Maybe he’d still luck out? The elevator started to crawl up smoothly.
“My heart skipped a sweet beat …” triumphantly announced the commentator.
“Shit!” Alex hissed, clenching his fists.
“For some reason, I started thinking of my mother …” continued the voice musingly. “Those times when, as a youth, I’d come home late at night and climb into a bath, and then my mom would come in and, for a long time, she would slowly, tenderly wash my hair …”
Alex pressed his back into the corner of the elevator. No, he wouldn’t move! He still had his free will, after all!
“The elevator went on climbing and climbing,” the narrator said, commenting on the obvious. “And suddenly!”
Alex dug his fingers into the walls. But in virtuality, even his spesh reflexes failed him. The elevator halted, literally in an instant. He was tossed upwards, thrown against the wall, and hurled onto the floor. The cake carton was ripped out of his hands and smashed against the wall. Icing squirted out, and pieces of broken chocolate figures came cascading down. There was a nasty grinding squeak. The elevator stopped, swaying a little, as though it was being pulled up not by a gravitational field, but a common cable.
His own instincts played a bad trick on him. He couldn’t help perceiving what had just happened as anything other than a catastrophe.
And a captain’s duty was to take care of the passengers.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Alex asked, kneeling beside the granny, who had dropped to the floor. Her puffy, reddish eyelids fluttered. The elderly lady glanced myopically up at Alex.
“Oh … sonny … my poor bones …”
“Do not move, ma’am.” He had forgotten that he was in virtuality … and a very peculiar one, at that. “The emergency systems will be triggered any minute now… .”
But the elevator wasn’t about to open the doors.
“I’m scared …” the granny whimpered. She stretched out her arm, wrapping it around Alex’s neck. “I am claustrophobic, sonny. It’s a medical condition. A hundred and twenty years old is no joke …”
The unseen commentator gushed on, triumphantly:
“I looked and looked at her sweet, wrinkled face, bearing the traces of every year lived, every worry, every sorrow … And at that moment, I realized that I had never really loved anyone but these most wonderful of all human creatures, the embodiments of life’s ripeness and the highest expression of femininity—elderly ladies! And now, at long last, a bad accident leaves me all alone with …”
“I think I wet myself,” said the lady, coyly lowering her eyes. “But no broken bones!”
“Morons!” yelled Alex, throwing off the poor patient’s arm and jumping to his feet. “Hacks! If the elevator gear had failed, we would’ve been smeared all over the walls! Quit program!”
Even the emergency exit was realistically presented here. The doors flew open. A team of paramedics rushed in. The granny, still reaching for Alex, was carried off on a stretcher. A quick-moving youth in a waiter’s uniform scraped the remnants of the cake off the wall and stuffed them back into the carton.
Only after that came a tide of fog, and Alex found himself back at the starting place of the “Kaleidoscope.”
“Do you have complaints?” the system asked him with alarm.
“Yes I do! Tons of complaints!” Alex cut himself short, realizing that he was yelling at the simplest service program. “Okay. Remove geriatric sex from the list!”
“The social importance of gerontophilia is immense,” objected the system. “Its roots …”
“Never mind! Remove! Give me something else. But give me a synopsis first!”
For a few seconds, the system shuffled the possible options.
“An extremely interesting and unusual adventure …”
“Synopsis?”
“A middle-aged male accountant-spesh, who used to have a binary family, which had dissolved through no fault of his, works at the Imperial Committee for Lightweight Armaments. He is extremely shy, and that interferes with his sex life, as well as his career advancement.”
The system was silent for a moment, as if waiting for any objections. Alex shrugged his shoulders. It was a typical beginning.
“The head of the committee is a female coordinator-spesh. Completely absorbed by her work, she dedicates very little time to socially beneficial sexual activities. A socially and professionally successful male comrade of the accountant joins the committee team. He advises your character to become a sexual partner of the coordinator-spesh in order to get promoted and to satisfy sexual instincts. Does this suit you so far?”
“Yes, fine,” said Alex cautiously.
“After a series of comical and captivating adventures, the accountant-spesh manages to gain the love of the coordinator-spesh. However, as circumstances would have it, the character’s villainous male comrade informs the coordinator-spesh of the true motivations behind the accountant’s sexual activities. But that does not hinder the happiness of the two lovers. They form a solid, happy binary family and live together for a long time.”
Alex was silent, totally stunned.
“Does this suit you?”
“Do the committee members engage in sexual orgies?” he asked cautiously. “Is there a failed romance between the main character and his male comrade, which causes the comrade to betray him?”
“No.”
“Any sadomasochistic aspects of the accountant’s love with the coordinator?”
The system hesitated. “Hardly worth mentioning. The accountant splashes the coordinator with water from a decanter. The coordinator tosses a few print-outs in the face of the accountant.”
Alex had never had occasion to deal with such a plot in the past.
“That’s interesting,” he conceded. “Good … unusual, but good.”
“The duration of the plot is thirty-eight hours,” the system warned him.
“Can you speed it up?”
“Not recommended. The main intrigue of the plot consists of the slow and gradual development of the relationship between the two main characters.”
Alex shook his head. He didn’t have that kind of time.
“Remember this plot and offer it next time I enter. And now, I want to exit completely.”
“Exit completely,” affirmed the system. “Thank you for visiting. I’m always happy to serve you. Please come again.”
A dense, heavy fog billowed all around.
Having taken off his headband, Alex looked at the crystal suspiciously. If Edgar was to be trusted, he was supposed to have gained the ability to love by now. And, to believe all the books, movies, and simply ordinary people, love was a feeling that flared up instantly and knew no boundaries, no limits.
But he hadn’t managed to feel any such emotions for the granny!
Only revulsion. Revulsion?
He started.
The crystal was designed especially for astronauts. Experienced psychologists had carefully constructed the simplistic, though highly diverse, plots.
As soon as he had entered the elevator with the granny inside, Alex was supposed to have taken her into his “sphere of responsibility.” The catastrophe, which plunged him into a stressful but genetically pre-programmed situation, would then heighten his sense of responsibility to the max.
Yes, he had a duty to … well, not to fall in love—pilots were incapable of love, so nothing like that could be foreseen—he had a duty to be overcome with warm feelings toward the old lady.
What was supposed to happen next, according to the program?
A soulful discussion?
A shy kiss?
A raging sex scene on the elevator floor?
A mutual enjoyment of the birthday cake?
Alex imagined the naked, happily giggling granny, stuffing a morsel of chocolate into his mouth, and himself, trembling with excitement, licking the sweet cream frosting off her sagging breasts …
“Holy shit!” he yelled.
>
That could have actually happened!
Really!
And he would have had no unpleasant feeling upon leaving virtuality. It would have been just a curious, intriguing adventure, approved by doctors and by the Church …
How could this be?
He wanted to gain the ability to love, but had he instead acquired the ability not to love?
Or maybe these were just two inseparably linked halves of a whole? Could it be impossible to understand love without the ability to reject?
Alex paced the length of his cabin, his arms wrapped around his shoulders, as he strained to grasp at least some of his feelings.
Yes, he had already broken one of the commandments of a pilot-spesh.
The main commandment, perhaps. The boundless responsibility for everyone who happened to be around. So Edgar’s remedy was working—blocking his altered consciousness. And that was really frightening … just to imagine pilots capable of abandoning their passengers and crew to the mercy of fate!
He thought of Kim, Janet, Lourier, Generalov, Morrison, C-the-Third, and the Zzygou.
Suppose something goes wrong now … the ship’s in danger … what would he do?
No! No way! He wouldn’t rush to save his own life. He was still ready to fight till the end for this ship, its passengers, and its crew! Everything was okay!
Except … what was this dreary restlessness, this cold emptiness inside?
As if an unfelt biochemical blow had cut off something that used to dwell in his soul …
Or … pulled away the mist that had concealed a bottomless abyss?
“Looks like I shouldn’t have drunk this shit,” said Alex rhetorically. Took a hurried look at the Demon, his most faithful adviser and companion.
The little devil stood, his head lowered, his arms spread out. It glowered at Alex sullenly from under its brows with the same inner torment Alex was feeling himself. He didn’t have to look at the Demon anymore—it no longer had anything new to tell him.
“But this isn’t love!” Alex vehemently shook his head. “It’s the wrong feeling! This can’t be it!”
“No, this isn’t love …” came a jeering whisper of something invisible, something that used to be dead to the world at the bottom of his soul. “This is the absence of love …”
“Then what kind of goddamn joy is this?” Memory obligingly supplied dry, scientific definitions of love, as if he were clutching at something in the past, something calm and stable. “A steady feeling, accompanied by emotions of gentleness and delight …”
Alex fell silent, controlling his breath. Stop. No need to get worked up. He had drunk the blocker of his own accord. He wanted to test it out to make sure it wouldn’t harm Kim. He wanted to try feeling what he had always been deprived of.
Was the reason he was experiencing all these unpleasant emotions precisely because of the absence of love? Fine—there were two women aboard, a young one and a middle-aged one. And, if push came to shove, there were also the Zzygou and Generalov! And finally, if worse came to worst, there was a crystal with virtual characters. He’d get that love thing, one way or another. And after the blocker’s action wore off, that foreign feeling would go away, and everything would return to normal, to the way it had always been.
The main thing was not to panic.
Alex quickly went to the shower, turned it on ice-cold, and stood for a few minutes, clenching his teeth. The gnawing anxiety and emptiness seemed to be subsiding, to be washing off.
Hang in there, we’ll make it!
It would be something to remember! What other pilot-spesh could brag about having loved, or having suffered the absence of love?
He turned on hot water for a moment, chasing the chill out of his bones. Rubbed himself dry with a towel, quickly dressed, dried and combed his hair. Looked at himself in the mirror.
Everything seemed normal.
Strong, manly face. Intelligent eyes.
Then something elusive, anxious, made him look away in fear.
Nonsense. Nothing, really. He was panicking—that was perfectly natural. So he was seeing things, stupid stuff.
Alex left his cabin and hurried to the bridge. All he needed now was the confluence with the ship, its rainbow warmth, the true feeling of a pilot-spesh. It wouldn’t let him down, it would save him. So what if it was still Morrison’s bridge time? He had every right to enter the system early. Say he couldn’t sleep, for instance. Or that he personally wanted to conduct the entry into the Zodiac system. He had never been there, and it was a great and magnificent planet.
Alex all but burst onto the bridge. He hurriedly lay down in the captain’s chair, looked over at Morrison. The co-pilot’s face was serenely happy, the way it was supposed to be. A good ship, a long flight, and reliable fellow crewmembers—what else could a pilot need? What sort of love?
Lowering his head, Alex entered the system. The green spiral quivered, reached toward him uneasily.
“The ship is still in the channel, thirty-four minutes remaining before exit, no accidents, all systems are working well …”
“Thank you, Xang. Never mind me. I just couldn’t sleep. I won’t interfere with the controls.”
The green spiral replied with a wave of emotion—gratitude and sympathy.
“Captain, I used to have trouble sleeping—a problem easily solved by a glass of red wine. I’ve also heard warm milk with linden honey helps. And there’s always sleeping pills …”
“Don’t worry about me, Xang. It’s a rare thing. I’m fine. I won’t … I won’t stay long.”
Morrison’s image faded a little, done with the conversation. Alex remained alone with the ship.
The rainbow. The warm, wonderful rainbow, reaching over through the darkness. The soul of the vessel.
Alex reached toward it, greedily, already feeling his tension ease, the gaping abyss that cut across his soul drawing together and diminishing.
“Touch me!”
“Be one with me!”
“Love me!”
The rainbow flared up around him.
Faithful, selflessly devoted, it took him in gently but firmly, wrapping him in an invisible embrace… .
It was like being back in the first or second grade, during the virtual instruction courses … A charming virtual young lady for an instructor, even for the little snots like him. Her joyful voice, “And now we will be introduced to the simplest method of sexual self-stimulation, celebrated as far back as the biblical times. Boys, if you some of you are already familiar with it, please be quiet for a few minutes, do not interrupt …”
It was like being back at a school party, playing spin the bottle, when teenagers would split into couples and bustle into secluded nooks, hoping to find out the difference between virtuality and real sex.
It was like being back at the graduation orgy—with experienced geisha-speshes, who knew every last erotic zone of the human body and were able to give themselves to you with joyful and selfless abandon.
It was everything—and nothing. A forgery. An illusion. A surrogate for love. A cynical fake. A nutrient tablet in a starving man’s hand—something that sustained his body, but didn’t feed his hunger. An inflatable doll-woman in a museum of sexual culture. A sex-partner recommended for procreation, who carefully played out the role she had memorized since childhood.
It was anything—but not love!
Alex screamed, ripping himself out of the colorful rainbow, away from the cloying touch of electronic witchery. The system shivered, letting him out into the real world. He twisted around in the chair, having forgotten to rip off the safety straps, noiselessly yelling something, seeing the uncaring light of the screens and the serene face of Morrison.
He had been robbed blind!
A long, long time ago, before he was born! With the complete assent of his parents, who chose for their future son the secure and gainful specialization of a pilot. He was deprived of … no, he still had no idea exactly what it was … he only knew
he wouldn’t be able to live without it anymore.
He had been betrayed.
He was a servant, just like the poor vassals to the aristocrats on Heraldica. Though he wasn’t being raped quite so openly.
What had he been living for?
For the cold contacts with the rainbow light?
For the right to pilot a dozen tons of metal?
For the right to die for the Empire?
Alex wept, shaking in the straps of the chair. He hadn’t cried for a long time … so very long. And he had probably never wept because of emotions before. Pain, or physical discomfort, or a botched-up assignment made him cry many times … but what was it like to weep because of an elusive, intangible feeling, not essential to life?
Thirty-four years he had been a happy pauper. He had been eating the leftover crumbs he was ordered to eat, rejoicing over gifts of cast-off rags, working to fulfill his social duties in good faith.
Now his hour of reckoning had come.
Master-pilot, spesh, captain of a starship, Alex Romanov wept, like an offended child. He wept, looking at the happy smile on the face of his co-pilot, who had no need for strange experiences.
Zodiac glittered like a Christmas-tree decoration. Its insane orbit, which curved like the number 8, now lay beyond a blinding white star that poured oceans of light onto the planet. Any earthly vegetation would not last an hour under this scorching luminary.
But life is a very tenacious thing.
The whole surface of the planet turned towards the white sun now became a carpet of mirrors. “Lotuses,” giant flying plants inhabiting the highest layers of the atmosphere, floated through the air like a many-layered carpet, avidly absorbing torrents of radiation. Somewhere far below, in cool, deep shade, Zodiac’s plants and animals went about their lives … as did its people. Guests of this strange world.
On no other planet in the galaxy were endemic things treated as gently and carefully as they were on Zodiac. Of course, technology would have allowed the construction of an orbital shield to protect the planet for the two months of the year when it passed close to the white star. But the people who had made this world their home decided to take the risk of relying on the natural protection that had been in place for hundreds of thousands of years.
The Genome Page 25
