The Genome

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “Then find him, Holmes.”

  “Him or her?”

  “What does it matter? Murderers are like angels—their gender is irrelevant.”

  “It’s a good thing you are incapable of love, Alex,” the detective said. His gaze was so piercing; it was as though he already knew about the blocker Alex had taken. “Love has often made people do crazy things.”

  “No matter who the murderer is, he is entirely in your power, Holmes.”

  The detective nodded. At that very moment, the unlocked door of the cabin opened.

  “Report, Dr. Watson,” the detective ordered, without even turning.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Elementary. All the rest have been ordered not to leave their quarters. And besides … if you ever wish to take me by surprise, change your perfume. The scent of Fiji I recognize a quarter-mile away.”

  Dr. Watson smiled and came into the cabin. Alex looked at her with curiosity. When she and Holmes had first arrived on Mirror, there was no time to get acquainted—Watson went to Zey-So’s quarters, and Holmes immediately sequestered himself with Alex.

  Holmes’s faithful sidekick was a petite redhead with large eyes. Sort of pretty, though a multitude of tiny freckles didn’t do her any favors. In other words, she was the kind of girl who would easily become a loyal friend and a cheerful lover. The kind of girl who would happily accept a partner and let him go without sadness, who was always eager to have fun but at the same time capable of serious and selfless commitment to her beloved work.

  Alex caught himself analyzing the girl’s behavior and shook his head. Seemed like Holmes’s way of thinking was contagious.

  “But Captain Romanov …” said Dr. Watson doubtfully, looking at Alex.

  “Go ahead. It’s all right,” Holmes replied, gesturing to her to come in. “If he is the murderer, the information won’t help him any. But if he’s not, then he may be able to help us.”

  Dr. Watson nodded and perched on the arm of a chair, as though it was her favorite spot, reserved by habit. When Holmes lowered himself into the chair, Alex realized that that was indeed the case.

  “I wasn’t able to … determine the time of death.” Dr. Watson lowered her eyes.

  “At all?”

  “No, I do have a rough estimate. The Zzygou had been killed during the time interval between twelve and a half and fourteen hours ago.”

  “Bridge duty shift change falls precisely within that period of time,” Holmes nodded, looking at Alex with renewed interest. “That’s too bad. I was hoping to clear at least one of you of suspicion, Captain. Either you or Morrison.”

  “They both could have killed Zey-So.” Dr. Watson took out a computer notebook, handed it to Holmes. “Here, take a look. The space vector unfortunately puts the deceased in everyone’s availability zone. The same goes for the time vector. The interval zone is just too large.”

  Alex’s enhanced vision enabled him to see the picture on the display fairly clearly. A three-dimensional grid with a tangle of different-colored curves. The center of the grid was taken up by a hazy oval, which must have been the “zone,” the time interval and the spatial coordinates of the murder.

  “You don’t have to look over my shoulder, Captain,” Holmes growled. “Come closer.”

  He touched his fingers to the screen, and the curves stretched out slightly, intertwining even more intricately.

  “Ah,” said Watson under her breath, “and everyone has a motive, right?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Holmes wasted no time on disappointments. Took another look at the grid, shut the notebook, and handed it back to Dr. Watson.

  “Why were you unable to determine the time of the murder, Jenny?”

  “Because of the cabin’s air conditioner. It has been working in the chaotic mode. Temperature, pressure, humidity, and oxygen levels in the cabin have been changing every five minutes. With absolutely unpredictable parameters! And since the cabin is made for the Others, the range is very large. The temperature variance, for instance, is between seven below and one hundred and seventy-six above zero.”

  “Good.” Holmes began to relight his pipe once again. “Simply wonderful!”

  “For goodness’ sake, Holmes! Why?” exclaimed Dr. Watson. Her eyes, fixed on the detective, were filled with mute adoration.

  “The murderer was covering up his tracks. In a very professional manner, mind you! He made it impossible for us to determine the time of the crime, and that was considered impossible!”

  “If we could deliver some military technology to this ship—something like a mental scanner, for instance—we would certainly be able to detect the pain burst, Holmes! The Zzygou’s murder took five or six minutes, and she was alive the whole time. The background emotions will most certainly linger in the cabin for many months to come.”

  “Mental scanning would take no less than forty-eight hours, Dr. Watson. We don’t have that kind of time. If war breaks out, it will be impossible to stop.” Holmes looked at the wall screen, as though expecting to see the charging Zzygou ships. “But what about smells?”

  “The cabin’s air conditioner had been turned on to circulate the air. The entire volume of it had changed eight times over. It’s even possible to breathe there without a mask, even though the Zzygou has been carved up into bits …”

  “An excellent murder,” said Holmes through his teeth. “No traces of the culprit. We still don’t know who he is … But at least there’s no doubt we are dealing with a professional of the highest class!”

  “Janet or Kim!” cried Dr. Watson cheerily. Alex ground his teeth to keep himself from stating his opinion about her joy.

  “I’m not sure,” said Holmes, letting out a billowing cloud of smoke. “Not sure at all. Despite common assumptions, most genius-murderers are self-trained, not products of genetic enhancements. Do you remember the maniac from the Third-Orbital, Jenny?”

  “Oh, yes!” Watson was smiling, but her hand involuntarily rubbed a scar on her neck. It was a strange scar, resembling human tooth marks. “Nineteen victims … and I almost took his score up to twenty.”

  “Nineteen and the two poor souls who, under torture, falsely confessed to committing his crimes and were then thrown out into vacuum,” Holmes corrected her. “So, what do we have so far?”

  Dr. Watson fell deep into thought.

  Alex couldn’t help becoming absorbed in the show that they were putting on. Of course, he was the spectator for whom Holmes and Watson were reasoning aloud. Dr. Jenny Watson really did serve as a sparring partner for Holmes—she was the wall against which he bounced the tennis ball of his intellect.

  “The murderer is a very clever professional,” said Jenny tentatively.

  “Yes,” pronounced Holmes approvingly.

  “And he is also a heartless bastard who tortured to death a poor helpless woman—”

  Holmes shook his head.

  “The Zzygou are far from helpless, Watson. Even with your impressive combat training and military experience, you wouldn’t have been able to overpower her. Or you would have emerged from the fight with broken bones and bruises all over your body. But something else is much more important, Dr. Watson.”

  Holmes got up abruptly, and Jenny involuntarily slapped her hands down, trying to keep her balance on the chair as it tilted to one side. The detective’s eyes sparkled feverishly.

  “The murderer is a professional. He knew how to neutralize the Zzygou and how to kill her in the way most offensive to her entire race. The murderer has expertly covered up all of his tracks! And he must have known that there was a detective-spesh on Zodiac, and that the kind of crime that would cause a trans-galactic war would eventually be solved! And still the murderer made absolutely no attempt to run away, or to take over the ship, or escape down to the planet. That means,” Holmes threw out his hand, pointing at Watson, “he is simply biding time! He doesn’t value his own life! His goals couldn’t be just to destroy an in
dividual alien, or to vex C-the-Third, or to bankrupt the Sky Company. His goal is precisely a galactic war, a clash between the Empire and the Swarm!”

  “Oh, God!” was all that Dr. Watson could say. Holmes turned to Alex.

  “And what would you say, Captain? Remember the incident with the tanker that almost tossed you into Cepheidean space?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “I must tell you that the tanker’s pilot broke off his own vital functions during an attempted deep questioning. It seems he had been pre-programmed with a multi-level psychological code. Traces of a self-eliminating gel-crystal of medium size have been found in the tanker’s controls system. Most probably, the calculations of the trajectory that threatened the Zzygous’ lives were done precisely by that crystal … and the brainwashed pilot simply didn’t interfere with the controls.”

  “Then you can clear at least a few of us of suspicion?” asked Alex. “Doesn’t that mean that Generalov, Morrison, and Lourier had nothing to do with it?”

  “On the contrary! Alex, I was actually inclined to consider the tanker incident a result of the commercial competition between tourist firms, and the Zzygou’s murder an act of a psychopath. But now there can be no doubt. Someone is trying to provoke a galactic war. Someone attempted to cause the Zzygou to perish at the hands of Cepheidians, which wouldn’t have made any difference—the Swarm’s wrath would still have come down on the humans. When that attempt failed, the agent who has infiltrated this ship went for the ultimate stakes. He has killed Zey-So and is now biding time. Once the first bombs rain down on helpless planets, the war will be impossible to stop. I will not be surprised if someone comes forward to confess to the princess’s murder right after the start of the war. But anyone could be that ‘someone.’ Including C-the-Third. When the stakes are this high, criminals could have interfered even with a spesh’s mind. I don’t know how, but …”

  “There are substances to block the altered emotions …” Alex ventured to put in. But Holmes shook his head.

  “Nonsense, my dear friend! Fairy tales that childhood sweethearts whisper to each other before their metamorphoses! ‘I’ll grow up and become a tax-inspector, but I’ll still be able to love! I will love you, only you!’”

  Alex started. The memory was piercing, like the sting of ice-cold water.

  … Nadia, raising herself up to rest on her elbows, and his hand reaching toward her, brushing the sand off her naked chest. She’s smiling—so sadly, as though they hadn’t managed to swim out after all, to get out of the ice-cold water of the gulf. As though Alex hadn’t dragged her, immobilized by a cramp, to the shore, to the warm sand, under the parting caress of the autumn sun. And in her eyes—a farewell. She seems to be memorizing his smile, his touch, and his naked body.

  “I will still love you,” Alex is saying, because he knows the words she longs to hear. He is saying them sincerely, fully convinced he will keep his promise. “I’ll be a pilot, but so what? Metamorphosis won’t make any difference …”

  “Are you thinking about something, Captain?” Holmes asked bluntly.

  “I was sure that the substances that can block altered emotions do exist,” said Alex.

  “You should watch fewer soap operas and adventure thrillers. It would take a genius the likes of Edward Garlitsky to consider all the operons and make up this kind of remedy. Chemical interference with the mind of a spesh is impossible … but I am still ready to suppose that C-the-Third could have been a victim of mental encoding.”

  “Who could possibly want a galactic war?” Alex shrugged. “I don’t think we could find madmen with that much power in the Empire. Holmes, could it have been—”

  “The Zzygou themselves?” Holmes shook his head. “Absolutely not! Sey-Zo could not have killed Zey-So. It would be the same as severing your own hand.”

  “Human history has known such cases. What if, for some reason, a war is necessary to the Swarm? What if Zey-So had volunteered to give up her own life to provoke a conflict …”

  Holmes seemed suddenly downcast.

  “Captain, a crime has been committed against a citizen of an alien race. The prosecutor is the Zzygou Swarm. I cannot make the victim’s companion answerable as a suspect. As a witness, at most. To prove Sey-Zo guilty, I would have to absolutely exclude the guilt of every person aboard the ship. That won’t be an easy task.”

  “But you’ve been created precisely for difficult tasks.”

  “So you want Sey-Zo to be found guilty?”

  “I want no harm to come to my crewmembers.”

  “Everything is in the hands of the law. Well, thanks for your cooperation, Captain. Dr. Watson will stay with you a while longer, but I have to go see the other suspects.”

  Already at the door, Holmes turned around.

  “Captain, why is the ship’s inner monitoring system off? As far as I know, technology allows you to record everything that happens on all the premises?”

  “Yes, it does. But few ships utilize it in practice. People tend to feel uncomfortable when their every move is tracked.”

  Holmes nodded, having apparently expected just that kind of answer. And then grumbled under his breath, “Emotions … complexes!”

  Alex was left alone with Dr. Watson. The girl was studying him with unconcealed curiosity.

  “Please proceed with your work,” suggested Alex. “I’m at your disposal.”

  “Tell me, is it true that you didn’t kill the Zzygou?”

  Alex sighed.

  “Yes, it’s true. But what’s my word worth?”

  Dr. Watson nodded. Took a portable scanner out of her pocket.

  “Okay, stand up, feet wide apart, lift your arms to the sides …”

  Alex waited patiently for the narrow tube of the scanner to search all over his body. Then he obediently took off all his clothes, and the procedure was repeated.

  “You can get dressed now.” Dr. Watson looked sideways at the closet. “Your clothes are all here, Captain?”

  “Yes. Well, I don’t have much …”

  Dr. Watson busied herself with his pitiful collection of shirts and underwear, making no distinctions between the ones he’d worn and those still wrapped in plastic.

  “Looking for blood?” Alex asked.

  “Uh-huh … Blood, body cells, odors …”

  “Won’t do any good.”

  “Why not?” Dr. Watson sat still.

  “If I were the murderer, I would go to the cargo bay, put on a spacesuit, and wear it to kill the Zzygou. First of all, that would take care of the odor problem. And secondly, there would be no traces or fingerprints to worry about.”

  “And what about on the spacesuit?” Dr. Watson quickly stood up. “On the spacesuit itself, there would be …”

  “Jenny, this ship isn’t an old washtub with ancient equipment. We use gel spacesuits. Have you heard of those?”

  Dr. Watson winced and nodded.

  “So there you have it. The murderer could have been covered with blood head to toe. But when he got back to the cargo bay, the gel would go back in for cleaning and recycling, and any organic residue on it would be completely obliterated. There would be no traces left—the cleaning cycle is designed to destroy the most poisonous and aggressive media that might get onto the spacesuit. And there’s a third thing, by the way! There would be no problem hiding a murder weapon! Gel spacesuits can form any tool—a knife, a key, a screwdriver—from their own material. And a spacesuit is very tough—that would solve the problem of the victim’s resistance. The criminal won’t have any bruises or broken bones.”

  Dr. Watson was quiet for a few moments, thinking over what she had heard.

  “I will relay your opinion to Holmes. Thanks. But … I will nevertheless finish up my work here.”

  “Of course,” Alex agreed. “There’s always a chance that the murderer is an idiot.”

  In complete silence Dr. Watson inspected all his clothes, forgetting neither the bathrobe in the bathroom unit nor his dr
ess uniform. At the thought of himself on his way to kill the Zzygou wearing that puffy, uncomfortable outfit, Alex could barely suppress laughter.

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” said Dr. Watson finally.

  “Tell me, Doctor, have you been especially created in tandem to Holmes?”

  The girl blushed as rapidly and deeply as only red-haired people can.

  “Captain, I haven’t been created by anyone … except my mother and father. I am a natural.”

  “A natural?” Alex raised his eyebrows. “How interesting. Then tell me why you follow a stuck-up cloned fool around and murmur sweet nothings?”

  Now Jenny’s face went pale. She said hastily, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes is the greatest of detectives!”

  “Oh, come on! The greatest of detectives was the literary character. Beloved by children and adults, an incorruptible genius, who dedicated his entire life to his fight against evil. And, by the way, he wasn’t devoid of human characteristics. You do remember his love for the adventuresome Irene Adler in the nineteenth century and his fateful passion for the cyborg Princette Alita in the twenty-second. And your emotionless clone is just pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.”

  “You say that, Captain, as if you weren’t a spesh yourself!”

  “I am. But there’s a difference between a limited ability for love, with an enhanced sense of responsibility, and the cold intellect demonstrated by Mr. Peter C-the-Forty-Fourth Valke … a.k.a. Sherlock Holmes. You are not nearly as dumb as you put on, Jenny. Why do you play his games?”

  There was no doubt. Jenny’s eyes were aglow with genuine interest.

  “An astounding conclusion, Alex. Well …”

  She sat down in the armchair. Then asked, “Would you happen to have a cigarette for me, and a drop of whiskey?”

  “Of course.”

  “But not too much!” Jenny warned him quickly. “I have the original reaction to alcohol—I get intoxicated and start acting silly!”

  Alex poured a little glass for himself, and a quarter-glass for Dr. Watson. Extended a hand with two packs of cigarettes, one from Quicksilver Pit and one from New Ukraine. The girl picked the Quicksilver Pit tobacco.