Tears in Rain (29 page)

“Hi, Husky, what a surprise to find you here,” said the memorist, smiling.

And without further ado, Pablo Nopal grabbed the android and jumped onto the floor to dance with her. The music suddenly filled the rep’s ears like pressurized water, an intoxicating swirl of dazzling notes. Bruna hated to dance and was incapable of
allowing herself to be led, but now she was unable to resist. Nopal and the melody were sweeping her along, dissolving her in a swirl of rhythms. Their first steps were quite clumsy, hindered by the rep’s stiffness and the chaos caused by the low gravity, but gradually they began to adapt and relax. Slowly, they assumed enough control over their bodies to be able to let themselves go. Now they were flying across the dance floor, soothed by the lack of gravity, feather-light, beautiful, impossibly precise in their movements. She and Nopal—the same height, the same weight, similarly slender—the rep and the memorist spinning round and around to a stunning waltz:
Waltz from “Masquerade”
by Aram Khachaturian, the rep read in luminous letters above their heads. And they danced clinging to each other without stepping on each other’s feet, without missing a beat, as if they were part of a single organism, free of Earth’s humiliating weight, everlasting, miraculous.

The rep moaned as the waltz exploded in her veins, her eyes blinded by light, her skin burning. She moaned with life and with desire, supported by the man’s warm hands, weakened by the oxytocin, and she gazed at the memorist. But she was taken aback by Nopal’s face, with its firm, transparent expression, and the android knew without a shadow of doubt that she and the writer would never have a deeper relationship. Then, embarrassed, she buried her face in the hollow of her partner’s neck and, carried away by the disappointment, the fever, and the fire, she sank her teeth into Nopal’s shoulder until she tasted his blood on her tongue, while the music rained down on them like a deluge. The memorist started and stifled a cry of pain. He stopped for a moment and contemplated the rep with understanding, without any surprise.

“Ah, Bruna, Bruna,” he murmured.

And then he hugged her even more strongly, and they went on dancing.

B
runa went over the information on Annie Heart’s false ID tag again and verified that she was sufficiently well versed in it. She was ready. It was time to get going. Bruna stood up, grabbed Bartolo by the neck, removed from his mouth a wad of paper napkins he was eating, and then called Yiannis.

“Hi, I’d like to see you. How are you doing for time?”

The old man’s face looked strained and nervous.

“I’m glad you called, Bruna, I’ve got lots of things to tell you.”

“What things?”

“Not like this. In person.”

“Oli’s bar in two hours’ time?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

The rep cut the link, ordered the computer to play music (playlist 037, hyperacoustic themes that were relaxing but at the same time had a slightly euphoric effect), and then pulled out the small oven that was built into the kitchen. She put her hand inside the cavity and opened the little trapdoor right at the back, behind which she hid her box of secrets—all those things she didn’t want anyone to see, like the little plasma gun for which she didn’t have a permit. And her supply of silicon skin. It had been a while since Bruna had disguised herself, but it was something she had always been good at. The first thing she did was strip naked, then she warmed up a little bit of dermosilicon until it
liquefied, and rapidly spread the delicate pink film over the line of ink that ran around her body. The bit at the back was probably not so well applied, but that would, after all, be hidden by her clothes. She stood under an ultraviolet light with her arms and legs outstretched like Da Vinci’s
Vitruvian Man
, and two minutes later the thin film had already dried and fused perfectly with her skin, completely covering her tattoo. Now, she could only remove the silicon with dermosolvent. Next, she put in contact lenses. She had chosen dark green ones that looked very natural and camouflaged her distinctive feline pupils. Then came the wig, ash blonde and autoadhesive with body heat, and fake eyebrows of the same color, a little thicker than her own. She padded her cheeks with the help of two prostheses made of anatomical rubber, and then put on padded underwear that increased the size of her buttocks and added two sizes to her small Amazonian breasts. Then came the makeup: a trifle exaggerated, slightly retro, with bright red lips and eyes highlighted using gold eye shadow. She chose a dress with a culotte skirt, a boringly conventional outfit that she wore only on these occasions, and she carefully styled the wig’s silky hair, which fell to her shoulders. She looked at herself in the mirror. The best thing about having such an eye-catching appearance was the speed with which she could alter it. It had only taken her twenty-five minutes to transform herself, and even her own mother wouldn’t have recognized her. If her mother had existed, of course. She was so blonde, so seemingly feminine; would Nopal like her more if she were like this? The memory of the writer slipped across her mind, leaving behind a fiery trace. She found that thinking about him was too troubling. She was sickened by memorists and she found Nopal intimidating and ambiguous. But the previous night in the disco, in the warmth of his embrace, with the exhilaration of the music and the oxytocin, Bruna would have given herself to him. The rep savored again the taste of Nopal’s blood on her lips. Uneasy and
confused, she shook her head. She would, in fact, prefer never to see him again.

She opted for a pair of discreet, comfortable shoes—because you never knew when you might have to run for it—and removed her own ID tag from the chain around her neck, replacing it with the one Mirari had given her. Then she put what she needed into a handbag and headed for the door. Just then, a call came in. She checked the caller identification; it was Lizard.

“Damn!”

She switched her screen to invisible mode and answered. The policeman’s fleshy face appeared on her screen.

“Husky, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Why have you turned off your image?”

“Are you calling to give me the results of Nabokov’s autopsy?”

“Why have you turned off your image? According to the GPS signal from your mobile, you’re at home. Is someone holding a plasma gun at your head?”

“Could you do me the damn favor of not tracking me?”

“It’s a serious question, Husky.”

He said it with a small sardonic smile and yet it seemed to Bruna that, deep down, there was a degree of genuine concern. As if the inspector had faked that smile in order to hide the fact that when he said he was talking seriously, he
really was
talking seriously. The rep shook her head; everything seemed so ridiculously stupid with Lizard.

“Believe me. Nothing’s going on.”

“So why can’t I see you then?”

He was as stubborn as a mule. Nopal had already said so.

“Because I don’t want you to see what I look like.”

“Why not?”

“Hmmm...Let’s just say it’s because I’m not looking attractive enough for you.”

The detective had spoken sarcastically, but it suddenly crossed her mind that maybe she was being sarcastic to cover up that when she spoke about being attractive to him she really did, in fact, want this to be the case.
Oh, by all the damn species
, muttered Bruna to herself.

“Listen, Lizard, I haven’t got time for this nonsense. If you’ve got nothing to tell me, I’m off.”

The policeman rubbed his heavy jaw.

“Actually, yes, I do have things to tell you. But hang on...”

He leaned forward and the picture disappeared.

“Lizard?”

“I’m still here. It’s just that I like to be on an equal footing.”

He had switched to invisible mode, too.
Damned, arrogant, pigheaded man
, thought Bruna.

“Fine by me. Though you could just send a robot messenger,” she grumbled disdainfully.

But it was true that she found it somewhat irritating not to be able to see his face.

“Nabokov’s body was too destroyed by the explosion. They can’t even establish if she was carrying an artificial memory. She was in the terminal stages of TTT and had massive cerebral metastasis, so her behavior could well have been due to her illness.”

“We already knew that. Is that all you’ve got to tell me?”

“Almost.”

Then there was silence, during which the detective couldn’t stop herself from staring at the empty screen, as if the nebulous blur of pixels was going to reveal an important secret.

“We found something in Nabokov and Chi’s apartment.”

Bruna’s imagination again pictured Lizard’s massive body hunting among the filmy, lilac banners in the bedroom. It was not a pleasant image.

“A data chip, hidden in a ring underneath the stone. An ingenious hiding place. We might never have found it if the stone
had been pressed shut properly. When the ring was moved the chip fell on the floor.”

“And?”

“It’s some sort of supremacist pamphlet. There’s no reference to Hericio’s party, but it claims to speak on behalf of some vague panhumanism. It maintains they have a plan to exterminate the reps, and what’s most important is that there are pictures of all the victims, including Chi, showing the tattoo with the word
revenge
. Which suggests that the chip was made by the killers.”

Bruna frowned, trying to slot in this new piece of information.

“And why do you think Nabokov had that, Lizard?”

“I don’t know. But I think someone might have sent it to her to mess with her head.”

It was a good hypothesis. If Nabokov, as ill as she was, saw that rubbish, her violent reaction was much more understandable.

“That was why she spoke to me of revenge when we bumped into each other.”

“By the way, there was also no way the medical examiner could tell if Nabokov had any tattooed word. There’s nothing on what’s left of her.”

“They’re done in the Labaric script of power. The tattoos, I mean.”

Bruna was somewhat surprised at herself. Amazed at the ease with which she’d given that piece of information to the inspector. Clearly, the fact that he had saved her from a beating fostered a certain trust. She barely hesitated before she told Lizard everything she knew. She told him about Natvel, and Caín’s other job at Hungry, and what the mutant with the third eye had told her. In the end, she told him everything except that she had disguised herself as a human, and that she was getting ready to infiltrate the HSP. It didn’t seem wise to reveal that she was breaking a whole slew of laws.

“Since you have an official role in the investigation, you could demand that the priest at the Embassy of Labari provide you with information about the tattoo on the victims.”

“Not a bad idea, Husky.”

“By the way, did you run the two dead reps through your anatomical-recognition program to see if there was a match with the eye in the knife?”

“Yes, I did. And no, no matches. It wasn’t them. I ran you through the program too, to see if it was you.”

Bruna stared at the blank screen with indignation. A few seconds later, she heard the man’s thick, calm voice again.

“There was no match with you either.”

Thanks for the show of confidence
, thought the rep.

“Well, that’s good news,” she said icily. “Bye, Lizard. I’ve got work to do.”

There was no response. The screen was humming faintly. Had he disconnected without even saying good-bye? But the green connection light was still on.

“Lizard?”

Then his voice was audible again. Slow, fuzzy, heavy.

“Be careful, Husky.”

And the line went dead. The rep frowned; it was as if the policeman knew something. As if he sensed something. She breathed out, ridding herself of the awkward thoughts. The lengthy conversation had held her up; she was going to be late for her rendezvous with Yiannis. She took off her wrist mobile and removed the battery. Then she took out the untraceable mobile, and when she switched it on, saw the screen welcoming Annie Heart; Mirari thought of everything. She switched the computer off, put it in her bag and raced out of the apartment. As she was going down in the elevator, she thought to herself with a certain degree of delight that at least this time the
bicho
wouldn’t know it was her. But when she passed by Maio, the alien looked at her with his sad eyes and said, “Be very careful, Bruna.”

The sentence had a watery softness to it, but it resonated shrilly in the rep’s ears. By all the damn species, was her disguise useless? And why had that weirdo told her to be careful? Did he suspect something too, like Lizard?

Furious, she stopped a cab and gave the address of Oli’s bar. Here and there, on the street corners, you could see pairs of soldiers on the alert. Not a single combat rep, just humans. Which was pretty unusual.

“Since they brought out the army, things seem to be a bit quieter. Just as well,” said the driver.

The detective made a scarcely encouraging grunt of agreement. She loathed idle conversations with cabdrivers. The man turned toward her.