The Genome

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “Poe. Shelley. Shakespeare. Keats. Nabokov. Akutagawa …”

  “Pushkin,” suggested Alex, without turning.

  “Pushkin. Lermontov. Fet …”

  Kim was quiet for a moment and then started up again, talking faster.

  “Verlaine. Rimbaud. Burns. Heine. Goethe. Schiller. Baudelaire. Whitman. Wilde.”

  “That’s right, don’t get stuck on the Russians,” said Alex. “A solid classical education. I approve. Except—what good is it to a fighter?”

  “Basho. Sappho.”

  “Which order do you recite them in, I wonder …”

  “Chopin. Tchaikovsky.”

  “Are we done with the poets, then?” asked Alex.

  “Dante …” said the girl with a hint of doubt. “Gumilev. Bykov. Robespierre.”

  “What’s that?” asked Alex, suddenly interested. Looked back at Kim. She licked her lips and started talking very rapidly.

  “Churchill. Lenin. Marx. Gandhi. Gates. Dan Lao Wang …”

  Alex lowered himself into a chair, closed his eyes, stretched out his legs. He was very tired. And the girl kept talking and talking, zooming through Earth’s history with the ease and precision of an artillery round. The list was slightly unbalanced in favor of music and poetry, but politics, art, architecture, and science were covered.

  Seemed like Kim really was following the track of her metamorphosis. The facts loaded into her prenatally were now exploding in her mind like tiny bombs. Behind every name she recited was a whole image of the person, complete with dates of life and death, life events, paintings and poems, lines from speeches, rumors, maybe even films and archival videos.

  All that was nice. But totally useless for a fighter-spesh.

  Alex dozed off.

  Several times he was awakened by silence. Kim would get quiet, and then start speaking in German, which Alex barely knew, then switch to Japanese, English, Russian, Chinese. She was long done with the names. Now she was simply holding conversations with nonexistent people. Conversations about nothing.

  “Your offer is very flattering, monsieur …”

  Then Alex would again sink into sleep. He was trained to rest sporadically, dropping off for a few minutes, waking up instantaneously to evaluate the situation, then going back to sleep. It was a very useful skill in his line of work. But no one had ever instructed him in World History. No spesh had any need for that.

  “Yes, Your Highness …”

  The pilot slept.

  “Alex …”

  He opened his eyes.

  The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed, with a sheet wrapped around her. Her cheeks were hollowed, and her eyes shone feverishly. But she was fully conscious.

  And not at all different.

  “Where’s the crystal?”

  Alex threw an indicative glance at the table. Kim jumped up, holding the sheet to her chest, walked toward the table, and took up the glass.

  “In here?”

  The pilot gave a silent nod.

  Kim’s fingers slid into the water. Felt the invisible facets of the crystal, and her face immediately relaxed.

  “Turn around … please.”

  He turned around. When he looked back at her again, the glass was half-empty and no longer contained the crystal.

  “I went through my metamorphosis?” asked the girl.

  Alex nodded.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Kim laughed softly.

  “I … I was so scared. An off-track metamorphosis can kill you, right?”

  “It tried to. I didn’t consent.”

  “Alex …” She immediately became serious. “Friend-spesh, I am grateful for your help. I will pay you back in kind.”

  “I believe you.” Reluctantly, he got up from the chair. Last night’s impressions had already faded a bit. Only fatigue remained.

  “Take a shower, and I’ll get us some breakfast, room service. You hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “All is well, then.”

  He searched her face for any traces of change. If only her eyes now had vertical pupils, or she had pointy ears … or there was any change in her skin tone and texture …

  Alex reached over and patted Kim on the cheek. She smiled, accepting this display of affection without any embarrassment.

  Her skin was just skin.

  “Why does your Demon look so puzzled?”

  Alex gloomily glanced at the tattoo.

  “Because he’s stupid. Kinda like me. Go wash up.”

  “Thanks.” She leaned toward him slightly, getting on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. Then, giggling, vanished behind the bathroom door.

  “I just don’t get it!” said Alex bluntly. Was it possible that the metamorphosis did get off track after all? The psychological phase went fine, but the body remained unchanged? But her heart did move. And then there was that pocket under her ribs … Well, the pocket had been there before.

  He went up to the computer screen and ordered a hearty breakfast for three from the hotel cafe. He had no doubt that Kim could handle enough food for two.

  When she came out, looking refreshed in her cheap hotel bathrobe, the breakfast had already arrived. Scrambled eggs with mushrooms, boiled veal, tons of toast and juice, plus coffee—Alex had his own ideas about breakfast for a young spesh girl.

  “Oh, I can’t eat all that,” protested Kim, catching a glimpse of the table.

  “It only seems like a lot. Come here.” He unwrapped her robe, and the girl tensed up a little. Alex did not pay any attention to that. Touched her chest.

  Okay, fine. Her heart was in the middle. Her lungs had probably equalized in size. Where her esophagus and trachea had moved was anybody’s guess.

  “Kim, what were you supposed to transform into?”

  “Something wrong?” she asked quickly.

  “I’d have to know what’s right before I could tell you if anything is wrong. What were you supposed to become?”

  “A fighter-spesh … I think.”

  “You think?”

  “No one ever told me much about it.” Kim kept looking down at his hand. “I think I was meant to be a fighter-spesh … I have … I mean, I had a friend … He was programmed to become a fighter … and … we had the same training …”

  “Weapons, hand-to-hand combat, tactics and strategy?” Alex moved his hand away.

  “Yes …”

  “Weird. You know that a fighter’s skin, for example, changes in texture and takes on a grayish tint?”

  Kim frowned. “I actually think that’s beautiful …”

  “I won’t argue with you. But it didn’t happen to your skin. And you have no other signs of change.”

  “Something went wrong, then? I’m not done with my metamorphosis?”

  She was really scared.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Every specialization has its own sub-categories. I am not an expert on fighter transformations … You’ll have to see a doctor. Sit down and eat.”

  Kim ate fast, and that was not at all surprising. What was surprising was that she nevertheless managed to eat gracefully, even beautifully.

  Alex finished his eggs, drank his coffee, and went over to the computer screen. His ship’s documentation was waiting there in the printer tray.

  He started to read, fully expecting to be unpleasantly surprised.

  But as he read, he grew more and more confused.

  Mirror was an interstellar-class vessel built for versatility. Something between a pleasure craft and a passenger ship, it had a biodome, good rigging, very decent weapons, and a great set of engines. A dream of a ship. An up-to-six-member crew, and space for twice that number of passengers. All in all, this was not a contract Alex would have turned down even if he had a lot of time to really think it over. The rank of captain, and the right to pick his own crew …

  “No one is this lucky …” he murmured.

  “Alex, where did you get the money? Yesterday you were bro
ke.”

  “I found a job.” Alex folded the sheet, stuck it in his coat pocket. “Kim, where are you from?”

  “Far away.”

  “Okay. Do you have anywhere to go in this city? A place to live, a way to make some money?” Her eyes looked a little frightened.

  “No. I mean, yes … but I’d rather not.”

  “I see,” said Alex. “I have to leave for now. You can stay here. You can wait for me or just rest up and disappear.”

  “I’ll … wait for you.” The girl lowered her eyes.

  “Okay. Get your card, I’ll transfer some money over. You’ll need to change.”

  “I don’t have a card.”

  “An ID? Even a child card?”

  “I have no documents.”

  Another nuisance. Alex walked to the computer screen, opened an account, and transferred some money to a hotel credit line.

  “Anyway, order some clothes. Try to eat often. Not a lot, but often.”

  “I know that.”

  Alex nodded and said nothing more. Nothing of the necessity to avoid too much physical activity in the first few days after the metamorphosis, nothing of the possible dizziness and fainting spells, nothing of the benefits of a sauna—the hotel had one.

  “Block the door behind me,” he told her.

  Quicksilver Pit had been colonized about two hundred years before, probably after the completion of the very first hyper-channel station on the Moon in the middle of the twenty-first century. Alex probably could have found out the exact history on the information net, but he wasn’t all that interested. What difference did it make which of the stations, searching blindly through the vast ocean of hyperspace, had plotted a channel from Earth to Quicksilver Pit?

  In any case, the planet had not escaped the common fate of all the early Earth colonies. It was an outpost, and amid its boundless jungle, the first villages, garrisons, and factories had been founded. The first steps had been careful, but later, once it became apparent that the local biosphere was defenseless in the face of humanity, development grew more and more active. An emigration wave from the overpopulated Earth, mass cloning of infants, which increased the population growth rate dozens of times above normal—all that was commonplace.

  Except that this colony still seemed incapable of getting rid of the yoke of an industrial giant—it had too many minerals and fossil fuels, and an infrastructure that was too well developed. The planet was suffocating in industrial waste, but human greed still had the upper hand. In Alex’s opinion, the situation would probably remain unchanged for another twenty or thirty years.

  He left the Hilton and managed to avoid any inquisitive glances from the clerk—the shift had already changed. In a little side street nearby, a few bored cab drivers were whiling away the time in their old clunkers.

  “To the port,” said Alex, sitting down next to a cab driver.

  “Spaceport?” asked the guy for some reason. He was a pleasant-looking middle-aged natural.

  “You have some other kind?”

  “The airport … and the river port to the north …” came the upbeat reply, while the driver was steering onto the street. “And we have three different spaceports ’round town.”

  “Central civilian.”

  “Uh-huh.” The driver whipped the car into the sparse traffic flow, ran through the sensors of the route-finder, and took his hands off the steering wheel. To Alex, that seemed a little rash—the old navigation system didn’t look reliable at all. But he chose not to say anything.

  For a few minutes, they rode in silence. Against all expectations, the car moved smoothly, keeping its distances, without needlessly jerking around.

  “You from far off?” inquired the driver.

  “Yup. From Earth.”

  “I’ve been there,” the driver reported, noticeably proud of the fact. “Nice place. Our old mother-planet and all … But ours is better.”

  “Home is always best,” replied Alex tactfully. He was well aware of colonial attitudes. It was either complete self-abasement and adoration of Earth, or proudly protruding chins and careful avoidance of all the facts.

  “I was in the army,” said the cab driver. “For four years. Left as a sergeant … you know. We had exercises on Earth. For three weeks.”

  “Really?”

  Alex couldn’t have cared less about the driver’s heroic military feats, which were most likely just a few peacekeeping assignments. And the details of the fellow’s visit to Earth were also of no interest to him. But politeness prompted him to keep up the conversation.

  “Yes, sir! For three whole weeks. We were in … whatchamacallit … America.”

  “North or South?”

  “There’s two of ’em?” The driver laughed, honestly accepting his ignorance. “Well, it was cold. Must’ve been the north one, then. We went to hunt the … em … penguins. It was close, just hop across the straits in a boat, and have all the fun you want. Don’t get me wrong, it was all legal, with a license.”

  “I don’t like hunting.”

  “Too bad. Most fun a man can have. War and hunting … But war … well, that’s dangerous.”

  Alex barely suppressed a smile. A very heroic and manly approach.

  “By the way … can I pay the fare in advance?”

  The cab driver looked him over one more time, probably doubting his creditworthiness. Which was odd: if he had doubts, why take such a passenger?

  Alex reached for his card and activated it. Caught a glance of the amount on the ticker. Very reasonable.

  “Thanks.” The driver seemed content. “And why are you off to the spaceport?”

  “I’m a pilot.”

  “Oh … well then …” The driver laughed uneasily. “Thought naturals couldn’t be pilots.”

  “I’m a spesh. We have practically no differences in appearance.”

  “They changed you a lot?”

  “Enough. If, for instance, we ran into that truck head on …” As Alex said this, the driver hurriedly looked at the road and even touched the steering wheel. “… you would be smashed into paste. Too much inertia. And I would survive. And probably walk away from the accident.”

  “You’re a funny guy.” Saying this, the cab driver did, nevertheless, leave his hands upon the steering wheel. “But your clothes … they ain’t pilot’s.”

  “Yeah, well … I’ll change ’em.”

  “And that tattoo of yours … Hey, take a look at what I got in the army!” Alex pensively looked at the driver’s hand. Every finger was decorated by an image of a naked girl. The little finger had a flirtatious nymphet, the ring finger a curvy black girl, the middle one a long-legged model with blond curls, the index finger a stripper wrapped around a pole, and the thumb an Asian beauty crouching in a strange pose. On the hand itself reclined a cocky soldier wearing a suit of force field armor and also, for some reason, a dress-uniform beret. Even from the back, he looked sated and relaxed.

  “Nice work,” Alex agreed.

  “I’ll have to get rid of it, though,” sighed the driver. “I mean, it’s a good souvenir and all, but … my daughter’s getting older now … it ain’t decent. She’ll look at Daddy’s hand—and he’s got a whole harem instead of fingers—”

  “That’s just your normal army thing,” said Alex, “a whole harem instead of fingers.” The driver looked at him guardedly, but the pilot’s face remained impenetrable.

  “That a joke?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Of course not. Tell you what. Erase only the girls. Keep the soldier. That’ll be your souvenir.” At that, the driver’s face lit up.

  “Hey, yeah! Smart! Didn’t even occur to me …”

  “Yeah, well …”

  The car was already passing the widely separated supports of the monorail, somewhere in the vicinity of the hospital. Alex was surprised at how light traffic was.

  “For freight transit, there’s the underground route,” said the driver, having guessed the reason for Alex’s surprise.
“They run passenger capsules, too. Who the hell likes to be under there, though …”

  This was apparently a sore spot—the subway must have been drawing away some of the better-tipping passengers. For a few minutes, the driver told Alex the history of the subway project. To listen to him, the subway was completely worthless to everyone except the corrupt bureaucrats from Town Hall.

  Alex closed his eyes. He regretted having kept up the conversation, after all. He should have just paid the fare and taken a nap. Half an hour of sleep—that wouldn’t have been half bad.

  “Hey, I like that little tattoo you got,” the driver complimented him. “I mean, it ain’t all that much to look at, just a snot of a thing. But the little devil’s face is well done! You can see how he’s tired, and bored, and … er … maybe stuck-up, even. Like he doesn’t give a damn about anyone.”

  “That’s bad,” murmured Alex. “I didn’t order that.”

  “Come on, it came out good!” The driver seemed to have grown more comfortable with Alex. “You’re a good guy, for a spesh. No, don’t get me wrong … I personally have no problem with you guys. But the speshes, well … sort of look down on us naturals sometimes. Right?”

  “It happens.”

  “I even wanted to get a specialty for my little daughter, when I found out my wife was expecting. Not too expensive here, you know. The government helps out, you can pay in installments for ten years. But guess what happened?”

  “What?”

  “We didn’t agree. Know what I was thinking? It’d be best for the kid to be a good technician. Always in demand, good pay, and, like I said, it ain’t too expensive. Back in the army, we had this independent plumbing contractor, a young lady-spesh. You should’ve seen her get those rusted bolts off barehanded! Caught leaks by ear sixty feet away! And, boy, could she blow out those sewer pipes! And a real looker, besides. Well, I tell my wife … but she’s all in tears—says: ‘I don’t want my daughter to spend her whole life in sewers and basements!’ What the hell? I mean, work is one thing, life is something else. So I ask her, what you want then? She says: ‘Let the girl be a model.’ Now you tell me, ain’t that just loony?”

  “Yup.”

  “Those specifications ain’t subsidized by the government … they cost something terrible … And what kind of work is that, anyway—shaking your ass on a catwalk?! And you know what? One day they want ’em skinny as a rail—next day they only want the chubby ones. How do you know what they want next?”