Sergei Lukyanenko - The Genome

A hatch entry melted in the belly of the ship, and down slid the elevator platform. Alex turned and greeted C-the-Third and the two aliens with a short nod.

“Greetings, greetings, kind male friend the captain!” the Zzygou sang out. They seemed to have completely recovered from the anise poisoning and seemed no longer worried about it.

“We’ve decided to fly out to the sea,” the clone told Alex, with a conspiratorial wink. “For a swim.”

“Wonderful,” Alex agreed. “Have a great trip.”

The Zzygou stood, smiling happily at him, and C-the-Third, his sturdy hands on the shoulders of the Others, seemed positively thrilled. He looked somehow like both a doting father and a hopeless lecher. Wonder how the genetic engineers had managed to wrap his psyche around love for the Others? Could it really have been done through sexual attraction? That was, after all, the easiest and most logical way….

Another vehicle approached, a car this time, an old but impressive Barracuda. The customs officer turned out to be a young and handsome fellow.

Another minute, and Alex was alone once again.

To be completely honest, besides piloting, he loved this kind of moment more than anything else in the world.

A soft wind blew, heavy with the scent of grasses. The orange sun was warm, but not hot, and some little birds were chirping in the sky. They must be rather dumb to live at the spaceport… or rather smart to avoid getting hit by the ships… Dumb, most probably.

Alex took a deep drag on his cigarette. It wasn’t as enjoyable anymore, starting to taste a little bitter. Everything is good in moderation. A glass of wine, a sip of cigarette smoke, a morsel of an exotic dish…

“Computer, I’m ready to come in,” he said, and the elevator platform was lowered to his feet.

He hesitated a long while before putting on the neuro-shunt.

It wasn’t because of fear, not at all. Pilot-speshes were capable of fear—a normal and useful human reaction—but pilot-speshes would never let fear interfere with their actions.

Alex wasn’t sure his actions would be right. It was unpleasant—he wasn’t used to feeling this way. And now he was forced to act based on… no, not on facts, not even on premonitions… more like barely detectable hints. The way a person climbing a mountain could go up a beaten rocky path, maybe even a hard and a dangerous one, but clearly visible. Or he could crawl up a vertical cliff face, where a single false move could mean death. And then he could choose a rock shrouded by mist, where a foothold that looks strong and reliable suddenly breaks away, like a rotted tooth, taking the ill-fated rock climber down with it.

The hardest thing is half-knowing, half-truths. They give you neither freedom, as does complete ignorance, nor any direction, as does truth. But if you are unlucky, they bring you a full measure of defeat.

Alex pulled on the headband of the neuro-shunt.

The world plunged into darkness and was reborn.

The very next moment, a tremendous blow threw Alex down to his knees.

“No one stands before the Sovereign!”

Alex turned his head. Slowly, because a cold, sharp steel blade was pressed to his neck. He was held down by two half-naked muscular warriors, looking as though they came out of the pages of a history textbook… or a kid’s comics. A third warrior, dressed a little more ornately, was holding a bared sword to his throat.

A farce. But dying would be painful even in a virtual world….

It was a huge circular hall with a dome of crimson-and-gold stained-glass windows, white marble columns, and mosaic-tiled floors. In the center of this hall stood a throne—a rough-surfaced hunk of black rock with a wide seat carved out. Edgar, dressed in black and red silks, seemed to be a part of the throne, just as dead and cold. Only his eyes glimmered behind his glasses, so appropriate among all these medieval props. Two very young girls, clinging to the boy’s legs, fixed a startled stare on the pilot.

“We’ve gotta talk,” said Alex.

Edgar said nothing. He seemed lost in thought.

“Get rid of your phantoms,” said Alex, annoyed. The blade at his throat trembled, as if about to strike.

“Say ‘Sovereign’!” Edgar ordered, the echo of his voice rolling inside the dome.

“Sovereign.” Alex had no intention to fuss about trifles.

The boy on the throne snapped his fingers. The young girls slid down the steps and rushed away. The guards were apparently reluctant to release Alex—they hesitated.

“Out,” Edgar told them dryly.

Rubbing his forearms, Alex got up from his knees. He approached the throne.

“What’s all this masquerade?”

“They’re very good self-teaching programs,” Edgar informed him, with an offended note in his voice. “And I’ve worked on this reality for five years. I have to live somewhere! And now I’ll have to explain to my courtiers the unexpected appearance of a sorcerer in the Sovereign’s palace!”

Alex sat down at the foot of the throne, shrugged his shoulders.

“What kind of sovereign are you, to have to explain anything to anyone? Well, it’s your game, not mine. Can’t you get down?”

“I can,” affirmed Edgar gloomily. He got up, gracelessly descended the stone steps, and sat down next to the pilot. “So, everyone’s off on a little vacation, eh?”

“Yup. Can you guess why I stayed behind on the ship?”

“’Cos you wanna talk to me?”

“Exactly.”

The boy frowned. Then peaceably spread out his arms, saying:

“Well, all right. Want some wine or ice cream? Or should I call in the houris?”

“I said ‘to talk,’ not ‘have some fun.’ Edgar, are you a good genetic engineer?”

“The best in the universe.”

Alex smirked. “All right, suppose you are. What can you tell me about Kim?”

“You’re still interested in that?”

“Of course. The girl is suffering, Edgar.”

“She’s suffering,” the boy agreed. “She’s in love with you. You were with her in the moment of metamorphosis, you see. Imprinting as such is not really characteristic of speshes, but Kim’s situation is different. Her psychological profile demands love, and you have become the first object of its application.”

“That I get. Her genes are part geisha’s?”

“A very small part.”

“And why was that done?”

Edgar was silent.

“Look, I want to be your friend.” Alex put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I want to help you gain a living body. Want to help Kim. But I need you to help me as well… just a little. Why was a fighter-spesh equipped with a geisha’s abilities?”

“Kim isn’t a fighter-spesh at all,” said Edgar abruptly. “A fighter! Hah! Mass production, cookie-cutter job, fodder for the Imperial cannons… Kim is absolutely unique.”

“What is she?”

“A secret agent.”

“What?” Alex couldn’t help laughing.

Edgar turned to him and stared furiously straight into his eyes.

“You think it’s funny? You think that secret agents are all made to be six-foot-tall hunks with plasma cannons implanted in their asses? An agent can kill. An agent has the skills and reaction reflexes of a fighter, but that’s not the main thing! To use an agent-spesh as a fighter is insanely wasteful! Kim has been created to revolve in the highest social circles, to make people fall in love with her, to have influence, to gather intelligence, to blackmail… and, well, to kill, if necessary. But that’s secondary. You can’t imagine even a fraction of her abilities! She herself doesn’t realize most of them… just yet. Kim can read information off computers remotely, she can hold her breath for a quarter of an hour, lower her own body temperature to match the temperature of her immediate environment. She has perfect memory, an intuitive ability to decipher codes… and a number of truly unexpected physical abilities—”