Al-Haiyan, the capital of the Sultanate of Er-Rummal's colonies on Tar-Mariat
"Forgive me, Murad," the Wad-Prince confessed, "I'm an idiot. I should have found this vial myself! I searched her apartment twice!" He looked dejectedly at the flask engraved with a lilac branch.
"Don't be upset, Effendi. The main thing is that we found it."
"You found it," AlNilam sighed and muttered: "I'm completely useless."
He shook the contents out onto his palm — a couple of black cubes, slightly larger than sugar cubes. Murad had one too — it stored a recording of his genetic code. Most people received their geno-cube at the maternity hospital and used the same one for life — a person's genome didn't change over the years.
The Wad-Prince rolled the cubes curiously in his hand. He didn't have any himself, as his genetic code was a secret development, created by MT specialists on the Sultan's special order. The Sultan believed that such valuable and dangerous information was best kept from prying eyes — not least because the whole thing was illegal.
"Why are there two, do you think?"
"Maybe she made a copy just in case. What interests me more, Effendi, is why she was hiding them and why they were important enough to send Silverberg after them."
"It's a good thing we're working in an MT perinatal center," AlNilam threw on his tagellan and pressed the secretary's call button. "We'll get answers to these intriguing questions quickly."
Gemma entered the office and immediately stared with interest at the cubes in His Highness's hand.
"Did you need something, Effendi?"
"Yes. Who's currently head of the genetic engineering lab?"
"Anger's deputy, Al-Kerim."
"Ah, one of my father's subjects! Excellent. Take these geno-cubes to him and make sure he personally deciphers them immediately. If he resists, tell him it's an order from the son of His Majesty, may Allah prolong his years."
"Very well, Effendi," Nightbird took the flask with the cubes; it was clear she wanted to ask about the find but was restraining herself.
"Whose do you think they are?" the Wad-Prince asked kindly.
"I don't know, Effendi. Well... they're hardly the terrorists', are they? Probably Shufrir's and Anger's."
"Not exactly. We found both cubes at Fialkovskaya's."
Gemma's eyes flew wide open in astonishment.
"Tell me, are duplicate genetic code recordings made for center employees?" asked Murad.
"No, sir. They can be made if an employee requests it, free of charge, and for family members with a fifty percent discount. But usually we use the geno-cubes we already have. You can't get a job at the center without one."
"What do you mean, you can't?" AlNilam became interested. "Do they require you to present your genetic code at the interview?"
Gemma smiled:
"Not exactly, Effendi. The genetic code of a candidate who successfully passes the interview is checked by the SS to rule out any relation to terrorists or dangerous criminals."
"And that doesn't outrage you?" the Wad-Prince asked in surprise. "How can you be held responsible for your relatives' actions?"
"It's a security matter, Effendi. Centers don't accept such applicants to prevent..." Gemma faltered. Murad snorted softly. It hadn't helped much this time. Though there was a certain logic to it — he himself, before applying for the Tar Yakzan, had submitted his geno-cube for verification.
"Can you find out if Fialkovskaya ordered a duplicate of her geno-cube?"
"Yes, Effendi. I'll inquire at our lab."
The girl left. AlNilam thought intently for a few minutes, then picked up the remote and turned on the display panel.
"Our trip to the factory yielded only one result," he said, annoyed, pulling the scarf from his face. "One of the factory employees responsible for the assembly line's chip installation slipped a defective chip onto it. So a certain Airat van left the factory with a defect that made it untraceable. Unfortunately, that employee very opportunely resigned, and he'd been working under high-quality forged documents."
"Their SS isn't very good, Effendi. How could they have missed that?"
"Well, this isn't an MT perinatal center, though one got infiltrated by the likes of Fialkovskaya — not just an accomplice, but a full-blown terrorist. No one's perfect, in short. I handed Al-Shadiyar that employee's dossier; let them search. But I'd hoped the cutter would have made a mistake somewhere, that something would have triggered in the factory's accounting system. No such luck."
"Maybe the old-fashioned way, brute force?"
"We'd be searching till we're old. Airat vans of this series are bought by the thousands — families with kids, delivery services, repair shops, all sorts. Let's get back to the night of the robbery," the Wad-Prince opened the video archive. "The Transport Department and the Al-Haiyan police did their utmost, and here's what they came up with."
The archive contained all the footage from city and police cameras that had captured the terrorists' van. The recordings were sorted by time, and the van with those plates first appeared on June 11th at 21:48.
"What if we request earlier footage from the Transport Department?" asked Murad. "The van couldn't have materialized out of thin air."
"I did. They found nothing," the Wad-Prince grimaced. "The old trick — regularly changing the plates, adding keychains or other little things on the dashboard, and so on."
Murad just sighed. The object recognition system was, after all, just a program. Change the plates, and the system couldn't find it. Reviewing all the footage from even just one week in a city of 17 million would take months.
"Anyway, we have what we have. Here's all the footage showing the Airat van with these plates. About an hour and a half total. Just enough time to review it while Gemma sorts out the cubes."
AlNilam sat on the sofa, took a packet of "Diet Sweets" from his pocket, and tore it open. The Yakzan took the packet, shook three pieces into Effendi's palm, and tossed the rest into the recycler.
"They're diet!" AlNilam protested.
"A hundred and forty calories per hundred grams," Murad replied. "And you already ate a whole packet yesterday. Two hundred grams."
Effendi huffed but resigned himself. He gained weight almost instantly, and extra pounds immediately affected his health. Instead of the sweets, Murad handed the Wad-Prince a box of iodine-rich dried seaweed and started the first camera recording.
The next hour and a half passed in the most fascinating way — to the crunch of dried seaweed, they watched the terrorists make their way to the outskirts of Al-Haiyan. They moved fast, at the speed limit, and were in such a hurry they didn't even stop to change the plates. Murad could understand why — the SS could discover at any minute that the cameras had been hacked and the cleaning robots were roaming offices and labs at an ungodly hour.
The van crossed a bridge connecting the last city district to the suburbs. There, it wound through streets lined with residential houses surrounded by gardens and front yards, then hit a highway and disappeared.
"There must be cameras there too," said the Yakzan. "We can track its movement along the highway."
"I'm not sure," AlNilam replied gloomily. "They're not idiots; they wouldn't cruise along an intercity highway in the same van after a kidnapping and robbery. I'll request it, of course, but today we're going to that suburb to have a look around. We'll burn off some calories, all two hundred and eighty of them."
"They have two hostages with them, Effendi," Murad reminded him. "Neither man is particularly athletic — Anger is fifty-six, Shufrir sixty-eight. They're unlikely to manage a forced march through the forests around Al-Haiyan."
"Nevertheless, the best way to disappear from radar is precisely to hide in the forests, fields, or mountains."
"That's true, but they need to get off Tar-Mariat and get the hostages out as soon as possible."
"If they're planning to take them anywhere at all."
Murad was silent. They hadn't discussed that possibility aloud, but the risk of finding two bodies was implied. Though Al-Fayyaz believed the terrorists would cling to the hostages until the very end. Besides, they were valuable cargo — Anger's knowledge was even more valuable than a dozen embryos. And if what Shufrir had been doing at the center came to light...
"Do you think the terrorists were hired to capture Anger and Shufrir?" asked the Wad-Prince.
"I think so. What would a buyer do with the embryos without any knowledge of the recombination procedure? Corrective technologies? How to grow being embryos in Mitra-Cubes?"
"There are five embryos there that haven't undergone recombination. If they're those embryos from the farms — healthy and illegally grown — then..."
"Then Shufrir is the most valuable thing they took from the center. He's not just a witness; he's the man who personally handled the legalization of the farm embryos."
"And he did it so well," the prince hissed, "that I still can't figure out how to distinguish legalized embryos from ordinary ones with pathologies."
"That's what your father paid him for. And the Corporation too."
AlNilam rested his elbows on his knees and buried his chin in his clasped hands. Murad could well follow his train of thought. Whoever brought this to light would deliver such a double blow to MT that the Corporation risked sharing the fate of Ars Mechana. Mass-producing embryos on underground farms wasn't the same as the Catastrophe of '36, but...
"No one cares," the Wad-Prince suddenly said through clenched teeth. "No one cares about those children, about what's done to them, about where beings come from in such numbers... it's all about power and money. That's what this is about — to topple the Corporation and carve up an incredibly rich prize, someone decided it was okay to just take children away from a few families."
Murad placed a hand on his shoulder.
"If I could stop it," Irfan whispered, "I would shout from every square what they did to me. What they made me. But it wouldn't change anything. Other slave owners would just come, and that would be that."
The Yakzan pulled him close. These thoughts troubled and tormented Irfan, and Murad always tried to chase them away. But how could he make him forget...
"Just spiders fighting in a jar," the Wad-Prince leaned his head on Murad's shoulder. "And my father sends me to clean up this mess for him and his cronies at the Corporation. And I do it all because I'm terrified of him," he squeezed Murad's hand. "Terrified for you and your family. But if I ever get a chance..."
"You would need proof, Effendi," Murad said quickly, cursing himself for not distracting him from these thoughts. "And we don't know where it is anymore. Maybe your father destroyed it."
"I am proof," Irfan replied sharply. "I could present myself and demand a public interrogation by epsilon-beings. But that's not enough, it's circumstantial evidence, just the memories of a sixteen-year-old boy. And after... after..." his shoulders trembled under Murad's hand. The Yakzan held him tighter.
"Father could always say I just went mad after it," Irfan whispered. "But he won't destroy the evidence, no, not after keeping it for so many years. Father knows exactly how to blackmail the Corporation, knows that even though this weapon points both ways, it's the only thing that lets the Sultanate keep even a shred of independence."
"But if you found it again, Irfan, would you really risk..."
"For you," Irfan looked up at him, and that look made Murad's heart clench with pain and tenderness. "To free you. If I do it, it will only be to free... us."
He cupped Murad's face in his hands, was almost touching his lips — when a knock came at the door. AlNilam recoiled from the Yakzan, hastily pulled his scarf over his face, and called out:
"Come in!"
Gemma entered the office. The girl looked quite puzzled, though she tried to maintain a composed expression.
"The verification results are ready, Effendi. I sent them to your email, but..."
"But?"
"There's something strange," said Nightbird. "One geno-cube does belong to Fialkovskaya," she shook both cubes from the vial onto her palm. "Al-Kerim marked it with a blue dot. But the second cube belongs to someone else. Not entirely someone else — it's a geno-cube of a relative of Fialkovskaya's."
"What's strange about that?" asked Murad. "Many people keep geno-cubes of deceased relatives."
"But that's just it!" Gemma exclaimed. "It's not her father, not her grandfather, not a close relative like a sister or nephew! Al-Kerim said it's the cube of a distant ancestor of Fialkovskaya's — five or six generations back!"
"Now that's interesting," said the Wad-Prince. "As far as I remember, cubes recording genetic code are an MT invention, and they appeared around the thirties of the New Era. Not everyone back then had them."
"But maybe Fialkovskaya's ancestors did," Murad shrugged. "So what?"
Gemma coughed.
"I asked Al-Kerim to check the genetic code against the SS database just in case, and we found matches. People with markers indicating kinship to the carrier of this genetic code are prohibited from being hired by MT."
Murad stared at Gemma in amazement.
"What?!" the prince exclaimed. "But why, after five generations?!"
"I don't know, Effendi. The match with the second cube is one hundred percent, and Fialkovskaya's own code has more matches than the permissible limit. But then how did she end up in 'Bioronica'? She shouldn't have passed the final check!"
"One of two things," said AlNilam. "Either she slipped you a fake cube, or..." he suddenly fell silent, thinking, then asked: "And who is this person, whose genome has so many matches with Fialkovskaya's?"
"I can't say, Effendi. The SS database doesn't have a name for it."
Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
"An astonishing story," Ax said and turned to Phan, whom he'd urgently summoned to the express the moment he'd hung up after his conversation, if it could be called that, with Aguilar.
"They're not lying," the major replied mentally. "Neither the pastry chef nor the journalist."
The ex-sniper had given such detailed instructions on where and how to pick them up, as if he suspected Fontaine of being in league with every terrorist organization at once. Currently, Aguilar stood in the corner of his office, melancholically contemplating the stucco patterns on the ceiling. Ross sat at the desk, looking simultaneously pathetic, frightened, and defiant.
"I'd like to see your memories," Phan said . "I'm interested in your encounter with Donna."
The journalist flinched slightly and glanced at Aguilar. The man stared intently at the major, as if assessing her potential for harm, then nodded. Ross exhaled quietly.
"It's completely painless," the major continued. "You won't feel a thing. It'll take no more than five minutes."
"I don't... I'd rather not," the journalist choked out. "It was very... very unpleasant last time."
"Donna was crude and clumsy. But I'm a professional; you won't notice a thing."
"But I gave you all my recordings!"
"No one except you has seen any of these terrorists in person," Fontaine intervened. "Only you met one of them. We need to know what she looks like, understand?"
"Don't intimidate my witness!" Phan's Mindvoice rang angrily in Ax's head. "He's shaking like a rabbit, and I need him to calm down for at least five minutes!"
"Sorry," Fontaine replied sheepishly and addressed the journalist, trying to speak more gently:
"You're safe on the train. They won't risk trying to get in here. Besides, Mr. Aguilar did a pretty good job covering your tracks."
"He staged a whole special operation!" Axel bored into the pastry chef with a fierce glare. "Some expert in delivering rescued hostages! Though, maybe the pastry chef isn't so wrong after all..."
"Fine," said Ross. "You can look."
"Five minutes," Aguilar added coldly. What the hell was his concern for this pup he'd known barely three days, by his own account? If the pastry chef had gotten involved a bit earlier, Ax would have concluded he'd been hired by the journalist blunderer's parent.
"Relax and try not to think about anything," Phan activated the recording device and connected it to Ax's terminal.
"Not remember that evening?" the journalist asked distrustfully. "But then how will you see?.."
"Don't worry about a thing. I'll find it myself."
In less than five minutes, a slightly blurry image of a woman appeared on the screen — tall, beautiful, looking about thirty.
"Do you know her?" Fontaine asked Aguilar.
"Saw her for the first time yesterday. What do the terrorists want with your train? Oh, sorry, you can't divulge that, and it's better for us not to know for our own safety, right?"
This snide quoting of witness protocol did nothing to endear the pastry chef to Axel, and then the steel magnate's offspring piped up again:
"What are you going to do with us now? Lock us up? Erase our memories?"
"Sedation would be good," Ax thought. Phan gave him a meaningful look. Well, he had no choice...
"Although this violates several points of the express's internal regulations," Fontaine coughed, "you may occupy your compartment."
"My compartment?!" the journalist fumed. "All my things are still in my apartment! My editor is probably looking for me with bloodhounds by now, if he hasn't fired me already while I've been stuck here! You can't just destroy my life like this!"
"It seems you'll have to hire me after all," Aguilar said phlegmatically. "If not as a cook, then as a nanny."
Ross paled with rage:
"I don't need a nanny!"
"Then act like an adult," Fontaine pressed a button on his terminal: "Beata, escort our express's guests to Mr. Ross's compartment."
"Both of them, sir?"
"Yes."
The journalist's eyes shifted to Aguilar, who was observing everything with truly philosophical composure, and he blushed from his neck to the roots of his hair.
"And give me back my 'Swenson' ," the pastry chef added.
"You are not authorized to carry weapons on board the express."
"So in case of trouble, I'm supposed to protect Mr. Ross with my bare hands?"
"You did quite well in that alley," Axel hissed. "Besides, my soldiers will be guarding you around the clock."
"Are you sure there aren't any terrorists or sympathizers among them?"
"Ax, give him back his gun," Phan's Mindvoice sounded again. "You haven't finished vetting the crew, and we don't know who can be trusted around here."
"Get it from Miss Leśniewska," Ax said through gritted teeth. He was eager to get Ross and the pastry chef out of his office and get back to work.
As soon as Beata Leśniewska led them away, Phan played back the memory recording. She accessed all three related to the terrorists, starting with the conversation Ross had overheard at the hospital. Fontaine even felt a twinge of sympathy for the kid — he'd clearly bitten off more than he could chew. Phan displayed both suspects on the screen — the woman from Ross's memory and the man whose photo the nurse had sent him.
"Do you have access to the general police database to run their faces?"
"Are you kidding?" Fontaine was almost offended. He sent both images to the database and initiated facial recognition. "Hopefully these clever bastards haven't had time to visit a plastic surgeon."
"They could have done that years ago. The woman, unless she's had rejuvenation treatments, should be listed as a fugitive. Contracts for epsilon-class are up to age forty, and she looks no older than thirty."
"Strange they're acting so brazenly. If I were them, I'd lie low and keep a low profile, not grab people off the streets and break into hotels."
"Maybe they don't know who Theodore Ross is. He looks like an ordinary grad student, his diploma still warm. How would they know who his father is?"
"That's not really the point," Ax shook his head. "Suppose they did manage to interrogate him or even kidnap him. Then what? They'd have to kill the pup, hide the body, and hope no one misses him at home or work."
"I think they're more afraid of him sniffing something out. If they're terrorists, their leader might have some serious paranoia about that. Gallan, if you remember, used to stage show trials and executions even among his own people."
"Gallan's own people finished him off, so that's not a very sustainable strategy."
Finally, the general police database yielded results — the man and woman had documents in the names of Victor van der Holden and Donna Edelman. The system didn't even flag these documents as suspicious — and that gave Fontaine pause: would someone really go to such expense just to steal a single container from an MT factory?
***
"Alma," a quiet voice called. "Alma, can you hear me?"
She forced her eyelids apart. In the haze, his face floated before her, surrounded by a luminous halo.
"Alma, it's time to wake up. You've been unconscious for almost a day now."
She remembered what had happened to her and rolled her head on the pillow. Her arm was still there, though from shoulder to fingertips she felt nothing, as if they'd attached a wooden stick in place of a limb.
"Crappy anesthetic," someone — Vince — grumbled from behind. "Hope that quack at least put it back right."
"We got what we could," snapped the... what was his name... one of the pups. Her thoughts were sluggish, and panic surged through Alma, making her twitch convulsively on the bed... on the table... where was she?!
A heavy, warm hand landed on her good shoulder; the face in the halo of light drew closer — Hector, thank God! Alma whimpered weakly and clutched at him with her remaining hand.
"You certainly caused us some problems," Hector said with a wry smile. "It wasn't easy finding a surgeon for you."
"One whose hands aren't from his ass," Vince muttered. Hector looked coldly at him over Alma's head. There was an embarrassed cough, and Vincent mumbled: "Okay, I seriously screwed up, I get it... Shouldn't have gone to the hotel."
"And it seems we've discussed the issue of going rogue before, not so long ago," Hector retorted. "Thanks to which we have a hit train employee and the express's security service on our tail, in addition to the ghouls from MT."
The pup sniffled penitently, and Alma remembered — Daniel. His name was Daniel, and his brother's name was Roman. Or the other way around. But their surnames... their surnames still eluded her, lost in the mist shrouding her consciousness.
"What did you inject me with?" Alma rasped. "I can barely remember names..."
"It's for cattle," Daniel (or Roman) said guiltily. "Sorry, we couldn't find anything else; anesthetic for beings like you isn't easy to get quickly, I mean, not on our budget."
"Shut up!" Vincent barked at him, and fireworks exploded in Alma's head. She exhaled weakly through her teeth, and Hector placed a hand on her forehead.
"We have water with tonic. Want some?"
Her mouth was parched, and she nodded. Hector brought a bottle with a drinking straw to her lips. Epsilons reacted badly to ordinary anesthesia, and special drugs were used for them, but there was no way to get them. Alma could barely remember where she'd been for the last day, and her head was already starting to throb with pain.
"The quack said you have a concussion," Vince grumbled. "He managed to stitch you up while that crap they brought was still working."
A concussion? But why? Alma raised her hand and touched the stitches on the left side of her forehead and her temple. A vague image flickered in her memory — a tall, broad-shouldered man whose face she couldn't recall.
"Where are we?"
"An abandoned furniture factory," Hector replied. "We had to move here after someone," he shot another displeased look at Vincent, "attempted to kidnap a journalist from his hotel."
"A journalist?" Alma didn't understand. Her head was already splitting; the woman closed her eyes and murmured: "Tell me. I don't remember anything under this poison."
"A young journalist from a local paper overheard you at the hospital. I sent you to find out what he'd managed to uncover, but the pup turned out to have a bodyguard," Hector coughed, "who left you in this state. He tore your arm off and locked you in a dumpster. If it weren't for Romana..."
"Who?"
"My sister," the pup piped up.
"Romana noticed you hadn't come back to the car. She brought you to the old apartment, and while Daniel and I were looking for a surgeon..."
"Oh, okay, okay!" Vincent exclaimed. "I went a bit overboard, I get it, alright? I tracked the kid and tried to get him in his room with a couple of guys. We still have those gas canisters, so..."
"So now we're in deep shit," Daniel concluded, then yelped — judging by the sound of a solid slap, Vince wasn't about to tolerate criticism from the youth.
"I see," Alma whispered. They'd managed to jog her memory a little — and it yielded one last clear recollection: Alma sitting in a car with Romana, Daniel's sister, watching the hospital where the journalist had disappeared... what was his name again...
"You'll remember," Hector said softly and kissed her forehead. "Don't strain yourself. Save your strength. We still need to get off Almonzis and keep track of that damn container, otherwise it's all for nothing."
"Is it?.."
"It's already on the train. But after what's happened, none of us can get within a kilometer of the express."
"We need to get the container back," Vincent declared. "I didn't like this whole plan from the start! Why the hell would we let go of what five of our people died for?"
"From the start," Hector said coolly, "the plan was for me to board the train. But because the younger generation can't drive without autopilot, we have what we have."
Alma remembered that. She remembered everything up until yesterday. Even how Daniel's hands had trembled when he reached the apartment, and how he'd kept repeating: "I killed him, God, I killed him!" He'd never killed anyone before — not even for the Cause, not even during the factory heist. He was only twenty-two, and he was a civilian!
Fortunately, Hector hadn't managed to buy a train ticket — he'd planned to do it on the way, and Alma didn't know which god to thank for that stroke of luck. If he'd bought one, they'd have been tracked down within hours. And after the factory raid, there were only seven of them left anyway. Plus, they hadn't managed to steal the disk with data on creating DNA recombination drugs, meaning they'd only half-fulfilled their contract.
"What about the client?" asked Vincent. "Can they help? Maybe at least give us some money; we're almost broke."
"It's my fault," Alma whispered. "Because of me... so much went to the surgeon... Hector, I'm sorry!"
"It's nothing," he stroked her shoulder. "We didn't know the journalist kid had such close protection. Go join the others," he said to Vincent and Daniel, "get some food ready. Soup, I think, and some noodles with chicken."
They were alone. Hector sat on the edge of the table where Alma lay. She was too ashamed to look him in the eye, so she surveyed the room they'd put her in. It was probably a workers' canteen or cafeteria, something like that. Tables, chairs, and stools were piled haphazardly in the corners, windows were boarded up, and a damp draft came from the ventilation grilles.
"It's not your fault," Hector said gently. "We knew almost nothing about him, and I should have done more thorough research. It's no wonder his father assigned him a bodyguard."
Alma frowned. She remembered something — something about that man.
"It didn't work on him," she murmured. "Nothing worked. Like with you. He's like you."
"Or he's an epsilon too."
"No, I would have known... he's one of you. One of those like you."
Hector lowered his head and frowned. Alma looked at him hopefully. Hector had brought her into the Cause five years ago, and in all that time, he'd always found a way out — sometimes pulling them right out from under the noses of the security services and the Corporation. He always managed...
He took Alma's right hand and began gently massaging her fingers, palm, and wrist. Alma felt nothing — whether from the anesthetic, or because the surgeon hadn't been one of the best.
"I'd like to settle the score with him for what he did," said Hector. A lump formed in Alma's throat.
"Don't think about that. We need to at least get the young ones out. No one will show them mercy, and they're not even twenty-five yet. Maybe we can buy them separate tickets and get them off Almonzis over a week?"
"No," Hector murmured, "no, wait, I'm thinking..."
"You always said there's always a way out," Alma whispered, covering his hand with her good one. "And you'll find it. You always have."
Hector was silent. Romana brought a large bowl of soup with cheap noodles and shreds of chicken meat — probably not real. Hector helped Alma sit up and held the bowl while she forked up noodles and chicken pieces. He waited patiently while she ate — or, more likely, was so deep in thought that he wasn't paying attention to what was happening. His thinking often looked like meditation, and sometimes it was even frightening. Especially for those who didn't understand how his mind worked. Alma didn't fully understand either — Hector was smarter than anyone she'd ever known.
"Yes," Hector suddenly said and smiled, "I think I've found it..."
***
Teddy dragged himself to the sofa, collapsed onto the soft cushions, and, clutching his head to keep it from splitting with pain, contemplated his bitter fate.
"Only I could get into a mess like this!" he thought mournfully. Why did all his colleagues dig up banal corruption schemes, while he'd managed to get tangled up in some terrorist crap?!
"Shall I order you a sedative from the medical car?" asked the pastry chef. He'd assumed exactly the same position as his father's bodyguards: behind the journalist's shoulder, between him and the door, but positioned so he could see all the portholes, while Teddy could barely see him. God, how infuriating!
"Just sit down!" Ross snapped. Aguilar silently moved to the sofa opposite and sat. The pastry chef's expression was good-natured but utterly inscrutable — Teddy couldn't even begin to guess what he was thinking.
"Why the hell are you tagging along after me? Did my father hire you?"
"No," Aguilar replied patiently. "I have no connection to your father. You've asked me that five times now. Maybe you should write it down; you're a journalist, after all."
Teddy flushed:
"Then why the hell are you doing this?!"
"Well, everyone's entitled to a little hobby."
"Oh, so your hobby is ripping off terrorists' arms?"
"Among other things. I also like old-era movies and the music of Eneo Sevilla."
"Why are you a pastry chef?" Ross asked through clenched teeth.
"It just worked out that way. I got a taste for baking cookies in my spare time during service, then moved on to sponge cakes, and before I knew it, I'd slid all the way to tortes."
Although the pastry chef spoke to him gently, as if to a sick child, Teddy had a burning sensation that he was being mocked. How could this guy be a pastry chef?! Didn't he have anything better to do?
"Why didn't she affect you?"
"Who?"
"That woman. She's epsilon-class, right? Why couldn't she get into your head?"
"Non-standard design," Aguilar replied and stood up. "Your compartment has a small kitchen. Would you like some pancakes with orange sauce?"
"Wh-what?" Ross stammered, bewildered by the abrupt change of subject.
"Pancakes. Dessert. I need to cook something; it calms me down."
Teddy didn't get the impression this guy was nervous — he seemed as calm as a rock. Aguilar inspected the kitchen, took a tablet from its magnetic holder, and started scrolling through something.
"What are you doing?"
"Ordering groceries. Even if you don't want pancakes, which would be a shame, you'll still need food."
"I don't like sweets," Ross grumbled. The pastry chef looked up from the tablet and stared at the journalist in surprise for a few seconds.
"How do you manage that?" asked Aguilar, clearly not believing a word.
"I just don't like them. Enough discussing this nonsense! Who are these terrorists?"
"How should I know? There are many varieties, from religious traditionalists to anti-globalists. You probably know better who you've stepped on and why."
"I hadn't even really started," Ross hunched sullenly. He'd only gotten one photo, and they'd already tried to kill him! "I didn't find out anything — why would they go after me like that?!"
"Why wait until you do? Paranoia is an occupational hazard in their circles. Practically a survival mechanism."
"Vile creatures," Teddy hissed. Aguilar raised an eyebrow:
"I thought you shared their views?"
"Why would you think that?!"
"I've read some of your articles."
"I think the Directive has enslaved hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people," Ross said sharply. "But I don't think that justifies killing anyone and everyone left and right."
"The Directive is a chance," the pastry chef said, staring intently at the young man. "A chance that we, unfortunate freaks, were given by the Corporation of the great Marco Tadić. Isn't that what they taught you in school?"
"And what chance did it give you?" the journalist asked, eyeing Aguilar with equal intensity. "Are you sure you couldn't have done without it?"
"I don't know," the pastry chef replied thoughtfully. "My card says I have Vishevsky Syndrome. My eyes didn't form; even the optic nerve was missing."
"Says," thought Ross, and a chill ran down his spine. Says — doesn't mean it was actually true, right?
"Do you believe that? That you really had it?"
"Well, that's no longer a matter of my belief. What's done is done, and all that."
Aguilar went to the compartment door and slid it open just as the chime sounded. A trolley laden with groceries rolled in and headed for the kitchen. The cook began unloading the baskets.
"All of this belongs to MT," said Teddy. "All the ultra-early diagnostic technology, all the corrective methods — and all the beings. And only because someone cleverly exploited the first four articles of the Convention, and now, instead of repealing them, everyone stubbornly turns a blind eye to how the Corporation produces slaves."
Aguilar turned his gaze to the journalist and looked at him for a long time, all the while continuing to unload groceries onto the kitchen island. That look made Teddy so uncomfortable that he dropped his eyes to the floor.
"Do you sincerely believe that?" said Aguilar. "Freedom for slaves, down with the Convention, burn the Directive?"
"Why shouldn't I believe it?" Ross retorted defiantly.
"Because you're rich. Why would you need to believe in anything while you're amusing yourself playing journalist?"
"I'm not playing!" Teddy flared up. "Why does everyone think that? Just because my father made billions?"
"You don't exactly refuse to take them."
"Yes," Ross hissed, "I have money, so I can't be bought. But I can buy myself a bodyguard. Want me to pay you?"
The pastry chef was suddenly right there — directly in front of him, and Teddy involuntarily pressed back into the sofa. Aguilar caught the journalist by the chin and lifted his head so that Ross had to look him in the face. Nothing had changed — it was still just as good-natured, with dark, expressionless eyes.
"You don't have enough money to buy me," said the pastry chef. "But you're so amusing that I'm willing to look after you for free, just for the entertainment."