No one will grant us deliverance –
Not God, nor king, nor hero.
We will achieve liberation
With our very own hand!
The Internationale, Eugène Pottier, 1871
Prologue
Directive Named for Marco Tadić
No. 188-66/KS-21.07.37
Dated 21 July, Year 37 Nova Prima Era[1]
Preamble
Whereas Article 1 of the Convention states that all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights, and Article 2 states that every human life is sacred and inviolable from the moment of conception, and Article 3 prohibits the use of cybernetic and mechanical devices implanted in the human body, the Continental Council has deemed it necessary to enact this Directive to regulate the issue of providing assistance to children for whom a risk of developing severe pathologies has been identified at any stage of embryonic development.
/.../
Chapter 1. General Provisions
Pursuant to Article 2 of the Convention[2], which states that every human life is sacred and inviolable from the moment of conception, the member states of the Continental Union[3] that have ratified the Convention have enacted corresponding amendments to their legal acts, prohibiting abortions and the arbitrary disposal of the lives of unborn humans by parents.
Pursuant to Article 4 of the Convention, which prohibits experiments and trials on human beings in any form, as well as alterations to human nature, the member states of the Continental Union that have ratified the Convention prohibit any experiments or trials on humans at any age or condition, as well as alterations to the human genome. Voluntary consent for such actions is not permitted.
Abortions are prohibited in all countries of Ayala and its colonies; in cases of a threat to the mother's life, fetal transfer to a Mitra-Cube[4] is utilized.
/.../
1.7. However, for humanitarian reasons, in cases of diagnosed severe pathologies at any stage of embryonic development, parents have the right to appeal to this Directive.
Chapter 2. Subject of the Directive
2.1. This Directive establishes that in cases of identified severe pathologies listed in Appendix 1.1, parents have the right to resort to corrective genetic and biotechnologies listed in Appendix 1.2.
2.2. However, based on the fundamental Articles 2 and 4 of the Convention for all member states of the Continental Union, this is permissible only if the parents sign an informed consent form (see Appendix 3.1.) and a declaration of renunciation of "human" status for their unborn child (see Appendix 3.2.).
2.3. After signing the informed consent and the declaration of renunciation of "human" status, the child's status is changed to "physically living sentient being," which is confirmed by a Certificate of the established form (see Appendix 5.1.).
/.../
2.7. Corrective procedures for an embryo with identified severe pathologies are performed free of charge after the parents receive the Certificate.
/.../
2.15. The Certificate is issued prior to birth and is valid for life.
2.16. The Certificate cannot be revoked or exchanged for a human passport.
Chapter 4. Corrective Procedures
4.1. All corrective procedures are to be carried out exclusively by genetic or biotechnological means, in order to prevent a recurrence of the Catastrophe of Year 36 NPrE.
/.../
4.8. All beings are to be sterilized as part of the exclusion of potential risks from the genetic structure of humanity.
/.../
Chapter 5. Guarantees of Life and Activity for Physically Living Sentient Beings
5.1. Every being, following successfully performed corrective procedures, is placed at the disposal of the Corporation, which is obligated to guarantee its life support, education, and subsequent utilization at its own discretion. However, the being may not be separated from its family until it reaches the age of 14.
5.2. The condition for the being's return to the family after corrective procedures is the parents' signing of a contract outlining the terms for implementing clause 5.1. (see Appendix 7.1).
/.../
5.22. After fulfilling all obligations to the Corporation, the being has the right to manage its life at its own discretion within the framework of this Directive.
Nobility and baseness, courage and fear –
All are imprinted in our bodies from birth.
We will not become better or worse until death –
We are as Allah created us!
Omar Khayyam
Phantom Freedom
"Millions of victims – that is what the era of cybernetic prostheses and mechanoids ended with for us. Our goal is to prevent a repeat of the tragedy of the Year 36, and for that, we are working tirelessly on the development of biotechnology."
From a speech by Niccolia Tadić, head of the MT Corporation, to the Continental Council
Year 36 NPrE
Chapter 1
June 14, Year 214 NPrE
Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
The nearest flower shop to the depot was closed. Axel Fontaine looked with annoyance at the panel where, amidst intricate patterns, the message "Blooming for you from 10 to 23 on weekdays and holidays!" flickered. Below it, a timer shimmered with all the colours of the rainbow, counting down to the opening, and below that, a guilty glow announced: "We apologize for the delivery delay."
Ax retrieved a pocket watch from his vest pocket, clicked open the lid, and held it up to the panel. When it synchronized with the timer, the display spat out a shower of colourful petals that swirled into an elaborate signature: "See you soon for flowers!" Fontaine put the watch away and looked around for a café or bar to shelter from the scorching sun. During the voyage, he'd gotten unused to weather not being regulated by climate control, and it was starting to get too warm in his three-piece suit.
A girl with a basket of flowers approached the empty shop window, and Ax waved at her hopefully. But the girl, barely seeing the early customer, flinched, recoiled, and hurriedly activated the window tinting. Fontaine sighed — but took no offence: over forty-five years, he'd grown accustomed to people giving him a wide berth upon meeting, and the more impressionable ones — jumping back.
DNA recombination had endowed him not only with heterochromia (one eye was bright blue, the other dark brown) but also with the build of a gorilla at a height of over two meters. Ax's face consisted of a massive, heavy jaw, cheekbones resembling cake spatulas, a large nose, and bushy eyebrows overhanging deep-set eyes. Shaggy black hair gave him a certain charm, and since Axel couldn't decide whether he looked scarier with a beard than without, he'd shaved it off along with his moustache that morning. Judging by the reaction of his colleagues and the girl in the shop — in vain.
Ax moved to the shaded side of the street and trudged along the dark shopfronts, dreaming of a large glass of iced coffee. Of course, the body of a former stream-trooper would soon adapt to the heat, though it didn't happen as quickly as before, and his eyes took longer to get used to the bright sun than ten years ago, hmm...
"Getting old," he sighed.
The street was empty — city life started well by eleven o'clock at the earliest, and Ax felt a slight envy for the local layabouts. The Express woke up at six a.m. even in the depot; Fontaine had already dealt with a pile of tasks and carved out a couple of hours to stretch his legs and, incidentally, buy a bouquet for the Express chief's anniversary. Although he knew nothing about flowers, and why the hell Claude had decided to put him in charge of it... though she had given him clear instructions. Ax loved instructions — life with them was simple and clear.
"White and light blue fluffy flowers, fifty-five pieces," Claude had sternly instructed him. "Roses, peonies, camellias, araphins. If you don't know what they are — ask the seller, they'll show you."
An untinted window gleamed up ahead, and Fontaine perked up cheerfully. Maybe he'd get not only the iced coffee vitally necessary on hot Almonzean mornings but also some eggs and a bit of bacon?
Alas, decent establishments weren't open at such an ungodly early hour (half past ten!), so the only food Fontaine found at the "Ocean" café-bar were beer snacks and pastries for coffee. Neither looked particularly inspiring, so Ax settled for iced coffee. The days when he could devour anything not in the final stages of decomposition were long gone. After all, once he sorted out the bouquet, he'd return to the Express, where István would prepare baked potato cutlets with mushrooms in garlic sauce and beef slices for the afternoon snack.
To pass the time, Fontaine began observing the people in the café. There were three. The first — the bartender, whose hand trembled slightly as he served Ax a half-litre glass of coffee. The second — a gentleman in a white suit, sipping tea while scrolling through a newspaper on a large tablet. And the third — a lanky guy in his early twenties. He sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a tablet with a keyboard, and the moment Fontaine entered the café, he stared at him as if he were a museum exhibit.
Ax was used to being stared at, so he chose the sturdiest-looking stool, carefully sat down to avoid breaking it, and only then measured the young man with a return glance from under his bushy brows. The youth fidgeted nervously on his barstool but didn't look away. Axel gave a benevolent smile. He liked it when people weren't afraid of him. For instance, Claude, the Express dispatcher, felt no fear of him whatsoever, which was why Fontaine hadn't argued when she ordered him to buy the bouquet, even though it wasn't exactly the Security Chief's usual responsibility.
"Fifty-five roses, peonies, camellias, and araphins, hmm. That's for the number of years, I get it, but why specifically white and light blue?"
The bartender clicked a button on the remote, and instead of pleasant, soft music, the café was filled with a piercing female voice with hysterical notes:
"...if you donate for the treatment of our little one, then God will bless you!"
Axel looked at the screen above the bar. A morning talk show was on — in the middle of a white studio, a woman worn down by life sat frozen tensely in a huge white armchair. She wore dark, worn-out clothes, her hair escaping from under a headscarf, her hands clutching a rosary convulsively, and a tattered Holy Scripture on her lap. A real book, would you look at that. A small fortune if sold.
"Fucking nutcase," said the bartender and stared at the woman with interest, as if at a curious beast in a cage. An elegant hostess appeared on screen and inquired insinuatingly:
"But you understand, Kim, that this was precisely the result of your decision, don't you?"
"If our little one was born this way, then it's God's will!" declared the woman, and the bartender burst into merry laughter.
"Disgusting," remarked the gentleman in the white suit. "The mentally ill should be treated, not allowed to breed so they can later... Good Lord!"
A photo of a premature baby appeared on the screen.
"Chase-McCormack," thought Ax: a syndrome causing the fetus's lungs and heart to stop developing. Even if it somehow miraculously manages to last nine months and survive birth, then...
"Ugh, what a vile thing," said the bartender, but didn't switch it off, looking at the shriveled little body entangled in tubes and sensors with disgust and curiosity.
"Kim," — the hostess's voice mixed sympathy and condemnation in carefully measured proportions — "you found out about this in the first weeks. Why didn't you appeal to the Directive?"
"It contradicts God's plan," cut off the mother of the child who, by Ax's estimate, would be in the grave in about three months. "Besides, every child of a man and a woman is a human child, and who are we to renounce what is established by the Lord?"
"So, from your point of view, the Lord established that your child should suffer and die after months of agonizing therapy?"
"If good people donate just a little for us, our Betsy will get new lungs and a little heart..."
"Cultivated lungs and a heart," the hostess gently interrupted, "created not by God, but in laboratories, from your daughter's DNA material. Doesn't that disturb you?"
Kim bit her lip and after a long pause muttered:
"We are waiting for donor organs."
"So you reject DNA synths, but agree that someone should die for your daughter?"
"Won't make it," murmured Fontaine, bringing the coffee to his lips. The gentleman in white turned to him:
"You think so?"
"Even with transplanted organs, with Chase-McCormack syndrome, the brain's blood circulation is so impaired that the child will remain disabled," a sharp voice came from the other end of the bar. Ax looked at the expert with interest. The same guy who had been staring at him — and now Fontaine examined him more closely. A tall, blue-eyed blonde in an expensive, custom-tailored suit and bright red Steimar boots. Next to his tablet lay a brand-new Frank Ellman hat — probably the bartender's entire monthly salary.
"High society cream," Ax snorted. He had a whole train of those. Also quick to opine on things they usually know nothing about.
"She's lying," said Fontaine.
"Who?" the gentleman in white was surprised.
"The hostess. No one will die for that freak. Donor organs go to Vitri-storages after the testator's death. But there's no chance anyway."
"Why?" the bartender asked curiously, turning down the volume.
"Because it's not guaranteed that the storage will have lungs and a heart from such a young donor. She can't be given adult organs, and organs from newborns almost never end up in storage."
"That's exactly why I say such lunatics should be forcibly sterilized, just like beings!" the gentleman in white exclaimed energetically. "If a mentally normal mother were in her place, she would have used the Directive, and now her little one would already be cooing and shaking rattles in a playpen!"
"And you would have missed an interesting spectacle early in the morning," the blonde guy remarked sarcastically. "Well, and the MT Corporation would have acquired a nice new being."
"But the child would be alive and healthy! I wouldn't hesitate for a minute!"
"Do you have such experience?" Fontaine inquired, and the gentleman in white faltered somewhat:
"Thank God, no. But I'm talking about the principle!"
"The principle," Fontaine repeated. "So that's what it is."
"It's high time the Directive was made compulsory! Then all these poor things..."
"Would become a bunch of lab rats for MT," the blonde interrupted him. "The board of directors would wet themselves with joy, the whole lot!"
"And you prefer children to suffer?"
"They all suffer because of legal red tape," the guy declared, "these children, and beings, and parents. None of this would have happened if two hundred years ago the old farts..."
"Are you an anti-Conventionalist?" the gentleman in white asked suspiciously. Fontaine quietly snorted. It wasn't the first time he'd seen dolled-up rich kids fervently discussing the common good. Ax shifted his gaze to the badge on the jacket lapel and read: "Theodore Edward Ross, 'The Liberty Standard'."
"Journalist," Ax thought with contempt. Packs of these useless creatures eagerly besieged his Express, especially if some screen star bought a ticket. Interesting, do article fees cover Steimar boots, or does daddy chip in for pocket money?
Fontaine's watch beeped, suggesting the flower shop was about to open. Ax paid for the coffee and headed for the door, carefully maneuvering around the furniture. The studio audience was fiercely pecking at the woman with the rosary, and Ax even felt a little sorry for her, though he could never understand religious folk.
Everyone has the right to their principles and the right to defend them, but not at the expense of a child who was unlucky in the genetic lottery! In the nearly two centuries of the Directive's existence, millions of children had successfully undergone recombination — and Axel himself felt quite content as a being. All that was left was to solve the bouquet problem and return to the Express, to the cozy, and most importantly — cool — atmosphere of climate control.
***
The girl carefully packed the bouquet into a darkened, cooling cone so that the exquisite composition in white and light blue tones would survive the journey to the depot. Axel left the shop noticeably poorer by a tidy sum and walked slowly down the street, baked white-hot by the sun. The bouquet mission was complete, and only one task remained that Ax wanted to finish before returning to the Express.
Finally, he saw what he was looking for — a small dead-end alley between two shops. Fontaine stood for a moment, listening, and ducked into the cul-de-sac. There, he placed the cone with the bouquet on the ground, waited for a shadow to flicker behind his back, and, spinning around sharply, grabbed his pursuer by the throat.
"Pssssst..." the victim wheezed, legs pedaling half a meter off the ground.
"What the hell for?" Fontaine asked sternly. The journalist kicked desperately in his grip, quickly turning crimson. Axel loosened his fingers, and Theodore E. Ross flopped onto his knees.
"Why are you following me?"
"Interview," the press representative hissed impudently, coughing convulsively. "Will you give me an interview?"
"No. I don't discuss my passengers."
"I don't give a damn about your passengers," the pup declared unexpectedly. "My God, why choke me right away? I didn't even get to ask anything..."
"Why wait until you do?"
The journalist swallowed and scooted further away from Ax, just in case. Fontaine peered more closely at the blond face. At first, he thought the pup was barely twenty, but now he figured he was older, just seemed like a recent schoolboy due to his fine features and smoothness. Or maybe it was the expression...
"Why do you want to talk to me?"
"Did you fall off a tree yesterday? You saw what's happening yourself!"
"Where?"
"On the show! It's the Weisberg case, front-page sensation," Ross shoved his hand into a flat bag, and Fontaine placed his palm on his service revolver, which he never parted with. But the pup merely pulled out a tablet, scrolled through something, and showed Ax a newspaper page with a huge headline: "Yes or No: Will the Weisberg Case End the Right to Refuse the Directive?"
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"But you're a being! You must have something to say!"
"No. I've never had donor organs transplanted; everything heals on its own on me."
"What do donors have to do with it! This whole uproar is about the right to refuse correction! And you're discriminated against too, you also suffered..."
"Me?" Ax asked in surprise. "Why?"
"Ah, so you're one of those slaves who are content with their slavery[5]?" the journalist latched on immediately. "They even brand you like animals — and you think that's normal?"
Fontaine studied the impudent creature for a few seconds, until said creature scooted even further away and paled, his back hitting the house wall. Ax stepped closer (Ross let out a frightened gasp), leaned down, and said softly:
"Imagine how awkward you'll feel if I take off my shirt now and there's no brand on my shoulder?"
"B-but... you are a being..."
"And are you so sure that beings are easily recognizable at first glance? Then how are you different from, hmm, other discriminators?"
Ross licked his lips and quickly looked around for escape routes. Fontaine dropped a hand on his shoulder and pressed him lightly against the wall — carefully, so as not to break anything in the skinny frame.
"Let me go!" the equality fighter yelped. "I'll report you to the police for assault!"
"I'll report you," Ax said amiably, "for stalking."
"I wasn't stalking!.."
"Six cameras on the street."
"Huh?"
"Six surveillance cameras recorded you following me from the café, staking out the flower shop, and tailing me again."
"How do you know!"
"I counted."
The journalist already looked pitiful enough, and Axel decided that was sufficient pedagogical effort for the day, but then Ross blurted out:
"If you're not a being, then how do you know about Chase-McCormack syndrome?"
"I can read, just like you. We are, you know, allowed to study in schools."
"Ah, so you admit it? That you're a being?" the journalist rejoiced. Ax sighed and muttered:
"Some people are just stupid."
He often remembered the tone Phan Thi Linh used when saying that, constantly pestered by the most feeble-minded representatives of humanity about what it was like to live with a synthetic brain.
"So, about the interview?" a voice recorder suddenly appeared in front of Ax's nose. "Five minutes — and your opinion will be on the front page!"
The phone in his jacket pocket buzzed, and Fontaine covered the journalist's mouth with his hand. Ignoring Ross's convulsive struggle for freedom of speech, he touched his earpiece and said:
"Yes?"
"Axel," Frina's voice came through, "Ferenc was hit by a car. He's in the ICU at the fourteenth hospital."
***
Frina Akinola, the Express's chief physician, stood at the observation window in a white coat over a beach dress, watching the progress of the surgery, occasionally glancing at the tablet with Ferenc's vital signs. Her smooth black hair was pulled into a ponytail, she wore beach sandals on her feet, and on her dark coffee-colored skin — specks of sand were still visible.
"How is he?" asked Fontaine.
"Not bad, considering the initial condition. He'll survive and bake cakes again, if that's what you're asking. But not right away."
A device in the operating room beeped, and Ax involuntarily leaned forward.
"He'll be fine," Frina murmured, moving a stylus across the screen, "don't worry. The surgery is proceeding normally."
"Maybe transfer him to us? Or to a better hospital?"
"Not advisable. I've already spoken with the colleagues here. They're good doctors, sufficiently qualified."
It was unlikely these local horse doctors had ever seen a doctor like Frina in their lives, and Ax would have preferred her to be in the operating room over Ferenc. But that would probably be a blatant violation of their medical ethics or one hundred and fifty points of some idiotic regulations.
"Couldn't you have..."
"I wouldn't have gotten into the OR, Axel," the chief physician said softly. "He needed immediate surgery, no time to waste, and I only arrived ten minutes after he was brought in. But they're doing everything right. Do you trust me?"
"Of course," said Fontaine. The bouquet cone, absurd in the middle of the hospital corridor, was cooling his hand, and Ax set it on the floor.
"And I'm not going to burst into their OR waving my diplomas, no matter how much you'd like me to," Dr. Akinola looked at the tablet screen again. "Please, don't blame yourself for this. You're not responsible for our safety outside the depot."
The devices Ferenc was connected to buzzed incessantly, blinked, beeped, and it stirred a vague anxiety in Ax. Frina frowned slightly, her thin brows tracking the fluctuations of Ferenc's heartbeat.
"I'll contact his family, but Eliza will certainly want to hear the details from you. When are you returning to the train?"
"I think by evening. The colleagues allowed me to personally observe his condition."
"As if they'd try not to," Fontaine grumbled. These colleagues ought to kiss the floor she walks on, or better yet — let her into the operating room so that... oh, alright. If things were really bad, Frina would already be in there.
"Axel, everything is going normally. Stop developing a squint and staring at the tablet."
Frina was very tall, and sneaking a peek at the tablet over her head wasn't very convenient, so Ax sighed, resigned, and left everything to the professional.
"Have you told Madame?"
"No. Didn't have time."
"I see. I'll report it myself. But how did it happen?"
"From what I gathered from the nurse's words, a car suddenly hit Ferenc. Literally smeared him across the road, even though the pedestrian light was green."
Fontaine frowned. So, someone was behind the wheel — autopilots don't break rules.
"And how did the driver explain it?"
"Didn't. Fled the scene."
"And the police couldn't catch him?"
"I don't know. Judging by Ferenc's condition, the driver was trying to reach supersonic speed. So they might not have caught up."
"Interesting," Ax thought with surprise. You'd have to be flying to leave even police racers far behind. But why didn't they track him by tracker?
"Axel, he won't be able to make the voyage," said Dr. Akinola. "Even if he wakes up tomorrow, which is extremely unlikely, rehabilitation will take at least a month. And I'd recommend rest and complete peace for at least two."
"Ferenc will be damned upset. He really loves this route."
"Can't be helped. Will you tell the head chef yourself? I can take care of it."
"No, thank you. Better keep an eye on Ferenc. I'll return to the Express, report to Madame, and talk to the head chef."
"I'll text you when the surgery is over."
Ax picked up the bouquet and headed for the elevator, gloomily pondering how the head of the restaurant car would manage to find candidates for the head pastry chef position, and how he would have time to vet them all according to the Security Service (SS) protocol two weeks before the voyage's departure.
June 14, Year 214 NPrE[6]
Al-Haiyan, the capital of the Sultanate of Er-Rummal's colonies on Tar-Mariat
Gemma Nightbird waited for them in the middle of the sun-drenched lobby of the perinatal center. Through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, she saw passersby who glanced in surprise at the locked doors — some Haiyani even stopped and tried to ask the guards what was going on.
Usually, the center operated without weekends, from seven in the morning until eleven at night, and the hospital even worked around the clock — the center had its own fleet of ambulances that went out to pregnant women, women in labor, and infants at any time of day. But right now, the vehicles stood behind the locked gates of the parking lot, the center's doors were closed, and the guard detail in front of them had been increased to six instead of two.
The spacious lobby was empty. All staff had been ordered to stay in their offices and silently stare at switched-off monitors — any conversation was forbidden. Gemma had made sure no one brought any personal phones, tablets, laptops, or even watches, headphones, and other small gadgets into the building. All exits except the main one were blocked, all staff access cards too — they could only enter or exit with the knowledge of the Security Service. Of which Gemma Nightbird remained the sole administrator.
The receptionist at the front desk gave Gemma a pointed look, and she realized she was nervously fiddling with her bracelet with tribal patterns. Nightbird hid her hands in her pockets, cursing the day and hour she'd decided to take Fahti as her foreign language in college. It was precisely because of this that she'd been assigned to a perinatal center in a colony of the Sultanate of Er-Rummal, and what had seemed like an excellent career move was now on the verge of turning into a complete professional collapse.
She suppressed the urge to call Eric. She was an adult, accomplished, thirty-year-old woman; she shouldn't whine to her husband at the first sign of work trouble!
"Trouble," Gemma swallowed. She didn't even know if she'd be put on trial for everything that had happened. Though what the hell, she was just a Security Service administrator!
Although, right now, she was in charge here, and if things continued as they had been, the next twenty years would have Eric bringing her care packages in prison, and they'd only be able to look at each other through a force field.
A black car with tinted windows slowed in front of the center and, after a pause, turned into the visitor parking lot. The parking lot was, of course, also closed, but the gates swung open immediately for this car.
Nightbird clenched her fists in her pockets. "The Sultan of Er-Rummal will send his people to sort this out," her boss had told her; those were the last words she heard from him. "Try not to disappoint them."
The driver's side door opened. A very tall, very large man of such powerful build that Gemma would have thought he was a stream-trooper if she hadn't seen his documents, got out of the car. The blue passport of a human was issued in the name of Murad ibn-Rufin Al-Fayyaz, Yakzan to His Highness Wad-Prince[7] AlNilam.
A Yakzan, as Gemma understood after a quick study of Galactopedia, was something like a confidant, bodyguard, and servant all in one. Nightbird would have preferred to deal with someone from the current millennium, but who cared about her opinion, especially in a situation like this.
Al-Fayyaz opened the passenger door, offered a hand to the prince, and Gemma clicked her tongue in irritation. These Haiyani had mixed things up again! It wasn't a prince who emerged from the car, but a princess — a woman much shorter than Gemma, swathed from head to toe in traditional Fahti garments: something between a robe and a dress, and a headscarf hiding her hair and face.
"Religious fanatic," Nightbird thought sourly. She also wore clothes with tribal patterns, jewelry, kept sacred Omo objects at home — but, like all normal people, it was just a tribute to her ancestors. It never occurred to her to come to work in chow and sagranda studded with feathers and throw a wolf pelt on top!
Wad-Princess AlNilam (no other name was listed in the passport), accompanied by the Yakzan who carried a small case, headed for the center's doors. Gemma touched her earpiece and ordered the shift supervisor:
"Let the guests in. And bow, she's a representative of the royal family."
"Yes, ma'am," the supervisor replied discontentedly.
"Easy, Mark. It's the custom here, and we respect the customs of Er-Rummal."
"Especially now," Gemma added to herself. Khalida, the receptionist, was local, so without prompting she came out from behind the desk and, when the princess crossed the center's threshold, knelt before her. Her Highness granted the girl permission to rise with a gracious gesture, and she backed away to the registration desk. Turning one's back to persons of royal blood was not allowed, nor was speaking to them without their permission.
"This will be an interesting conversation if Madame doesn't deign to," Nightbird snorted. She took three steps towards the Wad-Princess, placed a hand over her chest, and bowed. Since Gemma was not a subject of the Sultan, she didn't need to fall to her knees.
Though she wouldn't have anyway.
"Good afternoon," said Her Highness. Her voice had a very strange timbre — too low for a woman, but quite soft and melodious. "Umm... Ms. Lee Min-ho? Head of the Security Service?"
"No," Gemma answered dryly. "He was recalled to Almonzis."
"Then his deputy..."
"Both deputies were also recalled."
The princess's brows rose in puzzlement:
"Then who are you?"
"Gemma Nightbird. Security Service administrator."
"Nightbird?" Her Highness's glance slid to Gemma's bracelet. Al-Fayyaz also stared at her with the interest reserved for a living exhibit in an ethnographic museum.
"I'm from the Chokon tribe," said Gemma.
"Oh! How should I address you?" AlNilam asked, surprisingly politely.
"As you find convenient, Your Highness. Ma'am or Gemma is fine."
"Good, Gemma. Take us to whoever remains in charge of the Security Service."
"That would be me," Nightbird admitted with a sigh. The Wad-Princess frowned and exchanged a glance with her bodyguard. He moved his lips strangely, as if silently uttering a few words. Her Highness pensively tilted her head to the side, looking at Gemma, who was starting to get irritated — she couldn't decipher the expression in her gaze because she couldn't see the princess's face. A light-grey silk headscarf covered it so that only thick black eyebrows, a million long lashes, and large, almond-shaped eyes — bright green, like a cat's — were visible. And that was all. The passport photo was the same.
"How are her own subjects supposed to recognize her, I wonder? By the bodyguard?" Nightbird thought angrily.
"Very well," Her Highness finally said. "Take us to the center director's office and arrange for the surveillance cameras there to be disabled."
Gemma flushed with indignation — the princess was giving her orders as if she were her maid! Didn't even doubt that Gemma would rush to obey, even though she worked for the Corporation, not the princess's daddy! But the situation wasn't one for kicking up a fuss and showing temper, so Nightbird forced out through clenched teeth:
"Of course, Your Highness. This way, the elevator is here," and took her work phone from her right pocket to call the surveillance room. Her personal one was in her left — she deserved some privileges, right, since they'd left her alone here to be devoured by the Sultan's agents?
They rode in silence in the elevator, its size thankfully allowing Gemma to maintain a proper distance from the Wad-Princess, but the Yakzan still positioned himself between them. Al-Fayyaz wore a short, neatly trimmed beard, a lush mustache, and sideburns — like most Haiyani. Eric also had urges to grow facial bushes to blend in with the crowd, but Gemma had imposed a strict veto on that idea. Her husband was so red-haired that among the Haiyani he looked like a flaming phoenix among crows anyway.
Besides, no beard would have helped them blend in — Gemma was the epitome of exoticism to the locals: tall, slender, with bronze-tanned skin, smooth black hair, high cheekbones, and a Chokon profile. People still turned to look at her on the streets, and once, when she and Eric were peacefully eating ice cream in the park, a little girl came up and shyly asked, "Auntie, are you a witch?"
Even then, Gemma had a suspicion that accepting the assignment to Al-Haiyan had been a mistake. Who could have known it would be this big...
The office of the vanished director of the perinatal center was on the penultimate floor, in the turret that the staff called "the eagle's nest." Nightbird opened the doors for the princess and let her and the Yakzan enter first. AlNilam walked in, swept the expanse of the office with a quick, keen glance, and settled into the director's chair. Al-Fayyaz stood at her right hand, and both stared at Gemma again, who suddenly felt like a schoolgirl in the principal's office.
"Have a seat," Her Highness graciously permitted. Nightbird perched on the edge of a chair. "So, as I understand, the problem is that someone has stolen ten recombined embryos from your center, a number of internal documents, and the center's director and both his deputies have vanished without a trace."
Gemma swallowed. Somehow, in the princess's telling, what had seemed like just a catastrophe now seemed like an absolute apocalypse.
"Five embryos," Nightbird mumbled, just to say something. "Five recombined and five awaiting recombination."
"When did you discover this?"
"The day... the day before yesterday. June 12th, in the morning. Around half past five, when the morning shift staff were preparing to open."
"What actions did you take?"
Gemma licked her lips.
"I'm afraid I can't... I can't answer that question, as it's outside my competence. That was handled personally by Lee Min-ho, the head of our SS."
The princess exchanged another glance with her bodyguard. He snorted quietly into his mustache and moved his lips.
"Sad, but true," AlNilam agreed with him. "What were your duties, Gemma?"
"I'm the SS administrator. I assign staff to shifts, ensure they show up for duty, keep track of working hours, sick leave, vacations, time off. Well, in short, I organize the daily work of the SS."
"And now all the bosses have run off and left you to clean up a mess you know nothing about."
Gemma flushed. Okay, she wasn't a former stream-trooper or an Epsilon, not the head of the SS or even a deputy, but what the hell?! The Sultan sent some religious fanatic in silk rags and a bearded bruiser instead of agents! Gemma at least graduated college in her field and had already worked eight years in the SS system at perinatal centers, and what could this one do besides fluttering her eyelashes and waving a rosary?!
"Have you informed the parents that their future children are missing?"
Gemma's anger evaporated instantly. For some reason, she hadn't even thought about that.
"I... umm... that was supposed to be handled by the press secretary. Probably. Or maybe not, I don't know if Lee Min-ho authorized..."
"I see," the Wad-Princess cut her off. "Grant us full access to all the center's systems, all documents, data storage, laboratories, staff offices and their computers, work phones, tablets, and other devices. Send Murad lists of all SS employees who worked from the 10th to the 13th, as well as data on who took vacations or sick leave, when, and where to."
"Yes, ma'am... Your Highness," Gemma mumbled. "Will you be interviewing the staff?"
"We will have several conversations. This office suits me, so we will work here. Block access to this floor for all staff... except you. Access to the accounts of Ibrahim ibn-Ali Al-Shufrir, Maria Fialkovskaya, and Philippe Anger must also be blocked for everyone."
"Alright, ma'am, Your Highness."
"You may address me as 'Effendi,'" the princess said; her tone softened somewhat, and she asked: "When did you last see them?"
"I don't exactly socialize with the center's directors often," Nightbird grumbled. "The deities rarely descend to our level. Shufrir has a separate small elevator to his office, Fialkovskaya and Anger were almost always in their labs."
"Well, that's clear. There's no one in Shufrir's reception area. Where's the secretary?"
"She quit a couple of months ago, we're still looking for a replacement. Were looking."
"Excellent. Occupy the reception area. Move your office there by lunchtime today."
"Alright, Ma... Effendi," Gemma said submissively, though everything inside her seethed at the tone the princess used to appoint her as a glorified errand girl.
"Arrange for coffee and tea. You may go, you have much to do."
The gesture with which the Wad-Princess dismissed her was as insulting as everything else. Nightbird, envying the bosses who had run away and spared themselves this humiliation, left the office and took her personal phone from her pocket. She could allow herself that, since no one could see her here.
The screen showed a message from Eric: "So how's it going?" Gemma sighed. She couldn't tell him anything.
"Seems okay for now," she wrote and, after a brief struggle with temptation, added: "Please buy pistachio ice cream and calamari rings. It's going to be a long day."
"Alright. And a large vanilla milkshake, a couple of liters, yeah, babe?"
"Better make it a bucket," Gemma replied, stuffed the phone back in her pocket, and pressed the elevator button.
One question nagged at her — why was the disappearance of embryos, documents, and the directors of the MT perinatal center being investigated by the Sultan's daughter, and not by agents from the Corporation's Inquiry Service?
***
"Poor thing," said the Wad-Prince with a chuckle. "So frightened and angry. It's a shame we can't reassure her."
Murad snorted loudly. For the administrator girl, everything certainly looked straightforward: the bosses, worried about their own skins, had run off, and she'd been made the scapegoat, left alone to deal with problems she simply couldn't handle. No wonder Saida Nightbird sparked like a live wire at the slightest touch.
"How's your neuromodulator?" asked AlNilam, unbuttoning his musht. After the incident on Alviont, the old device had failed, and Murad hadn't quite gotten used to the replacement yet.
"All's well, Effendi," he replied silently.
"If you don't start using it, you'll never get used to it," the Wad-Prince remarked disapprovingly.
"As you say, Effendi," the Yakzan said aloud. The modulated voice still seemed somehow off to him, even though the voice recording for modulation in the new device had been loaded from the archive.
AlNilam tossed the musht onto a chair and, with the dexterity born of years of practice, removed the tagellan without disturbing a single fold. Effendi was short and deceptively slender — under the traditional garments hid a flexible, strong, muscular body. A pale, androgynous face framed by a mop of thick, wildly curly jet-black hair — a fine nose with a distinctive curve, high, sharp cheekbones, a sharply defined chin... Would Nightbird still mistake him for a woman now?
"Murad, stop. I can't work when you look at me like that."
"My apologies, Effendi," the Yakzan opened the case and began setting up the equipment on the table. After incidents like the one on Alviont, it was always much harder for him to quell his anxiety.
"Murad," a narrow white palm rested on his sleeve. Al-Fayyaz quickly blinked, dispelling the memory — the lattice of scars and burns covering his prince's arm.
"Murad," Irfan repeated softly. "I'm fine. All's well. Here, look," he pressed the Yakzan's palm to his own cheek. The skin was smooth again, without scars or charred fabric. On the injured cheek, a dark, soft fuzz was already sprouting, just like above the upper lip — neither a beard nor a mustache had grown on his prince's face since he was sixteen.
"Yes, it's fine," said the Yakzan. "But he didn't even give you a month to rest."
"Well, what can you do," Irfan patted his hand. "Father and his most exalted orders. You know how it is."
Murad just sighed and sat down at Shufrir's work terminal. Who else could the Sultan have sent here, to ensure that what the center director had been doing beyond his official duties didn't accidentally come to light...
"So, what do we have here," the Wad-Prince said businesslike, took the remote, and turned on the huge half-wall panel. A photo of Shufrir, smiling with all thirty-two teeth and shaking hands with Emir Al Bayez, appeared on the screen. "Hmm, a center director with a bit of a megalomania complex."
AlNilam took a laptop, connected it to the panel, and displayed three brief dossiers on it. Besides Ibrahim ibn-Ali Al-Shufrir, head of the MT perinatal center, both his deputies had also vanished without a trace. The first deputy, Philippe Anger, was the head of the genetic engineering lab, and the second — Maria Fialkovskaya — headed the "Bioronica" department, a Corporation division that produced approved biomechanoids, including the branding devices for beings.
"Interesting," said the Wad-Prince, "were the embryos ordinary, or those?"
"Can they be distinguished somehow?"
"Not by the documents — that's exactly what Shufrir was working on here. But what worries my father the most is the theft of the files."
"Did he say what's in them, Effendi?"
"No," AlNilam hissed. "That's the point. It's an archive with documents, audio, and video, but I don't know what exactly we're looking for. Whether the thieves know what they took — that's an extremely interesting question."
"No kidding," thought Al-Fayyaz. Was the whole thing staged just for the archive?
Murad placed his laptop next to the terminal and entered Shufrir's account password. All the logins and passwords of the missing persons had been sent to them that morning, along with the surveillance footage — they'd barely had time to review it. The Sultan had urgently pulled them out of Brianta, where the Wad-Prince was recovering, so they literally jumped on the first stream-train to Tar-Mariat and arrived today at five in the morning local time.
On the terminal's desktop, instead of a wallpaper, was another photo of the center director — this time he was shaking hands with the Governor-General of Tar-Mariat, beaming with a smug smile. The Yakzan involuntarily wondered what the wallpaper was like in Shufrir's apartment.
Murad opened the email, calendar, and work chat, noticing out of the corner of his eye that AlNilam had pulled up the surveillance system data on the panel and was reviewing the same moment he'd spotted that morning. Exactly at 23:59 on the night of June 11-12, the images on all cameras flickered for a fraction of a second, and at 2:00, the flicker repeated. This could only be noticed at very slow playback — or if you were a being. And such flickering indicated that someone had hacked the surveillance system, after which the cameras had shown the Security Service a fake feed for two hours.
"This was a very meticulously planned robbery," AlNilam murmured. "How long do you think they spent just preparing the hack?"
"Depends on where it was executed from. If from the inside, they could have started planting their agent in the center a year, two, or even more ago."
"Rake through the IT department. Keep your eyes on them until they figure out where the fake recording came from."
"And the interrogations, Effendi?"
"I'll handle them myself, as soon as they bring us tea and coffee. Right, let's see from the morning..."
Murad returned to studying Shufrir's terminal. On his last working day, the center director had mainly been signing documents for employee advance payments, reviewing reports, and arguing with HR about them still not finding him a secretary. Shufrir had to make his own coffee, which he found extremely outrageous.
Shufrir had access to almost all employee account data, and Murad had already opened Philippe Anger's account when the Wad-Prince suddenly exclaimed:
"Look at this, this is interesting!"
Al-Fayyaz looked at the panel. The parking lot footage was open. The prince clicked the menu, entered Shufrir's car number in the search, and the footage immediately rewound to the director's first appearance at the center.
"Look," said AlNilam, "here he arrives for work at 10:48 on June 11. Then he apparently had lunch at the center, because the next time his car is recorded leaving is at 8:36 in the evening. And then suddenly," the Wad-Prince paused the footage on the third found fragment, "Shufrir returned to the center at ten to twelve."
Murad walked over to the panel. The freeze-frame clearly showed Shufrir's face behind the windshield. He looked very displeased.
"I'll request the log from his work phone," said Murad. "Though they could have contacted him on his personal one too. And the others?"
"Fialkovskaya left at 6:47, and her car never returned. But Philippe Anger, it seems, lived at work. He arrived at 7:16, and that's it," the prince clicked on footage from another camera. "Here's his car. Until midnight, when the footage was replaced, it stood in the parking lot. Very, very interesting. I think I'll start by examining Anger's personal file."
"Internal espionage?"
"Could be anything. We don't know yet who this is directed against — the Corporation or my father. Though some radicals successfully combine hatred for 'MT' with hatred for governments. So it could be industrial espionage, a plot against my father, or a terrorist stunt with equal probability."
"In that case, these are very well-funded terrorists."
"Which brings us back to MT's or the Sultan's competitors. The competitors have plenty of money to fund some group's activities. Though if a dozen terrorist groups pooled their resources..."
The terminal emitted a beep, followed by Nightbird's voice:
"Tea and coffee for Her Highness. Please open the door."
A short chuckle escaped AlNilam. Murad gave his lord and master a reproachful look:
"We should tell her, Effendi."
"Why? It's much more fun this way!"
For Effendi, the best part of the fun was the faces of those who'd made the mistake turning white as they imagined the punishment awaiting them for such an insult to His Highness, while said Highness thoroughly enjoyed himself.
"There's something of his father in him," thought Murad and opened the door, positioning himself so Nightbird couldn't peek into the office. Two trays hovered in the air before her — one with a glass teapot and coffeepot, the other with filled cups.
"Tea," the SS administrator said coldly. "Coffee."
The Yakzan sympathized with her: he knew well what it was like to be the odd one out. Not only had he been the biggest everywhere since birth, but the touch of Gilat blood from his maternal grandmother had given him light-brown eyes and light chestnut, reddish hair. Life in a world of fiery brunettes hadn't been easy for him.
So Murad gave Gemma a friendly smile, nudged the tray with cups towards himself, and said:
"Thank you for your care, Saida. I'll pass it on to Effendi."
Nightbird's eyes widened in astonishment, like everyone's did upon hearing his voice. But she allowed herself no comment, bowed her head slightly and with dignity, and closed the door.
The tray slid into the office and hovered over the table by the window — apparently, that's where Shufrir preferred to enjoy his cup of coffee. Murad habitually pulled back his sleeve and passed his wrist over the cups with his watch, in which he activated the poison detector. They thought for a second, then a scarlet band encircled the round display, and a message flashed: "ARSONOID!!!"
The Wad-Prince and the Yakzan stared at each other; the same thought struck them simultaneously.
"The girl," AlNilam exhaled. Murad rushed to the door.
He burst into the reception area just as Nightbird was filling a visitor's cup from the teapot on the tray. The Yakzan lunged at Gemma like a hawk, snatched the cup from her hand, and hurled the tray away. It crashed into the wall; shards of the teapot and coffeepot sprayed everywhere, and a brown-black stream of tea and coffee gushed down the white panels onto the floor. Gemma recoiled from Murad, staring at him with eyes wide with fear and shock.
"There's poison in the tea and coffee," said the Yakzan.
Nightbird shifted her gaze from him to the crumpled cup lying in a puddle of tea on the carpet and began to tremble. Suddenly, the phone in her pocket rang. Gemma jumped, grabbed the phone, but her hands were shaking so much she almost dropped it into the poisonous puddle. Murad took the shrieking device from her, put it on speaker, and a desperate female scream filled the reception area:
"Gemma! Our Dawud! He's dying! Oh, Allah... Gemma, he's dead!"
[1] The new calendar era is counted from the year when Marco Tadić first successfully launched a train into a stream-tunnel, thereby opening the era of the exploration of the Cradle Galaxy; or more precisely, from the date when the crew of the first stream-train, Arabella, made the first landing in human history on a planet of another star system.
[2] The Continental Convention is the unified fundamental code of laws adopted by almost all states of Ayala, i.e., the states that formed the Continental Union, governed by a single body — the Senate (while these states retain their own governments).
[3] The Continental Council is the legislative body under the Senate.
[4] An artificial womb.
[5] In accordance with Chapter 3 of the Directive, beings are subject to a number of legal restrictions:
"3.4.1. Limited political capacity – beings are prohibited from both voting and standing for election;
3.4.2. Prohibition on entering into marriage, the status of which is defined by Article 17 of the Convention as a union of two adult human beings, entered into based on free choice, while of sound mind and memory. The status of a union between a human and a being, or between two beings, is defined as a social partnership.
3.4.3. Prohibition on the adoption of children by beings" — etc.
[6] Planets with similar daily and annual cycles and linked by tight production chains often prefer to synchronize their calendars for convenience (research by Prof. O. Vlasova).
[7] The prefix "Wad-" is derived from the word "wadi" (Fahti) – a dry riverbed. This signifies that the prince or princess belongs to a junior branch of the ruling family and is prohibited from marrying or having children without the Sultan's special permission.