The Genome

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  Generalov was preening himself, looking in a little mirror, wetting a tiny pencil with his tongue, and touching up his thick eyebrows. He was obviously counting on having some sort of romantic adventure. Janet, standing next to him, was doing the very same thing. She may have had the same intentions, or perhaps she did it simply out of every woman’s ineradicable need to look as seductive as possible.

  Kim stood next to Morrison. The co-pilot, bright and cheerful, as if he hadn’t just finished a lengthy stretch of one-man bridge duty, lightly encircled the girl’s shoulders with his arm. He wouldn’t get anywhere, Alex was sure of that, but still mentally wished his colleague the best of luck.

  “You’re off to the museum, then?” Alex inquired, just in case. “I’d go to the sea …”

  “Join us, and we will go to the sea,” rejoined Kim. She smiled, picking with the tip of her little shoe at the concrete slab. Xang threw an alarmed glance at the captain.

  “Nope, I can’t,” said Alex, with a tone of regret that was almost genuine. “Well, have a nice time.”

  He himself found nothing interesting about visiting the Museum of Animal Husbandry, one of the main places of interest on New Ukraine. But Kim, it seemed, was really into every facet of genetic engineering.

  “Here comes the van,” said Paul with a melancholy air. The engineer was the only one who didn’t regard shore leave as anything particularly special. He hadn’t even changed out of his uniform overalls and intended to spend the whole six hours’ leave in the spaceport bar.

  A potbellied van of the ancient wheeled variety rolled up to the ship and slid sharply to a halt. The driver couldn’t be seen behind the mirror-windshield, but a girl, all smiles, came out of the passenger section of the bus. A customs-inspector badge was pinned to her blouse, embroidered in the New Ukrainian folk style.

  “Good day to you, travelers!” she cried in a ringing bright voice. “Be welcome, dear guests!”

  The girl was cute. Even her force field belt, in the standby mode, looked more like a sweet joke than like a menacing attribute of a customs officer.

  Alex waved at his comrades as they were getting into the bus, then winked at the customs girl. In reply, she gave him a very endearing smile, even if it was prescribed by her job regulations.

  They probably wouldn’t have any problems with the customs—New Ukraine was famous for its lenient and indulgent border patrol services. The only conflict that came to Alex’s mind had to do with an attempt on the part of one Sviatoslav Lo, a navigator-spesh, to take some vanilla pork fat off the planet. As it turned out, this unusual delicacy was strictly forbidden for export—a rather simple way to attract tourists. But Mr. Lo got no punishment for his attempted crime, not even a fine.

  The bus had already disappeared into the distance, approaching the squat spaceport buildings, but Alex remained where he was, standing near the ship. Lighting up another cigarette, he happened to remember that New Ukraine had some decent tobacco … he would need to contact one of his crew and ask them to buy some local cigarettes.

  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!�
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  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—”

  “Does Kim know?” asked Alex bluntly.

  “Do I look like an idiot to you?” snarled Edgar. “No. She doesn’t even suspect anything. It will be a huge shock for her when she finds out. She’s used to considering herself a fighter-spesh, after all … well, at least some kind of fighter, something like a bodyguard or an assassin.”

  “What would happen, if she found out?”

  “I don’t know.” Edgar shrugged. “Most probably, she’ll be really shocked at first … and then she’ll want to take her place in life. People like her work for the Imperial Secret Service, or for planetary administrations … or perhaps for some massive and powerful corporation.”

  “Why haven’t you told her the truth, Edgar?”

  The boy looked up at him sadly. Then asked with a sneering tone:

  “What would she need me for, then?”

  Alex nodded. “Okay, I get it. Forgive me. But if you’re right …”

  “I am right!”

  “Then Kim has to find out who she is. A spesh’s whole life is about fulfilling her purpose. Working as an ordinary fighter, Kim will always remain unhappy.”

  Edgar said nothing, and Alex felt a sharp sting of shame. The boy’s every hope was tied to Kim. All his plans to gain a real body, to break free of his monstrous captivity …

  “I see what you mean …”

  That is, if he wasn’t lying, of course!

  “But we must come up with something for Kim’s sake, right?”

  The boy looked at him in surprise.

  “We?”

  “Of course. You’re her best friend. You’re the genetic engineer. And I am the man Kim’s in love with.”

  “So why do anything else?” Edgar shrugged his shoulders. “She’s got a job now, and she’s okay with it so far. When Kim does discover her own abilities, that will be the time to worry about it. But I hope to have a real body by then.”

  “Anything is possible. But what’s to be done about the problem of her crush on me?”

  “It’s not a crush, it’s love,” Edgar corrected him. He was silent for a moment, then dryly added:

  “I have nothing against your encounters. It’s a natural need, so …”

  “She doesn’t need sex. Or, rather, not only sex. By the way, why was that done? Sure, an agent has to be able to make others fall in love with her. But to fall in love herself?”

  “Love is such a strange thing, Alex …” The boy got up, paced to and fro, his hands behind his back. “There have been many attempts to create geishas who would make others love them while staying cold and indifferent themselves, just doing their work without involving emotions. A seductive appearance, acting talents, smarts, pheromones … All to no avail, Alex. For a guaranteed seduction, the hetaera’s love must also be real. As soon as her goal is accomplished, a geisha gets to fall out of love with the object … to regain her freedom, even if it’s a difficult process, with lots of heartache and sadness. But first, a geisha must be in love herself. No matter for how long—fifteen minutes for a quickie or several years in the role of a lady-escort—but a geisha’s love is genuine.”

  Edgar talked on, utterly immersed in his own words. As if mesmerized, Alex watched the skinny boy pace around the caricature throne, readjusting his glasses, dissecting the “greatest of all human emotions.”

  “Love! Ah! Alex, you can’t even fully grasp what it is, true love! Madness—joyful and voluntary. And an all-engulfing flame, whose heat is delight and torture at the same time. The love of a mother for her children, of a patriot for his motherland, or of a naturalist for truth, all of them pale in comparison with real, genuine, all-engulfing love! Poets have composed verses that live on for millennia. Conquerors have shed rivers of blood. Ordinary and unremarkable people have suddenly caught ablaze like supernovas, burning away a whole life in one blinding flash, raging, and inexorable. Love … love. Thousands of definitions, an endless search for the right words … as though mere sounds could ever encompass this ancient magic. Love is when your beloved is happy … love is when the whole world is concentrated in that one person … love is the feeling that makes us equal to God … There’s no approaching it! No expressing it in words. And it’s not even necessary to express—everyone understands, everyone has experienced this sweet intoxication. Even all the alien races are capable of love, Alex! Theirs may not be human love, but something very, very similar. The Tai’i don’t have any notion of what humor is. The Bronins are incapable of friendship. The Fenhuan can’t fathom vengefulness. A vast number of emotions are unique to humans, though we can’t ever grasp … um … well, for example, the Zzygou sense of sunrise. But every race has love!”

  “Not anymore,” said Alex simply.

  Edgar stopped short. Sighed.

  “Yes, of course. We’ve moved farther than the other races, Alex. We’ve learned to alter our own bodies, and our own souls, as well. To cut something out, and stitch on something else.”

  “Stitch on?”

&nbs
p; “That’s an ancient term. Back then, thin threads were used to attach both cloth and living tissues …”

  “I got it, thanks! But are we right, Edgar? You know that Janet played a joke on our Zzygou guests?”

  “How would I know? You’ve switched me off from the ship’s internal cameras.”

  “She slipped some anise cocktail to the Others. And the alkaloids of anise affect the Zzygou like a potent truth drug.”

  Edgar let out a ringing laugh.

  “You don’t say! What happened then?”

  “One of the Zzygou declared that the human race was doomed. That we’ve gone too far down the road of genetic changes. That humankind is losing its unity and falling apart to become many disconnected, weak civilizations.”

  “Bull!” said Edgar bluntly. “Dream on, stinkers … Humans always were different, you know? In prehistoric times, and in the Middle Ages, and in the blessed twentieth century … always! Some were rulers, some were peasants, some were poets, and some were sewer workers …”

  “But back then we were genetically unified.”

  Edgar shrugged.

  “Do you know what kind of person would be born, for instance, from your sperm and Kim’s egg? If you don’t order any specialization, of course?”

  “A baby-natural with sharp vision.”

  The boy nodded, slightly surprised. “Yes … Exactly. It’s your only shared characteristic. Then you can easily get the rest! And the point, Alex, is that if necessary, humanity can easily and painlessly return to a unified genotype. Every spesh’s gametes contain a double set of genes. The altered one—the one your parents had the geneticists specify. And the regular set—the one you’d have had if you had been born the natural way. This regular set is compressed in the S-organelle and gets activated only during the fusion of sex cells. After that, the process can go all kinds of different ways!”

  Edgar’s face was flushed. This was obviously a beloved topic that filled him with inspiration.

  “And that was the hardest part, you see, Alex! Back in the beginning of the twenty-first century, when the active genotype alteration work began, we were facing an unsolvable problem. It was easy to alter the body completely. But how do you keep the human genotype intact in the process? How do you get a mermaid, who herds schools of fish, and a steeplejack, who has no fear of heights and can spend a whole work shift hanging by two fingers, to have a normal, healthy baby, and not some monstrous freak? It was then that this way was suggested, a complicated one, but safe—and fascinating! A spare copy of genes. Clean and untouched by alteration. Suppose our little mermaid swam out to the shore and met the young steeplejack. A moonlit night … the gentle lapping of waves. Two happy, self-satisfied young people meet. Our little mermaid is sitting on a tree branch, which gently slopes toward the water, and our steeplejack is walking along the shore and humming a tune, say, the one that goes: ‘We aren’t firemen or carpenters, our work takes us to the sky, we send you greetings from on high!’”