The Genome

Chapter 1

“Before we begin…” The man sitting across from Alex had finished filling his pipe and was lifting the flickering little flame of his lighter. “First of all… have you ever worked with a detective-spesh?”

“No, I can’t say that I have, Mr. Holmes,” replied Alex.

Sherlock Holmes puffed on his pipe and leaned back in his armchair, fixing Alex with a tenacious stare. They were sitting in Alex’s own cabin, but now he felt himself a guest… an uninvited and unwanted guest, at that.

“My real name is Peter C-the-Forty-Fourth Valke. My matrix, Peter Valke, has been dead for thirty-six years now, but our line has proved so successful that more of his clones are still being made.”

“A rare case,” Alex ventured. “They say… they say it is very hard for clones to be born posthumously.”

“Yes, Mister Romanov.” The clone nodded. “That’s right. But my whole line of detective-speshes, including me, is incapable of any human emotions, so we aren’t shocked that our matrix happens to be dead. Peter Valke was a great man, one of the first genetically modified detectives. He had personally offered to introduce the production of a line of his own clones and named them in honor of the most popular detective of all time.”

“Do you also like Sherlock Holmes, Mr. C-the-Forty-Fourth?”

“Of course. But I suggest you address me as Mr. Holmes in all our communication from now on.”

Alex nodded. That wouldn’t be hard. The detective-spesh’s entire appearance—from the lean, broad face, high cheekbones, and lanky figure to the formal tweed suit—brought to mind the immortal hero of Arthur Conan Doyle and his mad successor, Professor Hiroshi Moto. Moto had been a Japanese literature specialist who had superimposed the psychological profile of the long-dead British writer onto his own consciousness, completely losing his own personality. In his place appeared the twenty-first century writer named Moto Conan, and children all over the world still were engrossed by his books. The Rebirth of Sherlock Holmes, The Case of the Missing Gel-Crystal, Cyborg at Rest, The Four Contested Gigabytes, The Strange Story of a Dentist-Spesh… Without a doubt, Hiroshi Moto had really become a worthy successor of the ancient writer. Most probably, he had latently possessed a genuine talent—after all, not one of the many other attempts of this kind had ever led to success. Neither Count Lee Tolstoy, nor poet Anna Shelley, nor artist Mikola Rubens had ever managed to create anything decent.

“The image of my prototype, Sherlock Holmes,” continued the clone in the meantime, “is almost completely congruous with a detective-spesh. All remnants of emotions had to be removed, of course. But in general, I am a real Sherlock Holmes, Detective for Cases of Imperial Importance…”

Alex could not resist saying, “Holmes usually demonstrated his abilities to his distrustful clients.”

“You are not a client.” Holmes took the liberty to smile. “You are a witness and also, excuse me for saying this, a suspect in the case of the brutally murdered Zzygou. Although…”

The detective’s gaze became more piercing as he studied Alex closely.

“I have already committed your official and, I beg your pardon… your unofficial personal files to memory. So I will be asking you about things I couldn’t learn the ordinary way. The last alcoholic beverage you perused was dry red wine… em… Edemian Beaujolais… with some chemical stimulant unknown to me. During the last twenty-four hours, you had sexual contact with two women, apparently, first Kim and then Janet… and then there was an unfinished contact in a sex imitation program…”

As absurd as was the very thought of making ironical comments about a detective-spesh, Alex couldn’t help himself—the blocker was probably to blame….

“Yes, the real Sherlock Holmes would have benefited enormously from acquiring a dog’s sense of smell.”

The clone’s lean, wrinkled face remained unperturbed. He took a few puffs on his pipe and then gruffly said:

“The real Holmes is the offspring of a writer’s genius. I am the offspring of the genius of geneticists. That is why I am just as real and have the same right to this name. Well, Alex, since you’ve asked for it…”

He leaned forward across the little table separating them. And started to talk quickly, bluntly, as if hammering in every word:

“Your parents, Alex, were miserable losers. Your mother a natural, your father an accountant-spesh. He strained himself to the breaking point to pay for your elite specialization. He always worked overtime, and you got used to seeing him in his chair, with bundles of wires sticking out of his cheap neuro-port… so you grew to hate the very sight of it. The hostility you harbored since those days, you later transferred to everyone who used the old neuro-shunts, wrongly assuming that these people were cold, cruel, and indifferent toward others. Three years ago, this very attitude became the cause of problems on the space-liner Horizon because you cooked up a far-fetched excuse to relieve from duty a pilot-spesh with an older-model neuro-port. Your metamorphosis had been extremely painful, due to the peculiarities of your organism, and since then your mind has fixed upon the opinion of all naturals as a lower caste of humanity.”

“That’s not true!” cried Alex harshly.

“Yes, it is. You are convinced that the suffering you’ve endured gives you the right to consider yourself special, while in reality you simply have a weak reaction to analgesics. Ever since your metamorphosis, you’ve been feeling offended and tormented by the insignificant reduction of your emotions, although that is unavoidable for a pilot-spesh. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been using some kind of emotional scanner to keep track of your own feelings. But this is all the result of common, ordinary shortcomings in the work of your parents and your child psychologist—they allowed you to experience too close an emotional contact during your pre-metamorphosis period…”

“I don’t know what personal files you’re using, Mr. Holmes…” Alex hissed. “I don’t know how you’ve found out about my poor parents! But it’s probably not worth digging through my past in order to solve a problem in the present!”

Holmes said nothing. He let out a cloud of heavy smoke, set aside his pipe, and continued in a softer tone of voice:

“All this isn’t in your personal files, Mr. Romanov. Trust me. This is a manifestation of the very capacity for induction and deduction characteristic of my literary prototype. In addition, I have unlimited access to information systems, enhanced sense organs, and modified morals. I am a servant of the law, Mr. Romanov. If the law says that a starving child who has stolen a piece of bread deserves to be hanged, I will send him to the gallows. And if the law says that a rapist and a murderer should be acquitted, I will let him go in peace. That is the foundation of my strength. The literary Holmes could allow himself to let a guilty person go, and leave justice to the Lord, if he felt the person truly deserved it. I cannot do that. My heart is only an organ for pumping blood, and I have no other god but the law. I will find the person who has killed Lady Zey-So and turn the criminal over to the punishing hands of justice. No one is capable of deceiving a detector-spesh, Alex. If you are innocent, however, if your hands aren’t stained with blood—I will become your defense and support.”

Alex was silent, looking at Sherlock Holmes, a person created by the talent of writers, by the work of geneticists, and by the wild imagination of detective Peter Valke. Valke was in some ways akin to Hiroshi Moto—the writer turned himself into a reincarnation of Conan Doyle, and the detective became the embodiment of the literary character.

“I am not guilty of Zey-So’s murder,” said Alex with a sigh.

Holmes nodded and began speaking again. His voice changed now, becoming soft and benevolent, which was surprising in a person completely devoid of emotions. Alex recalled that Sherlock Holmes had remarkable acting abilities.

“Tell me everything that happened following your first visit to the deceased Zzygou’s quarters, Mr. Romanov.”

“I went back to the recreation lounge,” began Alex. “All the crewmembers were waiting for me. They were all a bit alarmed because the appearance of C-the-Third Shustov had made… em… quite an impression. But I didn’t notice anyone behaving differently from everyone else. Just ordinary tension among people who sensed that something unpleasant had happened.”

Holmes nodded approvingly.

“Having told the crew what had happened, as prescribed by the rules, I asked if anyone wished to clarify the situation. Everyone said that they had not the faintest idea about the causes or the circumstances of Zey-So’s demise. After that, using the captain’s exclusive access, I took Mirror into a stable emergency orbit and blocked all the control systems of the ship. Then I reported the situation to the Imperial Security Services, adding to the report the special opinion of C-the-Third Shustov about the consequences of the Zzygou’s death. Having gotten the confirmation that the message had been received, I turned off all communication systems, and we waited for you.”

“We flew out immediately.” Holmes nodded. “So… let’s sum up… everyone on board denies any involvement in Zey-So’s death?”

“Yes. Everyone absolutely denies any involvement.”

“And you haven’t noticed anything suspicious in the conduct of the crew, or Sey-Zo, or C-the-Third?” Holmes carelessly omitted the last name of C-the-Third’s matrix, required by the rules of politeness when there was more than one clone around.

“Nothing. Just ordinary shock because of what has happened. I’ve had occasion to see people in a catastrophic situation. And Sey-Zo never comes out of her deceased partner’s cabin.”

“She’s undergoing a parting ritual, which will last for another four and a half hours,” Holmes informed him. “I’ve had to take in a sizable dose of information about the Zzygou.”

“Then tell me—is C-the-Third Shustov right? Is war really possible?”

“It’s inevitable,” said Holmes coolly. “The Crown Princess having perished by a human hand, and especially in such an utterly outrageous way… Did you know that her ovary had been cut out?”

“Oh, God… no. But why?”

“Otherwise Sey-Zo could have preserved the genetic fund of Zey-So, by transplanting the ovary into her own body. Sey-Zo herself, as the junior partner, lacks reproductive organs.”

Alex looked Holmes straight in the eye.

“That would mean that the murderer planned all this in detail? He… set out to kill Zey-So in the most insulting way… making sure nothing of her would survive?”

“Yes.”

The pilot wiped his sweating forehead.

“Holmes, I’ve heard a lot about the Zzygou, but I can’t even imagine where their damned ovaries are…”

“Ovary—they have only one. Right under the stomach. It’s equipped with its own sealed lymph-supply and a muscle pump. Even after the death of Zey-So, that part of her body could have lived on for several days. The murderer cut out the ovary and severed the lymphatic contour. This is a very, very professional murder.”

Alex tensed. He realized what the next question would be.

“Mr. Romanov, having hired Janet Ruello to be a member of the crew, did you know that she was from the quarantined planet of Eben, and that she had been specialized as an executioner-spesh?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then why did you take her into your crew?”

“Back then I had no idea that Mirror would be involved in transporting the Others!”

“Then why didn’t you void the contract immediately upon discovering the ship’s mission?”

The pilot helplessly spread out his arms.

“Mister Holmes… Janet Ruello is now a citizen of the Empire. Her rights are not restricted in any way. Psychologists have made her tolerant of the Others—”

“So tolerant that she would serve them some anise cocktail, inducing a temporary insanity?”

Alex couldn’t begin to fathom how the detective had come to know of this incident. From C-the-Third? Or from Sey-Zo?

“That didn’t threaten their lives in any way,” he said gloomily. “Besides, anise induces not insanity, but a fit of truthfulness.”

“You can’t prove that. The Zzygou say something quite different.”

“In any case, Mister Holmes, I insisted that Janet Ruello swear to me an Ebenian military oath! She promised that she wouldn’t harm the Zzygou in any other way!”

“Mister Romanov…” Holmes sighed. “And you believe her promises?”

“Yes, I do. After all, being true to her word is a genetic feature.”

“As is her hatred for the Others. So our psychologists have either overpowered both of these features, or both these components of Janet’s personality are still functioning.”

Alex was silent. He had no way of countering that.

“Mr. Romanov, perhaps your decision to keep Janet Ruello aboard Mirror was motivated by some special circumstances?” Holmes sympathetically asked. “For instance, by that shady little transaction of getting new documents for Kim O’Hara, which you accomplished by using the double legal status of speshes and the captain’s right to set the ship’s time?”

Alex expected that his “little transaction” would be uncovered by the detective-spesh. But the speed with which it had been discovered terrified him.

“No,” he answered, after a brief consideration. “That wasn’t the reason, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“What is unpleasant is the very fact that a spaceship’s captain, a pilot-spesh, considered it possible to break the law.” Holmes sighed. “The whole Empire stands on the moral strength of its speshes. We are role models for ordinary naturals, whose consciousness is at times overwhelmed by the lowest kind of emotions. And here you are, a spesh, breaking the law!”

“From the formal point of view, you’re right,” said Alex quickly. “But Kim was under my protection. And she was sure that her legalization as Kim O’Hara would put her life in danger. It was my duty to help.”

“And what was Kim saying about your final destination? About her arrival on Edem?”

Alex licked his parched lips.

“She didn’t want to fly to Edem…”

“Didn’t want to? She felt very strongly about this?” inquired the detective.

“Yes.”

“All right, Mr. Romanov. Now tell me—has Puck Generalov’s animosity towards cloned people manifested itself in any way?”

“It has.” Alex realized that his part would now consist of nothing but affirmative answers to the detective’s cues. “He reacted to C-the-Third Shustov’s appearance with great hostility.”

Holmes sighed and unhurriedly shook out his pipe into a silver pocket ashtray.

“How stupid. All these human enmities—speshes and naturals, people and clones—all that could easily plunge you into racism and nationalism. Was there anyone who supported Generalov’s position?”

“Paul Lourier.”

“And by all appearances, he is such a nice, courteous, modern young man. By appearances…”

“You’re searching for a motive?” asked Alex bluntly.

“Yes, of course.” The detective got up from his chair. Paced to and fro, his hands behind his back. “Would you mind if I played the violin?”

Alex shook his head. It seemed that in his pursuit of keeping in character, C-the-Forty-Fourth Valke knew absolutely no limits.

From a small leather case, Holmes took out an old and shabby Toshiba electroviolin, checked the charge, and extracted a bow from a narrow opening in the neck of the instrument. Then he pressed the violin to his shoulder, paused a second, and began playing Paganini’s seventh concerto with marvelous virtuosity.

At this point, Alex felt utterly worn out, devoid of any hope of extracting himself from the problems in which he was enmeshed. Nevertheless he listened, spellbound, to Holmes’s masterful playing. It seemed that back in his brief childhood, packed to the limits with schooling, the clone had also received very decent music lessons.

“Janet Ruello has a motive for murder,” said the detective, still playing. “Hers is the most weighty motive. She hates the Others. But Kim O’Hara also has a motive. She has no wish to return to Edem, and could have considered the death of poor Zey-So a perfect way to cut the tour short.”

“Kim didn’t kill the Zzygou!” cried Alex.

“She is a fighter-spesh,” retorted Holmes. “For her, murder is a natural action. She could have found plenty of reasons ‘pro’ and not notice any ‘cons’… after all, Kim is just a girl. Properly speaking, she ought to take many more years to study the fighter’s craft… first and foremost, the mastery of her own impulses.”

Alex was silent. Sherlock Holmes was absolutely right.

“Also,” the detective continued. The melody he was playing lost its force, becoming soft and melancholy. “Puck Generalov. Another complex situation. His animosity towards cloned people is truly phenomenal…. Do you know why he was kicked out of the military fleet?”

“Because he is a natural,” Alex grumbled. “I’ve looked through his papers.”

“Well, that’s just a camouflage. ‘The command was unsure of the navigator’s actions in a battle situation.’ What nonsense! The real reason, as evident from the official spacefleet records, was his conflict with one of the senior officers. Truly Shakespearean passions there… unhappy love… your non-traditionally oriented navigator is very amorous. After that, he found out that the object of his desire was a clone. The story ended in a hysterical outburst on Generalov’s part, slaps in the face, threats, and even a suicide attempt. He was dismissed immediately.”

“There is a huge gulf between railing against clones and killing them. Besides, what does C-the-Third have to do with any of this? He wasn’t the one who was murdered!”

“No, Puck is incapable of killing him.” Holmes shook his head. “He is an extremist. But in words only. His psychological profile practically excludes the killing of a human. But to kill the Zzygou and so to ruin C-the-Third’s life and career—easy! Seems he didn’t understand that Zey-So wasn’t just a worker individual of the Swarm, whose life was unimportant to the Zzygou.”

“Are you accusing him?”

“I’m only thinking out loud, my dear fellow.” Holmes impulsively lifted the bow off the strings. “The same thing is possible with regards to Paul Lourier. His teachers and classmates testify to his extremely hot temper, impulsiveness, and a penchant for cruel pranks… besides, the fellow is easily influenced by others.”

“Good grief, that’s such nonsense!” Alex shook his head. “The young man is as calm as a tank! If only all novices were this even-keeled…”

“You’ve only known him a few days, Captain. And I have listened to the opinions of people who have lived with Lourier for years. And now, let’s move on to Xang Morrison.”

“What’s he got to do with it?” Alex could no longer hear any conviction in his own voice.

“A few facts of his biography. In his youth, ages thirteen through nineteen, he was a member of the youth ministry at the Church of the Mournful Christ.”

“But that’s the…”

“The followers of the Church of the Angry Christ, after it was banned. In point of fact they have the same worldview as do the poor inhabitants of Eben. When Xang was nineteen, the clandestine work of psychologists had its effect. Morrison officially broke away from the Church of the Mourning Christ, but echoes of that time remained with him. He has been noted more than once for comments insulting to the Others, and several times he publicly incited people to ‘blast the buggers.’” Holmes pronounced the last phrase in the voice of Morrison, and Alex started.

“I would’ve never thought…”

“So everyone has a motive, even an obvious motive! And what if we dig a little deeper?”

“And what motives do I have?” asked Alex wearily.

“None.” Holmes smiled. “Absolutely none. You aren’t looking to stir up any trouble. You’re tolerant of the Others. You’re happy with the ship, with the crew, and with yourself.”

Alex smirked. Yup… especially happy with himself…

“Thank God,” he said. “Then I’m not a suspect.”

“What are you talking about, Alex?” Holmes’s voice suddenly filled with sympathy, which he was incapable of feeling. “That’s precisely the reason why you are the likeliest suspect.”

“I see,” said Alex, trying to grasp what he had just heard. “If I’m the likeliest suspect, then why are you telling me all your conjectures?”

“That’s Peter Valke’s trademark style.” Holmes spread out his hands, palms up. “Creates an excellent effect. You do understand that the criminal has nowhere to run. Turn on the outer-space sensors, Captain.”

“Computer, turn on outer-space sensors,” said Alex wearily.

A screen unfolded.

Very close to Mirror—about three point six seven two miles away, from what Alex could hastily estimate—a Lucifer-class destroyer was hanging in mid-space. Its gun turrets were closed, but that didn’t make Alex feel any calmer.

No matter how good his own ship might be, the Lucifer could reduce it to ashes in a fraction of a second.

“If I don’t leave your ship in forty-eight hours, it will be annihilated. And if Mirror turns on its engines or opens up its battle station blisters, the Lucifer will fire immediately.”

“But why forty-eight hours?” asked Alex.

“The Zzygou fleets are on the move. Their attack on human colonies is estimated to start in forty-eight hours, plus or minus three hours.”

Suddenly Alex felt himself completely devastated, empty. As though it was he, and not the poor Zey-So, whose entrails and reproductive organs had been ripped out, and whose blood was smeared all over the cabin walls.

The world was crumbling. The Zzygou race, though inferior to humans in its military power, was only slightly so. Soon planets would be ablaze. Space would be filled with radioactive streams and predatory flocks of rockets. Every human and every Zzygou would curse those who had instigated the war… not knowing that he was the real perpetrator—he, Alex Romanov, pilot-spesh, who took into his crew someone capable of heinously murdering one of the Others, monstrously, in cold blood.

And it wouldn’t matter who came out as the winner of the slaughter—the universe would change. All the other races would attack those who escaped destruction. This had been the fate of the Tai’i, and the same would now befall the humans… or the Zzygou.

“How can you be so calm saying this, Mr. Holmes?” cried Alex. “Don’t you see—this is the end?”

“Let the world perish, so long as justice triumphs,” said the detective. Alex turned to him, met his eyes. “I’m kidding, Captain. Of course I want to live. And I want a happy life for all the honest citizens of the Empire.”

“Then what’s that ship doing here?” Alex asked. “Its place is in a military alignment. As for us… either just shoot us all at once, or send us into the army. Has mobilization already been announced?”

“Of course. The Zzygou have already sent the Emperor an official declaration of war.”

“What does the little snot on the throne have to do with it?” raged Alex. “He ought to be playing in a sandbox, not making military decisions!”

Sherlock Holmes furrowed his brow.

“Alex, there’s no need to say such things about the ruling Emperor. He will receive his full power in due time, and then the Empire will rise to new heights.”

“What heights? What are you talking about? Both our civilizations will be destroyed in this war! Don’t the Zzygou realize this?!”

“They do, as far as I know,” the detective nodded. “Any other race would not allow this conflict to escalate to an all-out clash. But we are witnessing the full power of the most profound forces that move each civilization. C-the-Third could explain this better than I can.”

“Explain the best you can!”

“As you may know, Captain, most of the Zzygou used to lack a fully-fledged mind. The men… em… the drones, despite their lowered social position, did, nevertheless, enjoy love and respect, developing the arts. But the nominally sexless worker individuals gained self-awareness only in the last two hundred years. The human segregation between the rich and the poor, or between naturals and speshes, is nothing by comparison to the social abyss that used to separate the highly esteemed Zzygou females, who had two-syllable names, and the workers, who just had numbers. But when, out of necessity—for stupid animals cannot work with high technologies—the ruling females allowed the development of the workers’ minds, they also inculcated in them the highest level of loyalty and love for their rulers. All this guarantees the Zzygou society freedom from internal conflicts.”

Alex thought again of Heraldica. And felt sick to his stomach.

“Unfortunately,” Holmes continued, “the kind and peaceful worker individuals have already been informed of the recent events, because they are the ones who work at the communication stations and make up most of the crews of the Zzygou ships. And so… this is truly a tidal wave of wrath from their entire race. This is the holy war for ninety-five percent of their population. And besides, about seventeen percent of them are genetically linked to the deceased Zey-So! They are her brothers… or sisters? Let’s just say, relatives. The Zzygou females may not wish to go to war. They might have agreed to hush this business up, accepting apologies and reparations, but…”

“Their own slaves will not understand.”

“Their workers.”

“Their slaves. You’ve explained it all very well, Mr. Holmes.” Alex now stood face to face with Holmes. He hadn’t even noticed the moment he had jumped up out of his chair. He looked into Holmes’s wise, weary eyes, which seemed to contain all human sorrow. The great detective smelled of brandy and tobacco.

“Is there no way out, Mr. Holmes?”

“There is, Alex. There is always a way out. If in the course of the next forty-eight hours, before all-out war begins—small skirmishes are already taking place—if I find the murderer and turn him or her over to the justice system… the Zzygou will stop their advance. They are ready to punish either the murderer alone, or the whole human race. And so I ask you directly, Alexander Romanov, pilot-spesh… were you the one who killed Zey-So?”

“No, I’m not, Mr. Holmes.” Alex shook his head. “I did not kill her, and I haven’t the slightest idea who did, or why. But… I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I’m ready to admit that I am the murderer.”

Holmes stuck the long-cold pipe into his mouth and asked with curiosity:

“What for?”

“To save the world from destruction. After all, it was I who took the murderer into my crew. Whoever he or she might be. I… didn’t sense a mistake.”

Holmes shook his head.

“No, Alex. It’s impossible.”

“But why?”

“Let the world perish, so long as justice prevails.”

“Oh, the hell with…”

“Besides, the whole thing will probably end with extradition of the murderer to the Zzygou. And they will find a way to check the person’s sincerity. Your sacrifice—if it is a sacrifice, and not a belated confession—is useless.”

“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 individual 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 dress 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.

“Those cigarettes aren’t as good,” Alex cautioned. “I’m afraid they’re chemically synthesized.”

“Uh, same difference… but I haven’t tried this kind.”

Dr. Watson lit her cigarette, touched the whiskey glass to her lips. She then ardently drew in the smoke.

“I’m actually a medical doctor, Alex. And my name really is Jenny Watson. I’m from Zodiac originally.”

“So what are you doing in Holmes’s company?”

“Is this an official interrogation, Captain?” Dr. Watson smirked. “Keep in mind you’re trying to interrogate a legal medical expert and a class-II assistant detective!”

“Yes, well… I can’t get into any more trouble than I’m already in.”

Jenny glanced at him with admiration.

“You are an odd one, Captain. I was working at Zodiac’s central military hospital. All the usual stuff—sunburns, injuries, tumors, AIDS, head colds… But one day we admitted Sherlock Holmes… Peter C-the-Forty-Fourth Valke. You can sneer at him all you want, but he really is a great detective. His playing Holmes may seem phony, but believe me, it’s a genuine passion. He has found himself a prototype that is almost devoid of emotion, but at the same time respected all over the world. When we met, he… considered it a sign of fate, perhaps? Holmes urged me to take the legal medical expert certification courses and become his companion. He was ready to meet any of my conditions. He could have, of course, requested a cloned companion, but finding a real Dr. Watson apparently touched him deeply.”

“You have a way with words,” said Alex with a sly smile, and drank off some whiskey.

“It’s a habit. You see, Captain, I’m trying to succeed in the fields of journalism and literature. And being Sherlock Holmes’s companion is a very, very useful experience!”

“But you play along to get along, Dr. Watson. You’re so much smarter than you let on.”

The girl smiled.

“That’s just a little game of my own. I’m sure C-the-Forty-Fourth can see that.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“But you won’t tell him that, right?”

“Of course not.” Alex shook his head. “So you’re a writer…”

“What’s so funny about that?” asked Jenny defiantly.

“It’s not that, really. It’s just that, to a spesh, the whole notion of changing one’s line of work sounds really odd. To be a medical doctor and, it seems to me, a good one at that, but still want to change careers…”

Jenny shrugged.

“Writers, artists, politicians—those careers don’t lend themselves to specialization. Anyone can choose to do them.”

“Politician-speshes do exist!”

“Oh, give me a break, Alex! There have been attempts, but they all failed. On my planet, for instance, there is only one functioning politician-spesh, Leon Nizinkin. Seems to be a great specialist by all parameters. Has all the morality adjustments necessary for a politician. Jacks up the crowd in a blink of an eye, masterfully dissembles any emotions, easily switches from one party to another at opportune moments. And yet—no notable achievements whatsoever. In the final analysis, politics has become just a way he earns his living. And to pour out his heart, he writes history books. Wonderful ones, mind you! So, a number of professions have yet to yield to specialization.”

“Does all this mean that your interest in Holmes is purely utilitarian? You’re collecting material for future use?”

“Far from it!” cried Dr. Watson angrily. “Yes, the cases are interesting. But we actually do defend the innocent, stand up for justice in the Empire. That is just as important for me!”

“I can tell by your scar…”

Jenny made a wry face.

“I deliberately don’t have it removed. It’s like… a baptism of fire.”

“I’d remove it, if I were you. Women shouldn’t be proud of their battle wounds. Without the tooth marks, you’d be much more attractive.”

Now Dr. Watson was looking at him with mild apprehension. Shook her head, got up. Forcefully pressed her unfinished cigarette into the ashtray.

“Thank you for the whiskey. I hope you’re not guilty, Captain.”

Alex closed the door behind her and stood still for a few moments, smiling.

It seemed he had been able to shock Holmes’s loyal companion. But why?

Could it really be that there had been something unspeshlike in his words? Alex himself thought he was behaving the way he usually did.

And however trivial that conversation might have been—just over twenty yards away from the disfigured corpse of the Zzygou, on the eve of a bloody galactic war—Alex Romanov enjoyed the memory.

Chapter 2

“I’m not in a laughing mood,” said Alex.

Edgar got up grudgingly. He had been sitting on the back of a dragon, a golden-hued dragon; its wings sprawled out on the flat roof of the palace. Maybe the Sovereign had decided to fly around a bit, surveying his seemingly limitless virtual realm. Or maybe he was just visiting one of his toys.

The dragon turned its head, throwing a hateful, hazy look at Alex. In the corner of its eye, a lump of dry brown pus had congealed. Edgar must have been neglecting his flocks… although he didn’t seem to deny them food. The dragon exuded the heavy, thick odor of raw meat and also, for some reason, of chewed grass.

As the boy came down the monster’s back—the dragon raised its scales, forming a kind of stairway—Alex waited patiently. But as soon as Edgar stepped onto the roof and opened his mouth to unleash another indignant tirade, Alex stretched his arm and covered the boy’s lips with his hand.

“Be quiet a minute.”

The dragon roared in outrage, but Edgar waved his hand, and the reptile fell silent.

“I’ll ask you again. What can you do to help in this situation?”

“Nothing!” Edgar took a step back. “You’re the one who disconnected the inner cameras. I had no idea the Zzygou got whacked!”

“Could Kim have done it?”

“No,” said Edgar firmly. “No way. In self-defense, yes, but it’s unlikely the Zzygou was any threat to her. To defend the crystal I live in—the same objections apply. Besides, a fighter-spesh simply kills the opponent, without making a gory circus out of it.”

“What if she wanted to deflect suspicion away from herself?”

“Good grief! If Kim had needed to kill the Zzygou, she would have removed all the witnesses. By now she would be down on the planet, with me in her stomach pocket, and your Mirror would be rushing full-speed to the nearest star.”

“Your emotions blocker… is it capable of inducing mental changes that could make a person turn to murder?”

“But you’re telling me you haven’t given it to Kim!”

“I took some myself.”

Edgar stopped short. He shook his head.

“I’m such a fool… so that was your goal all along?”

“No. But you talked about love with too much enthusiasm. Besides, I have to test what I offer to my crewmembers.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“No change. Except…”

“Except?” Edgar was intrigued.

“Except I’ve stopped enjoying my confluence with the ship. It’s like it died.”

“I see.”

The boy paced excitedly along the edge of the roof. He spat down and laughed upon hearing someone curse below. Turned to Alex again.

“That’s exactly the way it should be. The artificially imposed emotions are the first to disappear. And your own emotions… you have to work them out yourself.”

“So tell me, could the blocker have made me kill the Zzygou?”

“Did you kill her?”

“Of course not. But maybe I don’t remember my own actions?”

“Nonsense. That’s impossible. The Zzygou was whacked by someone from your team. But not Kim. And not you, if you’re not lying to me right now.”

“Are you sure, Edward Garlitsky?”

The boy froze, his hands behind his back.

“Let’s be frank here,” said Alex bluntly. “Your little fairy tale might have been enough to convince Kim. But not me. You aren’t the person you’ve been claiming to be.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The first problem—why would anyone take the colossal trouble of raising a full-fledged intelligence in virtual reality?”

“They wanted to…”

“Shut up. Second—genetic constructor is not a profession that lends itself to specialization. It’s a coincidence of mental development, a mixture of intuition, a certain special bent of mind, and a goddam talent! It would be impossible to transfer a child’s mind into a crystal to make him a genetic engineer.”

Edgar forced a laugh.

“Third,” continued Alex obstinately. “No one has ever even heard of an emotions blocker. It could only be created by a genius of Garlitsky’s level. By a person working at the very deepest level of specialization research.”

A shadow of satisfaction appeared on Edgar’s face. He said nothing.

“Fourth. You’re imitating an earthly world in your crystal. Plants, landscapes, surroundings. That’s logical for a person who was born and spent most of his life on Earth. But not at all for a little boy from Edem.”

“Damn,” cried Edgar earnestly. “What a stupid goof!”

“Five. You don’t make a convincing teenager.”

“And why is that?”

“The geishas around you,” said Alex softly, “would be mature, voluptuous women. And never the same age as you. Your image would not reflect your actual appearance—you’d be walking around in the handsome, powerful body of a grown man. No one even remembers such a thing as glasses for vision correction! There are glasses as an accessory, and there are glasses for sun protection. But vision gets corrected during the prenatal period! In both speshes and naturals. A boy Edgar could not be myopic and wouldn’t wear glasses in the virtual world.”

“You’ve convinced me.” The boy threw his hands up in surrender. Took off his glasses, tossed them down from the roof. “Well… but what made you think I was the geneticist Garlitsky, who died a hundred and fifty years ago?”

“Immediately after Garlitsky’s death, the center of developing genetic technologies moved over to Edem. All the main specializations are now being developed there. So either a new genius of your level had appeared,” Alex consciously dropped in another note of flattery, “or Garlitsky’s mind continued to function. On Edem. Why Edem, by the way?”

“Earth’s legislation back then was highly distrustful of genetic engineering. And virtual minds had no rights whatsoever.”

“And look at all the rights you got on Edem!”

The boy’s face grimaced as in pain. Alex quickly added, “Why don’t we continue this discussion in different surroundings? I have a little time… and I’d like to find out a few things.”

“All right, Mr. Pilot.” The boy raised his hand. The dragon roared piteously, and the fairy tale world vanished.

Now it was an ordinary room, furnished in a style of at least a hundred years ago. Amorphous plasticate chairs, picture windows, a waterfall chandelier whose sparkling streams vanished without a trace right at the level of the floor.

Edgar, too, had changed.

Alex looked at the heavyset old man sitting in front of him and nodded.

“I recognize you. That’s the way you looked in the films.”

“I can turn totally decrepit… the way I looked when I left the human world,” said Edward Garlitsky ironically. “But it’s not a very appetizing sight. What is it you want to know, pilot-spesh Alex Romanov?”

“Were you really incarcerated?”

“Yes.” Edward’s face contorted with emotion. “Those scumbags… those low-life bastards! I was stupid—I didn’t start growing myself a new body immediately. I was thrilled by the idea of first constructing the greatest body-shell ever and then taking up residence in it. To bring forth… the beginning of a new race. Of super-humans, not the wretched speshes of today… I beg your pardon.”

“I’m not offended.” Alex sat down in one of the armchairs, which bubbled beneath him, as it searched for the most comfortable shape to take. After a brief hesitation, Edward moved closer to him.

“I was going to make a universalist-spesh. To combine all the best features that could be combined in a human body. I would have been human—outwardly. But I would have been able to breathe underwater and function for hours in vacuum, pilot spaceships and write poetry, repair kitchen stools and manage a gluon reactor. I wanted to squeeze the human genome for absolutely everything it could possibly give! And take what it couldn’t from other earthly and extraterrestrial life forms!”

“And that was why they imprisoned you?”

“Yes. No one wanted that. It scared them. I had come up with a system of surgical recombination of the genome, and I was very close to achieving a result. I even ordered them to start growing the first body… and that was when they stopped me. I was tried… posthumously. And sentenced to be incarcerated in the crystal indefinitely to do socially beneficial work. The Emperor personally banned the creation of super-humans. And I… I was ordered to work on new specializations for the Empire.”

“How could they order you around? Did they threaten to destroy the crystal?”

“Alex…” The geneticist laughed. “You cannot imagine what a multifaceted hell you can organize in virtual space. I could show you… but you’d jump out into the real world immediately. And I had nowhere to go! They would hook my gel-crystal up to another, more powerful one—it would take over… and a nightmare would start. I don’t know who they had hired to do it. But he had a fabulous imagination.”

“I believe you,” said Alex.

Edward threw up his hands.

“Believe it or not. That’s the truth. I broke down. I agreed to live in the virtual world until I received a special pardon from the Emperor… and keep building new speshes. I was thinking up pilots, fighters, gardeners, and hairdressers… At times, I would feel I was losing my mind. I tried to spite the customers… have you ever met a street sweeper-spesh?”

“Of course.”

“That’s not a human being. It’s a parody of a human being! Hands touching the ground, fingers covered with fur to play the role of brooms! A chest-pocket for garbage! A soft, quiet voice and a kindly disposition. And despite all this, the intellect is left completely intact!”

“I remember, everyone respected our street sweeper very much,” said Alex. “He was so kind, so personable. Really loved the kids, gave us rides around the yard up on his shoulders…”

“Oh, Lord! So even that little detail worked?” Edward burst out laughing. “The street sweeper I knew as a kid was always chasing us off, so I endowed my street sweeper-spesh with a special affection for children… The very idea was meant as a mockery! But they put it into production.”

“So who exactly is Kim?”

“My salvation.” Edward immediately got serious. “Twenty years ago I managed to… in a very sly way—I had willy-nilly become an experienced hacker—to get onto the galactic web. I was searching for opposing trends. Searching for people who might be able to help. Searching for access to public opinion. Then I realized that there was no way out. No opposition existed—if you didn’t count some insane religious sects and a few planetary governments that had recently grown in power. But there was no one who could help me, no one to go against the Imperial powers and the Edemian parliament. So I decided to create a person who would help me escape. It was impossible to work with the masses, but when an order was placed for an agent-spesh, an eternally charming, clever girl with special capabilities… I played around with her genes a little bit. My work was being closely watched, but nobody caught on this time. They even thanked me for completing the assignment so masterfully. But I waited till the girl grew up a little, and then started meeting her in some virtual worlds. Made up this touching legend for her… I love Kim very much, Alex. I don’t even know who she is to me—my daughter, my sister, the woman I love…”

“You created Kim to suit yourself?” asked Alex.

“Of course. I had no illusion that she’d be faithful to me forever. I had time enough to rid myself of the ancient moral attitude… almost. According to my original plan, Kim would rescue me when already a grown woman, with sound savings and solid covers. But the lab was being modernized, the communication lines were changed, and I realized I was about to lose contact with the girl. So I had to improvise, but it turned out very well. I took over the controls of one of the service robots. It carried the gel-crystal out and set fire to the laboratory. The crystal was considered destroyed, when in reality Kim was taking care of it. But then almighty chance came into play. Kim’s mother caught her with the crystal. Realized it wasn’t just a collection of sex entertainments or romantic stories. You know the rest. We ran away.”

“And you took the risk of trusting your life to a girl on her very first foray into the galaxy? Who knows what all could have happened to her!”

“Like what?” Edward shrugged. “Yes, she is attractive! But she is also a fighter-spesh with a whole lot of other capabilities. If someone tried to rape her… I wouldn’t envy him! Even if she were tied up hand and foot.” The smile that appeared on Edward’s face was the unpleasant smile of a person who knows something unknown to anyone else.

Alex frowned.

“So you deliberately made her this way? Smart, beautiful, sexy, and at the same time a merciless killer?”

“And what’s wrong with that, Alex? These are the things the Empire lives on. Every government creates the citizens it wants. Every large firm with serious intentions for the future puts in an order for speshes of the type it needs. Parents, choosing the future for their kids, pay for this or that specialization. How are my actions any worse? I worked really hard for Kim. So the fact that she’s rescuing me is… well, a kind of natural gratitude, perhaps!”

“If she were rescuing you knowingly! If you weren’t feeding her all these lies!”

“The time will come, and she will learn the truth.”

Of course. Alex was silent. Nodded.

“Maybe. But you were wrong.”

“Time will tell,” replied Edward wearily.

“And you’re sure that her mind is stable? To combine a hetaera and a fighter in the same consciousness is already at the limits of possibility.”

“I know the potentialities of the human mind better than you do.” Edward squinted. “Trust me, Kim couldn’t have gone mad and disemboweled the Zzygou… that’s what you’re talking about, right?”

“Yes. I am trying to check out a number of possibilities, to exclude the utterly impossible.”

“Aren’t you taking on the work of a detective-spesh, my friend?” The geneticist laughed. “God… it’s nice to talk with you this way… sincerely and kindly!”

Alex had no reaction to these words. He just sat there, thinking. Most probably, Edward wasn’t lying. He had created Kim O’Hara to suit himself: as a bodyguard, as a source for his means of existence and, ultimately, as a lover. It was improbable that a galactic war had been a part of his plans.

People suppose, but it’s chance that disposes. Still, the girl’s unstable psyche could have skipped a beat… no matter how sure Edward was of the opposite.

Alex asked, “What would you conjecture?”

“The murderer?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m not a detective. If a spesh is aboard, and a clone of Peter Valke, at that”—the geneticist threw up his hands—“all I can do is watch and admire his work.”

“Is he really that good?”

“Magnificent. I worked on that specialization for more than twenty years. Went through a lot of setbacks, but the result exceeded all expectations.”

“So far Mr. Holmes hasn’t impressed me all that favorably. A collection of standard magic tricks and enhanced sensory organs.”

Edward just smiled.

“The very existence of the Empire is at stake here.” Alex tried again to appeal to reason. “You probably won’t survive this, either. Finding the murderer is vitally important to us.”

“The Empire against the Zzygou?” The geneticist sounded utterly indifferent. “The poor little bees don’t have the slightest chance.”

“Why?”

Edward sighed.

“Good Lord, a pilot-spesh should show a bit more intelligence! Everything is there in plain sight! The murderer, and the cause, and the trump card up the sleeve—the card the Imperial cabinet is going to produce at the right moment!”

His voice rang with absolute certainty. But for some reason it only frightened Alex.

“What are you talking about? Is there a magic weapon that ordinary people don’t know about?”

“You could put it that way.” Edward pensively rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No. I won’t explain anything. You have all the necessary data to figure out what is going on. And so does the detective. So don’t worry about the Empire’s fate… and get ready to enjoy the show.”

“How can you call the death of a sentient being a show? And the inevitable death of someone from my crew?”

“I’m tired, Alex,” said the geneticist bluntly. “Drop in to see me in twenty-four hours, okay? That is, of course, if Sherlock Holmes hasn’t solved the puzzle by then. Goodbye for now!”

He got up and lazily walked toward the wall. It trembled, opening up before him.

“Edward!” Alex shouted.

To no avail. The wall reassembled, hiding the geneticist from view. Inside his own crystal, he was lord and master… until a more powerful device took over the controls.

“You don’t know any more than I do,” he said out loud. “Even less…”

What had he missed?

Or, rather—what was he reluctant to notice?

In any case, he wouldn’t get an answer here.

Alex left the virtual space.

Sherlock Holmes had recommended that the crew not leave their quarters until a special permission was issued. And a detective-spesh’s recommendation was, in fact, an order. Even for the captain.

Glancing now and then at the outer-space screen, where the Lucifer hovered languidly, Alex tuned in to the news from Zodiac.

And, of course, immediately ran into the news about the Zzygou.

The actual cause of the conflict hadn’t appeared in the commonly available information net. There were only indistinct references to an incident that had led to the death, on the Empire’s territory, of a member of the Zzygou ruling clan. Apologies had already been issued in the name of the Emperor, along with promises of just punishment of the perpetrators, the organization of a fancy funeral, and reparations. In general, from any human’s point of view, the Zzygou’s rage was absolutely unfounded… after all, accidents did happen in the universe, and rushing to war over the death of a single sentient being—it was sheer madness!

And that was what frightened Alex. The Empire was getting ready for war. The Empire was creating background propaganda. Of course, the alien races would learn the unedited version of the conflict, but… the belligerent Cepheideans would be happy with any kind of trouble with the Zzygou, and the Bronins most probably wouldn’t consider even the most gruesome murder as reason for war.

Perhaps the alien races were precisely the cause for Edward’s optimism? Maybe he was betting that humanity would quickly be joined by some allies?

That was naive. Allies always appeared on time, all right. The time when the opponent’s territory was being redistributed.

The worst thing appeared to be the fact that both sides had already sustained some casualties.

The incident had happened on Volga, a poor and austere planet whose inhabitants—mostly Jews and Slavs—earned a meager living by arduous and ceaseless labor. The planet had essentially only one large city, near the spaceport, and a single industrial enterprise—a fuel refinery. The rest of the habitable surface of the planet was taken up by shallow swamps, which were farmed by the planet’s inhabitants.

Volga had simply been unlucky—a small Zzygou trading vessel had happened to be passing the planet’s space.

The vessel wasn’t a recent model. Designed for nonmilitary use, it was not at all suited for action against a planet’s surface. But the Others turned upon the planet with kamikaze-like determination. Had they targeted the spaceport’s defense stations, fate might have actually smiled on them. But the Zzygou seemed to have gone insane. They started randomly shooting at the city from their low-powered plasma cannons, and in forty-two seconds were shot down by return fire. Strange as it may seem, the Zzygou weren’t even able to drop their burning ship onto the city. Instead it crashed in one of the uninhabited outskirts, where it quickly vanished in the deep muck of the swamp.

A short newscast from the planet was full of raw and unedited provincial emotion. A very young and attractive Jewish girl was giving a heated account of the damage sustained by the city and pointing out punctured roofs, mangled roads, and ruined buildings. The worst damage was caused to “the clinic of the kind Dr. Lubarsky,” the planet’s only dental-services center. Dr. Lubarsky himself, an imposing dentist-spesh with a crew cut, was standing in front of a blazing building, giving a colorful account of how, amid the sudden flames and shaking walls, he had rescued a lady-patient, carrying her to safety… he hadn’t even had a chance to finish cleaning a complex, twisted root canal…. Upset as he was, the dentist lost control of his movements—his right thumb and index finger formed a “claw” and started jerking and clicking involuntarily, as if searching for a bad tooth.

But the dentist turned out to be lucky. The destroyed clinic had probably been insured. As for the bookstore, which belonged to Yuri C-the-Second Semetsky, it hadn’t merely collapsed, but had buried its owner under the rubble. The clone’s spouse, sobbing uncontrollably, was incoherently telling a sympathetically nodding reporter what a good man C-the-Second Semetsky had been. Way better than C-the-First, with whom she had also been acquainted… He was so fond of trout. He had such a beautiful way of imitating the call of the swamp chaffinch… Believed in reincarnation and assured everyone that he remembered his previous lives, and each one of them had ended tragically… it was as if he had foretold his own fate… But whatever might have happened in Yuri’s former lives, his present life still had a chance, however slim—the rescue workers were tirelessly digging through the ruins in hopes that the poor man may have been protected by a layer of books, before being buried under concrete panels. The words of a rescuer-spesh also sounded encouraging—he heard a rhythmical tapping under the ruins. Perhaps it was only water dripping from some broken pipes, but everyone was eager to believe that it was the beating of Semetsky’s valiant heart… Alex turned the news off.

“What a farce,” he said sharply.

The Zzygou trading vessel hadn’t, of course, had any chance whatsoever. It either had no female aboard, or the female hadn’t been able to calm the crew down. It was amazing that they had even managed to destroy a few buildings.

But one fact remained—the Swarm and the Empire had already engaged in an armed conflict.

The door signal beeped.

“Open,” Alex ordered. He was getting ready to see Watson or Holmes, but it was Janet who entered the cabin.

Never since they’d met had Alex seen the Ebenian woman so content and aglow with such charm. Janet’s appearance couldn’t be described as beautiful, after all—five specializations had made her facial features too strange. But now she seemed to be radiating a light from within.

“Janet?” Alex went off to the bar, returned with a bottle of wine. Poured her a glassful.

“Thanks, that certainly won’t hurt. I just had a talk with our friend Holmes.” Janet lowered herself into an armchair. Looked sideways at the neuro-terminal that lay on the table. “You were having some fun?”

“A bit… So what did Holmes tell you?”

“That everyone is a suspect. But I…”—Janet gave a blinding smile, raised her glass in mock salutation—“am the prime suspect.”

“And that’s what made you so happy?”

Janet shook her head, regaining her seriousness for a brief moment.

“Not at all, Alex. I’m not prone to masochism. And I don’t find these accusations pleasant in the least. After all, I didn’t kill the Zzygou.”

For a few seconds, they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“Really and truly, I am not the one who killed her,” said Janet. “I have sworn an oath to you. What made me happy is something else.”

“What?”

“The war! The Zzygou won’t stop now. The Empire will have to engage in the war.”

“Janet Ruello,” said Alex slowly, “what you’re saying is monstrous. The war will cost the Empire billions of lives.”

“Oh, please.” Janet shook her head. “That’s complete nonsense. Our illustrious detective-spesh is of the same opinion as you, but he is wrong. The Zzygou will be defeated with little bloodshed.”

“But how the hell…?”

Janet gave him a puzzled look.

“You really don’t get it? Alex, my home planet hasn’t been demolished. Eben is sealed in an isolation field, but removing it is a matter of just a few minutes… if the Emperor gives the order.”

Alex gasped. And Janet continued calmly:

“Our planet cannot be measured by ordinary criteria. Trust me—I know. There, under the eggshell, the Church is still alive, and the patriarchs, as well as most of the fleet. New ships are still being built. New weapons are still being created. And our people feel no hatred for the Empire. If the field is removed, Eben will rejoin the Empire’s ranks. And believe me, there is still nothing in the galaxy to match the power of our Liturgy cruisers or our Anathema raiders! Your Emperor…”—Alex noticed this accidental—or was it deliberate?—slip of the tongue—“is only a little kid. But the Imperial Council has more than just idiots. If war becomes imminent, they will remove the quarantine from Eben. Then the Zzygou will be doomed. I’ve estimated… we will lose from five to fifteen planets before the fighting moves to Zzygou territory. Closer to five than to fifteen. And if the South-Sea lab on Eben has already finished working on the gluon net, the ships of the Others will burn upon exiting the hyper-channels.”

“Janet… do you understand what you’ve been saying?” Alex whispered. It was clear now what Edward had been hinting at. Earth really did have a super-weapon hidden away, a weapon everyone had long forgotten.

“I hope I’ve calmed you down!”

“Janet, you have just signed your own death sentence! Now you’re not only the prime suspect, but all the clues point to you!”

“But I didn’t kill the Zzygou,” she repeated stubbornly. “I had no idea her social status was so high. But… if my death serves to liberate Eben, I’m ready to die. By any means the Others may choose to devise.”

“Good Lord, Janet, what are you raving about?” Alex lunged toward her, grabbed her by the shoulders. “Even if Eben is liberated and the Zzygou defeated—what next?”

“We’ll see.”

“No need to see. I’ll tell you what will happen. If, with Eben’s help, the Empire manages to destroy one race, all the rest of them will prick up their ears. A common anti-human front will be formed… or a coalition. You don’t really think that the Empire will be able to stand up to the combined forces of ten alien races?”

“The races of the Others are disjointed. All have their bones to pick with one another.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll temporarily forget those. Eben, its ideology and politics, were at one point the cause of tension in the whole galaxy. Even the crazy Bronins had never made it their goal to purge all space of alien life forms. Eben as part of the Empire is the alarm signal for everyone!”

“So then, you think that a whole world, equal in power to the combined forces of Earth and Edem, should remain isolated for all eternity?” Janet spoke calmly, but dry bitterness broke through now and then in her voice. “Yes! I want it to be liberated! I dream of seeing my first-born again. I would like to go visit the graves of my parents and pay my respects to them, according to our custom. To see my old house… to visit my first teacher… to call on my first lover… You all consider Eben a cesspool of evil, when we’ve been humanity’s shield for hundreds of years! A weapons smithy, a military academy, a factory, and a base… everything the Empire needed. Do you know how beautiful Eben is? At least, those places where nature can still be found… We raped our own home planet, turned ourselves into soldiers… and all that we did for the sake of humanity! Because the Empire needed ships, ships, and more ships! And soldiers, and channel stations, and new kinds of armaments…”

Speshes were not prone to hysterics. But five specializations were probably too much for a human mind. Alex sensed that Janet was ready to burst into sobs.

How weird and absurd that was—here was a woman whose planet was used to scare little kids, whose profession was to torture the Others, and he couldn’t feel the socially prescribed condescending sympathy for her. He couldn’t, because he was ready to sign his name to every single word she had been saying.

Except that if Eben were to be liberated, a pan-galactic war would be unleashed.

“We became what humanity required,” Janet continued. “We were the Empire’s shield and its sword. And when we were no longer needed, they locked us away in a closet. To wait for better times.”

“For worse times.”

“What’s the difference? We were struck from the ranks of humanity. Yes, we had our own independent policies, but that didn’t happen overnight! We… we were betrayed, as soon as the Others raised a howl!”

“Your people refused to change, Janet. When wars became a thing of the past, your people didn’t want to move on.”

“Were we ever offered that option?” The woman tossed the hair off her forehead and looked defiantly at Alex. “Did anyone ever give us even the slightest chance? All we had was an ultimatum, and the united fleet moving towards Eben. That was it. There was no time to look for compromises. And so… forgive me, Alex, but I’m happy we are at war! My home planet will be free.”

Alex was silent for a moment.

“And still—it wasn’t you?”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Then who?”

A shadow of a smile ran through her face.

“I think I know who it was. But I won’t tell, Alex.”

“But you must tell!”

“No. Sharing suspicions isn’t part of my contract. A detective is aboard, let him puzzle it out.”

“You’ve sworn an oath to me,” Alex reminded her.

“I’ve sworn not to kill the Zzygou. I never swore to look for their killer.”

“And if I were to demand another oath…”

“No.”

Alex threw up his hands. Janet’s voice was dangerously high with tension. She was balancing on the edge of hysteria. But he was sure her hysterical fit would not lead to a concession.

“You’re wrong, Janet. Believe me, all this will lead to tragedy for Eben… and for the whole human race.”

“Maybe,” she rejoined immediately. “Nevertheless, it’s a chance.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth about yourself, at least.”

“Did I narrow your circle of suspects?” Janet laughed, calming down. “Alex… don’t attempt your own investigation. You can talk to everyone, and every single person will tell you they didn’t kill the Zzygou…”

“Why?”

“Because.” Janet got up. “I’m going back to my cabin, Captain. You can come visit me, if you want. We can play ‘sweet-sweet sugar and bitter chocolate.’”

Alex didn’t recall any such game. Well, Janet would probably be a great instructor, and the game—a fun way to pass the time.

If only he had the slightest wish to have sex now…

“I’ll think about it,” he said, evasively.

As Sherlock Holmes and his loyal companion moved from cabin to cabin, Alex had visitor after visitor. A psychologist might say that, subconsciously, the crew still perceived Alex as a father figure. A strict and strong one, whose duty was to protect them.

That was reassuring, in a way.

After Janet left, Kim dropped in. The girl was beside herself with rage. She had also been informed that she was the prime suspect. It seemed that what had offended Kim the most was the fact that the hero of her favorite books turned out to be such a distrustful, dry old stick. She cursed—clumsily, but very diligently—telling Alex in minute detail of her conversation with Holmes.

“Can you imagine? He said I was so desperate to get out of flying back to Edem that I whacked the Zzygou! That I was the only one who knew their anatomy well enough and was strong enough to overpower the Other! It’s like using a ray gun to kill flies!”

“I know of a couple of planets where flies actually deserve that kind of treatment,” Alex noted. He pulled the girl onto his lap, and for the next few minutes they caressed each other in silence. Kim snorted, murmured something to the effect that she wasn’t a little kid anymore and didn’t go for such silliness, but she did visibly relax.

“But you didn’t kill the poor Zzygou, right?” Alex said in a half-questioning tone, still caressing Kim.

“Of course not! And if I were to kill her, I wouldn’t do it that way….” Kim winced. “It was probably Janet. She’s an executioner-spesh, and she hates the Others.”

“Janet says otherwise.”

“Then it wasn’t her,” quickly agreed the girl. “She wouldn’t lie.”

“Then who?”

“You’re trying to guess? But that’s the detective’s job!”

“Kim, everything is very, very complicated. If everyone thinks about what has happened, it might save billions of lives.”

“You aren’t a detective. You aren’t designed to investigate!” Kim looked at him in surprise. She took away his hand, which had gotten a bit carried away. “You’re a master-pilot!”

“Yes, I am a pilot. I’m used to operating under a multitude of dynamic factors that influence each other as well as the ship. I have accelerated reactions, enhanced memory, and reinforced logical capacity. And I am, like any pilot, specially adapted for the job of spaceship captain. That includes the basics of psychology, the ability to sense other people’s moods and guide their behavior. Why can’t I try on the role of a detective?”

“Because you aren’t a detective-spesh!”

“Kim…” He lightly kissed her lips. “Not everything can be pre-programmed.”

She was silent, alarmed, looking him straight in the eye.

“Then why am I not trying to investigate the murder?”

“Because you think you’re a fighter-spesh.”

“I’m not a fighter.” The girl pressed her lips together tightly. “I can feel that. I’m not just a fighter!”

“Right.” Alex nodded approvingly. “You’re more than a fighter. You’re a spy. A terrorist. An agent provocateur.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know. Your job is to be involved in the highest circles of society. And, if necessary, to work a miner’s hack in a POW camp, serve in the military, serve at a brothel, do lab experiments. You’re capable of adapting to any situation. You can become almost anybody. Including a detective, I suppose.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Why not, Kim? Your specialization is unique. Model-speshes, singer-speshes, strategist-speshes… anyone you look at—none of them comes close to your specialization!”

“That just means loneliness.”

The sound of her voice startled Alex. She seemed to have aged instantly, grown decades older.

“Any unique specialist is lonely. You’ll get to like your work. You will enjoy it, trust me. The real thing, not just what you have here.”

“I don’t want to, Alex!” She hugged him tightly. “Why did you tell me all this? Why?”

“You had to find out sooner or later.”

“But I like flying on the ship. I like being with you!”

“Well, no one can forbid you to work as an ordinary fighter.”

“Now that I know what I’m meant to be?”

“Yes, even now.” Alex didn’t look away. “Especially now.”

“I don’t understand,” said Kim piteously.

“You will.”

He didn’t answer any more of her questions. And Kim didn’t persist for long. She didn’t know the “sweet-sweet sugar and bitter chocolate” game. It had probably been invented on Eben. But another game Kim suggested, “kitten claws,” turned out to be quite enjoyable.

Generalov barged into the cabin while Kim was in the shower.

“Would you like some wine?” Alex offered, tightening his bathrobe. A half-empty bottle of real Earthly Vouvray stood on the table.

“Something stronger!” Puck roared.

Alex bent over the bar. He fussed for a while with glasses and bottles, then poured the navigator some brandy.

“So, Holmes has called you the prime suspect, eh?”

“Yes! Everyone already knows?” Generalov shook his head. Roared with sardonic laughter. “Arguments of steel! Tough as titanium!”

“And what are they?”

“Well! I’m the only natural on board, you see! As well as the only homo!”

“Is that what he called you?”

“No, this Holmes character, this cloned jerk, used an even more insulting expression!” Generalov punched the air and poured himself some more brandy. “You tell me, Captain, how are my tastes in any way connected to the murder of the Zzygou?”

“I have no idea,” confessed Alex.

“It turns out, I was trying to make life hell for C-the-Third and the lady-speshes!”

“Janet and Kim?”

“Yes! I killed the Zzygou to ruin that nasty clone’s career, and was hoping to dump the murder on one of the women, since I hate them!”

“You hate them?”

“Me?” Generalov goggled. “Captain, no one treats women more tenderly and gently than we gays! Everyone knows this… except detectives, as it turns out! Holmes cursed me out like a drunk miner from some provincial planet!”

“You have my sympathies, Puck.”

“Thank you, Captain… But listen, how can we possibly count on justice if the investigation is conducted by a cloned idiot?”

“Puck, you are incensed at being discriminated against because of individual peculiarities, and yet you yourself sound a bit… biased.”

“Being a clone is not an individual peculiarity, but a rotten core!” said the enraged navigator. “And I have just been convinced once and for all! While our C-the-Third may be just a fool who couldn’t keep his wards out of harm’s way, Holmes is an aggressive, noisy fool who is a danger to society! Now I’m convinced—war is unavoidable!”

The sound of running water ceased, and the sanitary block’s door opened slightly. Kim looked out from behind it. Droplets of water glistened on her shoulders. The girl had wrapped her wet hair in a towel, turbanlike.

“Oh… hi, Puck!”

“Hi, sweetie!” Generalov looked sideways at her. “Have you heard what I’m accused of?”

“Just a sec… Alex, I threw my clothes into the wash, is that all right?”

“Well, you can’t sit in the bathroom for a quarter of an hour.” The pilot smiled. “Come on out.”

Kim darted over to the bed, sat down, and wrapped herself in a blanket. Smiled cheerfully at Alex.

“I have nothing but good feelings for women!” announced Puck. “And for lady-speshes as well! My own mother is a doctor-spesh! As for clones, I don’t like them, but I wouldn’t kill the Zzygou to spite them!”

He poured himself some more brandy. Alex thought for a second, then moved the bottle away.

“Yes, thank you…” Generalov sighed. “I’m really sort of… but just imagine, Captain, for thirty minutes, he threw insults in my face!”

“Don’t be mad at Holmes,” said Alex. “He doesn’t really mean what he says.”

“Then what does he mean?”

“He’s just trying to provoke all the suspects. He deliberately pushes our buttons, works our inhibitions and biases. So he can watch our reactions.”

“Asshole!” exhaled Puck with feeling.

“Not at all, actually. This is an extreme situation, so it calls for appropriate methods. If reliable truth drugs existed, or torture with easily controlled coercive force, or any other valid methods for express-interrogations, Holmes would now be using them. He may even use some unreliable ones, if he is left with no other choice.”

“Controlled torture?” Puck didn’t understand.

“Of course. The murder has obviously been committed by a professional. He could withstand both drugs and ordinary torture. And very strong coercion would make an innocent person implicate himself. But only convincing proof would actually satisfy the Zzygou.”

“Good Lord, what is the world coming to!” Generalov cried melodramatically.

“The world is coming to the edge of an abyss. So, Puck, you really didn’t kill the Zzygou?”

“No!”

“And you don’t know who the murderer is?”

Generalov thought for a while.

“I thought it was you, Captain.”

“Why me?” Alex was stunned.

“The act required way too much of a sense of responsibility. Only someone who is ready to make decisions for other people could have committed it. No other spesh aboard this ship has the directive to make general decisions. Only the captain.”

“And you, since you’re a natural!” cried out Kim.

“Yes.” This time Generalov didn’t get angry. “And me. But I didn’t kill anyone.”

Alex thought it over. Reluctantly admitted:

“I haven’t tried to look at it from that point of view… Yes. It all makes sense. But I didn’t kill the Zzygou, either.”

“You know what else that… clone picked on?”

“What?”

“That I like to walk around the ship in a spacesuit!”

“That’s a good point,” Alex agreed. “It solves the problem of bloodstains on the clothes.”

“But anyone could put on a spacesuit.” Puck got up with a sigh. “I should never have signed on to your crew, Captain…”

“Everything will be all right, Puck. Innocent people won’t get in trouble.”

“You have that much confidence in the cloned Holmes?” Generalov asked ironically.

“No. I have confidence in myself.”

Paul Lourier showed up in Alex’s cabin after both Generalov and Kim had left. Generalov left looking just as tense as when he arrived, but Kim looked much calmer.

“Go ahead, sit down.” Alex nodded toward the armchair. “Want some wine?”

Paul nodded wistfully.

“Would Vouvray be all right with you? Or would you like a red, after all?” Alex asked.

“Vouvray’ll be fine.” Paul took up the glass. He turned it in his hands, then asked, lifting his eyes to look at Alex:

“Captain, do you suspect me in the Zzygou murder, too?”

“And why would you be number one on the list?”

Paul frowned.

“So I’m not the only one?”

“Tell me.”

“Holmes was alluding to my psychological profile. Well… Captain, back at the academy, I really did like pranks… but that’s all a thing of the past! And there is a difference between hacking into a teacher’s computer and slicing up an alien!”

“Yes, Holmes must have really scrambled for evidence there,” Alex agreed.

Paul drained his glass. Winced.

“Must not be the best year.”

“Probably not,” Alex acknowledged. “Don’t worry, Paul. Holmes is just provoking you. To watch your reaction to being accused.”

“I thought so. He also said I was too decent a young man. That I had too few reasons and opportunities to kill the Zzygou. And that was the most suspicious thing of all!”

Alex burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry, no court would ever uphold an accusation based on that kind of reasoning. Especially not the Zzygou. They need ironclad proof.”

“So who killed her, Captain?” Paul lowered his voice. “Could it really be… Janet?”

“Well, actually, I already know who the killer is.” Alex took out his cigarettes, lit one up. “Everything is really kind of simple.”

“You already know?” cried the engineer.

“Of course. I’m not sure Holmes knows yet. He’s still just watching us and gathering information. But I… do know.”

“But you’re not a detective!”

“So what?”

The youth looked at Alex with admiration. Then asked:

“So, who is it?”

“I won’t tell just yet. I have no proof, either. But I will have it. The killer did make a blunder, after all. Now I will let him make the next one, and after that, the Zzygou will have their scapegoat. There won’t be a war.”

“So it’s not Kim or Janet?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well… you said ‘he.’”

“I was talking in general. A murderer is a genderless creature.” Alex grinned a crooked grin. “Don’t try to guess.”

“I knew you would protect us, Captain.”

“That’s my job,” said Alex. “All right, Paul. Morrison is on his way. I’ll have to hear him out, too….”

“Then the rest have already visited you?” Paul quickly guessed.

“Exactly. Everyone came running to me and complained about Holmes.”

Alex took Lourier by the shoulders and softly nudged him toward the door.

“Off you go now. You made your complaint, now let your fellow crewmember do the same.”

The door signal beeped again.

Morrison also had to be revived with some cognac. Unlike Janet, the co-pilot was not thrilled with the prospect of war. Unlike Kim, he didn’t believe that Alex was capable of protecting him. Unlike Generalov, he wasn’t converting his fear into anger. And unlike Lourier, he had real reasons to be afraid of being accused. He was pale as a ghost.

“Xang, things will work out,” Alex repeated yet again. “The detective-spesh won’t falsely accuse an innocent person. So, if you didn’t kill the Zzygou…”

“I didn’t! Right after my shift was over, I went to bed. I was exhausted!”

“Then you have no reason to worry.”

“And I did want to drop by to visit Kim…”

“You should have. You’d have an alibi. And so would she.”

“I was at her cabin door, but it didn’t open.”

Alex frowned.

“That’s bad.”

“I asked Kim later, and she just said she had been fast asleep.”

“Nonsense. She’s a fighter-spesh. The signal would wake her.” Alex winced. Stupid girl… Couldn’t think of a better lie…

Xang’s eyes grew wide.

“Kim? Kim did it?!”

Alex just waved this away. “Hold on…”

He turned on the computer screen. Quickly sketched a chart, slightly resembling Holmes’s data grid, except simpler. Six lines—crewmembers and time dots. He murmured:

“That’s why she wasn’t worried… she has the ace of trumps up her sleeve. So… who else has an alibi here?”

“Kim was with someone?” asked Morrison, confused.

“Of course. She was either busy shredding the Zzygou, or having sex with someone.”

“No other alternatives?”

“Nope. The girl’s too much in love with me. She feels it’s her duty to remain faithful, but it’s hard for her to challenge the other component of her personality. She needs a healthy variety of sex.”

“Alex, have you, by any chance, been specialized as a detective?” Morrison couldn’t help asking.

“No, Xang, I haven’t. But circumstances force me to be….” Alex nodded contentedly, deleted the chart from his screen. “How wonderful that Generalov is one hundred percent homosexual!”

“I don’t get it,” the co-pilot admitted.

“Everything is still tangled up,” Alex said. “I have to work with the assumption that there is only one terrorist aboard. And that hasn’t been proved.”

He stretched, throwing a mocking glance at Morrison.

“Unlike you, I have a duty to protect all my crewmembers. Everyone but the murderer… that is, if he is a member of the crew. It’s hard work.”

“Wouldn’t want to be a captain…”

“Oh, come on! It’s interesting. Let’s walk over to the recreation lounge, Xang. I’m sure everyone’s already there.”

“The show goes on…” said Morrison despondently. “You have nerves of steel, Captain. Mine seem to be much weaker.”

“One false move, and the show will end in the destruction of humanity,” said Alex. “Gotta keep my cool despite myself. Let’s go. I want to grab a bite to eat.”

Chapter 3

They say all people can be divided into two types: those whose appetite increases when they’re stressed, and those whose appetite disappears entirely.

Among the crew of Mirror, Generalov was the only one in the latter category. He had been picking at a plate of salad in a lackluster way, but as soon as Holmes and Watson appeared, he laid his fork aside altogether.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” The detective was bright and cheerful. “May we join you?”

He seemed to expect a cordial welcome from the same people he had recently accused of murder.

“Of course, Mr. Holmes.” Alex gestured toward the least-occupied sofa. As soon as Holmes and Watson sat down, Generalov demonstratively got up and moved over to Kim and Janet. Janet, who had just made supper and was now setting the table, showed no intention whatsoever of offering any food to Holmes and Watson. A dull silence filled the air.

“Once,” said the detective, completely unabashed, “the esteemed Dr. Watson and I investigated a theft of natural emeralds in the mines of Basko-4. We had to spend three days and three nights among the miners… to eat at their table, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them down in the tunnels, among many other things. If you only knew how many hateful stares drilled into our backs! How many times the timberings would ‘accidentally’ fall or the mining-robots lose their grip—And yet, when I, with the invaluable help of dear Dr. Watson, managed to find out the truth—everything changed. The workers cried, seeing us off from the planetoid.”

“Tears of rapture at seeing you go,” grumbled Generalov.

“I doubt that you want war to break out,” Holmes continued. “I doubt you are harboring the murderer. And I doubt that you hated the poor princess Zey-So. The conclusion is simple—you object to my method of leading the investigation. You have, of course, all shared your impressions with each other and realized that each of you has been falsely accused.”

“‘Falsely’ is the wrong word,” said the navigator hoarsely. “You deliberately insulted me, Mr. Clone!”

“And now you are insulting me,” rejoined the detective calmly. “And before that, you were insulting C-the-Third Shustov. Puck Generalov, I am unmoved by your references to my cloned origin. But it was your intention to insult me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was!” said Generalov defiantly.

“This kind of behavior would not be characteristic of a murderer,” Holmes observed. “If the murderer were an ordinary xenophobic maniac. But an assassin-spesh can lead a game on five or six different logical levels. Captain, could you please invite the esteemed C-the-Third and the grieving Sey-Zo to join us?”

This was a breaking point in the general mood. Holmes looked as though the investigation was already finished.

In complete silence, Alex left the recreation lounge and went down to the passenger hall. The door of C-the-Third’s cabin stood ajar. Alex knocked softly and entered.

Danila C-the-Third was sitting on an unmade bed and staring vacantly at the screen. A tiny meditation pyramid of Earthly origin glowed with soft, flowing multicolored lights on the nightstand. Alex silently turned the pyramid lights off and sat down next to C-the-Third.

“Why are you here?” asked the clone softly. Perhaps his trance had not been deep, or else he had come out of it very quickly and neatly.

“The detective has called all of us to come up to the recreation lounge.”

“Me, too?”

“You, too. And Sey-Zo as well. Is her… mourning over?”

“Probably.” C-the-Third slowly turned his head, looked wearily at Alex. “What is the point of all this?”

“The detective must have found the murderer. Or maybe he just wants to talk to all of us at once.”

“You can’t turn back time, Captain,” the clone murmured. “You can’t bring Zey-So back.”

“Here. Have a drink.” Alex handed him a small flask of cognac.

“Why?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. Drink up! This is an order!”

A look of surprise appeared in the clone’s eyes. He cautiously touched his lips to the cognac flask.

“Drink up.”

“What’s been added to the cognac?” asked the clone suspiciously. “A tranquilizer?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Captain, I work with alien forms of intelligence. I often have to try their food and analyze human foods for compatibility. I have very good taste receptors.”

“I thought so. C-the-Third, drink up. Trust me, it’s for the better.”

“A tranquilizer, then?”

Alex shook his head. “Pharmaceuticals wouldn’t defeat your depression. You must be feeling like a complete failure as a guide-spesh?”

“Yes.”

“Then drink.”

The clone didn’t hesitate for very long. He probably would have agreed just as quickly to a glass of potassium cyanide. He drained the flask in three big gulps.

“Great.” Alex nodded. “Now let’s go invite the Zzygou to the recreation lounge.”

“We can give it a try,” agreed the clone listlessly.

Despite many hours of airing out the room, the odor of merkaptane in the cabin was strong enough to make you gag. Thank God, Sey-Zo had put her friend’s body in order—reinserted the severed entrails, dressed it, and seemed to have even touched up the face with cosmetics.

She herself was lying next to the motionless body and caressing it, slowly moving her hands. All four of her hands—Sey-Zo had taken off human clothes, and the Zzygou robes provided openings on the chest. Her small rudimentary hands, previously disguised as mammary glands beneath her clothes, were now tirelessly massaging Zey-So’s shoulders.

“S-s-sey-Z-z-z-o…” said C-the-Third in a sibilant whisper. “Azané. Sso shaagaka.”

“Kee-ee-stom…” Sey-Zo answered, without turning her head. It seemed she had stopped speaking the language of the Empire.

C-the-Third sighed. His face reflected genuine anguish. But his voice, when he spoke, remained calm. He began producing a flow of speech that was soft and melodious and, at the same time, filled with hushing and sibilant sounds.

Sey-Zo jumped up and flung open her arms, shielding the body of her dead friend. Her eyes were burning with hatred.

“Gom azis! Sharla si! Sharla! Sharla!”

“Sharla,” C-the-Third seemed to concur. Bowed his head. “Sso shaataka-laz.”

The Zzygou hesitated. Her glance ran back and forth between the faces of C-the-Third and Alex.

“Taea,” she said harshly. “Zaré.”

C-the-Third grabbed Alex by the elbow and quickly took him out of the cabin. The door slammed shut behind them. Alex stood, drawing air into his lungs in a quick succession of long, deep breaths, as though attempting to expel the foul smell which had permeated his clothes. Then he asked:

“So she refused to come?”

“No. She agreed. Let’s go. She’ll catch up.”

The clone was pale and still talked in short phrases, as though mechanically reproducing the Zzygou speech patterns.

“You speak their language well,” said Alex, trying to offer some moral support.

“No, not at all. This is the primitive conceptual language of the worker individuals. I can’t be absolutely fluent in every language of every race I work with. My primary specialization is the Bronins… I speak their language fairly well.”

They started climbing the stairs.

“What was she doing with Zey-So’s body? Some kind of ritual ceremony?” asked Alex.

“Something like that. Thanatos-sex. Parting caresses.”

“Are they really lesbians?” Alex was surprised. C-the-Third made a wry face.

“Not exactly. This type of interaction is limited to emotional partners and ritual-based situations… They do need male individuals, after all.”

Alex couldn’t help asking:

“Male individuals? Drones?”

“If you must know,” replied the clone in an icy tone of voice, “the answer is no. Human males will do as well. And clones also suit them just fine.”

Alex held his tongue.

They entered the recreation lounge. C-the-Third merely nodded to the crew, as though he had no wish to greet them in any other way. That wasn’t hard to understand. Zey-So’s murderer was here among them somewhere. With Holmes and Watson, he shook hands.

“Please sit down, Danila C-the-Third Shustov,” said Holmes. “And please accept my deepest condolences.”

“Have you found the murderer?” asked C-the-Third curtly.

“Sit down, please. Where is the esteemed Sey-Zo?”

“She is on her way.” C-the-Third walked over to the wall and remained standing.

Silence descended once again. The Zzygou, however, didn’t make them wait long. There was a sound of soft, almost creeping, footsteps, and Sey-Zo walked into the recreation lounge. She also preferred not to sit down.

Alex involuntarily lowered his eyes.

Holmes got up and began speaking.

“Dear Lady Sey-Zo, intellectual and emotional partner of the divine Lady Zey-So, let me share your sorrow and multiply your anger…”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sey-Zo did give a nod, though she didn’t make a single sound.

“Let me briefly inform everyone of the current situation,” said Holmes. Paused, as if expecting some objections. “So…”

“Have you found the murderer?” repeated C-the-Third again. Holmes threw an icy glance at him and the clone fell silent.

“When I was first was informed of the villainous murder of Princess Zey-So and was on my way to your ship,” Holmes continued, “I supposed that this would be a rather ordinary case. There was an Ebenian woman aboard, specialized as an executioner-spesh…”

Sey-Zo started. Her eyes fixed upon Janet. The black woman turned her head lazily, as if accepting the challenge.

“Also aboard,” continued Holmes in the same calm, academic tone, “was a girl, a fighter-spesh, who hadn’t undergone any psychological training. Elementary logic suggested that these two were the likeliest suspects.”

Sey-Zo made a small step towards Janet. The same instant, Holmes, with an imperceptible movement, snatched out a police-type paralyzer-pistol.

“Get back, Sey-Zo! No one has been charged yet!”

“She is from Eben!” In her agitation, the Zzygou switched back to human language.

“So what?” asked Janet lazily.

“You knew that anise affecting us like truth drug!” Sey-Zo screamed. “You making us drunk on purpose!”

“So it is a truth drug after all, and not just a hallucinogen?” countered Janet.

Strange as it seemed, her argument worked. Sey-Zo, now stone-faced, backed off.

Alex mentally applauded.

“Shall we continue?” Holmes put away his weapon. “While on my way to the ship, I became convinced that the situation was much worse than I had supposed originally. Everyone had reasons to kill the Zzygou. In order of seniority, let me start with the captain.”

“As far as I remember, my only fault was that I didn’t have any reasons to kill the Zzygou,” Alex smirked.

“No, Captain. You did have reasons. And you very well know it.”

“So you did find out, eh?” asked Alex dryly, lifting his eyes.

“Of course. Victor Romanov. Captain of the corvette Rapier. Holder of the Endless Valor Star and three classes of the Orders of Human Glory. Your elder brother, with whom you had a deep emotional bond. He perished in a battle with a Zzygou military ship twenty-three years ago. The widely known incident in the Tokyo-2 system… it was a sad moment, but one that finally settled the two great races’ differences.”

Now all eyes were on Alex.

“It would be stupid to take revenge on every individual of an alien race,” said Alex. “Do you really suppose that, for almost a quarter of a century, I have been looking for a chance to kill any and every Zzygou?”

“Are you telling me you haven’t read the report of Rapier’s demise?” queried Holmes with a crooked grin.

“I haven’t read it.”

Holmes stopped short. He looked at Alex in surprise.

“But why not, Captain? It would be a natural reaction.”

“I knew I was going to work in space. Have encounters with the Zzygou. I didn’t want to know the details. I didn’t want to make my whole life a vendetta.”

“That is hardly the reaction one would expect from a youth fresh out of metamorphosis.”

“Perhaps. But I haven’t looked at that report. Mr. Holmes… the phrase ‘deep emotional bond’ is a lie. My elder brother was a government child, who had been sent away to be raised at a pilot school from his early infancy. We met, yes… he would visit his parents occasionally, like any good government child. I liked to tell others that my brother was a military pilot. That I wanted to become like him. But emotional connection… forgive me, Mr. Holmes, there just wasn’t any. Ever.”

No one said anything. Only the Zzygou, her eyes fixed on Alex, was whispering something inaudibly.

“The incident in the Tokyo-2 system was connected with the fact that the Zzygou military ship had the Crown Princess Zey-So aboard,” said Holmes, no longer sure of himself. “It was she, as the highest-ranking person, who made the decision to disobey the patrol ship… to instigate the battle.”

Alex was silent.

“You didn’t know about this?” asked Holmes.

“No. I didn’t.” Alex shook his head, looking at Sey-Zo. Had she also been there, on that Zzygou ship? Most probably she had. She and Zey-So were inseparable. But even if he had known all that… he wouldn’t have killed the princess.

“I’m ready to believe you,” said Holmes. “And… I’m inclined to believe that you haven’t read the report of that old conflict. And that your relationship with your brother was not so deep that you would seek to avenge him. But someone wasn’t aware of that.”

“Who?” asked Alex.

“How did you get to Quicksilver Pit?” answered Holmes with a question.

“You know how. There was an accident on my ship. I was torn in half. Literally. They had to generate half my body anew…”

“It’s a believable version,” Holmes nodded. “Except that the experts have conducted another check of your body’s remains. It had been cremated, of course, but a few samples did remain in the hospital funds.”

Alex started. The very thought that some part of him was now lying somewhere under the lens of a microscope made him feel sort of numb. Although not so much as one might expect.

“You had been cut in half by a laser beam, Alex. But, someone seems to have paralyzed you first, made you lose consciousness.”

“What for?”

“For a single purpose. To make you stay on Quicksilver Pit. To have you come out of the hospital at the moment the Sky Company would need a captain for the new ship. To make you the captain… so you would see among your passengers the Zzygou Swarm’s Princess, Lady Zey-So.”

“Someone thought I would kill her?”

Holmes pondered for a moment.

“More likely—someone hoped you would, while creating the stalemate situation we have now. Where everyone’s a suspect.”

“But I hired the crew by myself!”

“Yes. But whom did you hire? Xang Morrison,” Holmes nodded at the co-pilot, “who was turned down by other ships under all sorts of phony pretenses. Xang Morrison, the former extremist… You hired Janet Ruello from Eben, who had a similar problem finding work. Then you took Kim O’Hara into your crew, a girl who hadn’t undergone the psychological training required for a fighter-spesh. You took aboard Puck Generalov, who hates clones. You took Paul Lourier, who had been fired upon arriving on Quicksilver Pit, back into the crew again. And after that, the company sends the honorable Zzygou and the esteemed C-the-Third onto your ship!”

“But who could have foreseen all this?” Alex shook his head. “I’m afraid I must still remain on the list of suspects. It would be much more realistic to suspect me than to suppose that it’s all the work of some secret organization, powerful enough for such intrigues. To have interfered with all the spaceport services on Quicksilver Pit… surely not, Mr. Holmes!”

“Yes, you remain on the list.” Holmes nodded. “Along with everyone else. I have to admit that the unknown enemy has been deliberately setting up a situation which interferes with the investigation… at least for a short period of time. Someone has been hungry for war between the Empire and the Swarm.”

“Who?” Alex repeated.

“You’re an interesting person, Alex. You’re a pilot, but you are trying to play detective.” Holmes smiled. “Tell me your version.”

Alex heaved a deep sigh.

“The military, that’s my first thought. An alien race… not us, not the Zzygou… Maybe Cepheideans or Bronins…”

“Remarkable,” Holmes said encouragingly. “Anyone else?”

Alex glanced at Janet. Looked away.

“Say it, Captain!”

“Former citizens of the planet Eben. Those who stayed beyond the bounds of the isolation field, who have acquired citizenship… but never lost hope of saving their world.”

“Remarkable, Captain. Now let’s think about this situation. Lady Sey-Zo, what other races might be interested in a conflict between the Zzygou and the Humans?”

The alien thought for a moment. Then grudgingly admitted:

“Practi-cally any race. A local conflict between us will weakening the Empire and the Swarm. It would benefiting everyone… excepting us.”

“In case of war, humanity would be forced to take the quarantine off Eben,” said Holmes. “Do you understand that? What is your prediction?”

“You won’t dare do it!” cried Sey-Zo.

“There is a ninety-nine percent probability that we would. It’s a bad bet, but better than the certainty of mutual extermination.”

“Then no one is interested. Nowhere except…”—the Zzygou shifted her gaze onto Janet once again—“except for the inhabitants of Eben.”

“Janet Ruello?” Holmes asked. Alex tensed. But the detective did not say the formulaic phrase to charge her with the crime. He was obviously waiting for the ship doctor’s words.

“What do you want from me?” answered Janet calmly. “Do I mourn the death of the Zzygou? No, of course not…” She suddenly stopped. Shook her head. “Not at all!”

“Did you kill Zey-So?”

“I won’t answer that,” said Janet firmly. “If I say ‘yes,’ I’ll be extradited to the Zzygou, and Eben will remain under the quarantine field. If I say ‘no’… will you ever believe me?”

“Sey-Zo,” asked Holmes quickly. “Will you be able to stop the Zzygou squadrons? Will you be able to prevent the war?”

The Other was quiet for a while, then nodded reluctantly.

“Yes.”

“Under what conditions?”

“Under condition that I personally administer justice to punishing the murderer, and the punishment is no less horrible than the fate that befell Zey-So.”

Janet pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

“Dear Sey-Zo, do you realize that the war will not be of any use to either your civilization, or to the Human Empire?”

“I realize.”

“If a crew member voluntarily confesses to having committed this heinous crime and hands him or herself over…” Holmes threw a passing glance at Alex. “Will you stop the war, Lady Sey-Zo?”

“If it is the real murderer, and if the confession is truthful. If the evidence of guilt is convincing to me.”

“The life of one person is nothing in comparison to the lives of two civilizations.”

“I will not execute an innocent person,” Sey-Zo repeated. “I expect convincing evidence of the actual murderer’s guilt, Mister Detective-Spesh.”

“Deadlock,” said Janet quietly. Grinned a crooked grin. “How strange… no one wants a war, but it is unavoidable.”

Holmes looked around the recreation lounge.

“Among you, my fellow citizens,” he said softly, “is the person who killed Zey-So. There is absolutely no doubt that he or she represents some very powerful organization that is interested in instigating a war. The murderer hadn’t been motivated by primitive phobias or grudges. His or her actions were calculated, cold-blooded, and selfless. Because whatever happens, this case will be solved, and the murderer will be punished.”

Silence…

“So you’re ready to face death?” asked Holmes. “You still think that this unknown goal is worth the destruction of two civilizations?”

“If Eben is set free, the Empire will not perish,” Janet murmured.

“Do you wish to confess something?” Holmes inquired.

Janet smirked.

“All the evidence points to you.”

“Circumstantial evidence. Well, do what you wish. No one is required to testify against herself.”

“But I can testify in Janet’s defense!” suddenly shouted Kim. Holmes braced himself.

“Really? How curious. And what can you tell us, young lady?”

“Janet and I were in her cabin. For a long time. She has an alibi.”

“Both she and you?” Holmes pointed out. “Tell us the exact time.”

“Twelve p.m. to three a.m. ship time.” Kim looked at Alex and gave an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, Alex…”

Janet sighed.

“You shouldn’t have said anything…”

“Why didn’t you report this earlier?” Holmes demanded. “Some personal problems, perhaps? You had a sexual encounter you didn’t wish to make known?”

“Yeah, right!” Kim snorted. “Sorry, Jannie…”

“Then why were you silent on the matter?”

“We had a private talk, okay? It has nothing to do with the Zzygou! We were… we were gossiping, you know. Girl to girl!”

She looked at Alex again. He nodded, catching on.

No, it wasn’t sex, after all. If there was anything erotic about it, it was in some minimal, trivial form—crying on each other’s shoulder, patting each other, maybe a little kissing.

They had been discussing him. Him! Discussing and dividing him up! The smart Janet who understood everything, and the poor Kim, suffering from unrequited love. The younger asking the experienced woman’s advice. The woman sharing the secrets of sex and flirtation, the secrets that are impossible to graft by any kind of pre-programming…

Alex looked away.

He already seemed to understand what it was not to love.

But it seemed not to have given him the main thing. Love itself.

Or was it simply too late?

Both Kim and Janet had already become his comrades in arms, his sexual partners… but not at all his beloved. Love is a force of nature. From steadily smoldering coals you can rouse a spark of passion, but not the flame of love.

And wouldn’t it be great to fall in love with Kim—she was beautiful, young, smart, and loyal!

What a stupid mechanism of reproduction Nature invented! Why can’t it be controlled?

He looked at Holmes, who began talking again.

“Thank you very much for the information, Ms. Kim O’Hara. Even if the information is somewhat belated. Do you have any documentation to affirm that you were with Janet Ruello from twelve to three o’clock last night?”

“No, I don’t.” Kim shook her head. “But is my word worthless?”

Holmes sighed.

“In this particular situation, it is worthless. You could be covering up for the perpetrator. You could be an accomplice. I have taken your words into consideration, but I cannot rely on them.”

Kim lifted her hand and slapped it forcefully on the table. Plates and silverware jumped up, and a deep dent was left in the polished wood.

“Easy,” said Holmes soothingly. “A fighter-spesh should control herself.”

“Are you deadlocked, Holmes?” Alex asked. He didn’t recognize his own voice. It seemed to him tense and hoarse.

And he probably wasn’t the only one. All eyes were now on him.

“I am deeply convinced that I know the murderer’s identity,” Holmes reported courteously. “But I still have no proof. And Lady Sey-Zo yearns for solid proof.”

Alex silently rolled up the sleeve of his jersey. Then asked:

“Does everybody know what this is?”

“The Demon,” said Kim. “Your little devil…”

“It’s an emotion scanner,” said Dr. Watson, entering the conversation. She was looking at Alex with genuine curiosity. “How strange… Why did you have one implanted?”

“I must be the spesh who seeks out the unusual,” replied Alex with a crooked grin. “I’ve always wanted to see what exactly I am feeling. And maybe… maybe I wanted to see something on the Demon’s face that I couldn’t ever experience myself.”

“It is smiling.” Dr. Watson walked up to him and unceremoniously grabbed his arm. “Captain… what does this mean?”

“It means that everything is going to be all right,” said Alex. “I, too, know who the killer is. And I’m sure his guilt will be proven.”

Dr. Watson’s eyes looked full of doubt. As though what was happening now was an unheard-of violation of natural laws.

“If you can help the investigation…” the detective began.

“I can’t—just yet. But tomorrow morning, everything will change. Believe me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Captain!”

Sey-Zo moved towards him, spreading out her arms, as if to underscore that she wasn’t doing so in aggression. Alex got up, stepped forward to meet her.

“Who killed Zey-So?”

“I will tell you tomorrow.”

The Zzygou’s eyes were peering intently at his face. What was she trying to read on the face of a creature that resembled her race only in appearance?

“Give me the murderer. Give him to me, and I will stop the war. In the name of every one of our race, I swear! I will stop the war!”

“The murderer will be in your power.” Alex looked at the other crewmembers, sitting still as statues. “What will you do with him?”

“I don’t know…” The Zzygou faltered. “I have to decide. What is considered worst punishment in your race?”

It seemed the question was asked sincerely. Unlike Janet Ruello, Lady Sey-Zo had no training as an executioner-spesh.

“Throw us into a briar patch—that’s the worst,” grumbled Morrison. And burst into a fit of almost hysterical laughter, which no one else dared to share.

“Traditionally, it is primitive physical torture, which relies upon various violations of bodily integrity and stimulation of pain receptors,” reported Janet. “If I’m not mistaken, it is the exact type of thing you were using against human settlers on Valdae-8?”

“Stop it!” said Dr. Watson quickly. But the crew’s restraint had already snapped.

“Unnatural sexual contacts!” uttered Generalov.

“Separation from the work you love,” declared Lourier.

“Separation from the person you love,” said Kim softly.

Alex shook his head. Looked at Holmes, who faked a slight, understanding smile.

No one believed him! No crewmember believed that Alex really knew the killer’s name! Not even the killer himself. Everyone thought his words a bluff, a scene performed for the Zzygou in order to save humanity. Everyone—or almost everyone, except the murderer—was willing to sacrifice himself for the cause.

“The most terrifying thing,” said Alex, looking straight into the Zzygou’s eyes, “is to lose your own individuality. Your ‘self.’ The worst thing is to lose your consciousness and become a puppet, yanked by invisible strings.”

Sey-Zo’s eyes, that had just been so human, suddenly changed. The pupil trembled, split apart, broke into hundreds of tiny dots. Alex felt a short, agonizing spasm of dizziness.

Then it was all over.

And Sey-Zo’s gaze turned human again, the way it couldn’t and shouldn’t have been.

“You probably telling the truth,” the Zzygou said. “I will think.”

At the opposite side of the table, Kim chuckled softly. Then she quietly recited:

The Zzygou did not deign to pay any attention to either Kim O’Hara or to the great poet’s words.

“Who is the murderer?” she asked.

“Will you take my word for it?” asked Alex in reply.

“No.”

“Then wait till tomorrow. In the morning, I will tell you everything.”

“I wait, human.”

The Zzygou turned and walked out of the recreation lounge. Someone—it must have been Morrison—heaved a deep sigh.

“Bravo, Captain,” said Holmes. “You were magnificent.”

“I was ready to believe,” said Generalov, reaching for his wine glass, “that you really do know who the killer is, Captain.”

“I do.”

“Give it up!” Puck shook his head. “You want to set yourself up as bait for the murderer. Am I right? You are hoping that he will decide to get rid of you during the night and get trapped as a result.”

Dr. Watson cheerfully nodded.

“Exactly! Just like in Moto Conan’s The Case of the Boy with a Rubber Eye!”

“That’s useless, Captain,” said Morrison. “If the murderer is cunning enough to hide among us, he won’t fall for such a cheap trick.”

And only Sherlock Holmes, the clone of the great detective Peter Valke, didn’t smile, looking at Alex.

“Are we really going to wait till tomorrow?” asked C-the-Third. “Mr. Holmes… if you know the villain’s name, why not use torture?”

“This question has already been raised. I think that the murderer will endure any amount of pain. And under too much duress, anyone will admit to anything. Torture won’t give us proof.” Holmes began filling his pipe. “So yes. I agree with the captain. Let’s postpone everything till tomorrow.”

“Will you join us for supper, Mr. Holmes?” asked Janet, all of a sudden. The detective looked at her with obvious surprise. And Janet herself seemed a bit startled by her own courtesy.

“Thank you, Ms. Janet Ruello,” said Holmes with exquisite politeness. “Unfortunately, I prefer not to partake of food during an investigation. Especially if its chemical composition is unknown to me. But I appreciate… your offer.”

“Okay, go gnaw on your vitamins under your pillow!” said Janet through clenched teeth, as if coming back to her senses. Puck Generalov giggled.

“She’s got you there, Holmes, old boy!”

He leaned toward Janet and slapped her on the shoulder. The black lady looked at him in surprise. She half-rose and moved closer to him. They sat together, demonstratively hugging and looking at Holmes.

Kim laughed. Poured herself some wine, leaned over to Morrison, and whispered something in his ear. Then both of them roared with laughter.

Alex forced himself to look away. And saw that Holmes, puffing his pipe, was watching what was going on with curiosity.

“More wine, anybody?” asked Paul Lourier.

“Sure,” Generalov eagerly agreed. “But not this red watery stuff—I think there was some decent port in there!”

Lourier got up, walked over to the bar.

“Alex,” said Holmes softly. “Do you smoke a pipe?”

“Yes, but I don’t have one on me.”

“Join me.” Holmes pointed to the chair nearest to him and got a disposable pipe, already filled with tobacco, out of his pocket. It wasn’t the good old briar from Earth, of course, but a worthy imitation of it. Besides, this pipe did not need to be seasoned. And the tobacco was quite good.

Alex lit it up. He managed to hold back a sarcastic remark about the tobacco, whose chemical composition was unknown.

“You’re very interesting to work with,” Holmes said. “I’m really enjoying this investigation, despite the tragic circumstances. The situation itself—the ship, flying through the hyper-channel, the small number of suspects, the exotic nature of the victim… Please don’t think me a cynic!”

“I don’t. You just love your job, that’s all.”

Dr. Jenny Watson perched on the arm of Holmes’s chair.

“Yes, this is a classic murder… like the one in The Case of the Yellow Starship.”

“I believe the captain was the murderer in that one?” inquired Alex.

Holmes nodded with a smile.

“Yes. But I wouldn’t insist on that analogy. You play along with me wonderfully well.”

“And you, with me.”

They looked at each other.

“What is it you want, Alex?” inquired Holmes. “To help me, to help some friend of yours, or to prove that a pilot-spesh can be a detective as well?”

“To help myself.”

“That’s a serious reason,” Holmes agreed.

From then on, they smoked in silence. The hysterical merriment that seemed to have overtaken the crew after the Zzygou’s departure also evaporated. Kim went off to her quarters after a failed attempt to take Alex with her—he just shook his head. Immediately after she left, Morrison, having fetched up a bottle of wine and two glasses, also disappeared from the recreation lounge. Generalov, growing gloomy, emptied a few glasses of whiskey and soda in quick succession and made himself scarce. Lourier excused himself and departed. He loitered briefly in the hallway, as if irresistibly drawn to the sealed door of the reactor module, and then went off to his cabin. Janet, engrossed in her own thoughts, took a long time to notice that she had been left alone with Holmes, Watson, and Alex. She kept swirling her glass, with the remnants of wine splashing at the bottom. For some reason, Alex remembered that Eben had a Red Sea, where the water was actually red because of a myriad of edible plankton. A reserve food source for the entire planet… an artificially created reservoir full of krill. Perhaps, looking at the thick red wine, Janet was thinking of her homeland?

Then the black woman lifted her head.

“Captain, permission to leave?”

“Permission granted.” Alex was slightly surprised by such a formal request, but decided to keep with her tone.

Only the three of them remained.

“Dr. Watson and I will take the vacant passenger cabin,” said Holmes, “if it’s all right with you, Captain.”

“I can let you have mine.” Alex shrugged.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Holmes carefully cleaned out his pipe. He shook his head with disapproval upon seeing the small cleaner-beetle crawling out of a corner. What’s cleanliness to a detective, except more obliterated evidence?

“Do both of you really know who the killer is?” Dr. Watson asked suddenly.

“I do,” said Holmes.

“So do I,” declared Alex.

“In Moto Conan’s book The Case of Three Men Who Lost the Fourth, Holmes and the murderer exchanged just these kinds of phrases!” said Dr. Watson excitedly.

Holmes shook his head.

“No, my dear Watson. Forgive me, but I’m not quite ready to press charges.”

Dr. Watson smiled, acknowledging another failed try. Then she said:

“What amazes me is the killer’s composure. It is well known that a detective-spesh solves ninety-nine point three percent of all cases. How can he remain calm in such a situation?”

“If we were dealing with a classic murderer—an ordinary immoral natural—your surprise would be appropriate,” Holmes admitted. “But this was a well-planned act. And the one who is hiding behind someone else’s identity”—he threw an eloquent glance at Alex—“is totally devoid of fear. An assassin-spesh never loses his cool, the same way that a pilot-spesh keeps control of his ship till the end… even seeing that death is unavoidable.”

“I thought so, too.” Alex permitted himself to smile at Holmes. “See you tomorrow, Holmes. May a new day bring us luck.”

He got up, nodded to Dr. Watson, and quickly went down the hallway.

He didn’t feel like sleeping.

Alex lay, covered up to his waist, looking through a little tome of World Literature Classics by the glow of his night light. The book, in search mode, was displaying works under the keyword “love.”

There were lots of works.

You could even say—all of them.

Alex moved to the “poems” directory. Chose a poet—Dmitry Bykov—and entered the same keyword.

He put the book aside. In the corner of the page blinked a cheery little face of the “reference person,” ready to define any archaic words, or give a biographical sketch of the poet, or provide a critical analysis of the text.

Alex was thinking, drumming his fingers on the firm plastic of the pages.

What’s the good of a feeling that constantly causes pain? Should it have any place in human life?

He had still not managed to feel this love thing. And tomorrow night, the blocker’s action would wear off, and he would turn back into a pilot-spesh.

Of course, he could just keep popping the drug. And waiting… but would that be worth it?

Love wasn’t there yet. But the anguished yearning was.

“My mom chewed me out,” Nadia is saying. She lights a cigarette, and makes herself more comfortable in the deep armchair. A sunbeam reflection plays on her naked body—the wind is swaying the curtain at the open window.

“Because of me?” Alex inquires, just in case. His fingers are dancing on the sensory field of a computer, entering long rows of numbers. It’s a rather old machine, no neuro-interface on it… “I’m almost done, Nadia. Just a minute, okay?”

“Yes, because of you…” The girl stretches out a suntanned leg, moving it into the sunshine. Her other foot scratches a mosquito bite on her calf. “My mom says I have the wrong attitude toward you. That it’s stupid to go beyond just sex with a future pilot.”

“She’s wrong,” Alex replies. “I tell you, I’ll keep loving you anyway.”

“I know…” Nadia agrees.

A shout comes from the street:

“Alex! Nadia! Alex!”

“It’s Fam,” says Nadia. “He’s tracked us down. You know, I think he might be jealous.”

“You think?” Alex begins to enter the last block of data.

“Alex! Nadia!” Fam keeps yelling in the street at the top of his lungs. “I know you’re home! Let’s go to the river!”

“What a pest,” Alex grumbles. “You wanna go?”

“If you want to.”

Alex casts a sidelong glance at the slim, tanned leg, then spreads his fingers decisively, shutting down the computer. Leans out of the window up to his waist and shouts, “You go on, we’ll catch up!”

Alex smiled at the memory. No, that wasn’t love, after all. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be smiling now, but “choking back tears,” as the poet had supposed.

And poets should be trusted, right?

The door signal beeped, and Alex slapped the book shut.

“Enter.”

It turned out to be Dr. Watson.

“Excuse me, Captain…”

“Come in.” Alex sat up on the bed. “It’s all right. I wasn’t asleep yet.”

The woman nodded, sat down in the armchair. Alex was smiling, but said nothing, leaving it to her to start the conversation.

“Holmes has fallen asleep,” said Jenny, somewhat out of the blue, “so I thought…”

“Are you lovers?”

“No.” Dr. Watson shook her head. “You already know he isn’t all that emotional…. Sex with a detective-spesh is a purely mechanical process. And who needs that?” She stopped short. “Forgive me, Alex.”

“No, no. It’s a perfectly reasonable opinion. Is something bothering you, Dr. Watson?”

“Yes. Captain, something was odd about the crew tonight.”

“Really?” Alex seemed surprised.

“You noticed it, too, Captain. Stop pretending.”

“So what is bothering you?”

“I would say that… it’s absurd, of course… but the speshes started behaving… like naturals.”

Alex raised one eyebrow emphatically.

“Let’s start with you, Captain,” said Dr. Watson firmly. “Are you noticing any changes within yourself?”

“I am.”

“You see! And today? Janet Ruello—she practically didn’t react to the Zzygou at all. Well, she did, but… sort of by inertia. Not seriously. Kim O’Hara… she’s in love with you, right? Janet has told us that the girl has a specialization of a fighter and a hetaera simultaneously. But I wouldn’t say that it was noticeable!”

“And what do you think about this, Jenny?”

“Captain, could someone… the word ‘poison’ wouldn’t really be right here… let’s just say, give the whole crew some kind of potent psychotropic drug?”

“Possibly.” Alex nodded. “It could’ve been anybody. Me, for example. Everyone came to see me today, one after another, and I offered every member of the crew some wine and cognac. What would be simpler than to add the drug to the drinks? Except… what kind of drug?”

Dr. Watson shrugged.

“That’s exactly it. I can’t imagine what could have this effect.”

Alex nodded. Then inquired:

“Purely hypothetically… suppose there was a substance that could block all the mind alterations characteristic of speshes…”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them at once.”

“You told Holmes something of the sort… I don’t know of any such substance.”

“But just suppose it existed. That the crew was under its influence. What should we expect?”

“From the murderer?” Dr. Watson squinted.

“You catch on faster than your literary prototype.”

“If Holmes is right, and I’m inclined to believe him…” Dr. Watson was quiet for a moment. “An assassin-spesh is deprived primarily of the sense of fear and the sense of pity. Even if it’s not the work of underground geneticists, but is just an ordinary agent-spesh, those would be the required parts of his personality. He felt no doubt, murdering the Zzygou. And now he’s biding his time, one hundred percent convinced he is doing the right thing. When the personality alterations vanish… it’s hard to imagine what could happen.”

“Remorse?”

“I doubt it. Personality is formed by more than just chemical reactions. There’s also experience… habits, memories. More likely, the agent will be overcome by panic. Especially if he doesn’t expect such an effect.”

“That’s what I think, too.”

Dr. Watson sighed.

“Captain, you know way more than you’re telling me.”

“It has to be this way. Believe me.”

“And what if I go back to Holmes now and report our conversation?”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Alex smirked. Got up from the bed, walked over to Jenny. Bent over—the woman tensed, as if expecting him to do anything, even the most unexpected.

“What are you…”

Her lips were so unskilled that it was as if she was kissing for the first time in her life. A natural, what could you do…

“You really shouldn’t neglect this side of human relationships, Doctor,” said Alex softly. “Your literary precursor didn’t avoid life.”

“What in the world…”

“Dump your wizened detective.” Alex looked her straight in the eye. “You’re a smart woman, but you’ve already had enough fun with intellectual games. Catching crooks is not your type of thing. Don’t make a spesh out of yourself… thank God you aren’t one. Don’t squelch your human feelings. Be alive, Jenny. Alive and real. Love, be jealous, hate, dream, raise children, and make your career! Create paintings, give people their shots, go waterskiing, grow your garden flowers. Don’t turn yourself into… into the way the rest of us are.”

Jenny Watson jumped up. Leaped over to the door, hurriedly readjusted her blouse, which had come unbuttoned. Cried:

“What’s the matter with you… you’re a pilot-spesh!”

“Uh-huh. But, you know…” Alex was slowly moving towards her. “Somewhere very, very deep inside, I remain simply human. With an ordinary human genome. Of course, there, inside, is a clever boy, who can go on doing his homework right next to a girl who’s in love with him… the girl who kept trying to turn a spesh into a human. Also there lives a studious young recruit, learning the secrets of piloting. And an inexperienced young captain, whose most normal crewmember is a hysterical, affected gay guy who hates clones. All of them are there, inside me. But there is one more little person inside there. A master-pilot, long awaited on a distant planet, by the woman he loves. Probably the same woman he’s loved since he was a child. And when this master-pilot is piloting his ship, he isn’t bound by a genetic order—to protect the technology, the crew, and the passengers. He will fight till the end simply because it’s his favorite ship, and his friends, and the people who have put their trust in him. And also because somewhere far, far away, his beloved is waiting for him, and the children, for whom he chose no specialization.”

“There is no such person, Alex,” quickly retorted Dr. Watson. “I… I don’t understand what kind of crazy game you’re playing. Why are you making all this up—how can you say such things—but…”

Alex put his finger to his lips.

“Sh-sh-sh! Doctor… he’s there. Inside. You see this little Demon on my shoulder? That must be him. Weird, really weird master-pilot Alex Romanov…”

Dr. Watson was pale.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she whispered, fumbling for the door lock behind her back. “You’re psychotic! You’re a regular loony!”

“I cannot be regular.” Alex bowed politely. “Only naturals can be regular. And I—am a spesh.”

Dr. Watson bolted from his cabin. Alex waited till the door closed, and only then burst out laughing.

He kept laughing while he put the book away in the desk drawer, and turned off the light, and got back into his bed. He kept laughing until his laughter turned to tears.

Chapter 4

Holmes was playing the violin.

Alex stopped short in the entrance to the recreation lounge, listening, spellbound by the music. And he wasn’t the only one.

Her legs folded under her in an armchair, Kim sat motionless, propping her chin on her hand. Right on the floor next to her sat Morrison, his legs crossed at the ankles. Generalov was sprawling comfortably on the couch… it seemed that he had taken up this pose of lazy indifference as soon as Holmes started playing and then forgot to change it. Tears ran down Puck’s cheeks, blurring ornate spirals of facial paint. From time to time, the navigator sniffled and wiped his face with his hand.

Holmes kept playing.

The old Toshiba violin was probably not equipped with an acoustics compensator unit. Perhaps the recreation lounge had been built to accommodate chamber music concerts, or maybe Holmes’s mastery managed to overcome the instrument’s limitations.

The violin sang. The violin spoke to each one of them. The music contained it all—the deadly chill of boundless space, and the living fire of lonesome stars, and planets, gliding on the very edge of life and death. The violin’s virtual strings flashed as iridescent sparks under the bow, and entire civilizations were born and died in their afterglow. Reason found and lost itself again, tormented by unanswerable questions, and vanished in the darkness of time.

Holmes’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed. This performance was nothing like the little concert he had given in Alex’s cabin. This time, the great detective’s whole life was in his instrument, the bow, and the flowing melody.

Very, very quietly, the Zzygou entered the lounge, dressed in yellow and black, the colors of mourning. She stopped—perhaps in surprise, or perhaps she, too, was enchanted by the music. C-the-Third followed in her wake, like a mournful shadow. Then Lourier approached as well. And after him came Janet. Dr. Watson was the last to appear.

When Holmes briskly took the bow off the strings, everyone was listening.

“Bravo,” said Janet softly. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes.”

Generalov wept openly, not hiding his tears. He was wearing his kilt, a blue shirt, and moccasins. His hair was braided into an intricate pretzel, and the half-smudged ornament on his cheeks had been drawn with particular care. He seemed to have prepared for anything—a fight, or even death. Alex was about to say something to him about his dress code violations… when he noticed that everyone had ignored the rules today.

Morrison got up and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes… but what are you doing as a detective? Paganini himself couldn’t have played his own twelfth concerto with more virtuosity. I dare say… since Paganini’s death four hundred years ago, no such violinist has been born.”

“I wasn’t born, either,” said Holmes softly. “I was created this way… what’s to be proud of?”

“A clone cannot surpass the original, and that’s an axiom,” persisted Morrison. “Does that mean that Peter Valke was a genius violinist? You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t demean your own talent…”

“I am a detective.” Holmes shook his head. “I’m a detective who loves playing the violin. I’m happy to see you all here, my friends. Today we must resolve the sad problem that precipitated my coming to this ship. Please, be seated.”

His words seemed to have an effect. Alex watched as every one of his crew found a seat. Generalov, Lourier, Morrison on one small couch. Kim and Janet on the other. Across from them, C-the-Third and the Zzygou sat in two armchairs, as did Holmes and Watson. And Dr. Watson, for the first time, ignored her habit of sitting on an armrest.

Alex unhurriedly took a seat between Janet and Kim. After a moment’s reflection, he threw his arms around both women’s shoulders.

“So…” said Holmes pensively. “First of all, I have a few things to tell you, which aren’t directly related to this case. The Imperial Council has made the decision… and it has already been signed by the Emperor… that in case of a massive-scale military conflict, the isolation field will be taken off the planet Eben. And after that, the Empire will make a direct plea for help to the Board of Cardinals. Ms. Janet Ruello…”

The woman started. Her face was tense with a mixture of both joy and alarm.

“Do you suppose Eben will answer the call for aid?”

“Yes,” replied the black woman, without hesitation. “No doubt, they will.”

“Thank you… Lady Sey-Zo, do the ruling females of the Swarm comprehend this situation?”

“It change nothing…” the Zzygou whispered.

“I believe you. And one more piece of news… a small one. The Sky Tourism Company is undergoing bankruptcy proceedings. All of its assets will be redirected to an aid fund for war victims. I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that you are unemployed.”

“This is just my luck!” cried Generalov, throwing his hands up. “It’s always this way! Just when I find a decent job and a good crew—”

The navigator fell silent, glaring at Holmes, as though the detective was responsible for the decision to liquidate the company.

“Am I supposed to resign my commission officially?” Alex asked.

“As soon as the investigation is closed.”

Alex nodded.

“And now let’s move on to the most grievous question,” said Holmes. “By the way, Captain… could you assist me with the issue of the listeners’ attention?”

It took Alex a few seconds to understand the request.

“Yes, of course. Computer! Captain’s access! Prepare the recreation lounge for dynamic maneuvers!”

“Completed…” replied the service program. Little orange lights flashed on the armrests of chairs and couches. Outwardly, nothing seemed to have changed, but when Alex tested it by attempting to half-rise from his seat, an invisible strip of force field softly tossed him back onto the couch. The Zzygou lifted her hands to touch the invisible barrier. Threw a questioning look at Alex.

“I hope nobody minds these little safety precautions?” Holmes inquired, and laughed dryly. “But of course, someone does mind. Well, nothing to be done.”

He took out his pipe and began to fill it. Alex, after a brief hesitation, lit up a cigarette. Slow movements were easy to make, though you could still feel the firm resistance of the force field.

“This is ridiculous! And useless, too!” said Generalov nervously. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Holmes, but I get really irritated by any restriction of my freedom of movement!”

“A killer-spesh is a good reason for force barriers,” said Lourier. “Puck… don’t argue. Holmes will only consider it incriminating.”

Holmes let out the first puff of smoke.

“So, what do we have, ladies and gentlemen? A group of criminals—one person simply couldn’t have pulled this off—has set the goal of instigating a war between the Empire and the Zzygou Swarm. To achieve this, a crew was gathered whose every member could kill Princess Zey-So. And the preparations, mind you, must have began at least five months ago. That is the precise time when Alex Romanov was badly wounded and left on the planet where Zey-So and Sey-Zo were to transfer to a human ship. I believe everyone here will be interested in the fact that the hospital staff received a hefty bribe for making Alex Romanov’s treatment a month and a half longer than necessary.”

Alex nodded. It was easy for him to believe that.

“This was serious preparation,” said Holmes, without a hint of humor. “Very thorough. Lady Sey-Zo, when did you make the decision to tour the Human Empire?”

The Zzygou heaved a deep sigh.

“Eighteenth day of January, by Earth calendar. During the diplomatic visit of the Imperial Council delegation to the Zzygou realm.”

“I… was wounded on the twenty-seventh of January,” Alex said.

“Nine days. Very speedy work.” Holmes nodded. “The choice was probably made from among all the astronauts who were on Quicksilver Pit or on the ships that had entered planetary space. You were unlucky, Alex. That is a fact. Unfortunately, that doesn’t guarantee that you were not a part of the plot. You could have landed in the hospital willingly….”

“Holmes, have you any idea what it’s like to be deprived of your rump, member, and legs for months on end?” asked Alex angrily.

“To a degree. I lost both my legs once,” rejoined Holmes imperturbably. “And I had to use mechanical prostheses for a month—there was no time to go to the clinic for transplants.”

Alex involuntarily looked away. Everyone else also seemed rather uncomfortable. Holmes had admitted this unsavory and shameful detail of his biography—using mechanical artificial organs—with the genuine fortitude of a detective-spesh. But still, it was awkward for all of them to hear him admit it.

“But I must consider every possibility, including that of a selfless perpetrator,” Holmes continued. “So, the scope of this operation allows us to definitely speak of the existence of a powerful, far-flung organization that has money, connections, and highly qualified agents… and is interested in war.”

“The military, after all?” asked Morrison.

“The military alone would not win the war against the Zzygou. And to free Eben would mean a complete restructuring of the military, reassigning all the command posts… no. The military didn’t want war. The generals might have been dreaming of a fast conflict resulting in immediate victory, but not of such a shake-up of the very foundations. The Ebenian natives? There aren’t that many of them, after all. They are scattered all over the galaxy, they are being monitored, and they don’t have access to the highest power echelons. What does that leave us?”

“Imperial Security!” cried Janet. It seemed she, too, was enthralled by the investigation process.

“Exactly. That is the organization that almost completely lost its influence after the power of the Emperor weakened and the colonies received their federal status.” Holmes nodded. “The interests of Imperial Security do not just allow for, but demand, a military conflict, increasing tension, and the implementation of a special governing regime in the Empire.”

“We have an Imperial agent-spesh among us!” said Morrison, almost cheerily. “Wow! Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always dreamed of seeing a secret operation hero!”

“Your dream has already come true,” said Holmes dryly. “Let us continue… Lady Sey-Zo, does my assumption seem logical to you?”

The Zzygou frowned.

“You are blaming your own security service for what happened? Then it is act of state terrorism, and war is unavoidable.”

“I am accusing separate individuals who work for the Imperial Security Service,” Holmes pointed out. “And I’m afraid, Lady Sey-Zo, that even if we expose the person who carried out the crime, we won’t be able to trace back the whole chain. Those who gave the orders will come through unscathed. Certainly. This is, alas, commonplace in human society.”

“This is bad practice,” said the Zzygou. “But… I understand. Give me at least the agent. The one who carried it out!”

Her hands squeezed together, as though already grabbing the murderer’s throat.

“Let us continue.” Holmes nodded. “Of course, the undercover agent, or agents, must have a convincing background story. The legend, moreover, presents them either as absolutely innocent, having nothing to do with the murder, or—as part of the double game—on the contrary, the source of multiple false leads. I did not know which cover-up method was used by the enemy. It was another dead end. All the methods of systematic investigation either yielded no results, or required the kind of time we simply do not have at our disposal. It was then I noticed Captain Romanov’s behavior.”

Alex caught several intrigued and even frightened glances directed at him.

“Captain Romanov was either the murderer himself, or he knew who the perpetrator was. But if he was innocent, why didn’t he name the criminal? Perhaps the evidence he had was very circumstantial… but Alex Romanov still hoped to check it out first. Then again, maybe he just didn’t wish to turn the killer in.”

Holmes smiled, and Alex politely bowed his head.

“What could have put the captain on guard, I thought? I had to correlate all the information about what had happened, to listen to the testimonies of every witness, before one small detail caught my attention… I decided that it could serve as the point of departure and made the decision to support the captain’s tactics. No matter what they happened to consist of.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Alex.

“You can tell us your version of what has happened,” Holmes suggested politely. “I think it will be quite interesting….”

Alex cleared his throat, got out another cigarette and lit up. Holmes’s pipe did make a better impression… and his tobacco tasted better, as well.

“The whole problem is in the lack of time,” he began. “There are no perfect crimes. Sooner or later, tracing the biographies of every one of us, or using all the complex methods of instrumental investigations, Mr. Holmes would manage to expose the killer. But the perpetrator never did hope to come through unscathed. His main goal is to bide time until the hostilities start. After that he either surrenders… or, more likely, his owners organize a rescue operation. If the higher-ups of the I.S. really were involved in this case, it would be nothing for them to remove the Lucifer currently guarding us and send a S.W.A.T. team onto Mirror. Although an agent-spesh could eliminate all the witnesses by himself.”

“Let him try!” said Kim quietly.

“Even if you aren’t the murderer, Kim,” said Alex with a melancholy air, “don’t overestimate your strength. You are a spesh. But your real combat experience is next to zero. And when two equal forces meet in combat, experience determines everything.”

Kim snorted, and indignantly elbowed Alex’s side. At least she didn’t take his suspicion of her seriously.

“I have a few guesses based on certain clues,” Alex continued. “Snippets… details… sketchy impressions. They put me on guard, but I’m afraid it would be useless to present them. Circumstantial evidence doesn’t help. And the time we have left… please correct me, Sey-Zo, if I’m wrong…”

“Eight hours, thirty-five minutes,” said Generalov. “Exactly. After that, the first military unit of the Zzygou will enter into firing contact with our fleet in the Adelaide system.”

“Eight hours and twenty-one minutes,” the Zzygou corrected him. “I need time to contact the headquarters. Seven thousands warships cannot be halted instantaneous… not even ours.”

“I would say, we have seven hours, plus or minus ten minutes,” Morrison objected. “As soon as the Zzygou ships come out of the hyper-channels, they will be targeted. So our fleet has to be stopped as well… and that is a more lengthy process.”

Janet Ruello laughed quietly:

“I would say we have around four hours left. Taking the isolation field off Eben would take no less than four hours. If the field disappears, our fleet will begin large-scale dislocation and preventive vengeance strikes. This will be a much more serious reason for war than one little bee… please excuse my choice of words, Sey-Zo.”

Alex nodded.

“As I see it, we are all busy making calculations here. Well, Janet’s opinion is probably the most pessimistic, but also the most correct. Time is slipping away… let’s not waste it. Lady Sey-Zo! The person who has murdered your companion is one of the crewmembers, right?”

“Or C-the-Third,” said the Zzygou coldly. The clone lowered his head.

“Or Danila C-the-Third Shustov,” nodded Alex. “Lady Sey-Zo. We are unable to definitively point out the killer. So I propose that you personally, with your own hands, execute us all. Computer, remove the force field barrier from the Zzygou.”

“Completed,” said the ship. The Zzygou got up and looked around in disbelief.

“Computer,” Alex continued. “I order you not to obey any of my commands after I say ‘Let justice be done’ and until the moment when those same words are pronounced by the Zzygou and Peter C-the-Forty-Fourth Valke. Let justice be done!”

“Completed.”

“What the hell are you doing!” shouted Generalov. “You fucking bastard! You xenophile! You…”

He choked on his own words. Flailed around, trying to breach the barrier.

“Calm down, Puck Generalov! I understand it is harder for a natural… but you’re human, damn it! What are our lives next to the fates of two civilizations!”

Generalov breathed heavily, but fell silent.

“I want to know your opinion, my friends,” Alex continued quickly. “Paul Lourier! Do you agree with my proposition?”

The engineer didn’t hesitate to answer:

“Yes, Captain. It’s our duty.”

“Great. Xang Morrison?”

“Captain, the idea doesn’t seem all that correct to me,” began Morrison cautiously. “Yes, we are all ready to sacrifice ourselves, but should it be done this way, while we still have time…”

“I see. Janet Ruello?”

The black woman frowned, looking at him. Shook her head.

“Stupid, dishonorable, and won’t have the right effect.”

“All right. Kim O’Hara?”

The girl cautiously touched his hand. She whispered, “Alex…”

“Kim O’Hara?”

She glanced over at the Zzygou, frozen motionless.

“I… I don’t want to. I don’t intend to die because of some bastard!”

“Puck Generalov?”

The navigator slowly lifted his hand to his forehead. Wiped the sweat off.

“Why does my luck never change?”

“Puck Generalov, answer me.”

Perhaps Alex only imagined it—but a spark of understanding flashed in the Zzygou’s eyes.

“Go to hell, you specialized moron!” the navigator blurted out. “I didn’t sign up to die for all humanity! And certainly not for the Zzygou!”

“So what’s your decision?”

“Will it change anything?” asked Generalov with bitter irony.

“Maybe. Humanity is only an abstract symbol. And the Zzygou—even more so. But do you really have nothing you’d die for?”

“You decide!” Generalov blurted out.

“Do you support my decision?”

“I abstain.” Puck closed his eyes and dropped back on the couch, as if he had decided not to interfere in anything anymore.

“C-the-Third?”

“I want a just solution,” the clone said firmly. “You shouldn’t rush to adopt such extreme measures. Perhaps Mr. Holmes will now be able to name the killer?”

Holmes smiled, tapped his pipe on the edge of the table, shaking out the ashes.

“Your suggestion is meaningless, Captain,” the Zzygou uttered. “I share the wish not to have war between our races. But punishing the innocent contradicting the Zzygou ethics.”

“Your suggestion is stupid, Alex,” Janet concurred. “These little bees have weird ethics. Maximalism. The guilty are punished either personally, or as part of the whole genetic line. So in our case, that means either the killer alone, or the whole of humanity. Even if we all accept death willingly, they won’t be interested. We used to call it ‘trigger’ justice, as opposed to the human ‘rheostat’ version.”

“The murderer has to know this.” Alex nodded. And Janet’s face hardened.

“What is the main psychological component of the astronaut specification?” asked Alex, not leaving any time for Janet to recover her wits.

“Responsibility.”

“For whom?”

“For the crew… for humanity in general…” Janet frowned. “Responsibility… readiness to sacrifice oneself… for humanity.”

“Exactly.” Alex nodded. “My suggestion, for all its impracticablility, does reflect our ethics.”

“I would even say that it should certainly be supported by any spesh created for work in space,” said Dr. Watson, entering the conversation. “Ladies and gentlemen! You all… you all have refused! All except Alex, Paul, and Puck!”

The Zzygou leaned over Alex. A note of anxious eagerness cut through her voice.

“All who didn’t supporting your suggestion are not astronaut-speshes? They all agents? They killed Zey-So?”

“I’m not an agent! I’m a pilot!” Morrison shouted.

Alex looked at the eyes of the Zzygou. They were once again losing their resemblance to human eyes—the pupil was splitting into tiny facets.

“No, Sey-Zo,” he said softly. “I don’t support the idea of collective punishment, either. Your choice should be between Generalov and Lourier.”

“I don’t see logic…” said the Zzygou in a whistling whisper. “You mocking my sorrow?”

“Sey-Zo…” Alex suppressed a slight twinge of panic. “Just like your race consists of the ruling females and genderless slaves, humanity is divided into speshes and naturals. Who are the slaves among them?”

“Speshes.” The Zzygou’s face trembled. “Of course. We modifying worker individuals to suit specific social needs. You do same. That’s why we called you ‘servants.’”

“Sey-Zo, any astronaut-spesh would do anything to prevent humanity’s destruction. That’s the way we’ve been created. And all the alien races know that humans don’t allow themselves to be taken prisoner, they don’t retreat, and they don’t betray their own kind.”

The Zzygou nodded.

“An agent-spesh has other purposes, Sey-Zo, a different code of ethics. I would like to be able to tell you that an agent-spesh is an ethical monster, a distortion of the very best qualities of the human soul. But it isn’t true, unfortunately. An agent-spesh cannot be deprived of the sense of fear—otherwise he would perish during the first few assignments. An agent-spesh, with all his physical capabilities, is an ordinary human, Zzygou. That’s the way we are, and nothing can be done about it. We’re capable of killing, lying, betraying… and saving our own skin first.”

“I still not understand,” said the Zzygou.

“An agent-spesh has to adapt to his surroundings. He mustn’t be conspicuous. He will behave like an astronaut-spesh because he knows the laws of our behavior. On the physical level, he will be indistinguishable—his body certainly conforms to the morphology of this or that spesh. His genotype would most certainly have been modified so that the alterations couldn’t be detected by ordinary express-analysis. Sey-Zo, can you tell me how to find a white crow in a flock of black crows painted white?”

Sey-Zo’s eyes started pulsing once again.

“I don’t remembering what are crow. But, of course, the black crow need to be wash-ed. The one that doesn’t change color will be one we seek.”

“It is easier to find an agent-spesh by the rule of contraries, Zzygou. You did see that all the speshes spoke out against their given program?”

The Zzygou nodded.

“All but Generalov and Lourier,” Alex added. “But Generalov is a natural. And that is easy to prove by the simplest genetic test.”

“Captain, I’m not an agent!” Paul cried out.

“He is the agent,” said Alex, paying no attention to the engineer. “He is the one who murdered Zey-So.”

“But what is the cause of the speshes’ deviating from the given ethical norms?” asked the Zzygou.

“That’s not important.”

“Yes, it is. Otherwise your words are just gymnastics for the imagination.”

“Captain, you can’t do it that way!” cried Generalov. “Wait, and what if Paul is really just ready to sacrifice himself? What if his moral qualities are so high that…”

Alex looked at Generalov. Shook his head.

“There is one indisputable testing method. It is unlikely that such a serious assignment would be entrusted to an inexperienced youth. You’re nineteen, Paul? Aren’t you?”

“You bastard…” Lourier whispered.

“Dr. Watson, could you please determine Paul Lourier’s age using a method more reliable than just visual inspection?”

“Of course.” Dr. Watson nodded. “All I need is a small sample of his bone tissue. I can do the puncture myself or with the help of Janet Ruello…”

The next moment Paul Lourier started getting up.

The force field “safety belts” were intended only for fixing the crew in place during jolting dynamic maneuvers—not at all for restraining an agent-spesh.

Lourier’s arms twisted at the elbows, hands pressing against the back of the little couch. His face turned purple—the stress hormones gushed into his bloodstream, squeezing truly super-human forces out of his modified body. With a sinking heart, Alex saw that Lourier’s features were drifting, changing. As if his skin had concealed a layer of plasticine—and now it was being kneaded from within. Paul was slowly but inevitably pushing himself through the force field’s zone of operation.

“Kim!” Alex shouted. “Take him!”

It seemed that the barrier-breaching method was a standard “safety” feature in speshes, operating on the level of reflexes. Kim reacted immediately, twisting her arms the very same way and pushing against the field.

“Let justice prevail,” said Holmes. A gun flashed in his hand. Three waves of blue flames struck Paul Lourier. C-the-Forty-Fourth’s marksmanship was astonishing—not one of the blasts touched Generalov or Morrison.

But Mirror’s former engineer didn’t seem to feel the paralyzing radiation.

“How did they ever…” began Janet. “Come on, Sey-Zo, remove the field!”

But the alien didn’t react to that. She was looking at the person who had murdered her partner, and her whole body was quivering with rage. Then, letting out an inarticulate scream, Sey-Zo pounced upon Lourier.

Too late.

Paul had already managed to break through the field. He met the Zzygou with a kick of both his feet, as he leaned back against the force barrier he had just breached. Sey-Zo doubled up, flew back toward the table, knocked her head against the edge of it, and lay motionless.

“You aren’t all that tough…” Paul whispered. His movements had gained a strange predatory awkwardness—as though it was now hard for him to stay still. He looked over at Holmes.

“Put away your toy. If you reach for the ‘Bulldog’—you’re dead. I’m faster than you, test-tube baby…”

At this very second, Kim O’Hara repeated his trick with the field, broke through, and in a single leap flew up on the table.

“Friend-spesh,” said the agent. “That’s no way…”

“Face the wall, hands behind your back!” yelled Kim.

The man who used to be Paul Lourier just smiled. His face was now that of a mature man. His whole body also seemed to have changed—his shoulders were wider, his stature had increased several inches.

“You silly girl. I’ve killed the likes of you by the dozen.”

A fight between two speshes is a very boring thing, unless you watch it in slow motion, speed reduced about ten times.

Sey-Zo was swept onto the floor when the exquisite wooden table broke in half under someone’s blow, which had missed its target. Two figures whirled around the lounge like the wind, and the sounds of blows delivered or blocked thickened into a continuous hum.

This lasted four seconds—then stopped.

Ex-Paul Lourier stood near the wall, aiming a small handgun at Holmes. Kim was frozen helplessly in his arms—the agent had her throat in a stranglehold, as he kept pressing his half-bent elbow harder and harder, forcing the girl’s head farther back.

“Drop the ‘Bulldog,’” the agent repeated. “Or I will kill both you and the girl.”

Sherlock Holmes must have realistically assessed his capacity to fight an agent-spesh. He spread his fingers, and the police pistol with its thick, ribbed barrel fell to the floor. In the silence that followed, the most distinct sound was the rustling of the cleaning-beetle that came running out of the corner to feel the dropped object. The pistol must have not had the characteristics of trash—the little beetle went away disappointed.

“To protect the innocent…” the agent sneered. “You’re just a robot with a human body. Do you actually think any of us will get out of this alive?”

Holmes was silent, and the agent nodded in surprise.

“But you will walk away from here. I have no intention of killing you people. Not even her.” He kicked Sey-Zo without looking at her, and the Zzygou let out a weak moan. “Nope, I won’t kill you. Though for different reasons.”

“What are you after?” asked Holmes.

“You figured it out perfectly. I want war. The liberation of Eben. A new order in the galaxy.”

“You are a madman.” Holmes remained calm. “Your owners will get rid of you. You’ve accomplished your mission. People like you are never left alive. Even the most valuable agent has a limit. Having completed his main assignment, he himself becomes a danger. Let Kim go and help us all get out. I swear I’ll turn you in to the human justice system, and not to the Zzygou.”

“Who told you I’m only an agent?” And here, the man who used to be Paul Lourier burst into laughter. Flexed his arm—the half-throttled Kim collapsed at his feet. “Too bad you interfered with me. The girl is a delight… I wouldn’t mind a couple of minutes’ sparring.”

With a sinking heart, Alex watched Kim. Then suddenly she stirred… feebly, and yet it wasn’t a convulsion.

Alex shifted his gaze to the agent. All the features of Paul Lourier had already disappeared from his face. He put on weight and looked like a man of forty or fifty: sturdy, manly, and dark-complexioned, his features slightly irregular—the outcome of too many genetic alterations.

“What age would your bone analysis show?” asked Alex.

The agent looked at him, nodded.

“You are quite a guy, Pilot. You amaze me. The test would show forty-nine standard Earth years.”

“I know who he is…” Janet whispered close to the pilot’s ear. Her voice had lost all its strength, turned helpless and confused.

“I do, too,” Alex said. “You’re forty-nine Earth years old… or forty-four Ebenian years?”

“Exactly. Holmes was right: those who were taken prisoner during the Battle of Pokryvalo are demoralized. They’ve been brainwashed, and they are being monitored…” He glanced at Janet, and his look had a hint of pity. “But not all patriots of humanity were known to Imperial Security.”

“Angry Christ…” said Janet. “The Human Control Committee!”

“Ever at your side, Major Janet Ruello.” The agent bowed mockingly. “You still have a chance, Major. You haven’t fulfilled your humanist duty. You haven’t liquidated the Other, though you had every chance to do so. But I do understand the gravity of the psychological treatment you’ve been subjected to… and I can issue a conditional pardon—for the duration of the military conflict. Your decision?”

“I… I…”

Alex felt that Janet was shaking all over. He touched her hand.

“I am bound by an oath I swore to the ship’s captain. I cannot.”

“Janet Ruello, you’re looking to excuse your treason.” The agent was studying the black woman’s face with a mixture of pity and disgust. “All right. As a senior officer, I release you from the obligations you were forced to make.”

Janet was silent.

“You had your chance, Major.” The agent seemed a bit surprised. “You’ve made your choice.”

He bent down over the Zzygou, then jerked her up in front of him, holding her by the hair with one hand.

“What are you going to do with us?” asked Morrison. “Whoever you might be, you are human, and…”

“I am human, but the question is—are you?” the agent inquired. “Don’t worry. This force field barrier is very handy. Otherwise I’d have to kill you all. As soon as the military actions between humanity and the Zzygou begin, I’ll leave you.”

Holmes mockingly raised one eyebrow.

“The warship will leave, and my friends will come,” said the agent.

The Zzygou stirred and hissed something to him.

“Ah, regaining the gift of speech, are we?” the agent jeered. He lowered his hand into his pocket, then raised it again—holding a small pocketknife. “Then it’s time I do something about that.”

The next second Alex had to look away. It seemed everyone followed his example, except for Holmes. The detective remained sitting still, his back straight, his icy eyes watching what was happening.

The alien let out a gurgling, gagging sigh. Something soft and small plopped down on the carpet.

This time the cleaning-beetle decided it had some work to do. The Zzygou moaned inarticulately, pressing her hands to her bloody mouth. Drops of red blood were streaming down through her clenched fingers. The little beetle bustled around at her feet, eating up the stains. But to take the severed tongue away, it had to call for another cleaner’s help.

“You scum,” said Alex. “What are you—executioner-spesh?”

The agent shook his head. “My dear Captain, specialization of the psyche is the fate of slaves. Didn’t you say so yourself? That’s the way it was on Eben, and that’s the way it is in the Empire.”

He wiped his bloodstained hands against the Zzygou’s dress, shoved her roughly into a corner. And then, having taken out his pistol, he fired it four times in a row. Alex didn’t manage to recognize the model of the firearm—something operating on low-temperature plasma. Perhaps it was of Ebenian make, or maybe exclusive to Imperial Security. The Zzygou wheezed from the pain, coughing up blood. Her legs were scorched at the knees, and her arms at the elbows. C-the-Third, letting out a horrible, piercing shriek, started thrashing and writhing in the clutches of the force field.

“You’re a butcher,” said Alex.

“No.” Paul Lourier shook his head. “They’re tough buggers. Sey-Zo will survive… long enough to hear the news of the obliteration of her entire race. She even has a chance to be the last living Zzygou in the galaxy.”

He lowered his gun into his pocket. Smiled—openly, with natural ease.

“Consider me whatever you like. An executioner. A xenophobe. A psycho. But really, I’m just an ordinary man. A normal human, making normal plans for the future. The Zzygou are our main rivals in the galaxy. The Bronins don’t share our attitude toward expansion. They have long given up conquering new territories. The Fenhuans need to colonize planets that don’t suit us. With the Cepheideans—we can coexist just fine, and our alliance with the Zzygou is the only thing that prevents us from assimilating new planets together. The Church of the Angry Christ are insane idealists. And the Ebenian speshes—nothing but cannon fodder. The Imperial speshes are all emasculated degenerates. Imperial power is just a screen for trans-galactic corporations. The Empire has, to its shame, lost its fighting fist, the planet Eben. Lost all those who have always served humans… real humans. Like me. Those of us who really rule the universe. We got rid of the last Emperor too late… he was a real Emperor, I admit, but he lapsed into stupid idealism. Now all of that can be reversed.”

“Why are you telling us all this, Committee rat?” cried Janet.

“Not just to kill you off for knowing way too much,” smirked the agent. “You can’t understand it… valiant Ebenian Fleet Major Janet Ruello… Ah! The hopes I had for you! But you let me down. I’m not afraid of your testimonies. In ten more hours, they won’t mean a thing. But I want all you self-satisfied scumbags to know who rules the universe. To know it and remember it for the rest of your lives! And it isn’t you, spiritually mutilated speshes. And not the orthodox naturals, who get drunk on one glass of vodka, come down with the sniffles, and aren’t any good for any job. Those who have absorbed all the strength of genetic alterations but created no blocks in their consciousness—they are your real masters! They rule the planets, they move billions, and they decide between war and peace. And all that’s intended for you—are illusions. Sweet dreams. False belief in your own exclusiveness. And that’s the way it has always been and always will be. Always. Masters and slaves never switch places… my dear, harmonious crew. Your place will always be reserved for you. In an asteroid mine. Behind an office computer. At a ship’s control panel. In combat line with your ray gun.”

He was clearly enjoying what was happening. He was on a roll—this Imperial Security agent, Ebenian Human Control officer, secret Imperial politician… and whoever else he was, this spesh who wasn’t a spesh. Unfettered by anything—neither the moral barriers of speshes, nor the ancient ethics of naturals. And Alex caught himself thinking that he could understand the agent’s overwhelming need to unburden himself. Perhaps for the first time in decades. To shed the latest in a long line of masks he’d grown sick of, so that now, standing there with his own—or was it?—face before his recent friends, he could tell them everything he really had on his mind.

“You have nothing to say? Are some of you surprised, perhaps?” The agent looked around at them. “Or maybe you believed that ancient gibberish about human equality? How much of that have we had! Christianity, free enterprise, communism, the genetic revolution… And always the same thing—equality of opportunity… the thing than never existed in the first place. Social origin is what has always determined everything. Starting capital, social status, the choice made by parents—that’s what determines your destiny. And yours has been decided a long, long time ago. The destiny of a slave. And the slave-parents told the slave-children, ‘All those around you are chattel, and you are the master.’ And the slave-children said to each other, ‘We’ll be masters of all Life.’ But everything has already been decided. Long before your time. And the real rulers are those who are silent. Standing silently in the shadows. But if we have to…”

Alex had been watching Kim for a minute or so now. The girl grew quiet… she was regrouping.

And now she dealt her blow. Right from the floor, without getting up, without even looking at the agent, by hearing alone—she recoiled, kicking the agent in the stomach with both feet, as she pushed up on her arms and jumped to her feet with a springy bounce.

He didn’t seem to even notice the blow that had the power to rip through a normal man’s entrails. His body had been so stuffed with alterations that the agent only swayed a little—and the next moment Kim was once again frozen in front of him, her arms cruelly twisted behind her back, her face awful with the pain, or with those sensations that are pain substitutes in a fighter-spesh.

“If we have to, we act independently,” the agent said, finishing his phrase. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t want to kill you, Kim O’Hara? Calm down. People like you are always in demand, any place you go. Do your work and be happy during your long and interesting life.”

Kim laughed, spat—unsuccessfully trying to turn her head far enough back to hit the agent. “You… master of Life… you spend it under other people’s names, in other people’s bodies… groveling before those of us you call your slaves!”

The agent burst into laughter. “You’re like an impotent actor who can only screw when he plays Casanova… what are you so proud of?”

“That’s a good idea.” The former engineer of Mirror glanced over at Generalov. “I’m so sick of that sniveling sodomite!”

“But you liked it!” Puck shouted. It seemed he was stung to his very core. “But you—”

The agent no longer paid any attention to the rest of them. The blows that he landed on Kim seemed more like soft touches—but the girl went limp, her head lowered feebly.

“Monster…” whispered Janet. “God… what a monster.”

“They’re all monsters,” said Alex.

Janet looked at him with hatred. “It’s all your order… the force field. You should have known that a fighter-spesh would break right through it.”

“I should have,” Alex agreed. “But we needed this… moral striptease. I had no idea it would end up being a real striptease.”

The agent tossed Kim down onto the floor. Bent over, ripping off her clothes.

“Excuse me for not inviting you all to participate, my dear colleagues,” he said through clenched teeth. “But those of you with a penchant for voyeurism can satisfy your curiosity.”

He heaved himself heavily on top of the girl. Despite the monstrosity of what was happening, Alex was suddenly sharply hit by a strange, unpleasant sensation of a similarity between the rapist and the victim. The sturdy, stalwart agent and the slender, fragile girl—they seemed to be parts of a whole. They made up some kind of perverted but integral duo. It was as if they had been made for each other…

Alex lowered his eyelids. Whispered with his lips alone:

“Captain’s access. No reply necessary.”

Less than three and a half yards away from him, the Ebenian counter-intelligence agent was taking possession of Kim O’Hara. Alex waited four unbearably long seconds, ready to give the rest of his order to the ship at any moment. Waited four endless centuries, before the agent screamed.

There was nothing human about the sound of his scream. Mixing within it were pain and a panic-stricken, endlessly ancient terror, rooted in the very depths of the subconscious.

“Remove the lounge block!” This time Alex yelled out loud, jumping up.

Sherlock Holmes, of course, reacted faster. When Alex leaped toward the agent, who was twitching convulsively on top of the half-undressed Kim, the detective’s ‘Bulldog’ was already pressed to the rapist’s temple. Holmes’s other hand had dug into the agent’s neck with the strength of steel pincers.

“Get up!” snarled Holmes.

The agent didn’t seem to hear him. Or perhaps he thought both the pistol and the vertebrae-crushing hand a meaningless trifle, next to what he was experiencing at that moment.

“Release him, Kim,” said Alex, catching the girl’s glance—the self-composed, harsh, willful look of an agent-spesh. “It’s all right, Kim. You did great.”

Kim hesitated for a moment. Then shoved the agent off with one abrupt push. Holmes didn’t let him fall over again, but hoisted him up—the way the agent had himself just recently held the Zzygou. The detective’s fingers were still gripping the agent’s vertebrae, and the skin ripped by his nails oozed blood. The gun seemed to have grown into his temple.

“Janet!” cried Alex. “Attend to Sey-Zo, she’s bleeding to death!”

C-the-Third didn’t have to be ordered, he was already bustling over the Zzygou’s body. The black woman asked:

“Why me?”

“Because you’re trained in it! You’re an executioner-spesh, and you know the Zzygou anatomy!”

After a moment’s wavering, Janet Ruello joined the clone’s efforts. Alex helped Kim get up and pull on her torn-up slacks. He said quietly:

“Forgive me, baby. I couldn’t interfere earlier.”

Kim looked at him seriously, nodded.

“I know. He’s too strong… he would’ve killed everybody, even if we’d all attacked at once.”

Dr. Watson, in the meantime, was fixing the force field handcuffs onto the agent’s hands. As soon as they snapped closed, the metal bracelets reached for each other with enormous force, twisting the arms that, up until that moment, had been pressed to the agent’s groin. He was still whimpering quietly, twisting this way and that, trying to see his bloodstained groin.

“What… what did you do to him?” Generalov’s countenance had changed. What he had just seen seemed to have frightened him more than anything else in his whole life. Kim didn’t answer. Wincing, she was feeling her body all over.

“Do you need help?” asked Dr. Watson, businesslike. “Kim?”

The girl shook her head. Answered with a hint of irony:

“No, probably not. I’m tough. All I need is a shower…”

She looked at Alex again. And asked, “How did you know about this specification of mine? It isn’t documented anywhere.”

“A virtual acquaintance of yours gave me a hint.”

Kim’s eyes narrowed. She nodded, with a slight hesitation.

Alex soothingly patted her shoulder. Went over to the Zzygou.

She was alive and conscious. And that, however cynical it might sound, was the most important thing.

“Lady Sey-Zo,” said Alex, softly pushing aside C-the-Third, who was bandaging the alien’s elbows. “Muster your strength, Lady Sey-Zo. The future of our races now depends on the strength of your will.”

Dim with pain, split into hundreds of facets, the Zzygou’s eyes looked at him. The alien nodded.

“Have you been convinced that your companion’s murderer is the man who’s been disguised as our engineer?”

She nodded again.

“Lady Sey-Zo… everything is now in your power. If we leave him alive, then the investigation could possibly lead us to the other members of this plot. To the Ebenian agents entrenched in Imperial Security, to the corrupt politicians who have dealings with them, to the heads of weaponry-producing corporations… to all those who were interested in a bloodbath.”

The Zzygou shook her head.

“She’s right,” said Sherlock Holmes from behind Alex’s back. “We won’t be able to punish those who rule the planetary administrations and are members of the Imperial Council… What we’ll get, at most, is a series of unfortunate accidents… involving us.”

“And what about ‘Let the world perish, so long as justice prevails’?” asked Alex without turning.

“Captain, I’m only a clone, deprived of the sense of fear, compassion, and love. But I’m not a fool. And Sey-Zo understands as well as we do that it is impossible to root out evil completely.”

“Do you want to execute him, Sey-Zo?” Alex asked. “To do it personally? Is it necessary to stop the war?”

The Zzygou nodded.

Chapter 5

“A few planets,” said Peter C-the-Forty-Fourth Valke, a.k.a the greatest detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes, “have banned this method of capital punishment as inhumane.”

The device in his hand didn’t really seem all that menacing. An oval case with a little indicator window and three buttons—not sensors, but primitive mechanical buttons, probably to rule out an accidental release.

“But considering the gravity of the crime, and its implications for the fate of the galaxy, as well as other crimes of which we do not know, but which doubtlessly have also been committed…”

The agent lay on the operating table. His hands were still fettered with handcuffs. His feet and his head were held in place by the table’s stationary brackets—Alex could only guess their actual purpose. The agent was silent, looking at his executioners, and even now, his eyes expressed absolutely nothing.

Professionals know how to die with dignity, though not even they have an opportunity to practice dying.

“In the name of his Imperial Majesty, in the name of Imperial Justice, in the name of the Free Republic of Zodiac, in the name of all humanity, I, detective-spesh, accuse you…”

Sey-Zo lay in an intensive care pod. A few programs about treating the Zzygou had been found in the gel-crystal of the medical module. She couldn’t speak, of course, but her lower pair of arms retained mobility, and now her hands lay on the control panel of a communications device. She listened closely to Holmes, who now began to read out the sentence:

“Murder, committed under especially aggravated circumstances. Sadism, not sanctioned by the victim. High treason, for on the Empire’s territory, Zey-So was considered the personal guest of the Emperor. And that’s not a full list of your heinous deeds! Considering the special circumstances of the crime, the sentence cannot be appealed and will be carried out immediately.”

Sherlock Holmes nodded to Dr. Watson. The woman came up to the agent and clicked shut a flat metal hoop around his head.

“Does the accused have any last words?” asked C-the-Forty-Fourth coldly.

The agent licked his lips. He realized what was going to happen next, but perhaps the collapse of the whole conspiracy was what he feared most.

“I will be avenged,” he said, “you can be sure of that.”

Holmes shrugged and looked at Alex, who then stepped forward. He had to say something now.

“You violated all the rules of the space fleet,” he said. “You went against your captain and your crew. You have committed the most terrible crime an astronaut-spesh can commit—you brought harm to your passengers. You shall die.”

He stepped back. And immediately after that, without asking anyone, Kim O’Hara stepped forward. She cried out sharply:

“You killed a good friend of mine. You mutilated another. You made an attempt to commit the most despicable act imaginable—sexual violence against a helpless woman. You shall die.”

Moving Kim aside, Janet Ruello approached the agent.

“You blasphemed against the Angry Christ and His Holy Church. You called your comrades in arms and your compatriots ‘cannon fodder.’ You brought dishonor to the very idea of the human race’s superiority! You shall die.”

Xang Morrison stepped up to stand next to Janet.

“You attempted to provoke others to commit the crimes you needed. When that did not happen, you perpetrated the evil deed yourself, but tried to frame innocent people. You shall die.”

C-the-Third did not come any closer. He simply said:

“You deprived me of my reason to exist. You destroyed a peaceful and prospering tourist agency. You reversed the very process of all races coming closer together. You shall die.”

Puck Generalov was the last to approach the agent. His features were now obscured by a thick layer of cosmetics—red and black hues of mourning. His braid was loosened and a small black bow was woven into it.

“You’re possessed by the idea of intellectual, physiological, and racial superiority,” he pronounced quietly. “You’ve mocked the purest and the most sacred human emotions. You embody all the vices of the human race. You shall die.”

The Zzygou stirred feebly in her capsule. A screen unfolded in the air, and across it ran the letters to form the merciless words:

You destroyed the genetic line of Zey-So, thus murdering numberless multitudes of females, drones, and working individuals. You shall die.

The detective walked up to the capsule and, lowering his hands through the reanimation fluid, carefully handed the control device to Sey-Zo.

“Do you remember how to operate this?”

The Zzygou nodded. Mental destructors had been created based on Zzygou technologies. Turning back towards the criminal, the detective said in a loud, solemn voice:

“Your evil deeds have overfilled the cup of patience of the people in the galaxy and the Emperor on Earth. If you know any prayers, pray, for your consciousness will now be reversed and reduced to zero. You will die as an individual, and your body will be handed over to the Zzygou for collective desecration.”

The agent twitched as the Zzygou, lying in her capsule, pushed the three buttons one after the other.

A horrible scream was torn from his throat as the emitter of the mental destructor began working in the head ring, erasing his memory. Hour after hour, day after day, month after month… Every minute, two years of his life were destroyed… but the most terrible thing was that short-term memory was the last to be erased, and the criminal remained conscious till the very end.

Everyone spontaneously stepped back from the operating table. Dr. Watson covered her face with her hands, and even Kim O’Hara turned her head away.

“The first and the last time I conducted a mental destruction was six years ago,” said Sherlock Holmes in a low voice. “The Case of the Dispersing Cloud… eight human casualties in less than a month. But we had determined the cause of the perpetrator’s emotional dislocation, hidden among childhood complexes. We retained the maniac’s consciousness at the level of a nine-year-old child. He went through a good psychotherapy course… and now he’s a college graduate, atoning for his wrongdoing by honest work.”

Nobody replied to Holmes’s words—and the detective fell silent. All stood under the agent’s hateful gaze, listening to his half-demented curses. Ten minutes later, he fell silent. Mental destructors had been invented only twenty years before, so by now the criminal didn’t even understand what was happening to him.

When twenty minutes passed, the agent started weeping. Sobbing, like a child, looking around helplessly and trying to break free. Janet heaved a deep sigh—her maternal instincts were strong. And now a child was dying under the destructor ray… even if that child had long since grown up to become a ruthless killer.

She glanced at the Zzygou.

Sey-Zo was implacable.

She conducted the process for exactly twenty-five minutes, wiping the agent’s mind clean, even his unconscious memories as an embryo. And only after that did she switch off the control device.

The person who had murdered her companion was now drooling on the operating table. His eyeballs were rolling aimlessly. His arms and legs twitched without any coordination. And it seemed as though his sphincter had loosened.

“Lady Sey-Zo, are you satisfied by the punishment of the criminal?” Holmes asked in an official tone of voice.

The screen lit up the word YES.

“What would you like to do with the body?”

Use it for something socially beneficial. Let it be known—I am carrying out Justice, not revenge.

“Do you agree to contact your race and inform them that justice has prevailed?”

Bring the transceiver.

C-the-Third went off to get the device.

It wasn’t all that wise to be near the portable, poorly screened gluon transmitter, but they remained in the medical block till the end. They all watched the lines of the alien language flash on and disappear on the holographic screen—Sey-Zo couldn’t use the neuro-terminal now. They watched some Zzygou faces flash by—of those who hadn’t undergone anthropomorphosis and only partially resembled humans.

And only when the call was over and Sey-Zo’s speech-screen showed the words The fleets have been recalled. Stop your warships did they all leave the medical module. C-the-Third and Janet stayed with Sey-Zo—the alien’s condition was still very serious.

The recreation lounge had been straightened up. Only the broken table stood as a reminder of the recent fight.

First of all, Alex poured himself a glass full of ninety-proof bourbon and drained it in one gulp. Morrison, who entered the lounge right behind him, nodded in agreement and also applied himself to the fiery beverage. They refilled their glasses and silently sat down next to each other.

Even the modified metabolism of speshes had its limits. Now they had a chance to experience, for a while, a very real intoxication, the way their ancestors and the naturals felt it.

“He looked just like a regular guy… a youngster, fresh out of the academy.” Xang shrugged. “I would never have thought he was more than twenty years old….”

“Me neither. At first.”

“What put you on guard, Alex?” Morrison looked at him demandingly.

“Does it make any difference?”

“It does. You’re… you’re a strange man, Captain Alex Romanov. I’d like to know how you found him out.”

“I’m not a captain anymore, Xang. And I doubt that what has happened will look very good on my service record. I probably won’t ever rise above a Hamster pilot, I’m afraid.”

“Come on, Alex, stop it. For me… for all of us, you’ll always be the captain. Tell me, how did you unmask the killer?”

Alex hesitated, but not for long. It didn’t make any difference now.

“A few strange things in his behavior. On New Ukraine, for instance, Paul stayed at the bar, instead of going on a planetary tour. That’s strange for a greenhorn who hasn’t seen much of the galaxy, right? Of course, I’ve met youngsters who just loved being around astronauts and would sit in a bar day and night, sipping beer. But Paul Lourier was obviously not one of those. For instance, after getting hired onto the ship, he left the restaurant right away.”

Morrison nodded uncertainly. Alex continued:

“And then there was the strange behavior of Generalov, who plotted the trek Quicksilver Pit-New Ukraine-Heraldica-Zodiac-Edem, even before we knew our route. The agent probably knew the route in advance. It would be logical to suppose that Puck was the actual killer. But… Generalov is a natural. Even becoming a navigator was already a leap above his head. To be an agent on top of that, and a professional assassin? Unthinkable. So there must have been some other reasons. Something had prompted him to think of that route. Remember, with whom did Generalov communicate most actively?”

“With Paul, of course.”

“And during that conversation, Generalov, without realizing it himself, had received directions for that trek from Paul.”

“But why?”

“Remember that tanker that tried to ram into us? Such a maneuver is really difficult to calculate. Our ship had to be entering the hyper-channel on a very precise route. And Generalov couldn’t plot a course toward Zodiac through, say, Monica-3. He had to stop by New Ukraine.”

“Puck said he was sure he had chosen that route all by himself,” said Morrison meditatively.

“Of course he did. But who needs direct hints? All Paul had to do was to mention his fear of the Bronins, being scared he wouldn’t be able to manage the engine in a combat situation… and Generalov would be set in his intent to avoid the Bronins’ ritual fighting zone. A remark about ancestors who had lived in the place called Ukraine back on Earth—and there you have New Ukraine. Ask Generalov about his astrological sign—and there you have Zodiac.”

“And that’s precisely how it happened?”

“I don’t know, Xang. We could ask Puck to remember everything, but why traumatize the guy any more than necessary? I’m sure it all happened more or less like that.”

Alex got out a cigarette, lit up. Xang took a pensive gulp of bourbon.

“That’s it?”

“Of course not. There were many such details. Well, like when we still didn’t know that poor Zey-So was already dead, and I, not suspecting anything, asked the pseudo-Paul Lourier to call in the Zzygou… and approach Zey-So first, as the senior partner. Tell me, Xang, could you tell the little bees apart?”

“No.”

“Did you know which cabin was Zey-So’s and which was Sey-Zo’s?”

“Of course not! Why would I?”

“But the agent did know, of course. And so he made a small mistake—he went off to the passenger cabins without asking how exactly to find Zey-So.”

“Ah! That’s more serious,” admitted Xang.

“Yes… but still it doesn’t really prove anything. Especially not to the Zzygou. That’s why I had to… set up this difficult situation.”

A strong, sinewy hand was lowered onto Alex’s shoulder.

“Bravo,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Bravo, Captain. If you ever want to make some clones of yourself and specialize them as detective-speshes, I will be for it in every way. And my word means a lot in our union, believe me!”

Alex turned around.

Holmes was not the only one there. Dr. Watson, looking at him with great admiration, was also in the recreation lounge, as were Kim and Generalov himself.

Alex smiled, a little embarrassed.

“I finally determined who the murderer was after I’d heard every crewmember’s story,” said Holmes. “My reasoning was based on the clues you’ve just enumerated… as well as a few other strange aspects of Paul Lourier’s behavior. But he came very close to being an ideal murderer. All these little false steps… they could have been the basis of a court hearing, and of an in-depth investigation, but our time constraints were way too tight. Sey-Zo wouldn’t have believed the circumstantial evidence. She knew very well that astronaut-speshes are capable of coordinating their actions and falsely accusing someone, or even forcing him or her to make a false confession. We had to have a complete confession. We needed a beautiful, demonstrative self-incrimination by the perpetrator. Therefore… we needed a provocation.”

The detective took out his pipe. He pressed down the fragrant tobacco that filled it, then lifted his lighter.

“I had… two different plans… either one of which… should have led… to success…”

Holmes drew on his pipe, let out a stream of fragrant smoke.

“But I decided that your actions, Captain, would serve the same goal… so I resolved to give you a chance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Alex.

“You can thank Dr. Watson,” replied Holmes with a smile. “She was the one who insisted that you have a tenacious mind and the reasoning abilities of a natural detective. Your supposition about the killer’s use of a gel spacesuit, for example, was really excellent. To my shame, I must admit I didn’t pay any attention to that marvelous achievement of scientific thought.”

Alex bowed gratefully to Dr. Watson. The woman smiled in reply. He asked:

“Mr. Holmes, was the game I played a bit too risky?”

“Yes, it was. Your force field trick scared me, but I took the chance of trusting you. By the way, how did you remove your own absolute order?”

Morrison laughed quietly.

“I got it, though not right away. A captain gives orders on two levels—the standard way, and the one with the captain’s access, which allows absolutely everything. The first order did get executed, but it was given on the regular priority level. And when Alex decided to cancel his previous order, he simply used the magic words ‘captain’s access.’ The ship removed the force field belts immediately.”

Holmes nodded.

“Curious. And I supposed that our esteemed captain had ordered the ship in advance—to obey him for show, while actually still following his commands.”

“Damn…” was all Alex could say. “That would’ve been just as effective, but even more secure… after all, the agent could’ve noticed that I was using the simple form of command!”

“Any investigation is a tug-and-pull of two sets of mistakes,” said Dr. Watson thoughtfully. “The criminal makes his own mistakes, and the detective his. They’re unavoidable, even if the detective is a spesh. The main thing is not to allow your own mistakes to become graver than the mistakes of the criminal.”

Holmes nodded, and asked:

“And what was the basis of your faith in Kim? The girl…”—he gently hugged Kim around the shoulders—“has practically no combat experience!”

“Kim and I have a mutual acquaintance,” began Alex very cautiously. “And he has mentioned that the girl is well protected against sexual aggression. She has some undocumented and unusual fighter-spesh capabilities. The main risk was different—would the agent go for rape? But I made my bet on Kim’s capabilities that lie more in the hetaera realm. The excitement of battle would inevitably lead to pheromone release, so the agent couldn’t help himself. He was sick and tired of his role as a quiet, model cadet, and so…”—Alex smirked—“he bit and was snared.”

Holmes shook his head in disapproval.

“What a monstrous genetic fantasy! Ancient myths, as I recall, frequently mention sly women with similar bodily features, but to make this terrible fairy tale a reality…”

Kim scoffed. “I don’t see anything terrible about it. I control my body very well… and only a rapist has reason to fear. A tiny tooth that releases an extremely painful toxin… not a single woman, I think, would ever refuse such an ability.”

Generalov cast a grim look upon her, but said nothing.

“Well,” Holmes exhaled, as if drawing the line of finality, “I’m glad that most of you turned out not to have been involved in the crime. And what’s more—that you were able to overcome your inhibitions, grudges, and ambitions, and work to be of great help to me. I think this tragic event will go down in the annals as ‘The Case of the Nine Suspects.’”

“Nine?” asked Alex. “Are you sure, Mr. Holmes?”

“At first, I was not excluding C-the-Third, or Sey-Zo, not even the victim herself. Only after inspecting the crime scene did I become convinced that the extravagant suicide version should be dismissed.”

“Ripping out your own guts and lying down to die?” Alex inquired.

“The Zzygou are very tenacious. But you’re right, not even they are capable of that.”

Holmes sighed, and his face lit up with the smallest and rarest of smiles—rare because it obviously came from the depths of his soul.

“Well, this investigation is over. Dr. Watson, is everything clear to you?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded. Holmes looked rather startled—it seemed that Jenny’s duties had always included asking a few more-or-less silly questions at the end. But his loyal companion added, looking at Alex, “I admire you, Pilot. And I’m also a little sorry… that you’re a pilot-spesh.”

For a moment, there was an uneasy silence.

“What’s to become of us?” Generalov finally asked.

“You will now write detailed reports about the events that you witnessed. If I find them satisfactory, we will allow you to land on Zodiac, and after that, you will all be free to go. Your ship is, as I’ve already said, impounded, and you will have to look for other employment. But…” Holmes cocked his head, raising his eyebrows. “I can’t help you there. Such is the will of the Emperor.”

“Or, more exactly, of the Imperial Council, which probably includes a few of the agent’s accomplices,” added Morrison gloomily.

“I have no right to enter this discussion. And I advise you to restrain yourself from dubious comments about the ruling government!” said Holmes harshly.

“Mr. Holmes, what will be done with Paul Lourier’s body?” asked Kim.

“The real Paul Lourier has probably found eternal rest in the soil of Quicksilver Pit,” Holmes replied. “Or lies in some seedy bar, stuffed full of drugs. You mean, the agent’s body?”

“Yes.”

“It will be sold to a clinic on Zodiac. They will probably find a use for it… testing new drugs or teaching students to perform complex surgery.”

“Can I buy the body?”

Holmes looked at Kim in surprise.

“I have money!” hastily added the girl. “We are entitled to sizable severance pay, right? Or will that not be enough?”

“I doubt that a body of a narrowly specialized fighter-specimen, devoid of all memory, will cost all that much,” said Holmes pensively. “But, for goodness’ sake, tell me, what do you need it for?”

“Maybe I’m sentimental,” said Kim with a smile. “So maybe I want to care for the helpless human shell whose individuality has been destroyed with my help. Or maybe I’m a filthy sadist who wants to torture a soulless piece of organic material? No, wait… maybe I’m a crazy nymphomaniac who decided to get herself a super-submissive lover?”

“I think the real reason wasn’t mentioned,” Holmes replied. “In any case, I don’t see any obstacles to it.”

Alex caught Kim’s triumphant glance and gave her a little nod. Edward Garlitsky had gained a body. A strong and complex one… Oh, God… that was…

He shifted his gaze away.

That eerie impression of unity, of affinity between these two agent-speshes which had stung him for a moment during their fight—had it been just a coincidence? Garlitsky had created himself a bodyguard, a helper, a lover… but who said that he hadn’t also started growing some bodies for himself a long, long time before that? Back when Eben wasn’t yet part of the Empire, he had to have been a consultant for their geneticists. And Eben, ready to implement endless specifications for human bodies, could have served him as his best, most reliable testing ground!

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said Holmes almost cheerfully, “I ask everyone to go back to his or her cabin and get started on compiling those reports.”

Alex silently got up.

“And you, Mr. Romanov,” said Holmes brusquely, “I will ask to stay!”

Dr. Watson seemed the most surprised. When Holmes asked her to leave for the second time, she gave up, but shook her head with a hurt expression.

Alex was not surprised by this demand to stay. What was much more surprising was that the detective preferred to speak with him one-on-one.

Before he said anything else, Holmes took a small black disk out of his pocket. He touched the control sensors and put it down on the floor. Their ears got a little stuffed up, and the room around them seemed to have gotten darker.

“Now we’re insulated from your ship’s internal surveillance devices,” Holmes informed him. Alex was looking at him with growing astonishment. “I would like to get a few unofficial answers… unofficial for now,” Holmes emphasized.

“Only an idiot lies to a detective-spesh,” said Alex wearily.

“Yes, of course. Smart people just don’t mention some details. Alex Romanov, what has happened to you and to your crew?”

“What are you referring to, Mr. Holmes?”

“To the strange behavior of the speshes, who were required to sacrifice themselves for humanity. You yourself, I believe, have said that a normal spesh has to readily perish for the good of the Empire?”

“Stress, perhaps?” ventured Alex. “We all found ourselves in such an alarming, ambiguous situation… besides, our common death wouldn’t satisfy Sey-Zo anyway.”

“This is the version I will express in the official report,” said Holmes. “That is, I might express it. But now I would like to hear the truth.”

Under the detective’s intent stare, Alex lowered his hand into his pocket and took out the little vial.

“A while ago,” he said, putting the vial next to the black disk, “I happened to get my hands on a rare drug.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, encouragingly.

“Its effect on the organism of a spesh… any spesh… leads to the blocking of all the emotional alterations.”

“The emotional ones only?”

“Yes. Memory, professional characteristics, body modifications remain intact.”

Holmes carefully lifted the vial, shook it. Pensively remarked:

“And you fed this drug to your crew.”

“Yes. You saw the result.”

“I’m baffled,” Holmes confessed. “Was this drug obtained by you in an honest way?”

“Of course. The formula was given to me by its creator. As far as I understand, he had been working on the remedy for many years. The synthesis was performed in an ordinary automatic laboratory, and I paid for it the honest way… nothing shady here.”

“Except that speshes start acting like naturals.”

“This remedy doesn’t force any extraneous emotions on anyone, Mr. Holmes. This isn’t some narcotic. Even calling it a psychotropic drug would be a stretch. All it does is temporarily block the emotions distorted by specialization.”

“You say that as if specialization were something evil.”

“No, of course not. But… does the law forbid speshes to get rid of changes made to their own ethics?”

“Why forbid something that’s impossible?” Holmes replied with a question. “There has not been a precedent.”

“Maybe the fact that Imperial laws do allow a spesh to remove the physiological after-effects of specialization, if he so wishes, could serve as such a precedent?”

Holmes nodded. He dropped back in his armchair, still holding the vial in his hand.

“You can try the remedy, Mr. Holmes,” Alex suggested. “Just a few drops will do it. An overdose isn’t dangerous. And it works… em… for several days.”

“Is this, by any chance, a bribe offer?” said Holmes with lively interest.

“No. It’s an agreement to conduct an investigative experiment. You can estimate the consequences of the use of the drug and, if you find them dangerous, you can subject me to any punishment.”

“You’re quite a risk-taker, Alex Romanov!” Holmes frowned. “You’re that sure of your decision, eh?”

“No. I’m not sure,” Alex admitted frankly. “But I hope you will agree with me.”

“Alex, my dear fellow.” Holmes smiled. “Tell me, what would a detective-spesh be worth, if he were capable of falling in love? Afraid of a ray gun pointed at him? Overcome by sentiments?”

“I don’t know what you’ll be worth, Mr. Holmes.” Alex leaned slightly toward him. “Honestly, I don’t. But if specialization is the only thing that prevents you from taking bribes from criminals or hiding from murderers—you’re not worth a dime, anyway. Neither you, nor your matrix, Peter Valke!”

“Don’t you try to play on my curiosity, Alex!” replied Holmes harshly. “Don’t! It’s the only human trait I have left!”

“No, C-the-Forty-Fourth! It isn’t! You also have your longing for truth. And truth is not something that is stuffed into your brain by peptide chains! Not at all! Truth is what you really, truly are!”

For a brief moment, Alex felt that Holmes would now take out a pair of handcuffs and utter the standard arrest formula.

But Holmes lowered his eyes.

And so he sat there for a few seconds, downcast, peering at the floor, turning the vial between his fingers. Then, with a brisk movement, he hid it in his pocket.

“I will take every precaution, Alex Romanov,” he said quietly. “Keep that in mind. And if you have lied… even unintentionally… if the drug forces me to behave in ways unnatural to me…”

He didn’t finish his warning. Just got up and left the recreation lounge.

Report writing was an activity speshes were quite accustomed to. At times Alex even wondered why it wasn’t included in the specialization. Or maybe it was included, but considered so insignificant that it wasn’t worth mentioning.

He decided not to use the neuro-terminal. Writing a text with “thoughts” demanded too much control over one’s consciousness. Alex unfolded a virtual keyboard and, for almost an entire hour, sat drumming his fingers in the air, arranging words in the most grammatical, beautiful… and least dangerous order.

He even managed to mention the machination that had helped bring Kim O’Hara aboard the ship. No one could say that Alex had tampered with the truth in any way.

There was, of course, no mention whatsoever of the gel-crystal, of Edward Garlitsky, or of the emotions blocker.

His fingers were dancing in the air, lightly touching the holographic letters. Blue sparks flashed with every tap on the invisible keys. An illusory sheet of paper slowly scrolled upwards, taking within it the whole story of the first and only tourist flight of the spaceship Mirror and its unusual crew.

Alex re-read what he had just written. Thought for a moment, shrugged.

It was hard to say what the outcome of it all would be. There was still a chance that the union would consider him liable for what had happened, and then a pilot’s worst fate would befall Alex—he would be forbidden to fly.

But somehow, even that didn’t really frighten him now.

He gave the computer the command to create a hard copy of the report, got up from behind the desk, and opened the processor panel. Carefully extracted the gel-crystal that contained the mind of Edward Garlitsky and his entire strange little world.

How weird. How absurd. A scientific genius, the person who had uncovered all the mysteries of genetic code—who had, for many years now, been dwelling in a chunk of crystallized liquid. Mad with rage, bored, lonesome… rearranging other people’s genes over and over… constructing virtual worlds and fighting virtual wars… and the whole time, endlessly devising plan after plan after plan to break free.

Even if, in the meantime, he kept trampling over someone else’s freedom over and over again…

Alex looked at the small hatch of the little microwave built into the cabin wall. An illusion of all the comforts of home. To warm up a sandwich, or fry up a steak on the infrared grill.

Or to incinerate a whole world with its only inhabitant…

Alex took out the neuro-shunt, inserted the crystal into the contact surface, and tied the headband around his head.

There were no rivers or forests, no castles or dragons. There were no guards with swords or seductive maidens in transparent garments.

There was a gray, sandy field and a low gray sky. On a simple wooden chair, half-buried in sand, sat a middle-aged man dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a tie around his neck—that archaic ritual noose, if you believed all the films about ancient life.

Alex walked up to the geneticist Edward Garlitsky, stopped, studying his face.

Strange.

He wasn’t a copy of the spesh who had disguised himself as Paul Lourier. But the resemblance seemed undeniable. It wasn’t in his features, or his gestures, or his age… It was an elusive likeness—as though you were ripping away everything false and trivial to reveal a common essence.

“Have you rendered the agent harmless?” the man asked. Alex nodded.

“Kim?” Garlitsky inquired.

“Yes. How did you ever get such an idea?”

He seemed not to notice the tone of the question.

“Too much time on my hands, Alex. You read old myths and can’t help trying to fit the abilities of fairy-tale characters to real life. What can be created and what can’t. What’s useful, and what’s not—”

Garlitsky stopped short.

“God will be your judge.” Alex sat down nearby, right on the sand. Edward hadn’t bothered creating another chair. “So you knew all about the plot?”

“It is impossible to know all, young man. Only in fairy tales does the hero gain omniscience and omnipotence.” The geneticist smiled. “And there isn’t anything good about that. For in much wisdom is much grief.”

“I want to grieve.”

Garlitsky sighed.

“Believe me, Alex Romanov, I had no part in that complexly planned provocation. But I did have some information about it. Not much…”

“Did Kim run into me by chance?”

“Of course.”

“Did you know from the get-go that there was an agent aboard?”

“The thought did cross my mind. After the murder, I had no more doubts.”

Alex shook his head.

“Still, it seems to me that you are lying.”

“Why is that?” asked the geneticist with lively interest.

“Your reaction to the events was way too calm. You… it was like you knew everything in advance. Our every move.”

“Young man, endure at least a couple decades as an incorporeal but fully conscious shadow,” said Garlitsky ironically. “You’ll see how your idea of danger changes, and your reaction to it, as well. I got used to the thought that I might die at any moment—and that I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. These last few weeks, I’ve had the least worry ever about my survival.”

“You are that sure of Kim’s abilities?” Alex posed Sherlock Holmes’s question.

“But of course I am!” Edward emphatically spread out his arms. “Is an architect-spesh sure of the house he built? Is a surgeon-spesh sure of his incision? Is a fighter-spesh sure of his marksmanship?”

“Kim isn’t some brick in a wall. And you aren’t a spesh. You’re a spesh-creator.”

“So what?” Garlitsky looked at him, uncomprehending. “There have always, in any era, existed people who became speshes. Breaking their own bodies, reining in their spirit. Getting rid of one thing, adding another. Pity? Subtract pity. Intellect? Add intellect. Plus family—minus family. Plus friends—minus friends. Plus motherland—minus motherland! The entire life of a human is a continuous struggle for these pluses and minuses. People have spent decades of their short lives dashing this way and that, poisoning the existence of those around them, all to find their own combination of pluses and minuses. I removed these torments. From the cradle to the grave—all speshes are happy.”

“Because you have forbidden them to add and subtract.”

Edward laughed.

“Alex… Alex. I gave you an opportunity to decide everything anew. And? Are you happier?”

Alex was silent.

“You’ve lost the love, that wonderful love for your ship, that’s given only to speshes. What did you get in return, Alex?”

No reply.

“Do you really think I am villainously withholding from humanity the remedy that returns their emotions to Old Testament norms? Come on! Humanity has always created everything for which there was a need. If there were a need, a blocker of altered emotions would have been created. And is it really all about the ethical factors that have been forced on them? You, for instance… you’ve taken the drug. Your artificially created kindness and sense of responsibility dissipated. So what prevented you, just a few minutes ago, from throwing my gel-crystal out into vacuum or frying it in a microwave?”

Alex looked him straight in the eye.

“I wasn’t watching what was going on inside the ship,” Edward added. “You’ve deprived me of the opportunity to do that. But I know people. You did want to put an end to me, right?”

“Yes. Because of what you’ve done to Kim. Because you took part in… I’m sure, one way or another, you took part in the conspiracy.”

Garlitsky gave a few slow nods.

“Of course, of course. What I’ve done to Kim! Evil me! I’ve given her the gift of destiny—one of a great spy, provocateur, a lady of the demimonde, madly adored by both men and women. A person who will work for dozens of secret services. Books will be written about her, and movies made! People of power will order this kind of intriguing specialization for their children. Little girls will play, pretending to be Kim O’Hara. You can’t even imagine what a fascinating life awaits this girl, Alex! Now she will help me gain a body, and then I will help her. We are both in for a most interesting life in this great and fascinating world! Although…” He raised his eyebrows. “You can change all that. Easily. I’d advise you to go the vacuum way—a fried gel-crystal reeks to high heaven, being organic after all. The stench will be too much like that of burnt human flesh. As for my participation in the conspiracy… you’re also mistaken.”

He got up, stretched, straightening his nonexistent body. Murmured:

“How I’d love to hear a creak in my sinews… hit a funny bone and feel the pain… or get a scratch… Well, what next, Alex? What will you do with me? Your murder blocks are off. You’re fully in charge of your states of mind. Here it is—freedom!”

Alex got up from the sand. Smiled, bitterly. And nodded to Garlitsky before exiting the gel-crystal.

Forever.

Kim was sitting in the chair, flipping through the book he’d left on the table. When Alex took off the neuro-terminal, she smiled at him.

“Sorry to intrude—your door wasn’t locked. Did you tell Edgar that everything was all right already?”

“No. I left it to you.”

“Then let me…”

He silently handed her the crystal and the neuro-shunt. Kim winked at him, before putting her hand under her blouse to hide Edward Garlitsky’s world in her own body. She said:

“I already turned in my report. Holmes said that in a couple of hours, when Janet finishes up the intensive treatment course for Sey-Zo, we’ll go in for landing. And Xang wanted to know if you’d let him pilot the ship?”

“Everything’s allowed now,” Alex replied.

“Here, listen to this…” Kim threw a quick glance at the page, put the book aside. She really did have perfect photographic memory.

“No poems, please,” said Alex.

“What?”

“I don’t want poems now. Even if they’re good.”

“Are you mad at me for some reason?” asked Kim, after a pause.

“No, baby. Everything’s all right.”

“Really?”

“Tell me, are you still in love with me?”

She fell into thought.

“Don’t worry, I won’t get offended,” said Alex. “You already know that pilot-speshes are incapable of love.”

“Alex…” Kim did nevertheless jump off her armchair, sidle up to him, and hug him around the shoulders. “Alex, dearest. I’m so…”

She stopped, smiled apologetically, then finished the phrase she had started.

“I’m so grateful to you. You helped me through a very difficult and very painful time. When I was all alone against the whole world. It must be destiny—that we have met.”

Alex hugged her. Kissed her hair, smelling of something warm, summery, floral. Gently, without any passion, to which he had no right anymore.

“I like to think that it really was destiny,” he agreed.

“And I so wanted you to fall in love with me. The way I am. Inexperienced, stupid… I tried so very hard…”

“Forgive me.”

Kim slid her hand along his cheek. A calm, assured gesture of a woman grown wise with experience.

“It’s all right. I understand everything now! But you and I had fun, right?”

Alex smiled.

“Did we ever! ‘Kitty scratch’—that was really something!”

Kim gave him a smacking little kiss on the cheek.

“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll be going, okay, Alex? I need to talk to… and discuss all the details.”

“Go ahead, baby.”

He even walked her to the hallway door. Just seven steps—but a sign of respect, nevertheless. And slapped her on her behind so that she let out a happy little squeal.

“To hell with all of it…” said Alex, after the door had closed. He didn’t finish his phrase. Rolled up the sleeve of his jersey, looked at the Demon.

The little devil was crouching, its head down on its knees, so that the face couldn’t be seen.

Alex had no need for an emotion scanner now, but he was glad to see the Demon anyway. His old, trusted friend.

“We’ll make it, buddy,” he said. “Plenty of pretty girls in the galaxy, right?”

The little devil didn’t stir. Alex walked up to the terminal.

“Connect to Janet Ruello’s quarters.”

“Blocked…” replied the service program in a regretful tone.

“Captain’s access,” said Alex, after a brief hesitation. “Unilateral surveillance.”

A screen appeared.

Janet Ruello and Puck Generalov were sitting on the bed. Janet was naked. Puck was half-dressed.

“Still unpleasant?” asked Janet. She was holding Generalov’s hand to her chest.

“I don’t know… feels strange…” Puck heaved a deep sigh. “But why is it so big?”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” said Janet gently. “Relax.”

“But you gotta understand, this is a perversion for me!” said Generalov piteously. “And then Kim… what she did… that was so…”

“My body is made much more simply,” said Janet, soothingly caressing his braid. “Trust me. You’ve been meaning to expand your life’s experience? And now if we don’t counter those negative impressions—all will be lost! I think we’d better start with something you’re more accustomed to—”

Alex switched off the screen. Stood still for a second. And then burst out laughing. Said, to the Demon, or maybe to himself:

“So, the genetically altered emotions get blocked? Interesting…”

He lay down on the bed, yawned. Really wanted to take another look at the Demon—could it, too, appreciate the irony of the situation? Or was it still crouching there, hiding its tear-stained face?

But it made no difference, in the end.