Sergei Lukyanenko - The Genome

“Possibly.” Alex nodded. “It could’ve been anybody. Me, for example. Everyone came to see me today, one after another, and I offered every member of the crew some wine and cognac. What would be simpler than to add the drug to the drinks? Except… what kind of drug?”

Dr. Watson shrugged.

“That’s exactly it. I can’t imagine what could have this effect.”

Alex nodded. Then inquired:

“Purely hypothetically… suppose there was a substance that could block all the mind alterations characteristic of speshes…”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them at once.”

“You told Holmes something of the sort… I don’t know of any such substance.”

“But just suppose it existed. That the crew was under its influence. What should we expect?”

“From the murderer?” Dr. Watson squinted.

“You catch on faster than your literary prototype.”

“If Holmes is right, and I’m inclined to believe him…” Dr. Watson was quiet for a moment. “An assassin-spesh is deprived primarily of the sense of fear and the sense of pity. Even if it’s not the work of underground geneticists, but is just an ordinary agent-spesh, those would be the required parts of his personality. He felt no doubt, murdering the Zzygou. And now he’s biding his time, one hundred percent convinced he is doing the right thing. When the personality alterations vanish… it’s hard to imagine what could happen.”

“Remorse?”

“I doubt it. Personality is formed by more than just chemical reactions. There’s also experience… habits, memories. More likely, the agent will be overcome by panic. Especially if he doesn’t expect such an effect.”

“That’s what I think, too.”

Dr. Watson sighed.

“Captain, you know way more than you’re telling me.”

“It has to be this way. Believe me.”

“And what if I go back to Holmes now and report our conversation?”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Alex smirked. Got up from the bed, walked over to Jenny. Bent over—the woman tensed, as if expecting him to do anything, even the most unexpected.

“What are you…”

Her lips were so unskilled that it was as if she was kissing for the first time in her life. A natural, what could you do…

“You really shouldn’t neglect this side of human relationships, Doctor,” said Alex softly. “Your literary precursor didn’t avoid life.”

“What in the world…”

“Dump your wizened detective.” Alex looked her straight in the eye. “You’re a smart woman, but you’ve already had enough fun with intellectual games. Catching crooks is not your type of thing. Don’t make a spesh out of yourself… thank God you aren’t one. Don’t squelch your human feelings. Be alive, Jenny. Alive and real. Love, be jealous, hate, dream, raise children, and make your career! Create paintings, give people their shots, go waterskiing, grow your garden flowers. Don’t turn yourself into… into the way the rest of us are.”

Jenny Watson jumped up. Leaped over to the door, hurriedly readjusted her blouse, which had come unbuttoned. Cried:

“What’s the matter with you… you’re a pilot-spesh!”

“Uh-huh. But, you know…” Alex was slowly moving towards her. “Somewhere very, very deep inside, I remain simply human. With an ordinary human genome. Of course, there, inside, is a clever boy, who can go on doing his homework right next to a girl who’s in love with him… the girl who kept trying to turn a spesh into a human. Also there lives a studious young recruit, learning the secrets of piloting. And an inexperienced young captain, whose most normal crewmember is a hysterical, affected gay guy who hates clones. All of them are there, inside me. But there is one more little person inside there. A master-pilot, long awaited on a distant planet, by the woman he loves. Probably the same woman he’s loved since he was a child. And when this master-pilot is piloting his ship, he isn’t bound by a genetic order—to protect the technology, the crew, and the passengers. He will fight till the end simply because it’s his favorite ship, and his friends, and the people who have put their trust in him. And also because somewhere far, far away, his beloved is waiting for him, and the children, for whom he chose no specialization.”

“There is no such person, Alex,” quickly retorted Dr. Watson. “I… I don’t understand what kind of crazy game you’re playing. Why are you making all this up—how can you say such things—but…”

Alex put his finger to his lips.

“Sh-sh-sh! Doctor… he’s there. Inside. You see this little Demon on my shoulder? That must be him. Weird, really weird master-pilot Alex Romanov…”

Dr. Watson was pale.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she whispered, fumbling for the door lock behind her back. “You’re psychotic! You’re a regular loony!”

“I cannot be regular.” Alex bowed politely. “Only naturals can be regular. And I—am a spesh.”

Dr. Watson bolted from his cabin. Alex waited till the door closed, and only then burst out laughing.

He kept laughing while he put the book away in the desk drawer, and turned off the light, and got back into his bed. He kept laughing until his laughter turned to tears.

Holmes was playing the violin.

Alex stopped short in the entrance to the recreation lounge, listening, spellbound by the music. And he wasn’t the only one.

Her legs folded under her in an armchair, Kim sat motionless, propping her chin on her hand. Right on the floor next to her sat Morrison, his legs crossed at the ankles. Generalov was sprawling comfortably on the couch… it seemed that he had taken up this pose of lazy indifference as soon as Holmes started playing and then forgot to change it. Tears ran down Puck’s cheeks, blurring ornate spirals of facial paint. From time to time, the navigator sniffled and wiped his face with his hand.

Holmes kept playing.

The old Toshiba violin was probably not equipped with an acoustics compensator unit. Perhaps the recreation lounge had been built to accommodate chamber music concerts, or maybe Holmes’s mastery managed to overcome the instrument’s limitations.

The violin sang. The violin spoke to each one of them. The music contained it all—the deadly chill of boundless space, and the living fire of lonesome stars, and planets, gliding on the very edge of life and death. The violin’s virtual strings flashed as iridescent sparks under the bow, and entire civilizations were born and died in their afterglow. Reason found and lost itself again, tormented by unanswerable questions, and vanished in the darkness of time.

Holmes’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed. This performance was nothing like the little concert he had given in Alex’s cabin. This time, the great detective’s whole life was in his instrument, the bow, and the flowing melody.

Very, very quietly, the Zzygou entered the lounge, dressed in yellow and black, the colors of mourning. She stopped—perhaps in surprise, or perhaps she, too, was enchanted by the music. C-the-Third followed in her wake, like a mournful shadow. Then Lourier approached as well. And after him came Janet. Dr. Watson was the last to appear.

When Holmes briskly took the bow off the strings, everyone was listening.

“Bravo,” said Janet softly. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes.”

Generalov wept openly, not hiding his tears. He was wearing his kilt, a blue shirt, and moccasins. His hair was braided into an intricate pretzel, and the half-smudged ornament on his cheeks had been drawn with particular care. He seemed to have prepared for anything—a fight, or even death. Alex was about to say something to him about his dress code violations… when he noticed that everyone had ignored the rules today.