Even his facial features had changed drastically. The cartilage growth typically seen in old age had reached such an extreme, whether because of the lack of gravity or the horrible hypertrophy, that the enormous bat ears and the nose curved like a crow’s beak made him look more like a wicked goblin than a Homo sapiens. And his entire cranium, if that was still the right word for the enormous, vaguely globular form, barely confined by impossibly flexible bones, reminded me more of the soft, shapeless head of an octopus than a hominid.
The worst, most monstrous part of it was that behind all these extreme transformations you could still recognize the original human form, little of which remained now beyond this grotesque spectral parody.
I stared as if hypnotized. And used all my self-control to refrain from shooting him. Hypertrophic osteopathy or not, the mere existence of this being was a terrible crime according to the aliens’ laws (which I was sworn to uphold). If I were to fulfill my duty to the letter, I’d have to administer euthanasia to him without delay. Such extreme variations on the human biotype were categorically banned, not only on the Burroughs but throughout the Solar System.
But I was certain this deformation must have been caused by disease. It couldn’t possibly be a case of genetic modification. No human could have wanted to have turned into… that.
And when the aliens kept a close eye on a thing, like they did with genome stability, you didn’t want to mess around with it. The terrestrial police might allow an “independent” enclave like the Estrella Rom or the Angel of Zion to orbit their planet and traffic in contraband replacement parts, pirated software, drugs, things like that, if they felt like it. But they’d never risk reprisals against their entire species such as the aliens threatened if they discovered some crazy person playing at genetic manipulation with human DNA.
All Vasily said was, “Thanks, Old Man.” He touched me softly on the shoulder and whispered, “It’s done. And stop staring at him, he’ll get annoyed. We know where to look for them now. We can go.”
“Don’t worry about it, Afortunado, I’m used to being seen for what I am: a freak.” The old man’s voice spoke out once more in the spluttering, underwater tone that characterized his toothless mouth. “No need to be in such a rush. Ah, Vasily. How long’s it been since we met—five years, no? Aren’t you even going to ask me why I gave you the info you came for before you had time to ask? Or what it is I want?”
“In the orphanage I learned not to abuse my good luck, Old Man,” Vasily said, smiling. “But I admit to a certain curiosity.”
“I admit to a certain curiosity. How your vocabulary has grown in that cell, Vasily,” the Old Man joked as he snaked past his collection, caressing some of the suits with his impossibly flexible arms. “And your buratino friend is very curious as well. He’s thinking: it must be illegal for a human monstrosity like me, unable to withstand Earth’s gravity for even a second, to exist.”
“Oh, not at all,” I began, feeling even more uncomfortable, if possible. Could this monster be a telepath, too?
But the Old Man stopped me with a majestic wave of his hand.
“I knew I’d live to see this day.” He smiled, if the catfish yawn of his toothless mouth could be called a smile. “I knew he’d break every limit one of these days. You can fool the human police, but not the aliens, or their robot bootlickers. Afortunado, I gave the information because I wanted to make you the instrument of my revenge.”
“Oh,” Vasily said simply, looking uneasy. “Well. My pleasure.”
“I am Slovoban. The Old Man. I founded the Estrella Rom. I dreamed of a space in space for those who had no space. Such as my people. That was ninety-six years ago. My brain is the only part of me that I’ve kept in perfect condition, but it makes up for everything I’ve had to renounce. Because for forty-four years I was the invincible patriarch of all space tramps. No man could beat me in a one-on-one fight. No cheat could catch me up with any of his tricks. Perhaps no one recalls it today, but fifty-two years ago I was not this pitiful shapeless thing.”
The eyes of the living mummy closed, dreaming, covered by almost transparent lids, and his arachnid fingers ran along the feathers on his Aztec (or maybe Inca, I’m not sure) breastplate.
“No; when I had this place built, I was Slovoban El Rayo. Six foot four, weighed two hundred ninety pounds. Reflexes of a wildcat. I had forgotten more things about hand combat than you’ll ever learn, Vasily. I was the best. With a knife, a cudgel, exotic weapons, or my bare hands. In duels I killed twenty-three men who challenged my authority, until there were none left who dared take me on. I was the chief, the present day was my fiefdom, and the future my kingdom. The aliens had just arrived in the Solar System with their faster-than-light ships and all the rest of their omnipotent technology. I saw the troubled waters and thought I’d try my hand at fishing, too, forgetting that sometimes troubled waters are full of sharks. I went in on a deal involving smuggled universal energy crystals with some Cetians….”
I listened transfixed, knowing where the Old Man wanted to take us. Just like one of Marlowe’s investigations: it always turns out everybody has business to settle with the bad guy. Fifty-six years is a long time in human terms, but barely a blink of an eye in a Cetian’s life cycle; they only look like humanoids. They hatch from eggs in litters of up to fifty clones and can live for five millennia.
Fifty-six years. Of course. I hadn’t heard anything about that little gap between the date of Makrow 34’s criminal activity and his capture and escape, thanks as always to the aliens’ love for compartmentalizing information. In this case I was up against three enemies and loads of traitors. And I still didn’t really know which side to count Vasily El Afortunado on.
“…but I miscalculated.” Old Man Slovoban tried to shrug, but with his softened skeleton the gesture was reduced to a semiliquid amoeba-like tremble. “I had met somebody tougher than me. Behind the Cetian’s delicate body and doll face, there was a real demon.”
Here came laughter that sounded more like a hoarse cough.
“He pulled one over on me; he challenged me to a knife fight in zero gravity. I accepted. Nobody handled a knife better than I did. But I don’t think any human ever made so many clumsy mistakes in a fight that his life depended on. I don’t know how it could have happened. Every time I was about to get him, something went wrong. I ended up with two wounds—I, who had never been touched by an enemy’s blade. One I gave myself, in my arm, when it cramped up inexplicably. The other was a disaster. My knife hit the metal wall, sparks flew, they blinded me temporarily—and just then he threw his dagger and hit my thigh, right in the femoral artery.”
The Old Man’s dim eyes flashed.
“At least I was lucky enough not to lose the leg. Incredible aim, skill, or luck. You know how hard it is to throw a knife in zero gravity and hit what you aim for?” He sighed. “I’ve never understood how I had so much bad luck that day. And there’s not much else to tell. Makrow 34 ran off with all the contraband while I was unconscious. Also, his stiletto was laced with poison. My doctors couldn’t even figure out what kind of venom he used. I had to spend a mountain of money and hire a Grodo biochemist, who finally identified it, though he was unable to counter it completely. All he could tell me was that it was a toxin from an exotic Rigelian anemone. A strange recombinant substance with no known antidote. Completely illegal throughout the galaxy. Not lethal, but insidious. Its curious effects have turned me into this thing that I am now.”