceport, but it was so tiny and run-down that there could be no doubt the planet’s aristocrats had lost all interest in space.

  Their greatest passion was hunting.

  Along a swift mountain brook, a person was running. The optics, even computer enhanced, didn’t let Alex see the person’s face—light clouds above the valley were blocking his view. It was either a youth or a young girl. Pursuing her were three riders dressed in bright, flapping robes, the unmistakable attributes of the ruling class—all petty princelings adored luxury. The animals they straddled could have been anything. But they weren’t horses … unless it had been some geneticists’ prank to have horses equipped with fancy antlers.

  The chase didn’t last very long. The pursuers cau
ght up with their prey. Blue sparks flashed … the aristocrats didn’t reject all technology, after all. The three men dismounted and walked over to the motionless body. With a mixture of confusion and revulsion, Alex watched the aristocrats rape their helpless victim. An entourage of about twenty men had caught up with them by then and now stood a little ways off, patiently awaiting their turn.

  Finally the hunters got tired of this entertainment. They walked back to the entourage. There was a short discussion, accompanied by some imperious gestures, and then another little figure rushed out running along the river. The hunters bided their time. Some drinks were served, and now it looked like they just stood around talking.

  To his mild relief, Alex saw that the victim was still alive. A girl—at least the gender was clear now—got up and, awkwardly shuffling her feet, started to limp back towards the town. No one was pursing her anymore. Quite the opposite—some even waved her on.

  “Despicable!” said Janet loudly.

  “You mean the hunt?” Alex asked.

  “What hunt? No, I’m talking about that yacht party.”

  “Aristocracy!” rang out the voice of Morrison. “Blue blood … god damn it. It’s really blue, right?”

  “I’ve heard it is,” said Alex, watching the fun begin anew. “Of course, they wouldn’t have switched from hemoglobin iron to copper. That would violate the Imperial laws. They only changed the color … I can’t even imagine how that’s possible … and they haven’t lost their genetic unity with ordinary people. But their blood is blue.”