Sergei Lukyanenko - The Genome

Too late.

Paul had already managed to break through the field. He met the Zzygou with a kick of both his feet, as he leaned back against the force barrier he had just breached. Sey-Zo doubled up, flew back toward the table, knocked her head against the edge of it, and lay motionless.

“You aren’t all that tough…” Paul whispered. His movements had gained a strange predatory awkwardness—as though it was now hard for him to stay still. He looked over at Holmes.

“Put away your toy. If you reach for the ‘Bulldog’—you’re dead. I’m faster than you, test-tube baby…”

At this very second, Kim O’Hara repeated his trick with the field, broke through, and in a single leap flew up on the table.

“Friend-spesh,” said the agent. “That’s no way…”

“Face the wall, hands behind your back!” yelled Kim.

The man who used to be Paul Lourier just smiled. His face was now that of a mature man. His whole body also seemed to have changed—his shoulders were wider, his stature had increased several inches.

“You silly girl. I’ve killed the likes of you by the dozen.”

A fight between two speshes is a very boring thing, unless you watch it in slow motion, speed reduced about ten times.

Sey-Zo was swept onto the floor when the exquisite wooden table broke in half under someone’s blow, which had missed its target. Two figures whirled around the lounge like the wind, and the sounds of blows delivered or blocked thickened into a continuous hum.

This lasted four seconds—then stopped.

Ex-Paul Lourier stood near the wall, aiming a small handgun at Holmes. Kim was frozen helplessly in his arms—the agent had her throat in a stranglehold, as he kept pressing his half-bent elbow harder and harder, forcing the girl’s head farther back.

“Drop the ‘Bulldog,’” the agent repeated. “Or I will kill both you and the girl.”

Sherlock Holmes must have realistically assessed his capacity to fight an agent-spesh. He spread his fingers, and the police pistol with its thick, ribbed barrel fell to the floor. In the silence that followed, the most distinct sound was the rustling of the cleaning-beetle that came running out of the corner to feel the dropped object. The pistol must have not had the characteristics of trash—the little beetle went away disappointed.

“To protect the innocent…” the agent sneered. “You’re just a robot with a human body. Do you actually think any of us will get out of this alive?”

Holmes was silent, and the agent nodded in surprise.

“But you will walk away from here. I have no intention of killing you people. Not even her.” He kicked Sey-Zo without looking at her, and the Zzygou let out a weak moan. “Nope, I won’t kill you. Though for different reasons.”

“What are you after?” asked Holmes.

“You figured it out perfectly. I want war. The liberation of Eben. A new order in the galaxy.”

“You are a madman.” Holmes remained calm. “Your owners will get rid of you. You’ve accomplished your mission. People like you are never left alive. Even the most valuable agent has a limit. Having completed his main assignment, he himself becomes a danger. Let Kim go and help us all get out. I swear I’ll turn you in to the human justice system, and not to the Zzygou.”

“Who told you I’m only an agent?” And here, the man who used to be Paul Lourier burst into laughter. Flexed his arm—the half-throttled Kim collapsed at his feet. “Too bad you interfered with me. The girl is a delight… I wouldn’t mind a couple of minutes’ sparring.”

With a sinking heart, Alex watched Kim. Then suddenly she stirred… feebly, and yet it wasn’t a convulsion.

Alex shifted his gaze to the agent. All the features of Paul Lourier had already disappeared from his face. He put on weight and looked like a man of forty or fifty: sturdy, manly, and dark-complexioned, his features slightly irregular—the outcome of too many genetic alterations.

“What age would your bone analysis show?” asked Alex.

The agent looked at him, nodded.

“You are quite a guy, Pilot. You amaze me. The test would show forty-nine standard Earth years.”

“I know who he is…” Janet whispered close to the pilot’s ear. Her voice had lost all its strength, turned helpless and confused.

“I do, too,” Alex said. “You’re forty-nine Earth years old… or forty-four Ebenian years?”

“Exactly. Holmes was right: those who were taken prisoner during the Battle of Pokryvalo are demoralized. They’ve been brainwashed, and they are being monitored…” He glanced at Janet, and his look had a hint of pity. “But not all patriots of humanity were known to Imperial Security.”

“Angry Christ…” said Janet. “The Human Control Committee!”

“Ever at your side, Major Janet Ruello.” The agent bowed mockingly. “You still have a chance, Major. You haven’t fulfilled your humanist duty. You haven’t liquidated the Other, though you had every chance to do so. But I do understand the gravity of the psychological treatment you’ve been subjected to… and I can issue a conditional pardon—for the duration of the military conflict. Your decision?”

“I… I…”

Alex felt that Janet was shaking all over. He touched her hand.

“I am bound by an oath I swore to the ship’s captain. I cannot.”

“Janet Ruello, you’re looking to excuse your treason.” The agent was studying the black woman’s face with a mixture of pity and disgust. “All right. As a senior officer, I release you from the obligations you were forced to make.”

Janet was silent.

“You had your chance, Major.” The agent seemed a bit surprised. “You’ve made your choice.”

He bent down over the Zzygou, then jerked her up in front of him, holding her by the hair with one hand.

“What are you going to do with us?” asked Morrison. “Whoever you might be, you are human, and…”

“I am human, but the question is—are you ?” the agent inquired. “Don’t worry. This force field barrier is very handy. Otherwise I’d have to kill you all. As soon as the military actions between humanity and the Zzygou begin, I’ll leave you.”

Holmes mockingly raised one eyebrow.

“The warship will leave, and my friends will come,” said the agent.

The Zzygou stirred and hissed something to him.

“Ah, regaining the gift of speech, are we?” the agent jeered. He lowered his hand into his pocket, then raised it again—holding a small pocketknife. “Then it’s time I do something about that.”

The next second Alex had to look away. It seemed everyone followed his example, except for Holmes. The detective remained sitting still, his back straight, his icy eyes watching what was happening.

The alien let out a gurgling, gagging sigh. Something soft and small plopped down on the carpet.

This time the cleaning-beetle decided it had some work to do. The Zzygou moaned inarticulately, pressing her hands to her bloody mouth. Drops of red blood were streaming down through her clenched fingers. The little beetle bustled around at her feet, eating up the stains. But to take the severed tongue away, it had to call for another cleaner’s help.

“You scum,” said Alex. “What are you—executioner-spesh?”

The agent shook his head. “My dear Captain, specialization of the psyche is the fate of slaves. Didn’t you say so yourself? That’s the way it was on Eben, and that’s the way it is in the Empire.”

He wiped his bloodstained hands against the Zzygou’s dress, shoved her roughly into a corner. And then, having taken out his pistol, he fired it four times in a row. Alex didn’t manage to recognize the model of the firearm—something operating on low-temperature plasma. Perhaps it was of Ebenian make, or maybe exclusive to Imperial Security. The Zzygou wheezed from the pain, coughing up blood. Her legs were scorched at the knees, and her arms at the elbows. C-the-Third, letting out a horrible, piercing shriek, started thrashing and writhing in the clutches of the force field.