Tears in Rain (39 page)

****(Note the totally unjustified and erroneous alterations to the text! I insist on the urgent need for an internal investigation. Central archivist FT711)****

The so-called Congo Crisis was not the only extermination of an entire nation to occur during the Robot Wars, but it was probably the most important and the best known. The major world powers rapidly toughened their positions regarding this crisis and, in the end, the Geneva terms appeared to be adhered to down to the last detail: in the isolation of the devastated Congolese territory, among rusting metal and yellowing bones, robots spent more than a year destroying one another. Finally, the day came when the countries involved tacitly buried the Tenth Geneva Convention and went back to sending human troops to the front. As of that moment, until the Robot Wars ended, they were
fought with both human soldiers and automatons, a fatal combination that resulted in a horrific mortality rate.
A carnage which, interestingly, the replicants escaped since, adhering to their customary practice of civil disobedience (all the rights, none of the obligations), they refused to participate in battle. Eminent authors, such as Professor Lumbre Ras, Nobel Laureate in Physics, have talked of an android conspiracy to decimate humans. They maintain—with abundant documentary evidence—that behind the extermination of the Congolese and the return to traditional warfare can be seen the backroom dealings of these artificial creatures, who, intimately linked through a secret lodge, constitute a genuine power on the sidelines whose sole aim is to subjugate humans.

****Crisis memorandum****
For the attention of the overall supervisor of Zone PPK

In light of the serious irregularities I have observed in the archives in the past few days, and given that my previous—and frequent—reports have produced no response from my immediate superiors, I have decided to resort to emergency protocol CC/1 of the General Law Governing Archives and submit
a crisis memorandum to the person responsible for the zone.

I have been making note of a growing number of erroneous alterations to the texts of several archives (see attached documents). The alterations lack an EID (electronic identification; in other words, is it unclear who is responsible—a fact that is, in itself, already highly irregular). They are totally false, and all constitute blatant defamation of technohumans.

The aforementioned alterations are increasing rapidly both in number and in the brutality of the tone and the lies. The present document is a good example of what I am referring to. In reality, and in contrast to what is being maintained by the anonymous author, it was primarily combat technohumans that were killed in the Robot Wars—as in all the wars, unfortunately. This is why they were created. No techno refused to fight, as far as we know, and it goes without saying that the coltan mines do not belong to any android but rather to the Ngé family and to a very human arms consortium that produces war robots. Moreover, the supposedly eminent Professor Lumbre Ras does not exist; no amount of checking in Wikipedia and the annals of the Nobel Prizes produces any result.
This shows how crudely the articles have been falsified.

Given all of the above, it seems reasonable to assume that the alterations follow a plan and have a concrete aim. It is not up to me to analyze what this purpose is, and to what extent it could be a question of a conspiracy, given the critical period of interspecies violence we are currently experiencing in the region (and not just in the region: it would appear that similar disturbances are happening in Kiev, New Naples, and Cape Town), but the alterations should undoubtedly be investigated with the utmost urgency by the appropriate person. I am so convinced of the extreme seriousness of the situation that, in light of my fear of a possible delay in response, I am going to do something that I have never done in my forty years as an archivist: I am going to keep the article in my inbox instead of returning it to the editing section and, in addition, I will send a copy of said article—and of this memorandum—to my personal computer.

I await your rapid response, and remain yours sincerely, Yiannis Liberopoulos, central archivist FT711

A
delicious aroma of coffee and toast awoke Bruna. She opened her eyes and had to close them again immediately, blinded by the brilliant whiteness of the snow. But that briefest of glances was enough for her to put her world back in place. She was in Lizard’s apartment. She’d spent the night there. The inspector had sedated her. But he didn’t appear to have killed her. Bruna smiled at the nonsense that had just crossed her mind and cautiously opened her eyelids again.

“You’ve been sleeping for twelve hours. I was beginning to get worried.”

Lizard was rushing back and forth, displaying an exhausting energy.

“I have to go down to the police precinct. Stay as long as you like. I’ve authorized the computer to recognize you. You can go in and out of the apartment and ask the screen for whatever you need.”

“I assume I can only ask for
certain
things, though,” she mumbled with her furry tongue.

“Obviously...To have a shower, eat something. I’ve given you basic domestic access. You wouldn’t want me to open up my entire life from one day to the next.”

Paul was speaking in a lighthearted tone, but Bruna blushed.

“I don’t want anything,” she grunted.

On the other side of the windows, the world was enveloped in a quiet, squeaky, white blanket.

“You drugged me last night.”

“What?”

“You gave me a sleeping pill without my knowledge.”

“It strikes me that it did you good.”

“Don’t do it again.”

Lizard shrugged his shoulders, somewhat annoyed.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. And you’re welcome. Hey—you’re
welcome
. There’s no need to overwhelm me with your gratitude,” he added sarcastically.

He stuffed himself into an enormous winter coat with a hood and opened the door to leave.

“Lizard!”

The inspector paused in the doorway.

“That...that story about Maitena and your childhood, is it true?”

“Why would I lie to you?” Paul replied without turning around.

Then he glanced at her over his right shoulder.

“Incidentally, speaking of lies...last night and this morning they’ve been calling you insistently on your other mobile. You know which one I’m talking about: the illegal one.”

And with that, he left.

The Caiman always managed to unsettle her.

When they’d reached the hospital, Bruna had managed surreptitiously to remove Annie’s mobile—which she usually wore taped to her stomach—and after rolling up the thin, translucent sheet, had hidden it in the inside pocket of her backpack. Now, however, the mobile was lying unfolded on the table next to her. She grabbed it. Sure enough, there were six missed calls from Serra, Hericio’s deputy. She made an effort to concentrate and assume the role of Annie Heart, and then hit the supremacist’s
number. The man’s unpleasant face filled the screen. He looked irritated and suspicious.

“Where have you been?” he barked.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Of course it is. You’re too mysterious, sweetheart. You appear suddenly out of nowhere, you disappear just as suddenly, and besides, I’m sick of not being able to see you. All that nonsense about the mobile being untraceable, about there being no picture when we speak. I’m beginning to think you’re hiding something. And if that’s true, I assure you, you’ll be sorry.”

Bruna took a deep breath.

“Let’s clarify a few things: One, that’s not how to treat a prospective donor. Two, I’m still not sure I want to give you my money. Three, don’t ever threaten me or you’ll never hear from me again. Call me when you know where and when I’ll be meeting Hericio,” she said in an icy tone.

She cut communication. She waited for two long minutes with her eyes glued to the screen. Finally, blue letters lit up: “16:00 at the bar in your hotel.” Perfect!
The funding permit clearly hasn’t provided the anticipated results
, the rep said to herself.
They still seem keen to fill their coffers
. They would undoubtedly pick her up at the bar and take her somewhere. Perfect. It wasn’t yet 10:00. She had more than enough time.

Bruna felt her ribs. They were still hurting but not as much. The bone regenerator they had injected at the hospital seemed to be working. She took off the blanket and stood up carefully. Despite her recent beating, she in fact felt reasonably good. A check in the large mirror on the wall confirmed that she was still wearing yesterday’s clothing—torn, stained with blood, and far too lightweight for the cold weather outside. She undid the fasteners and let her clothes fall to the ground. Her entire body bore the marks of the blows; it was a multicolored map of the beating. The bruises climbed up her body to her face like a vine, and she
also had a medicated bandage on her wrist. If she was going to see Hericio, she might have to hide all that with makeup.

Still naked, she walked to the kitchen area. She was as hungry as an ox, and the smell of toast and coffee Lizard had left floating in the air made her mouth water in anticipation.

“Screen, I’m Bruna,” she instructed.

“I have authorization for two Brunas. Please give me your second name,” replied the soft female computer voice.

The rep got annoyed. How come two Brunas? So that reptile Lizard spent his life bringing women to his apartment?

“I’m Bruna Husky,” she growled.

“Welcome, Bruna Husky. What can I do for you?”

The rep ordered a gigantic breakfast and devoured it as she continued to mull over her bad mood. Then she had a vapor shower and ransacked Lizard’s wardrobe in search of warm clothes, vaguely relishing the thought that something would finally be too big for her: she was used to always having to wear trousers that were too short and left her shins exposed. She had opened the door and was already leaving the apartment when she suddenly turned and went back inside.

“Screen, I’m Ingrid,” she said, forcing her voice to sound higher-pitched.

It was a name that had become fashionable a few decades earlier, and the streets were teeming with a ridiculous number of Ingrids; maybe Lizard had authorized one of them. In reality, she was using the name just to see how readily the man granted his domestic privileges.

“You are not Ingrid. You are Bruna Husky. How can I help you?” replied the electronic voice with an unshakable amiability.

The most recent computers were hopelessly tricky beasts to fool.

She walked out into a frozen Madrid that seemed to be wrapped in white lace. There was barely any traffic on the roads and half the travelators weren’t working, despite teams of
machine operators trying to unfreeze them with steam guns. The ground was crunchy and slippery even for her genetically enhanced sense of balance and motor coordination. Here and there, humans lacking these improvements were taking horrendous tumbles.
That could well be another reason for hating reps
, the android thought to herself acidly. Bulky thermal clothing and big hoods had the advantage of making everyone look the same, even more so if, like her, they were wearing sunglasses to shield them from the glare. It was virtually impossible to recognize what sort of being each person was, which was a relief because the public screens continued to spew hatred despite the cold. They were all talking about an imminent crisis within the regional government. The subway was running normally, but it was bound to be packed, and Bruna didn’t fancy being confined in a small space with a horde of furious humans, so she decided to walk to the Majestic. The thermometers were showing minus ten degrees Fahrenheit. It wasn’t surprising that there were so few people walking, or that the travelator operators seemed to be moving with the unreal slowness of astronauts at zero gravity, slowed down as they were by layers and layers of cheap thermal fabric. The sky was the deep blue shade of Chinese lacquer and contrasted perfectly with the as yet untainted white of the recently fallen snow. There was no wind and the cold was amazingly quiet. Bruna began to enjoy her walk.