Since no one had relieved Nightbird of her routine duties, she spent the morning compiling the weekly employee time report. The center's entire SS had been working at full capacity this week, and she needed to verify the overtime hours.
"I suppose the day I spent with the terrorists could count as a workday," Gemma mused. "Or maybe sick leave?"
The elevator chimed, the reception doors opened, and His Highness burst in — strangely late, as it was already ten in the morning.
"Gemma?!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What are you doing here? You were supposed to be on sick leave."
"Good morning, Effendi. The Corporation will give me a month of paid leave, but first I need to finish my work. Besides," Nightbird added, fixing the Wad-Prince with a steady gaze, "I was given a very large bonus, compensation, they're promising some kind of award, and even advanced training courses for a transfer to the operational division. Did you arrange all this?"
"Me?" AlNilam's eyes widened innocently. "No, why would you think that? I have no connection to the Corporation."
"Effendi did mention your name once or twice in his report to the head of your Inquiry Service," Murad added, earning a furious glare from AlNilam.
"Pavlidis," Gemma said sternly, "called our home personally. She terrified Eric..."
"Yes, a formidable woman; not everyone can handle her," the Wad-Prince nodded, heading for the office. "Come see us in an hour to get the case report."
"Thank you, Effendi!" Nightbird called after him. Murad placed a packet of shrimp chips in front of her and winked kindly. Gemma smiled.
"Effendi is shy about receiving thanks," the Yakzan said. "We're glad you're alright."
"Thank you," Gemma clasped his huge hand in both of hers. "If it weren't for you, I don't know what they would have done to me. Where are they now?" she asked awkwardly.
"Being interrogated at Al-Shadiyar. Maybe later they'll be handed over to MT's Inquiry Service."
"What will happen to them?"
"Who knows," Al-Fayyaz shrugged. "It depends on how deeply involved they are. But they will serve time in prison."
"But they're still teenagers! A bit older, but still!"
"They are complicit in ten families losing their children," Murad said. Gemma bit her lip and lowered her head. "Ten embryos that are still missing, and who knows what will be done with them. Isn't that a crime?"
"Yes, of course..."
"Contact their families. Effendi wants to speak with them tomorrow."
"Very well, sir. And then? Will you be staying long?"
"No, our task here is done. Soon," the Yakzan smiled, "we will free your center from our tyranny. In a day or two."
He disappeared into the office, leaving Gemma deep in thought. Then she opened the embryo database and began searching for the missing ones by ID to find their parents' information.
An hour later, she knocked on the temporary leadership's office door. Murad was sitting at Shufrir's terminal, tapping on the keyboard; His Highness was lying on the sofa, drinking a green tea cocktail and scrolling through some files on a tablet.
"I've called the parents of the missing embryos, Effendi, and scheduled a meeting for tomorrow at seven in the evening. It will be in Shufrir's private conference room, where you conducted the interrogations."
"Good. Murad has created a personal folder for you on the server. You'll receive the password. It contains everything we can tell the center's SS about the investigation's results. You can pass it on to the SS chief when you get one."
"Yes, Effendi. May I ask a question?"
"Of course," the Wad-Prince raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"What will happen to our center? We have no management left — no director, no heads of the genetic engineering lab or the 'Bioronica' department, not even the SS chief. Will they close us down?"
"I don't know," said AlNilam. "I don't work for the Corporation. But Al-Haiyan is a huge city, the capital of rapidly growing colonies, so it's unlikely MT would leave Tar-Mariat without a perinatal center. Do you want to keep working here?" he asked. "Or do you intend to transfer to another department? You handled Magrinha's terrorists quite cleverly."
"I don't think that's a good idea," Gemma admitted. "I only managed to fool them because they weren't much older than children, and I was terrified the whole time. Besides, Eric would go crazy if I was doing this all the time."
"He probably wants you to get out of this horrible place as soon as possible," AlNilam smirked. "Though you could always stay in your old position."
"We'll have time to think," Nightbird said with a smile. "For the next nine months, plus another year of maternity leave."
***
"I want shrimp," the Wad-Prince declared, tossing his musht and tagellan onto a chair in the penthouse living room. "I want salmon steak, mussels, and scallop sashimi! And spiced rice! And a fruit platter. And ice cream," he shot a quick glance at Murad. "One scoop."
"One scoop," the Yakzan replied sternly. He picked up the tablet and began scrolling through the menus of the restaurants on the ground floor of the elite residential tower. His prince wasn't even allowed to look at desserts, but a fifty-gram scoop of ice cream... fine, a hundred; after all, Irfan deserved a small celebration.
Al-Fayyaz added lamb pilaf, a mountain of tomato salad, a cheese platter, and garlic-herb toasts to His Highness's wishes and placed the order.
"It will be ready in an hour, Effendi."
"Excellent," the prince loosened his silk belt, shrugged off his caftan, and stretched. "We have time for a bath. Or a splash in the shower. Though you seemed to like the hot tub?"
AlNilam's work laptop shrieked with a video call, and the Yakzan went to see who was ruining their evening.
"Murad, ignore it," the prince ordered irritably. "We'll call back after dinner."
"It's your father, Effendi," the Yakzan said. Irfan paled and took a few steps back, as if wanting to flee to the bedroom. But the Sultan could not be kept waiting, so the Wad-Prince obediently sank into his chair, gripped the armrests tightly, and nodded for Murad to answer the call.
"I've read your report," His Majesty said, forgoing any greeting. "Is this all you've accomplished in a week?"
"It's not so little, Father," Irfan said quietly, looking at the floor.
"I expected that by now you would have found the perpetrators, recovered the embryos and the archive, and eliminated the terrorists and the hostages."
"To do that, I would have needed to arrive in Al-Haiyan a week earlier. They left the planet the day after they robbed the center, or at the latest, two days later."
"Hmm. Fair point," the Sultan grumbled, looking aside — evidently reading the report. The Wad-Prince exhaled weakly. Murad stood beside him, clenching his fists behind his back.
"From your scribble, it seems there was more than one terrorist group," said Sultan Sayyid ibn-Fahad, running his ring-covered hand through his long, thick black beard. He was already seventy-three, but he ruled the country, the family, and the government with an iron fist and clearly had no intention of relinquishing power. The Al-Jailim clan, however, had always been known for exceptional longevity — the Sultan's grandfather had led a very active life even at one hundred and two.
"Yes, Father. Today I spoke with Elena Pavlidis. She said that around the same time the terrorists robbed the center in Al-Haiyan, another group attacked a Corporation factory on Almonzeis."
"And then the gang from Al-Haiyan tried to contact the gang on Almonzeis," the Sultan murmured, tugging at his bushy mustache. "Interesting, very interesting..."
Irfan quietly exhaled, glanced quickly at his father, then immediately stared back at the floor. Murad, while the Sultan wasn't looking, ran his hand over the prince's shoulder; Irfan touched his hand for a moment, then gripped the armrest again.
"You are of some use, after all," Sayyid ibn-Fahad said, "though far less than there should be. In a week, the data from the archive could have leaked anywhere, and you've done nothing to prevent it."
"Yes, Father."
"Yes what? What do you intend to do to remedy the situation?"
"Murad will book us tickets on the Briareus Express. We'll board the train in Taulan. That's where the terrorists were heading."
"Terrorist," the Sultan corrected dryly. "Singular. That... what's her name... Fialkovskaya."
"Yes. But the case with the embryos is small, and the archive can fit on a mini-disk."
"And the hostages?"
"If the terrorists split up, which they most likely did, they took the hostages in another direction. And I, unfortunately, cannot be in two places at once."
"Don't be insolent," the Sultan said. Irfan flinched and shrank back.
"Forgive me, Father."
The Sultan drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. It was no easy task to decide which was more dangerous: hostages who could easily be squeezed for compromising material, or an archive containing who knows what.
"Or perhaps he does know," Murad suddenly thought; but how could he? The Yakzan had spent hours digging through Shufrir's terminal and personal logs, but the terrorists had very cleverly concealed what exactly they had taken with them.
"Fialkovskaya couldn't have infiltrated 'Bioronica' without help from inside the Corporation," the Wad-Prince remarked. "Something is going on there, and those who help MT eliminate the threat can count on special gratitude. Or," he added a little more quietly, "gain a serious bargaining chip in case of any disagreements with MT."
"Fine," His Majesty declared. "Go to Taulan. Others will handle the hostages."
"Yes, Father."
"It's surprising," Sayyid ibn-Fahad measured his son with a mocking gaze, "how much time you wasted on dead terrorists, yet the moment the live ones captured that girl, you suddenly found the strength to figure everything out. And you're not even a man."
Irfan went pale and gripped the armrests.
"Bastard!" Murad thought in fury.
"See that you don't miss this time," the Sultan said and ended the call. Irfan stood up, pushed away the Yakzan's hand, and, stumbling, disappeared into the bedroom.
***
Murad knocked softly on the bedroom door, but Irfan didn't answer. He often needed time to recover after meetings with his father, but Murad knew the prince couldn't be left alone for long. He eased the door open.
Irfan lay on the bed with his back to him, curled into a ball. The Yakzan entered, sat down on the bed behind him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. It trembled slightly under Murad's palm.
"He made me this way himself," the Wad-Prince whispered.
Murad pulled him close and embraced him. Irfan clutched his hands and barely managed to force out:
"He could have killed me. Instead, he decided..."
Murad pressed his lips to his hair. The prince covered his face with his hands with a faint moan.
"Why does he now reproach me for it!"
"Because your father is a sadistic bastard," the Yakzan thought, holding Irfan tighter. The prince turned in his embrace and hid his face against his chest.
"I don't want to be seen!" he had screamed, thrashing in the restraining bracelets they put on him after he tried to throw himself out the window. "I don't want everyone to look at me! I don't want to live like this! I can't! Kill me! Do you hear?! Kill me! Please! You love me!" — the screams had turned into sobs that could only be stopped with injections of sedatives and sleeping pills.
Murad closed his eyes, futilely trying to chase away the memories. The worst day was followed by the worst year of their lives. He had nursed Irfan alone, especially since the prince wouldn't let anyone else near him, refusing to eat or drink — and the Sultan had ordered: "Let him live," and added, looking mockingly at Murad, "If you let him die, your entire family will follow him."
Yet Murad hadn't kept Irfan in this world because of the Sultan's order. As soon as he'd learned to use his voice neuromodulator, he had repeated to his prince, holding him in a steel grip whenever he tried to harm himself: "One day we will kill him. We will kill your father."
But that was no easy task. Murad's hand slid down the Wad-Prince's narrow back, pausing briefly between his shoulder blades. The loyalty of custom-made beings was ensured by a brand hidden under the skin, a stack that ran into the spine. The Sultan had only to press a button, and...
Murad gritted his teeth. The Sultan was also very willing to inflict pain.
"Forgive me," Irfan whispered hoarsely, running his hand over the Yakzan's chest and neck, touching his throat. "I'm so guilty before you..."
"No," Murad cut him off. "I have never regretted it, and I would do it again."
He had begged for his prince's mercy, but when he threw himself at the Sultan's feet, he hadn't considered that the vengeful bastard would make him pay as well. For daring to speak, Sayyid had ordered his vocal cords torn out.
"You could have had a normal life if it weren't for me," Irfan said bitterly. "I will never forgive myself."
"Just one week," the Yakzan thought. It always filled him with impotent rage. It would have taken doctors only a week to grow new vocal cords, a scrotum, and testicles from their genetic material — but the Sultan would never allow them reconstructive surgery. They must always remember why they were punished, and who their master was.
"I don't want a normal life," said Murad. "I want a life with you."
Irfan pushed himself up, leaning on the Yakzan's chest, and pressed his palm to his cheek.
"I will free us, my dear," he whispered tenderly. "I promise." He kissed Murad and nestled back against his shoulder, burying his nose in his neck. "I will find the key to our prison. Perhaps," Irfan rubbed his cheek against Murad's shoulder, "it is in the same place as the archive."
"Irfan!" Al-Fayyaz exclaimed in alarm. "You wouldn't try that again!"
"Last time I was sixteen. What else would you expect from a foolish pup? I let you down... let us down. But if I find anything like the evidence we saw," Irfan pushed himself up on his elbow again, his eyes blazing fiercely, "then my father and our entire family will pay for what they did — to us and to everyone."
Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
The morning news officially announced the liquidation of Hector Aviles's terrorist group. Fontaine personally came to inform Ross that his protective "arrest" was over. Teddy was initially overjoyed (he could go outside without permission and not worry about being killed!), but then he called The Liberty Standard and found out the editor had fired him for absenteeism.
Ross tried to explain, but the editor didn't believe a word he said. He didn't want to get a job at another Almonzeian media outlet, as he had grown somewhat disgusted with the city itself. So he moved his belongings from his former apartment to the train and decided to try his professional luck in another colony. Besides, despite the capture of Aviles's gang, Teddy still felt uneasy in Almonzeis.
Half the day was spent putting things away on the shelves, and then, to rest a bit, Ross brewed some coffee and turned on the news channel.
"...have been extradited to Ayala," the anchor announced, "following the death of their eight-month-old daughter. A forensic medical examination established that this was due to criminal parental negligence, as they refused to use corrective technologies for religious reasons."
"A logical outcome," said Aguilar, gathering his few belongings.
"Yeah," Teddy grunted. "Sometimes you don't know which is worse."
"The Weisbergs face sterilization and life imprisonment," the anchor declared with obvious triumph. "The Continental Council is already considering a bill introducing restrictions on the practice of free refusal of corrective technologies. According to the Council's press secretary, the free refusal of the Directive annually leads to the death or disability of..."
Teddy turned off the sound.
"I told you. You'll see, they'll pass this law and ban free refusal of correction."
"But then the number of abandoned children will only increase," Aguilar added thoughtfully. Ross shuddered slightly. Although he hadn't seen his eyes — his real eyes, or whatever was in their place — since that night, he still couldn't forget...
"That's the point," the journalist said angrily. "They need more and more beings. I wouldn't be surprised if in a couple of years they pass a law allowing parents to turn even healthy children over for correction."
"Well, that's unlikely. The Continental Council won't violate the Convention they themselves adopted."
"And what was done to you — isn't that a violation?" Teddy flared up. "The Corporation covered its ass with all kinds of excuses, but essentially, they just shoved a mechanoid into you, banned since God knows when!"
"Since the Year 36," the pastry chef said.
"They never learn," Ross hissed. "They don't even care about the Catastrophe."
"Well, to be fair, Teddy, modern biomechanoids are nothing like the devices Ars Mechana produced two hundred years ago. They're much safer."
"But you don't exactly enjoy carrying them inside you," the journalist said coldly, and the pastry chef looked away.
"If I could," he murmured after a long pause, "if they offered to give me back normal eyes — I'd agree without hesitation."
"So what's stopping you?" Teddy exclaimed. "You're free now; you're no longer MT's property, you said so yourself!"
"It's impossible," said Aguilar. "They weren't screwed into me. They're integrated into the tissues of my body, into my brain, the bones of my skull, into my blood vessels and nerves."
"B-but..." the journalist stammered. "But I thought since it's a mechanoid, it could be... well... removed?"
"The prefix 'bio' isn't just for show, Teddy," the pastry chef sighed. "Do you know anything about the Corporation's patents for artificial biomaterials? They grow just like natural tissues, they're implanted into the body like biological muscles, skin, and blood vessels. Reinforcing materials for the skeleton, servo-fibers for muscles, joint stabilizers..." He trailed off, noticing Ross staring at him in horror.
"Is that true?" Teddy whispered. He had never thought about it... it had never even occurred to him! Aguilar smiled sadly and patted his shoulder.
"Forget it, Teddy. After all, it's all for the greater good." He picked up his bag. "I have to go. My head pastry chef's compartment is waiting for me, and you'll finally have yours all to yourself."
"You don't have to leave," the journalist said quickly.
"Thank you for your hospitality, but I'd prefer not to sleep on the sofa."
"You don't have to sleep on the sofa. I mean, in my compartment," Ross declared with desperate courage, blushing from his cheeks down to his neck.
"Teddy," Aguilar said softly, "how old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"And I'm forty-six. You don't have to repay me this way."
"Repay you?" Ross repeated incredulously. "What makes you think I want to pay you like that... Do you," he flushed with anger and roared, "think I'm some gutter slut?!"
"Oh God, of course not, I'm sorry! I only meant to say..."
"Why the hell were you trailing after me and protecting me from those freaks then?!"
"Oh," the pastry chef sighed, "that's difficult to explain."
There was something so sad in his voice that Teddy's anger immediately subsided.
"But why?" he asked quietly. "You risked so much for someone you didn't even know."
"It wasn't the riskiest thing I've ever done," Aguilar assured him. "I've done so many things that if you knew about them, you wouldn't want to breathe the same air as me. But now I can afford to do a few good deeds occasionally."
"What I'm offering isn't a bad deed," Teddy said with a smile, taking the pastry chef's hand. "I'm doing it because I like you... ever since our first meeting at the hospital."
"Is that so?"
"That's so." The journalist placed his hand on Aguilar's chest and felt his heart beating beneath his palm. "You don't have to leave for your compartment right this minute."
"Alright," the pastry chef dropped his bag on the floor and pulled Teddy towards him. "Then the compartment can wait."