The Genome: A Novel

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “We flew out immediately.” Holmes nodded. “So … let’s sum up … everyone on board denies any involvement in Zey-So’s death?”

  “Yes. Everyone absolutely denies any involvement.”

  “And you haven’t noticed anything suspicious in the conduct of the crew, or Sey-Zo, or C-the-Third?” Holmes carelessly omitted the last name of C-the-Third’s matrix, required by the rules of politeness when there was more than one clone around.

  “Nothing. Just ordinary shock because of what has happened. I’ve had occasion to see people in a catastrophic situation. And Sey-Zo never comes out of her deceased partner’s cabin.”

  “She’s undergoing a parting ritual, which will last for another four and a half hours,” Holmes informed him. “I’ve had to take in a sizable dose of information about the Zzygou.”

  “Then tell me—is C-the-Third Shustov right? Is war really possible?”

  “It’s inevitable,” said Holmes coolly. “The Crown Princess having perished by a human hand, and especially in such an utterly outrageous way … Did you know that her ovary had been cut out?”

  “Oh, God … no. But why?”

  “Otherwise Sey-Zo could have preserved the genetic fund of Zey-So, by transplanting the ovary into her own body. Sey-Zo herself, as the junior partner, lacks reproductive organs.”

  Alex looked Holmes straight in the eye.

  “That would mean that the murderer planned all this in detail? He … set out to kill Zey-So in the most insulting way … making sure nothing of her would survive?”

  “Yes.”

  The pilot wiped his sweating forehead.

  “Holmes, I’ve heard a lot about the Zzygou, but I can’t even imagine where their damned ovaries are …”

  “Ovary—they have only one. Right under the stomach. It’s equipped with its own sealed lymph-supply and a muscle pump. Even after the death of Zey-So, that part of her body could have lived on for several days. The murderer cut out the ovary and severed the lymphatic contour. This is a very, very professional murder.”

  Alex tensed. He realized what the next question would be.

  “Mr. Romanov, having hired Janet Ruello to be a member of the crew, did you know that she was from the quarantined planet of Eben, and that she had been specialized as an executioner-spesh?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then why did you take her into your crew?”

  “Back then I had no idea that Mirror would be involved in transporting the Others!”

  “Then why didn’t you void the contract immediately upon discovering the ship’s mission?”

  The pilot helplessly spread out his arms.

  “Mister Holmes … Janet Ruello is now a citizen of the Empire. Her rights are not restricted in any way. Psychologists have made her tolerant of the Others—”

  “So tolerant that she would serve them some anise cocktail, inducing a temporary insanity?”

  Alex couldn’t begin to fathom how the detective had come to know of this incident. From C-the-Third? Or from Sey-Zo?

  “That didn’t threaten their lives in any way,” he said gloomily. “Besides, anise induces not insanity, but a fit of truthfulness.”

  “You can’t prove that. The Zzygou say something quite different.”

  “In any case, Mister Holmes, I insisted that Janet Ruello swear to me an Ebenian military oath! She promised that she wouldn’t harm the Zzygou in any other way!”

  “Mister Romanov …” Holmes sighed. “And you believe her promises?”

  “Yes, I do. After all, being true to her word is a genetic feature.”

  “As is her hatred for the Others. So our psychologists have either overpowered both of these features, or both these components of Janet’s personality are still functioning.”

  Alex was silent. He had no way of countering that.

  “Mr. Romanov, perhaps your decision to keep Janet Ruello aboard Mirror was motivated by some special circumstances?” Holmes sympathetically asked. “For instance, by that shady little transaction of getting new documents for Kim O’Hara, which you accomplished by using the double legal status of speshes and the captain’s right to set the ship’s time?”

  Alex expected that his “little transaction” would be uncovered by the detective-spesh. But the speed with which it had been discovered terrified him.

  “No,” he answered, after a brief consideration. “That wasn’t the reason, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  “What is unpleasant is the very fact that a spaceship’s captain, a pilot-spesh, considered it possible to break the law.” Holmes sighed. “The whole Empire stands on the moral strength of its speshes. We are role models for ordinary naturals, whose consciousness is at times overwhelmed by the lowest kind of emotions. And here you are, a spesh, breaking the law!”

  “From the formal point of view, you’re right,” said Alex quickly. “But Kim was under my protection. And she was sure that her legalization as Kim O’Hara would put her life in danger. It was my duty to help.”

  “And what was Kim saying about your final destination? About her arrival on Edem?”

  Alex licked his parched lips.

  “She didn’t want to fly to Edem …”

  “Didn’t want to? She felt very strongly about this?” inquired the detective.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, Mr. Romanov. Now tell me—has Puck Generalov’s animosity towards cloned people manifested itself in any way?”

  “It has.” Alex realized that his part would now consist of nothing but affirmative answers to the detective’s cues. “He reacted to C-the-Third Shustov’s appearance with great hostility.”

  Holmes sighed and unhurriedly shook out his pipe into a silver pocket ashtray.

  “How stupid. All these human enmities—speshes and naturals, people and clones—all that could easily plunge you into racism and nationalism. Was there anyone who supported Generalov’s position?”

  “Paul Lourier.”

  “And by all appearances, he is such a nice, courteous, modern young man. By appearances …”

  “You’re searching for a motive?” asked Alex bluntly.

  “Yes, of course.” The detective got up from his chair. Paced to and fro, his hands behind his back. “Would you mind if I played the violin?”

  Alex shook his head. It seemed that in his pursuit of keeping in character, C-the-Forty-Fourth Valke knew absolutely no limits.

  From a small leather case, Holmes took out an old and shabby Toshiba electroviolin, checked the charge, and extracted a bow from a narrow opening in the neck of the instrument. Then he pressed the violin to his shoulder, paused a second, and began playing Paganini’s seventh concerto with marvelous virtuosity.

  At this point, Alex felt utterly worn out, devoid of any hope of extracting himself from the problems in which he was enmeshed. Nevertheless he listened, spellbound, to Holmes’s masterful playing. It seemed that back in his brief childhood, packed to the limits with schooling, the clone had also received very decent music lessons.

  “Janet Ruello has a motive for murder,” said the detective, still playing. “Hers is the most weighty motive. She hates the Others. But Kim O’Hara also has a motive. She has no wish to return to Edem, and could have considered the death of poor Zey-So a perfect way to cut the tour short.”

  “Kim didn’t kill the Zzygou!” cried Alex.

  “She is a fighter-spesh,” retorted Holmes. “For her, murder is a natural action. She could have found plenty of reasons ‘pro’ and not notice any ‘cons’ … after all, Kim is just a girl. Properly speaking, she ought to take many more years to study the fighter’s craft … first and foremost, the mastery of her own impulses.”

  Alex was silent. Sherlock Holmes was absolutely right.

  “Also,” the detective continued. The melody he was playing lost its force, becoming soft and melancholy. “Puck Generalov. Another complex situation. His animosity towards cloned people is truly phenomenal… . Do you know why he was kicked out of the
military fleet?”

  “Because he is a natural,” Alex grumbled. “I’ve looked through his papers.”

  “Well, that’s just a camouflage. ‘The command was unsure of the navigator’s actions in a battle situation.’ What nonsense! The real reason, as evident from the official spacefleet records, was his conflict with one of the senior officers. Truly Shakespearean passions there … unhappy love … your non-traditionally oriented navigator is very amorous. After that, he found out that the object of his desire was a clone. The story ended in a hysterical outburst on Generalov’s part, slaps in the face, threats, and even a suicide attempt. He was dismissed immediately.”

  “There is a huge gulf between railing against clones and killing them. Besides, what does C-the-Third have to do with any of this? He wasn’t the one who was murdered!”

  “No, Puck is incapable of killing him.” Holmes shook his head. “He is an extremist. But in words only. His psychological profile practically excludes the killing of a human. But to kill the Zzygou and so to ruin C-the-Third’s life and career—easy! Seems he didn’t understand that Zey-So wasn’t just a worker individual of the Swarm, whose life was unimportant to the Zzygou.”

  “Are you accusing him?”

  “I’m only thinking out loud, my dear fellow.” Holmes impulsively lifted the bow off the strings. “The same thing is possible with regards to Paul Lourier. His teachers and classmates testify to his extremely hot temper, impulsiveness, and a penchant for cruel pranks … besides, the fellow is easily influenced by others.”

  “Good grief, that’s such nonsense!” Alex shook his head. “The young man is as calm as a tank! If only all novices were this even-keeled …”

  “You’ve only known him a few days, Captain. And I have listened to the opinions of people who have lived with Lourier for years. And now, let’s move on to Xang Morrison.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?” Alex could no longer hear any conviction in his own voice.

  “A few facts of his biography. In his youth, ages thirteen through nineteen, he was a member of the youth ministry at the Church of the Mournful Christ.”

  “But that’s the …”

  “The followers of the Church of the Angry Christ, after it was banned. In point of fact they have the same worldview as do the poor inhabitants of Eben. When Xang was nineteen, the clandestine work of psychologists had its effect. Morrison officially broke away from the Church of the Mourning Christ, but echoes of that time remained with him. He has been noted more than once for comments insulting to the Others, and several times he publicly incited people to ‘blast the buggers.’” Holmes pronounced the last phrase in the voice of Morrison, and Alex started.

  “I would’ve never thought …”

  “So everyone has a motive, even an obvious motive! And what if we dig a little deeper?”

  “And what motives do I have?” asked Alex wearily.

  “None.” Holmes smiled. “Absolutely none. You aren’t looking to stir up any trouble. You’re tolerant of the Others. You’re happy with the ship, with the crew, and with yourself.”

  Alex smirked. Yup … especially happy with himself …

  “Thank God,” he said. “Then I’m not a suspect.”

  “What are you talking about, Alex?” Holmes’s voice suddenly filled with sympathy, which he was incapable of feeling. “That’s precisely the reason why you are the likeliest suspect.”

  “I see,” said Alex, trying to grasp what he had just heard. “If I’m the likeliest suspect, then why are you telling me all your conjectures?”

  “That’s Peter Valke’s trademark style.” Holmes spread out his hands, palms up. “Creates an excellent effect. You do understand that the criminal has nowhere to run. Turn on the outer-space sensors, Captain.”

  “Computer, turn on outer-space sensors,” said Alex wearily.

  A screen unfolded.

  Very close to Mirror—about three point six seven two miles away, from what Alex could hastily estimate—a Lucifer-class destroyer was hanging in mid-space. Its gun turrets were closed, but that didn’t make Alex feel any calmer.

  No matter how good his own ship might be, the Lucifer could reduce it to ashes in a fraction of a second.

  “If I don’t leave your ship in forty-eight hours, it will be annihilated. And if Mirror turns on its engines or opens up its battle station blisters, the Lucifer will fire immediately.”

  “But why forty-eight hours?” asked Alex.

  “The Zzygou fleets are on the move. Their attack on human colonies is estimated to start in forty-eight hours, plus or minus three hours.”

  Suddenly Alex felt himself completely devastated, empty. As though it was he, and not the poor Zey-So, whose entrails and reproductive organs had been ripped out, and whose blood was smeared all over the cabin walls.

  The world was crumbling. The Zzygou race, though inferior to humans in its military power, was only slightly so. Soon planets would be ablaze. Space would be filled with radioactive streams and predatory flocks of rockets. Every human and every Zzygou would curse those who had instigated the war … not knowing that he was the real perpetrator—he, Alex Romanov, pilot-spesh, who took into his crew someone capable of heinously murdering one of the Others, monstrously, in cold blood.

  And it wouldn’t matter who came out as the winner of the slaughter—the universe would change. All the other races would attack those who escaped destruction. This had been the fate of the Tai’i, and the same would now befall the humans … or the Zzygou.

  “How can you be so calm saying this, Mr. Holmes?” cried Alex. “Don’t you see—this is the end?”

  “Let the world perish, so long as justice triumphs,” said the detective. Alex turned to him, met his eyes. “I’m kidding, Captain. Of course I want to live. And I want a happy life for all the honest citizens of the Empire.”

  “Then what’s that ship doing here?” Alex asked. “Its place is in a military alignment. As for us … either just shoot us all at once, or send us into the army. Has mobilization already been announced?”

  “Of course. The Zzygou have already sent the Emperor an official declaration of war.”

  “What does the little snot on the throne have to do with it?” raged Alex. “He ought to be playing in a sandbox, not making military decisions!”

  Sherlock Holmes furrowed his brow.

  “Alex, there’s no need to say such things about the ruling Emperor. He will receive his full power in due time, and then the Empire will rise to new heights.”

  “What heights? What are you talking about? Both our civilizations will be destroyed in this war! Don’t the Zzygou realize this?!”

  “They do, as far as I know,” the detective nodded. “Any other race would not allow this conflict to escalate to an all-out clash. But we are witnessing the full power of the most profound forces that move each civilization. C-the-Third could explain this better than I can.”

  “Explain the best you can!”

  “As you may know, Captain, most of the Zzygou used to lack a fully-fledged mind. The men … em … the drones, despite their lowered social position, did, nevertheless, enjoy love and respect, developing the arts. But the nominally sexless worker individuals gained self-awareness only in the last two hundred years. The human segregation between the rich and the poor, or between naturals and speshes, is nothing by comparison to the social abyss that used to separate the highly esteemed Zzygou females, who had two-syllable names, and the workers, who just had numbers. But when, out of necessity—for stupid animals cannot work with high technologies—the ruling females allowed the development of the workers’ minds, they also inculcated in them the highest level of loyalty and love for their rulers. All this guarantees the Zzygou society freedom from internal conflicts.”

  Alex thought again of Heraldica. And felt sick to his stomach.

  “Unfortunately,” Holmes continued, “the kind and peaceful worker individuals have already been informed of the recent events, because
they are the ones who work at the communication stations and make up most of the crews of the Zzygou ships. And so … this is truly a tidal wave of wrath from their entire race. This is the holy war for ninety-five percent of their population. And besides, about seventeen percent of them are genetically linked to the deceased Zey-So! They are her brothers … or sisters? Let’s just say, relatives. The Zzygou females may not wish to go to war. They might have agreed to hush this business up, accepting apologies and reparations, but …”

  “Their own slaves will not understand.”

  “Their workers.”

  “Their slaves. You’ve explained it all very well, Mr. Holmes.” Alex now stood face to face with Holmes. He hadn’t even noticed the moment he had jumped up out of his chair. He looked into Holmes’s wise, weary eyes, which seemed to contain all human sorrow. The great detective smelled of brandy and tobacco.

  “Is there no way out, Mr. Holmes?”

  “There is, Alex. There is always a way out. If in the course of the next forty-eight hours, before all-out war begins—small skirmishes are already taking place—if I find the murderer and turn him or her over to the justice system … the Zzygou will stop their advance. They are ready to punish either the murderer alone, or the whole human race. And so I ask you directly, Alexander Romanov, pilot-spesh … were you the one who killed Zey-So?”

  “No, I’m not, Mr. Holmes.” Alex shook his head. “I did not kill her, and I haven’t the slightest idea who did, or why. But … I’m ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “I’m ready to admit that I am the murderer.”

  Holmes stuck the long-cold pipe into his mouth and asked with curiosity:

  “What for?”

  “To save the world from destruction. After all, it was I who took the murderer into my crew. Whoever he or she might be. I … didn’t sense a mistake.”

  Holmes shook his head.

  “No, Alex. It’s impossible.”

  “But why?”

  “Let the world perish, so long as justice prevails.”

  “Oh, the hell with …”