by Rosa Montero
“You can look now. What do you mean I’m not going to be late?”
Yiannis—or rather his holograph—turned around. His face was strained and pale; there was no doubting that he was the bearer of bad news. A burst of adrenaline ran up Bruna’s spine and her headache magically improved.
“What’s going on?”
“Chi is dead.”
“What?”
“Early this morning in the subway, she attacked a secretary from the Department of Labor. She gouged out the woman’s eyes and smashed her windpipe. It goes without saying that the woman was a techno. Then Chi threw herself onto the tracks in front of a train. She died instantly.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s on the news.”
Bruna ordered the home system to turn on the screen and found herself face to face with images of the android leader: Myriam at a rally; Myriam on the street; Myriam smiling, arguing, doing an interview. Beautiful and full of life. On the news there was no talk of her having an adulterated memory, but that didn’t mean anything because, as far as Bruna knew, the information about the illegal memories had not been made public yet for any of the deaths. Was Myriam’s behavior due to the havoc wreaked by a lethal implant as well? And if so—as was most likely—who had injected it through her nose? Because it was unthinkable that the RRM leader would have done it voluntarily. Myriam’s death was murder. And it was also the biggest failure of Bruna’s professional career. She hadn’t even been able to keep her client alive for two days.
“I told her. I told her she had to be careful; I told her we should—”
“Be quiet, Bruna, be quiet and listen.”
The hologram of Yiannis now appeared to be seated in the air and staring fixedly not at Husky’s screen but at another point more to the right, probably the screen in his own house. But they were both seeing the same thing. A journalist, a famous but unpleasant individual with shiny blond hair called Enrique Ovejero, was discussing the event with an avid, sensational emphasis.
“And what people are asking themselves is, what’s happening with the technos? Are they ill, perhaps? Is it an epidemic? Could humans become infected? Why are they so violent? So far they’ve only attacked other androids, but could they pose a threat to normal people? We have with us José Hericio, a controversial figure whom many of you will know, a lawyer, and secretary-general of the HSP, the Human Supremacist Party. Good morning, Hericio, how are you? First of all, from your perspective, the death of one of your greatest enemies, the leader of the RRM—is it good news?”
“No, Ovejero, for heaven’s sake, I don’t delight in the death of anyone. Moreover, not only is it not good news but I think it’s also cause for great concern. Did you know there were other, earlier cases of violence?”
“Yes, of course. There was the one in the sky-tram last Thursday, and the one with the woman who gouged out her eye. With Chi, that makes three very similar cases in less than a week.”
“No, no, I’m talking about before those. There were four other such cases earlier on. In other words, seven in total. It’s just that the earlier cases went unnoticed because they were further apart. But they were all in the last six months. The seven cases are clearly interconnected, and not just because of that obsession with gouging out their own—or someone else’s—eyes. They have other elements in common as well.”
“What other elements?”
“My dear Ovejero, please allow me to keep that information to myself.”
It was true. There had been four suicides who hadn’t attacked anyone other than themselves. Three of them had gouged out their eyes, and all four had injected an adulterated memory. Or that was what Bruna had read in the documents Chi had given her. Hericio must have been referring to the mems when he was talking about what they had in common. Where could he have gotten a hold of those facts? The supremacist leader was a repulsive character with silicon cheeks, grafted hair, and a weak, slobbery mouth—one of those mouths that are permanently moist. Bruna had always felt that his fanatical extremism turned him into a clown of sorts, and that no one could take his awful nonsense seriously, but in the most recent regional elections, the HSP had won an astonishing 3 percent of the vote.
“Come on, Hericio. So how is it that the ordinary citizen knows nothing about these other incidents?” the slimy Ovejero asked, feigning outrage.
“Because, once again, our government—and I’m speaking not just of the regional government, but of the planetary one as well—is concealing information. Concealing it, or what would be even worse, it’s not aware of it, because we’re in the hands of the most incompetent politicians humanity has ever had in its history. And that’s extremely serious, because we in the HSP have reliable information that suggests that a rep conspiracy is underway, a secret plan to seize power from humans.”
“Hold on; wait a minute. What are you saying? That the technohumans are preparing a coup d’état? But so far, the victims have only been technos.”
“Of course, because this is just the beginning. All this is part of a Machiavellian plan that I can’t reveal right now. But I assure you—and listen carefully to what I’m saying—I assure you that before long, the victims will start to be humans.”
“Look, Hericio, those are very dangerous, and very extremist, assertions, and I don’t—”
“Unfortunately, it will happen. It will happen very soon! Because this government of mental weaklings and replickers is incapable of doing anything to prevent it.”
“So, what should we be doing, according to you?”
“Look, the reps are our mistake. In fact, I even pity them—I feel sorry for them—because they’re monsters that we humans created. They are the children of our arrogance and greed, but that doesn’t stop them from being monsters. We have to put an end to this aberration as soon as possible, and in our party’s platform we spell out clearly how to do this. In the first place, shut down forever all the production plants; and then, given that their lives are so short, it will be enough to intern all the reps until they die.”
“Sure. The famous concentration camps of the sixties. I remind you that the horrendous Rep War was unleashed for far less than that.”
“That’s why we have to act quickly, without warning, and with a firm hand. There’s a lot more of us than them. We can’t allow them to attack first.”
“Assuming that they do attack at some point, Hericio. In conclusion, on this program we don’t always share the opinions of our guests, but we are strong supporters of freedom of expression. So we leave you with the categorical views of the leader of the Human Supremacist Party. Many thanks.”
Bruna was stunned. It was a long time since she had heard anything so violent. And Ovejero seemed the more guilty to her for having invited such a cretin on to a live show, and for allowing him to unleash his paranoid propaganda without contradicting him or cutting him off, barely simulating a show of dissent. But then, what could you expect from a nasty character who referred to humans as “normal people”?
“This is unheard of. I think they should be reported for incitement to violence between the species,” spluttered Yiannis.
Maybe Hericio had paid Ovejero, thought Bruna. Or perhaps antirep fanaticism was growing far more quickly than she had believed. She shivered. Come on, Husky, you know we’re totally discriminated against, Myriam had said. And she had spoken of plots and conspiracies too—from the human side. It couldn’t be; they were all crazy. It had to be something simpler and more idiotic than a conspiracy: a consignment of damaged mems. She noticed a light tingling sensation in her head, a tiny idea struggling to emerge. She decided to ignore it; normally, her ideas came to the surface of their own accord if she ignored them.
“I have to go to the RRM, Yiannis.”
“Yes. And I have to go to work.”
The hologram of the old man disappeared. Bruna had a quick vapor shower, put on a purple metallic skirt and blue T-shirt, and took a double serving of coffee out of the fridge to dr
ink on the way. She caught a cab and didn’t take long to get to her destination. In fact, she hardly had time to shake the container to heat up the coffee and then drink it before they pulled up in front of the headquarters of the Radical Replicant Movement.
“You’ve left my cab stinking of coffee,” the driver grumbled.
“Well, it’s a very pleasant aroma. You should charge me less for the ride,” replied Bruna calmly.
But when she got out of the cab, a disturbing thought crossed her mind: that cabdriver was unpleasant to me because I’m a rep. Bruna shook her head, irritated with herself. She hated having any thoughts that smacked of a persecution complex. And it was a well-known fact that cabdrivers generally loathed people eating or drinking in their vehicles. Four years, three months, and twenty-one days.
At the entrance to the RRM there were two police cars, as well as the usual security guards. Bruna had to identify herself several times and pass through the scanner before they would allow her to go upstairs. She asked for Valo Nabokov, the head of security and Chi’s lover, and to her surprise, the woman received her immediately. When Bruna walked into her office, Valo was standing with her back to Bruna, looking out the window. She was as tall as Bruna and probably also a combat rep, but she was dressed in a much more feminine and sophisticated manner: tight-fitting pants under a full, diaphanous skirt with 3-D spots depicting rosebuds on it, and huge platform shoes. She wore her hair—deep black and thick—in an intricate bun on top of her head.
“Sit down, Husky,” she commanded without turning around.
There was a fake-leather armchair and a red acrylic chair. The detective chose the plastic chair. A few interminable moments passed without anything happening, and then Valo turned around. It was a given that she wasn’t ugly. All technos had regular, even features (sometimes Bruna felt that this was one of the reasons why humans didn’t like them), but they weren’t all equally attractive. The head of security, for example, was rather unattractive. Combat replicants were flat-chested, because it worked out better when they had to fight, but Nabokov had enormous implants in her breasts, which she carried very high and barely covered, making them look like a large tray of meat underneath her square, pale face.
“Tell me something,” she shot out.
“About what?”
“You’ve been working for us for two days. Tell me what you’ve discovered. Tell me who did this to her.”
“I don’t know anything yet.”
The woman fixed her blazing eyes on Bruna. Huge bags under her eyes darkened her face.
“You’ve lost her. It’s your fault. She was your responsibility and you’ve done nothing.”
“Chi didn’t hire me to protect her but to investigate the deaths of the reps. Her security was your responsibility.”
Valo closed her eyes with an almost imperceptible expression of pain. Then she looked at Bruna again, with the face of a madwoman. Her bun was half-undone, and she looked like one of the furies on the ancient medallions that Yiannis had once shown her.
“Get out.”
“Hold on a minute, Nabokov. I’m sorry about your loss, but it’s important that we talk—”
“Get out!”
“Myriam called me yesterday. I think she had something to tell me; maybe she’d discovered something. She told me to come and see her this morning at nine o’clock.”
Valo stared at her and Bruna ended up lowering her gaze. She noticed the android’s hands: big, bony, trembling. Twitching hands that, remarkably, seemed to be covered with dark, regular freckles. No, they weren’t freckles; they were tiny, half-healed wounds, perhaps burns.
“But you didn’t make it,” Valo whispered.
“What?”
“To the appointment at nine. You didn’t make it.”
Bruna became embarrassed.
“True. I...was held up. And then I saw the news.”
And at this totally inappropriate moment, the little thought that had been eluding her earlier popped up inside the detective’s head. It wasn’t just strange that Hericio would have so much information, it was also odd that Chi would have it. How had the rep leader come to know so much? And how was it that each of them knew that all the individuals concerned had inserted adulterated mems? Who would have provided them with information that only the police knew? When all was said and done, maybe the conspiracy theories were based on something real. Moreover, the victims’ obsession with eyes couldn’t be the result of a chance deterioration in the mems.
All these thoughts went through Bruna’s mind in an instant as Valo walked around the table and dropped wearily into the chair next to the screen. Then she raised her head and looked fiercely at Bruna.
“You’re fired.”
“Fired?”
“Get out of here. Right now.”
Damn, I’m going to be stuck with the 3,000 Gs the artificial memory cost me, Bruna thought initially in a twinge of financial anxiety. And immediately afterward, she thought, But it can’t be. I don’t want to drop this matter. I’ve got to clear up what’s happened. I have to keep investigating.
“Fine, I’m going, but before I go, please answer one question. How did Chi find out about—?”
“There’s nothing more to discuss. You don’t work for us any longer. You’re off the case. Keep the advance. That way we’re even. And now get out of here!”
No, they weren’t even, because Bruna had been crazy enough to buy a mem on the black market, but this wasn’t the best moment to talk about expenses. Valo seemed to be beside herself. The detective got up and left the room, more irritated by all the questions she hadn’t been able to ask than by the harshness of her sudden dismissal. She was heading quickly down the corridor toward the exit, lost in thought and chewing over her doubts, when she bumped into Habib, the rep leader’s personal assistant. She had met him two days ago. He was the one who had provided her with the information about the first deaths and about how she would be paid. He was a brilliant and charming exploration techno. It would have been easy to flirt with him were it not for the fact that Bruna had no wish to be on close terms with any android again.
“Well, well, Husky, where are you off to in such a hurry? I was on my way to find you.”
“I’ve just been fired. If that’s what you were on your way to do, it’s already done.”
Habib opened his eyes wide in surprise. “What are you saying? Was it Valo? Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s gone mad, and I can understand why. We’re all a bit unhinged. It’s been a terrible blow.”
His voice shook a little, perhaps on the verge of breaking.
“Yes, it’s affected me too,” responded Bruna.
“Don’t go, Bruna. We need you more than ever now. Come on, let’s go to my office.”
All the RRM rooms were the same austere, monastic, militant cells, as if ornamentations were ideologically forbidden. But at least there was a small spray of mimosa in a vase on Habib’s table.
“Is it real?”
The man gave a half-smile.
“It’s a holograph. Speaking of which, I believe you still have Myriam’s holograph ball, the one with the threat.”
Bruna remembered that she had left a detailed analysis program of the images running. It should be just about done by now, and she hadn’t seen the results yet.
“Yes. I was running the last few tests. I’ll return it this afternoon. So, am I still on the case or not?”
“Of course you’re still on it. I’ll speak with Valo. Anyway, she doesn’t have the authority to fire you.”
“Do you?”
“I do, but I’m not going to. If what you’re asking about is the power structure within the RRM now that Myriam is dead, I can tell you that I’m her successor until we hold an extraordinary meeting, which I’ve just called. It will be in two weeks’ time.”
“And then what will happen?”
“Most likely, they’ll ratify me in the position. But that doesn’t mean I murdered Myriam so that I cou
ld take her place,” he added with a dry laugh devoid of any joy.
“Murdered?”
“I’m convinced she would never have injected herself with a mem.”
“So am I. By the way, speaking of adulterated memories, how did you find out about the earlier cases?”
“That was Myriam’s doing. She came in one day with the information. She was very worried.”
“But who provided it?”
“I don’t know. All she told me was that someone reliable had given it to her.”
“Weren’t you surprised she knew about the mems? They’re something you can only know about if you have access to the official autopsy reports.”
“Well, no, it didn’t surprise me at all. Myriam always was extremely well informed. She had confidants and contacts everywhere. She even had the odd memorist friend. She was an extraordinary woman.”
In fact, it wasn’t all that difficult, reflected Bruna; she herself had accessed the report on Cata Caín. As to the memorist, she couldn’t help but think about Pablo Nopal.
“When was the last time you saw her, Habib?”
“She came to my office yesterday afternoon. There were things we had to decide about the RRM, work-related matters. But I found her very nervous, very distracted. I asked her if she was okay, and we began talking about the deaths. Then she got up and left. She said she was very tired and she was thinking about going home soon to sleep. But she didn’t leave, or at least not by the main entrance. Her bodyguards hung around waiting until midnight, and when they went upstairs to get her, they couldn’t find her anywhere.”
“How come they waited so long?”
“She often stayed late working on her own.”
“And they weren’t concerned when they didn’t find her?”
“Yes, they were worried, and they called me. I got onto Nabokov, who knew nothing either, because Chi hadn’t come home. That was when we got really frightened. And rightly so.”
They stopped talking for a few seconds while violent images of Myriam’s death flashed blindingly inside their heads and the space between them seemed to acquire a blood-red brilliance.
