“The image of my prototype, Sherlock Holmes,” continued the clone in the meantime, “is almost completely congruous with a detective-spesh. All remnants of emotions had to be removed, of course. But in general, I am a real Sherlock Holmes, Detective for Cases of Imperial Importance…”
Alex could not resist saying, “Holmes usually demonstrated his abilities to his distrustful clients.”
“You are not a client.” Holmes took the liberty to smile. “You are a witness and also, excuse me for saying this, a suspect in the case of the brutally murdered Zzygou. Although…”
The detective’s gaze became more piercing as he studied Alex closely.
“I have already committed your official and, I beg your pardon… your unofficial personal files to memory. So I will be asking you about things I couldn’t learn the ordinary way. The last alcoholic beverage you perused was dry red wine… em… Edemian Beaujolais… with some chemical stimulant unknown to me. During the last twenty-four hours, you had sexual contact with two women, apparently, first Kim and then Janet… and then there was an unfinished contact in a sex imitation program…”
As absurd as was the very thought of making ironical comments about a detective-spesh, Alex couldn’t help himself—the blocker was probably to blame….
“Yes, the real Sherlock Holmes would have benefited enormously from acquiring a dog’s sense of smell.”
The clone’s lean, wrinkled face remained unperturbed. He took a few puffs on his pipe and then gruffly said:
“The real Holmes is the offspring of a writer’s genius. I am the offspring of the genius of geneticists. That is why I am just as real and have the same right to this name. Well, Alex, since you’ve asked for it…”
He leaned forward across the little table separating them. And started to talk quickly, bluntly, as if hammering in every word:
“Your parents, Alex, were miserable losers. Your mother a natural, your father an accountant-spesh. He strained himself to the breaking point to pay for your elite specialization. He always worked overtime, and you got used to seeing him in his chair, with bundles of wires sticking out of his cheap neuro-port… so you grew to hate the very sight of it. The hostility you harbored since those days, you later transferred to everyone who used the old neuro-shunts, wrongly assuming that these people were cold, cruel, and indifferent toward others. Three years ago, this very attitude became the cause of problems on the space-liner Horizon because you cooked up a far-fetched excuse to relieve from duty a pilot-spesh with an older-model neuro-port. Your metamorphosis had been extremely painful, due to the peculiarities of your organism, and since then your mind has fixed upon the opinion of all naturals as a lower caste of humanity.”
“That’s not true!” cried Alex harshly.
“Yes, it is. You are convinced that the suffering you’ve endured gives you the right to consider yourself special, while in reality you simply have a weak reaction to analgesics. Ever since your metamorphosis, you’ve been feeling offended and tormented by the insignificant reduction of your emotions, although that is unavoidable for a pilot-spesh. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been using some kind of emotional scanner to keep track of your own feelings. But this is all the result of common, ordinary shortcomings in the work of your parents and your child psychologist—they allowed you to experience too close an emotional contact during your pre-metamorphosis period…”
“I don’t know what personal files you’re using, Mr. Holmes…” Alex hissed. “I don’t know how you’ve found out about my poor parents! But it’s probably not worth digging through my past in order to solve a problem in the present!”
Holmes said nothing. He let out a cloud of heavy smoke, set aside his pipe, and continued in a softer tone of voice:
“All this isn’t in your personal files, Mr. Romanov. Trust me. This is a manifestation of the very capacity for induction and deduction characteristic of my literary prototype. In addition, I have unlimited access to information systems, enhanced sense organs, and modified morals. I am a servant of the law, Mr. Romanov. If the law says that a starving child who has stolen a piece of bread deserves to be hanged, I will send him to the gallows. And if the law says that a rapist and a murderer should be acquitted, I will let him go in peace. That is the foundation of my strength. The literary Holmes could allow himself to let a guilty person go, and leave justice to the Lord, if he felt the person truly deserved it. I cannot do that. My heart is only an organ for pumping blood, and I have no other god but the law. I will find the person who has killed Lady Zey-So and turn the criminal over to the punishing hands of justice. No one is capable of deceiving a detector-spesh, Alex. If you are innocent, however, if your hands aren’t stained with blood—I will become your defense and support.”
Alex was silent, looking at Sherlock Holmes, a person created by the talent of writers, by the work of geneticists, and by the wild imagination of detective Peter Valke. Valke was in some ways akin to Hiroshi Moto—the writer turned himself into a reincarnation of Conan Doyle, and the detective became the embodiment of the literary character.
“I am not guilty of Zey-So’s murder,” said Alex with a sigh.
Holmes nodded and began speaking again. His voice changed now, becoming soft and benevolent, which was surprising in a person completely devoid of emotions. Alex recalled that Sherlock Holmes had remarkable acting abilities.
“Tell me everything that happened following your first visit to the deceased Zzygou’s quarters, Mr. Romanov.”
“I went back to the recreation lounge,” began Alex. “All the crewmembers were waiting for me. They were all a bit alarmed because the appearance of C-the-Third Shustov had made… em… quite an impression. But I didn’t notice anyone behaving differently from everyone else. Just ordinary tension among people who sensed that something unpleasant had happened.”
Holmes nodded approvingly.
“Having told the crew what had happened, as prescribed by the rules, I asked if anyone wished to clarify the situation. Everyone said that they had not the faintest idea about the causes or the circumstances of Zey-So’s demise. After that, using the captain’s exclusive access, I took Mirror into a stable emergency orbit and blocked all the control systems of the ship. Then I reported the situation to the Imperial Security Services, adding to the report the special opinion of C-the-Third Shustov about the consequences of the Zzygou’s death. Having gotten the confirmation that the message had been received, I turned off all communication systems, and we waited for you.”
“We flew out immediately.” Holmes nodded. “So… let’s sum up… everyone on board denies any involvement in Zey-So’s death?”
“Yes. Everyone absolutely denies any involvement.”
“And you haven’t noticed anything suspicious in the conduct of the crew, or Sey-Zo, or C-the-Third?” Holmes carelessly omitted the last name of C-the-Third’s matrix, required by the rules of politeness when there was more than one clone around.