Sergei Lukyanenko - The Genome

“Yes, I see.”

C-the-Third continued, more softly and earnestly:

“Alex, I have lived through many different incidents. Skirmishes with xenophobes. Aggression on my customers’ part. Once I had to kill a Bronin who suddenly got violent. Another time we were taken over by terrorists from New Ukraine and had to wait eight weeks before a Zzygou patrol ship rescued us. I’ve seen a lot of things… but it’s all ordinary civilian work. Maybe slightly more risky than average… but your salary is probably also a little higher than average, am I right?”

“Who could be behind this? And why?”

“Got anything smokable?”

Alex silently handed him a pack of cigarettes. They both lit up.

“Tourism business for alien races is not the most developed field…” said the clone pensively, letting out a stream of smoke. “How can you smoke this trash, Captain? But there are four companies, nevertheless. Ours is the largest. An incident causing our passengers’ capture by the Cepheideans would have led to a complete loss of trust in our company. You see?”

“Yes, I see.” The clone’s constant questioning of his understanding was beginning to irritate Alex. It was as if C-the-Third doubted his captain’s ability to put two and two together. “It’s all just the competitors’ underhand plotting, then?”

“Possibly. We will contact the police authorities… and, of course, we’ll have our own investigation right away.”

“Can you imagine what bribing a pilot would cost?”

The clone smiled.

“No, I can’t.”

“Neither can I. If the poor fellow from the tanker gets convicted, he will lose his pilot’s license for good. This kind of thing has no price, C-the-Third. It would be like wagering someone’s life. Like depriving someone of all colors, forcing him to see the world through a dark, murky glass. We pilots don’t have that many simple human pleasures.”

“But there might be exceptions?”

“Yes. Theoretically, a tanker’s pilot could be a natural—his job would then be only one of many joys in life. That sort of thing ought to be forbidden.” Alex halted, remembering Generalov.

“That would be discrimination,” said C-the-Third bluntly. “What if somebody had reprogrammed the tanker’s computer?”

Alex thought for a few moments. Those computers really were primitive.

“An ordinary change of programming wouldn’t work. Without the pilot’s help, the tanker’s computer wouldn’t be able to calculate such a complicated maneuver. Although someone could hack it and control it remotely.”

“Agreed.” The clone nodded. “The terrorists could have been anywhere—one of the guard stations, or one of the other ships waiting in line. They could have put in a remote-operation bio-block, which would simply disintegrate once the action was over.”

“Nasty.”

“Yes, indeed. But any business field has some ruthless people. No one has ever succeeded in making a businessperson-spesh, you know.”

Both of them smiled.

“So did I wake you up for nothing?” Alex inquired.

“Of course not. The situation really was extremely dangerous. In the morning, as soon as we are out of the channel, I will contact the company management.”

“Mr. Li Tsyn?”

The clone scowled.

“No. Mister President doesn’t bother with small incidents. I will contact my matrix, Danila Shustov. He’ll understand.”

“Are there a lot of you?” Alex asked.

“Clones? There were four. But Danila C-the-First Shustov was killed a year ago.”

“Condolences.”

The clone bowed slightly.

“We all work in the tourism business, Captain. C-the-First was in some respects my opposite—he escorted humans in the alien sectors. There was a freak accident. While in the Fenhuan sector, he organized an excursion to the incubation beach. A little girl left her mother’s side to look more closely at one of the eggs. They’re very beautiful, you know. They radiate a whole rainbow of colors, and their singing is lovely, too… She licked her finger and rubbed the egg… wanted a closer look at the embryo.”

Alex winced.

“My brother had no other choice but to take the blame upon himself.” A note of bitterness rang in C-the-Third’s voice. “The Fenhuan performed their ritual cleansing and then sent his remains back to Earth. With profuse apologies, of course. That’s life. But from now on, when our company organizes trips to alien planets, children must be kept on a short leash and wear a muzzle at all times.”

“Makes sense,” said Alex, nodding. “They couldn’t think of that before?”

“They did. But some parents protested. Some still object, of course, but the universe is not a friendly place.”

The clone got up, offering his hand. Alex shook it without hesitation.

“Thank you for finding a way out of the recent situation. I will ask the management to reward your crew, especially you and Janet Ruello.”

“I apologize for disturbing your sleep.”

When C-the-Third left, Alex thought for a moment and refilled his glass. The accident—the near-accident! he corrected himself—had now been explained. Such passions raging in the peaceful tourism business! Well, where didn’t you find them? Even street sweepers and sewer workers must have their own raging passions, hidden from the rest of the world.

Alex imagined a broad-shouldered, squat, long-armed street sweeper-spesh, creeping stealthily in the middle of the night. Reaching into his belly pouch, taking out some litter he’d gathered the day before, and spreading it around someone else’s lot. Laughing quietly, straining his genetically-weakened vocal cords, heading back home, relishing his revenge… But, no! That was nonsense—a street sweeper-spesh was incapable of littering. A natural could do it easily, though…

The door beeped again.

“Open.”

For some reason, he had been expecting a small provocation from Kim. She could arrive wearing only her skimpy PJ’s, for instance, or even wearing nothing at all. Or something she had bought back on Quicksilver Pit—her black-and-silver pantsuit, which showed off her trim figure—or a semi-transparent evening gown…

Alex underestimated her, as it turned out.

Kim wore a simple white dress and sandals. A small black chiffon scarf was tied around her throat.

It was the same provocation, only much more sophisticated. A sweet schoolgirl, freshly dressed for the prom. An element of every adult male’s erotic fantasies.

“Kim…” said Alex softly.

“I totally understand.” Kim sat down on the floor at his feet and gave him a heartrending, beseeching smile. “You’re tired. Don’t send me away, okay? Just don’t send me away… Let me sit here with you for a little while?”

“Kim…” Alex lifted her off the floor, sat her down on his lap. “You’re making a mistake, kid….”

“A mistake?”

“It’s a mistake to have a crush on me.”

Kim frowned slightly.

“Whatever gave you that idea? I’m just very grateful to you, that’s all…”

“You’re welcome.”

“Besides, we are still husband and wife… for the next eight hours.”

Alex kissed her soft lips. Whispered:

“Kim, it will only make things worse, trust me.…”

“As your wife, I have a right to demand that you perform your husbandly duties.” She gave him a strict, serious look. “I insist!”

Her eyes were ardent, demanding. The eyes of a hetaera-spesh. A hetaera in love.

“I can’t deny my duties,” said Alex. His kiss stopped her from saying anything in reply. He lifted the girl up into his arms and, still kissing, took her over to the bed. He lay down next to her and started taking off her dress, all the while returning her urgent kisses. Kim’s hands slid down his torso and unbuttoned his pants. For a second, she freed her lips from his and whispered hotly and earnestly, as if swearing an oath: