The Genome

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “No. Next.”

  “Year 2173. Base crystal of space cruiser Tron. Stolen by an unknown person. Never recovered. Further details unavailable.”

  Alex looked at Kim in considerable doubt. She was a spesh, certainly. But to believe that ten years ago, as a child, she could have stolen the gel-crystal from a military ship …

  “Is the gel-crystal from the Tron still being searched for?”

  “No information available.”

  Made sense. The military gave no rewards for the return of stolen articles. And they seldom asked for police assistance with any internal problems. Remarkable that these details had leaked into the open infonet at all.

  So then, could it have been the space cruiser Tron?

  Alex squatted in front of the table. Looked at the glass, where the now-invisible crystal lay.

  It was not just its intrinsic value. If this was the crystal, and if it still contained all of the data from the military fleet’s flagship … even ten years old …

  “How come I always get myself into shit, and when I do, it’s always up to my ears …?” Alex asked rhetorically.

  The crystal could not answer him, the girl was asleep, and the computer did not consider it an appropriate question. Alex sighed. Well, there was no proof, after all. It could very well have been a completely different crystal.

  “Computer. Access the employment vacancy pages.”

  “Completed.”

  At least this service was available.

  “Vacancies on the planet Quicksilver Pit for a master-pilot, spesh, thirty-four years of age, six years of experience, first-class qualifications, no restrictions, confirmed loyalty, misdemeanor record clean … um … no restrictions, full medical clearance as of today. Display text only.”

  There were vacancies. Five of them, to be exact.

  Alex moved up to the screen.

  The first announcement made him smirk. Orbital and sub-orbital freight transit. A Hamster-class barge. To offer this job to a master-pilot … Someone had a real sense of humor. Thirty credits per week. No sign-up bonus. Free lodging at the Hilton.

  “Delete the first entry.”

  The second and third opportunities were not much better. Two freight routes—Quicksilver Pit to and from the hyperterminal, and Quicksilver Pit to and from the asteroid belt. Two barges, one Hamster-class, the other a Badger. Sixty credits per week. Lodging at the Hilton or in a company-sponsored apartment.

  “Delete the second and third entries.”

  Were master-pilots a dime a dozen in this place? Or … maybe there really was no demand for speshes of his skill level.

  The fourth vacancy caught his attention. The space liner Goethe. Second master-pilot. The independent company Solar. One hundred credits. Full benefits. A sign-up bonus equal to one month’s salary. All expenses paid. There were, however, some special conditions … a non-negotiable five-year contract.

  “Delete.”

  The fifth vacancy was a military one. A fleet-supply vessel. Seventy credits with full benefits. A one-year contract. A very attractive offer.

  Except it would be a military thing …

  “Delete.”

  The girl moaned weakly. Alex turned to her. Kim awkwardly rolled her head on the pillow. Her eyes were open.

  “The crystal …”

  “Everything’s fine. It’s safe.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She lost consciousness again.

  Well, she did realize how precious the crystal was, if she could interrupt her own trance for it.

  “What am I going to do with you?” said Alex under his breath.

  An off-track metamorphosis was no joke. She would be getting visions any second now. She might turn violent, and a fighter-spesh out of control—that would be a disaster. But even if she stayed quiet, she would still need food, she would need rest, and medicine. All that cost money, and he had none.

  “A new entry just in,” the computer informed him. Alex read over the new vacancy announcement that had appeared on the screen.

  Spaceship Mirror. Unclassified vessel, assembled on Earth. Master-pilot, simultaneous appointment as the ship’s captain. As the ship’s captain!

  Alex gave a start. Stared intensely at the dry lines of the announcement. No established routes. Two hundred credits per week. Sign-up bonus equal to two months’ salary. All-expenses-paid lodging on board the ship and “rank-appropriate accommodations at all spaceports.” The Sky Company. A two-year contract.

  “This doesn’t happen,” said Alex firmly. “Ever.”

  Could not resist the urge to glance at his shoulder. The Demon really was sitting with its back to him, but had now turned its head and stared at Alex quizzically.

  “Contracts like this don’t come along, especially … at just the right moment,” announced Alex. “Right?” The Demon was obviously in complete agreement.

  “Delete entry?” queried the computer.

  “Don’t you dare … Details!”

  “No further information available.”

  “Open data on the spaceship Mirror and the Sky Company.”

  “No information available.”

  A contract like this should be snapped up at once—that is, if you were stupid. Two hundred credits per week was too much, even for the combined position of captain and master-pilot. No information on the company, or on the ship, no further details of the contract … Before you enter into anything, you should always know how to exit. This was a rule Alex had learned after his first contract, which he signed thinking it was for one year, but which actually dragged on for three.

  And the main thing—the rank of captain! This was more than a contract. It was a whole new destiny.

  Kim moaned.

  “It’s a real bind, ain’t it?” Alex asked the Demon. The tattoo frowned back at him.

  “Go back to the contract for the space liner Goethe,” said Alex.

  “Access denied. That contract has been signed.” Alex licked his lips. Took out his credit card. Stretched his arm toward the screen.

  “Request to sign the contract with the Sky Company for the combined position of captain and master-pilot of the spaceship Mirror.”

  About ten seconds passed, and then came the computer’s reply:

  “Your application has been accepted.”

  From a slot below the screen a small sheet of paper slid out. Alex read over it quickly. It was an absolutely standard contract, approved by the union. With a tiny little quirk. Alex still had no information about the ship or the company …

  “You have five minutes for deliberation.”

  “Inquiry on the date of departure from this planet,” said Alex.

  “No later than in three standard days.”

  “Information on all crewmembers.”

  “The choice of crewmembers is left to the captain’s discretion.”

  “Such tasty cheese can only mean a mousetrap,” Alex murmured.

  He didn’t know why the contract bothered him. He could not formulate his misgivings. Perhaps because it was simply way too good …

  “Switch to contract-signing mode,” Alex ordered the computer.

  The text of the contract appeared on the screen.

  “I, Alexander Romanov, master-pilot, spesh, citizen of Earth, agree to the standard labor contract, as it appears on the screen, with the Sky Company, and take upon myself the responsibilities of captain and master-pilot of the spaceship Mirror for two years.”

  “Accepted,” reported the computer. “Your information has been submitted to the union of pilots and the Sky Company. Shall I transfer the money into your account?”

  “Yes.”

  “Completed. Shall I provide the documentation on the spacecraft?”

  “Yes. In hard copy.”

  Alex felt the mousetrap snap closed somewhere behind him. But at the moment, he had more important things to worry about.

  “Switch to shopping mode.”

  “Unable to comply. Your room is
configured to minimal parameters.”

  “Pay for this room for the duration of twenty-four hours at maximum parameters.”

  “Accepted.”

  “The nearest pharmacy with emergency delivery services. Switch to video mode.”

  Somewhere in the downstairs lobby, the night clerk probably smirked, seeing that Alex had purchased an extra twenty-four hours at maximum price. No surprise there—the spesh had decided to prolong his pleasure.

  “Hope he has this much fun with his next date!” murmured Alex, catching a sidelong glimpse of the girl’s motionless body. And the computer screen was already showing the face of a girl-natural, dressed in the pale-green uniform of a pharmacy clerk.

  Chapter 2

  Pupation began exactly at midnight, as though Kim’s body had been consulting a clock. The girl yelped, then stretched out, tossing off the blanket. She tensed up on the bed, slowly twisting into a rigid arch. Alex twirled an anesthetic ampoule in his fingers, but decided to wait. Metamorphosis was always a very unpleasant process, even if the expected transformation was minimal. And in the case of a fighter-spesh, especially when the normal schedule was disrupted … She vomited—nothing but bile. Alex brought her some water, helped her up to drink. It was unlikely that she understood what was happening, but she greedily put the glass to her lips.

  Then the bleeding started. Pupation was always much harder on women than it was on men, for physiological reasons. According to Alex’s estimations, she must have lost at least one point five pints of blood. He gave Kim two intravenous injections of blood substitute, three point five ounces each, but did not manage to give her the third injection. He had run out of time. Her veins started slipping away under his fingers. The girl’s whole body quivered. Her pores oozed blood and sweat. Alex sat quiet near the bed, every now and then cleaning it up with anti-bacterial wipes. The used ones already formed a small dirty pile on the floor. The Demon on his shoulder scowled in disgust.

  “Just deal with it, pal,” Alex told it. “Someone had to wipe up my blood and shit, too.”

  Yes, but—the Demon could have pointed out—those were nurses, naturals, who were used to this kind of work and were getting paid to do it. But colloidal tattoos could not talk.

  At two in the morning, the girl’s body stiffened. Her pulse was barely discernible, and her heartbeat was very slow and labored. Alex accessed a medical database, read the recommendations, then lifted Kim out of the bed, took her to the bathroom, and put her into warm water. The bathroom had, of course, a kit for the handicapped, and Alex strapped Kim’s body in, so she wouldn’t drown.

  He spent the next quarter of an hour, a short respite promised by the computer, airing out the room. He sealed the soiled clothes and wipes in a plastic bag. Went out into the hallway and got a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

  When he got back, Kim had already ripped one of the straps and was trying to reach the warm cloudy bath water with her lips.

  “Silly thing,” said Alex, taking her out of the bath. “You’re a mess, aren’t you?” The girl said nothing. At this stage, she retained only basic animal instincts. But in his arms, she suddenly relaxed, let herself be lowered onto the mattress, greedily gulped down two glasses of mineral water, and then lay quiet.

  Alex stood for a moment watching her, then shrugged his shoulders in dismay. Apparently, the initial transformation of the body was finished—her inner organs had undergone modification. But outwardly, Kim did not in any way resemble a regular fighter-spesh, with their thick grayish skin, wider-set eyes, sculpted musculature, and enlarged fingers.

  The next stage of the metamorphosis should have been the stabilization of the body. But here, the girl surprised him.

  Her transformation started all over again. A second wave of body modification was possible, but such genetic programming was rare—extremely rare.

  This time Kim began crying out from the pain. Her cries were very weak—she was too exhausted to cry—but so piteous that if anyone had heard her, the police would surely have stormed the room five minutes later.

  Alex gave her two injections of a narcotic painkiller. A quarter of an hour later, unable to stand it, he gave her a shot of cardio-stimulant and added another dose of the narcotic.

  The Demon on his shoulder indignantly twirled a finger near its temple.

  “I know, I know. If she dies, I’ll get blamed for it all,” Alex agreed.

  When he attempted to listen to her heart again, all he heard was silence.

  But the girl’s breathing was regular.

  It took a couple of minutes, but finally it occurred to him to listen all over her rib cage.

  Her heart had moved to the center of her chest.

  “Holy shit, girl!” was all he could say, straightening his back. The girl, of course, could not have known in advance all that would happen to her. And she had not had the time to tell him all the details of her metamorphosis.

  This could very well be a logical transformation for a fighter-spesh. It might save her life if someone shot straight at the heart.

  Around four o’clock in the morning, Kim quieted down. Her breathing grew deeper, more even. Her heart, having settled in the middle of her chest, beat calmly and rhythmically. On the other hand, her cheeks looked hollow, and her ribs and pelvic bones stuck out as though she had been starved for a week. The pocket in her abdomen opened and the skin sucked in, crater-like, making apparent the muscle ring around the opening. This kind of thing in a fighter-spesh was not quite as useless as it was strange. It would be more likely to benefit a smuggler, but who would need a smuggler-spesh?

  “Your parents sure had some funny ideas,” said Alex, and wiped the sweat off the girl’s face. It was hard to believe that only a few hours earlier, she had knocked out a huge guy with just three blows.

  But the stabilization process was proceeding smoothly, as if it was taking place exactly as planned, in a hospital ward, and under the watchful eye of experienced doctors. Alex ran out of wipes, so he patted the girl with a wet towel and sat down at the window for a smoke. It looked as though she had managed the physiological transformation just fine. But a spesh was not just a collection of muscles, nerves, and inner organs. There was also the mind. And that was, after all, the most important thing.

  Kim moaned.

  Alex put out his cigarette, sat down beside her, took her hand. A friend of his, a navigator-spesh from the Third Freight-and-Passenger station, had been convinced that any spesh coming out of the chrysalis stage got a fixation on those who were around when it happened, undergoing a sort of imprinting. As an example, he had offered his own case. He later married the nurse who had taken care of him during the transformation. Alex did not contest the beauty of this theory, although he himself had never felt any special attraction to the doctors and nurses who had been with him during his metamorphosis. If any imprinting had left its mark on him, it must have been his liking for the strong sweet coffee he was given repeatedly during his pupation.

  The girl started saying something. Clearly, but in a strange language. Not in Lingua, or English, or Chinese, or German, or Russian … Alex had almost decided to turn on the computer for a synchronous translation, but changed his mind. That would be like peeping through a keyhole.

  “I don’t want this!” Kim said all of a sudden. Her voice had not changed much, and Alex was happy about that. Wouldn’t it be just dandy if she kept the same body but acquired a loud, commanding tone of voice!

  “Like it or not—you’re in,” he said. “Hang in there.”

  “Don’t … Please … don’t …” Kim begged piteously. Alex stroked her cheek. The girl’s mind was now lost in the realms of dream and fantasy. It was one thing to change the body. Another thing altogether to change the soul. This was the most delicate part of the metamorphosis. Now Kim was experiencing situations pre-programmed before she was born. She was adapting to them. Learning to love her future profession.

  Alex remembered his own metamorphosis ver
y clearly. The intoxicating feeling of flight. The depths of space. The scattered diamonds of stars. Piloting a craft through a stellar photosphere, through asteroid belts, through the violent atmospheres of giant planets, through space torn by attacking squadrons …

  To be honest, he was not sure that he had even needed such a psychological crash course. He had always wanted to be a pilot anyway, since early childhood. And it was true happiness to know that your dream would inevitably come true.

  But a fighter’s dreams had to be different.

  And the weak barrier between fantasy and reality could be breached at any second. A fighter-spesh could kill with one blow.

  Wouldn’t that be ironic—the girl would wake up in the morning to see the lifeless corpse of the guy who had struggled to pull her through all night long.

  It occurred to Alex to tie her up. But that could only do harm. If her clouded mind took his actions for aggression, he would be done for.

  “Hang in there, kid,” he said. “Just a little bit longer. The worst is already over.”

  He was lying, but it was a necessary lie.

  “You know …” Her voice was quiet, but … there was something about it. A kind of unimaginable, heartfelt honesty, a shy courage, frankness, gratitude.

  “You know, when I first saw you, I realized, it was forever …”

  Alex choked on his own breath. Kim’s eyes were still closed. She was lost in her own fantasy world.

  Alex glanced at his Demon, as if for reassurance. The Demon’s jaw dropped.

  “Yeah …” said Alex. “It would be nice to hear somebody say that to me. Kinda stupid of me, I know, but I’d like it.”

  Kim was smiling, her eyes closed. He wiped the sweat off her face again. Thought a while, and then said to the Demon, “Then again, maybe not. After that kind of thing, it’s hard to be a jerk, but I’d have to, anyway.” The Demon nodded its approval.

  “Balmont,” said the girl suddenly. Was quiet for a second. “Aivazovsky. Gauguin. Michelangelo.”

  Alex shrugged. Went to the window, turned up its transparency level. A murky sunrise was already on its way, dimly seen through clouds and smog—the way it was supposed to be on Quicksilver Pit. Yesterday was over, gone, past.