Sergei Lukyanenko - The Genome

“Yes, I do.”

“Will I suit you?”

The guy was also a typical Europeoid, and, of course, a spesh—otherwise he could not be an engineer. His skin was really pink, ruddy. He had a bit of a baby face, with sparkling, slightly bulging eyes. His long dark-gray hair lay heavy on his shoulders like a lead screen, which was its function, after all. Making a person resistant to radiation was no easy task. To give just one example—while at work, his testicles had to be retracted inside the pelvic cavity.

“Take a look at the contract,” said Alex, handing the fellow a copy. “Gluon reactors, have you had any experience with them?”

“No real work experience,” replied the youth absently, reading through the contract. “But I know them well. My last year of school, that’s all we studied. And I got here on a ship with gluon engines.”

“Did you get your training on Earth?”

“Yes, of course.” He paused to think about one of the contract stipulations, and it occurred to Alex that the young fellow might not be as naive as he looked.

A sudden thought made Alex ask, “And what was the name of the ship that brought you here?”

“The Intrepid . It was a yacht, with a name like a military cruiser…” The fellow looked up from the contract, then nodded. “I like your offer. I don’t really want to fly large ships, just yet. If you agree to take an engineer with only two weeks’ work experience, I’ll be on my way to pack.”

“Well, we’ll risk it, son,” said Alex, unsuccessfully trying to give his tone of voice a dash of Richard Klein’s haughtiness. “We all had to start somewhere, right?”

Naturally, he wouldn’t tell the youth that the post of engineer was the only one where a young recent graduate would actually be preferred. The reason was that any experience working with one type of reactor did nothing to prepare you to work with another type. The behavior of the gluon stream was not statistically predictable, and taking aboard a young novice who was not overloaded with habits would be better than working with an experienced veteran.

“Thank you,” said the youngster candidly. “You won’t regret it, sir! I, Paul Lourier, nineteen years of age, engineer-spesh, accept your contract.”

Unlike all the others interviewed so far, he did not even ask to see the ship. He just signed the contract. Alex promised himself that he’d fight to get the fellow a bonus at the first opportunity. Such acts of trust should be rewarded.

“May I?”

The next candidate was wearing a plaid kilt and a loose-fitting bright blue shirt. He was sturdy, and red-headed, but with his almond-shaped eyes, he looked positively Asian. He had an earring in his left ear, and a clip player in his right. His long hair was tightened into a braid. His cheeks bore iridescent spiral drawings—maybe tattoos, maybe just cosmetics. For a few seconds, Alex tried to determine the man’s specialization, then gave it up and nodded. Poured a cup of sake.

This candidate also chose to take the bull by the horns.

“Do you need a navigator?”

“Yes.”

“Then take a look at this.”

He produced a pack of recommendation letters and put them down before Alex.

The collection was impressive. Five years of service in the Imperial Forces on a great variety of different types of vessels, from torpedo boats to battle cruisers. He had changed ships suspiciously often, but at the same time, his recommendations were stellar. “Energy conservation”… “Calculation of hyper-jump in a battle situation”… “During an instrument failure, accomplished ship orientation manually”… “Successfully repaired equipment… guided solely by intuition, despite a complete lack of experience in the area…”

“Puck Generalov, you’ve changed your place of employment rather frequently,” noted Alex. And something else bothered him about the stellar recommendations. But what was it?

“That’s just my personality.” The navigator straightened a fold on his kilt, threw one leg over the other. Took a tiny sip of sake. “Just personality. But no one has ever had any complaints about me as a professional.”

“Are you conflict-prone?”

“That would be reflected in the documents, Captain.”

“That’s right. Still… I have a small ship. Will a job as a navigator on a yacht suit you?”

“Absolutely. I like small and fast ships.”

Generalov took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, took one out, struck a match on the tabletop, and lit up. Then he inquired, “By the way, I’m gay. Does that bother you?”

“Should it?” said Alex, confused.

“Well, you know, there are many different approaches to ethics…”

“I’m from Earth. You don’t have to worry about me being prejudiced,” answered Alex dryly. Something was still bothering him, but what was it? “I guess you’d want to see the ship? I expect all the crewmembers to show up for a meeting tomorrow morning.”

The navigator nodded again. And mentioned casually, “Oh, and by the way, I am also a natural. Would that be a problem?”

Alex was stunned, speechless.

Of course, not all astronauts were speshes. Only a few occupations absolutely required a modified body and mind—engineers, tactical commanders, linguists, and a few other rare professions. All the rest were theoretically open to the naturals. Alex knew some among ship doctors, among gunners… he had even met one natural who had been a pilot, though the guy was very old. But to become a navigator! To hold in your mind the five-dimensional picture of the universe, fifteen hundred main hyper-channels, a minimum of thirty thousand known routes, and at least three hundred thousand gravitational peaks…

A navigator did not just have to have increased intuition and a sense of space as good as a pilot’s. First and foremost, he had to have a mind that worked like a computer, a transformed nervous system, with strengthened logical capacity and reduced emotional reactions… This was what had roused Alex’s suspicions. In all the recommendations, however stellar and laudatory, there was no mention of the word “spesh.”

“I don’t have to worry about your being prejudiced, right?” asked Generalov politely. Alex forced himself to nod.

“No… You don’t have to worry… I’m taking you aboard… that is, if the ship and the contract suit you.”

The kilt-wearing man watched him, picking at his ear clip. Maybe he was trying to tune it to another station, or maybe he was simply nervous.

“There’s the answer to your question,” he said all of a sudden.

“What question?”

“Why I change ships so frequently. You fell into the usual trap. It’s hard to admit to being prejudiced, but working alongside a natural is unpleasant. You’ll take me aboard and then try to get rid of me at the first opportunity. With the best of references, of course, because pilots can’t lie.”

“Yes, we can.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Captain. We haven’t signed the contract yet—I can ignore seniority for the moment. So let me just say…” Generalov puffed his cigarette, smiled. “… this would, by the way, be another chance for you to back out. Who needs a troublemaker for a navigator? And no, Captain, you are not capable of lying. The capacity for love is removed in all pilots, and that’s very useful. Those who love are not inclined to take risks, except, of course, for the sake of those they love, and a pilot must be ready to die at any moment. But to balance it out, all your other moral qualities are enhanced—integrity, kindness, loyalty, generosity. I bet you’re the kind of guy who would jump out on the road to save a lousy mutt, and rescue kittens from a tree, and contribute to charity funds, and give alms to every beggar you pass. So, for you, lying is an agonizing process, extremely unpleasant and almost impossible. Pilots prefer to keep things back, or to dodge the question, rather than lie. You do resent me, don’t you?”