Tears in Rain Part 22

Four years, three months, and fifteen days, thought Bruna in order to concentrate on something other than the Omaa. She went to the bathroom to see if the nausea she was feeling might lead to her throwing up, but nothing happened. She wetted her face using her precious, meager supply of water. Four years, three months, and fifteen days. How Merlin would have laughed at all this.

She went back to the living room, where Maio was again blowing on his little piece of wood. Or something similar to wood. It was like a flute, except that on one side there were grooves that ran the length of the instrument. And it was played transversally, like a harmonica, by moving the lips across the grooves. It produced a captivating sound-a beautiful, delicate, liquid hiss. Bruna sat down on the armchair and allowed the alien music to relax her. The notes seemed to caress her skin, to enter through her epidermis, not her ears. After a while, Maio stopped, as opaline and multicolored as ever.

"Do all Omaas play this well?"

The b.i.+.c.ho smiled.

"No. I am an ambalo. That means an amb virtuoso-that's this instrument. I'm a musician."

Then Bruna had another brilliant idea. The second big idea of the day. And she mentally prayed to Gabriel Morlay that this time it would work out well.

They reached the circus between the afternoon and evening sessions. On this occasion, Bruna didn't disconnect her mobile because she had a legitimate and understandable reason for visiting Mirari. The journey there was quite unpleasant. It wasn't the best moment in history for a shabby alien and a combat replicant to be crossing Madrid side by side. Never mind Bartolo, who had hitched a ride on the Omaa's powerful shoulders. They formed an eye-catching group, but the fear they provoked was much stronger than any rejection, and humans took off hastily at the sight of them. Streets, sky-trams, and travelators emptied at their pa.s.sage, as if they were radioactive. If it hadn't been so depressing, it would have been amusing.

They found the violinist in her dressing room eating a pizza. She looked at them impa.s.sively, and Bruna envied her calmness, or maybe her experience. Mirari had probably dealt with aliens in the past.

"What's up?"

"Hi. This is Maio. He's a musician. I'd like you to listen to him play."

Mirari turned her head to look carefully at the alien. She resembled a bird, with her face crowned by her s.h.i.+ning, thick, white hair, like a feathery crest.

"An Omaa flutist. They say they're good. Would you like some pizza?"

She fiddled with the small food dispenser she had in the room, and two steaming extra-large vegetable pizzas, and a small one for Bartolo, appeared instantly in the drawer. They all chewed in silence for few minutes until the last crumb had disappeared. Then they washed their hands in a jet of vapor.

"Let's hear what you can do," said Mirari, leaning back in her seat.

Maio raised the amb to his lips and began to blow. Liquid notes flowed from his mouth, threads of sound that seemed to glide around the room leaving a trail of light. Bruna held her breath-or, rather, she forgot to breathe for a few seconds, submerged in the music like a diver underwater.

A delicate, moving lament of a sound responded beside her. The rep turned her head and saw that Mirari was on her feet, playing her violin. The voices of the two instruments intertwined in the air, the flute sinuous and soothing beside the raw lament of the violin, creating such a profound, vast whole that Bruna felt she had sounds flowing through her veins instead of blood. Time dissolved, the past fused with the present, and Merlin was alive again because absolutely everything but death fitted into that primordial music. And then the horsehair bow slipped and the violin screeched, breaking the spell.

"s.h.i.+t!" shouted Mirari, beside herself, throwing the bow to the ground.

She put the violin on the chair and began to hit her seized-up bionic arm with her other hand. She must have found it insufficient because she then walked over to the wall and, balancing her body, repeatedly smashed her arm against the doorjamb in a whipping motion. She was furious, and the sound of metal being pounded seemed to intensify her frenzy. Finally, she stopped, panting and exhausted, her extremely pale face flushed with fiery red blotches, her shattered artificial arm hanging limply from her shoulder. Mirari gasped, moved the violin aside with a trembling hand, and fell into the chair. Maio and Bruna watched her in silence. The violinist gradually recovered her normal breathing rhythm. Then she looked at her orthopedic member with aversion and began to examine and move it. It squeaked.

"Now I'm in trouble," she murmured gloomily.

She bent over to pick up the bow.

"At least this isn't broken."

She raised her head and looked at the alien.

"You're very good, Omaa. You're fantastic. What a pity."

She grimaced, perhaps intending to look severe but actually looking desolate, and, opening a red box on the floor, took out an electronic screwdriver and began to poke around in the joints of the arm.

"Wait, Mirari. I know a bit about this. I think I can help," said Bruna.

And it was true. The standard package for combat technos included midlevel training as electronics technicians so that in an emergency they could repair weapons, peripherals, and vehicles in the field.

The violinist handed over the screwdriver and leaned against the back of the chair. She looked spent. Squatting down beside her, Bruna began to study the workings of the prosthetic arm.

"You told me the other day that your violin was a Stan...a whatever. Something very expensive. Couldn't you sell it and buy yourself a good arm?" she commented as she tightened some screws.

"A Stainer. Everyone used to say I was a good violinist. In fact, they used to say I was very good. I'm not telling you this out of vanity, but so that you'll understand what happened. The thing is, I was confident in my violin playing and wanted to improve...I'm sure you understand me, Omaa. I wanted to improve, and for that I needed a good violin. I fell in love with that Stainer and I couldn't think about anything else, so I borrowed the money and I bought it. But a few things went sour for me and all of a sudden I couldn't make the repayments, so I teleported myself a few times to the outer mines to earn the money. And what happened was that on the way back from my second trip, on my fourth transfer, cellular disorder destroyed the bones in this arm. The only thing remaining was the bone in the tip of my ring finger; the rest of the bone tissue had volatilized and the remaining extremity was a useless sc.r.a.p of flesh that they had to amputate. So I lost an arm to get the violin, and now there's absolutely no way I'll sell the violin to get an arm. That's why I've become involved in underground deals: to acc.u.mulate Gs and get hold of a good piece of bionic engineering. Although, given my luck, I'm sure to end up in jail first."

Bruna had never heard such a long speech from Mirari. She carefully tightened a cable in the elbow and then looked at the violinist.

"You thought Maio was good, didn't you?"

"He's splendid. He could do it for a living. He'd earn good money. Omaa flutists are a much sought-after rarity."

"Exactly. That's what I thought. So I asked myself, wouldn't Mirari be interested in him for her orchestra?"

The violinist sat upright in the chair and focused. You could almost hear her thinking.

"Such a good musician, and an alien to boot," she said slowly. "Yes, that would be good. Our small orchestra would be greatly improved. We could renegotiate our contract. Even ask for a percentage of the takings. Are you interested?"

Maio nodded.

"All right then. We split everything equally. But I'm the one in charge, you understand? I still have to consult with the others, but they'll say yes. They always agree with whatever I say."

The alien nodded his head again energetically. His large body was lighting up in vibrant color. Maybe it was a demonstration of happiness.

"One more thing. Maio has nowhere to live. And then, I wouldn't like to separate him from the greedy-guts; they get on so well!" said the rep, hopefully. With a bit of luck, she'd be able to free herself of both of them in one hit.

Mirari shrugged.

"They can stay here in the dressing room. There's a bed behind that screen."

And without realizing it, she pointed toward the back of the room with her bionic arm, which unfolded itself obediently in the air.

"Oh! Hey, it's working now," she said, testing the metal joints with a finger.

"Yes, it's working. But try not to smash it against the wall again until you can afford a new arm."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Bruna was standing in line in front of the ticket office. She had been there for a while and was beginning to get tired. It was hot, the room lacked ventilation; it was an oppressive and depressing place. Hundreds of people were squashed into a s.p.a.ce that was too small, with low ceilings and faint lighting. There were old people sitting on bags, adults nervously walking back and forth, children crying. But apart from that crying, a strange silence prevailed, as if the people had used up all their words because of such a long wait. They looked like war refugees, stateless people in search of asylum, and the rep somehow knew this to be so. She looked around and told herself that all those people filling the room, technos and human, mutants and b.i.+.c.hos, were desperate beings, although it was a cold, pa.s.sive, resigned desperation. Suddenly Bruna found herself at the ticket window. Finally she'd made it. A woman took charge of her doc.u.ments and a man led her toward a door.

"It's your turn," he said.

In front of her, a long way down, in a panoramic view beneath her feet, the marvelous spectacle of a multihued, ebullient city-a brilliant, multicolored pool-was spreading out under the dark vault of the sky. Excitement and vertigo. She took a step forward, but someone grabbed her by the arm and stopped her.

"He can't go through."

The android turned in surprise and discovered that Merlin was at her side. They were holding hands.

"Not him," repeated the voice, authoritatively.

Merlin looked at her and smiled. A small, melancholy smile. Bruna tried to speak to him, tried to turn around and go back into the room. But they were already in motion, nothing could be stopped now, and everything was happening very quickly. Bruna was flying downward toward the city and Merlin was being left behind; Merlin was a dead weight pulling on her. The rep gripped her lover's hand-gripped it so as not to lose him, so as not to become separated from him-but Merlin was floating like a helium balloon and he was being left behind, painfully stretching her arm.

"Nooo!" shouted the android, sensing that he was getting away from her.

In a desperate effort to hold onto him, she dug her nails into his back, but her sweaty hands were slipping, and suddenly they were no longer touching. Merlin, with all his extremities stretched out in the air like a star, was ascending toward the black, never-ending sky until he finally disappeared into the drift among the shadows of nothingness.

Bruna sat bolt upright in bed. She was drenched in sweat and gasping, because the nightmare's terror was still crus.h.i.+ng her lungs. She looked at the time projected onto the ceiling: 03:35. Thursday. No, Friday. January 28, 2109. One week out from the end of the world, according to the Apocalyptics. Four years, three months, and fourteen days.

She moaned quietly because the pain was killing her. The pain of Merlin's absence, the pain of remembering his pain. If people saw other people dying as a matter of course, if people were conscious of what it cost to die, they would lose faith in life. Bruna tensed her jaw and ground her teeth. Enough, she thought. She leaped up, put on her old military training gear, and left the apartment to let off steam. Madrid was deserted, even lonely now that Maio was no longer to be found at his post on the corner. His presence had been so constant that now his absence seemed to have left a hole in the scenery. But the b.i.+.c.ho had remained behind at the circus, with Mirari.

Bruna started jogging along the empty street, but immediately broke into a run, racing along without even waiting to warm up. She ran and ran, pus.h.i.+ng herself beyond her capacity, and her muscles began to hurt and the air set her lungs on fire. One stride after another, her feet pounding the hard asphalt, her heart pounding in her throat, the sky above her head as black and menacing as the one in her nightmare. Oh, Merlin, Merlin. The sound began to push out through her clenched teeth, first as a grunt, then as a wail. And now Bruna opened her mouth wide and was shouting, howling with all her might, with her entire body, flesh and bone, every cell combining to exhale that scream; running and shouting as if she wanted to kill, running and shouting as if she wanted to turn herself inside out. The thick military boots. .h.i.t the sidewalk again and again, and the heavy thuds were vaguely pleasing; she seemed to be trampling on the world and actually kicking it. Bruna was running viciously.

Now and again, shadows as fleeting as c.o.c.kroaches disappeared at top speed in front of her. Windows were opened as she went past, lights were turned on. Four years, three months, and fourteen days, thought the android as she yelled at the top of her lungs. Or 711 days. Almost two years had pa.s.sed already since Merlin's death. Between the two vectors-the ascending sum of her memory and the descending one of her own life-the huge hole of all terrors was opening up, the unbearable incoherence. It was impossible not to despair, not to scream.

Right at that moment she saw a gun emerging from the dark in front of her.

"Stop! Police! Identify yourself."

He was an FCP, a member of the Freelance Contract Police, a mercenary service hired by the regional government, which was always in a state of economic crisis and incapable of maintaining its own security forces. FCP companies varied a great deal in price and quality; this extremely young policeman with his hesitant voice and shaking weapon had to be part of a very cheap and very bad contract. Without stopping, Bruna took advantage of the impetus of her fury and her running speed to kick the gun out of the FCP's hand and throw herself on top of him. The young man fell backward onto the ground with the rep above him, grabbing him by the neck. The policeman didn't even try to defend himself; he was ashen, paralyzed with fear. In a moment of sanity, the android saw herself with another's eyes, her face twisted with rage, bellowing. Because the deafening noise she was hearing was her own howl-the threatening howl of an animal.

"Please, please, please," stammered the half-choked policeman.

He was a child.

"Why did you point the gun at me?"

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry...The neighbors alerted us, and I was the closest one."

That meant that others would arrive soon.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

Twenty! Bruna had never been twenty, although she had a memory of that age. She was startled by a sharp, unexpected twinge of hatred, an infinite hatred toward this privileged human who didn't even know how much he had. Her hands twitched momentarily with the desire to tighten her fingers, to close her hands around the boy's neck. It was like a shock, like the instantaneous and galvanizing pa.s.sage of an electric current. But then the impulse disappeared without a trace. All that remained was a young man, almost a boy, about to burst into tears beneath her claws. And a very black sky over their heads.

So Bruna released the policeman and stood up.

"Forgive me. I'm really sorry. I hope I haven't hurt you."

The policeman sat up on the ground and shook his head.

"It was a reflex action when I saw you coming toward me with the plasma gun. My nerves are on edge, as I'm sure you can understand. You're pursuing us reps, you're marginalizing us, you're hating us, you're killing us. And yet you were the ones who created us."

Two tears, dense and round like drops of mercury, rolled unexpectedly down Bruna's cheeks. Where was the water coming from? How was it possible to have experienced so much pain without any tears and now cry for no reason? Then, as she tried to control and contain herself, the rep saw that the FCP was also crying. Sitting on the ground, he was crying like a little boy, his eyelashes damp with tears. So different, the two of them, yet suddenly united by tears on this dark and solitary night. It was a very strange moment. The strangest in Bruna's life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

What with the early morning run and the time it had taken Bruna to get to sleep, she hadn't slept much at all. She got up feeling more tired than she had when she went to bed, clumsy to the point of exasperation, slow and groggy. She hit the wrong b.u.t.ton on the food dispenser and instead of coffee ordered soup, which she had to throw out. So then she decided to grab one of those disposable espresso coffees that reach the perfect temperature with just a shake of the container, but when she took the lid off the cup, the liquid spilled out all over her. She was in a bad enough mood already, but then on top of everything else, the vapor shower suddenly stopped working and the android had to rinse herself with water. An expensive outlay, especially given the calamitous state of her finances.

At that stage, the only thing that appealed to Bruna was to get back into bed or maybe even crawl under the bed for fear of what else such a clearly disastrous day might bring. But she plucked up courage and set to work unwillingly. She spoke to Habib to tell him about her progress with the investigation, which had not in fact advanced at all. But at least she could tell him about her upcoming meeting with the mem pirate. She spoke with Yiannis to tell him that everything was fine, because she a.s.sumed that he'd be worried about her infiltration of the HSP, and discovered to her amazement that the old man not only seemed unconcerned but also probably didn't even recall their conversation about it. He was in too much of a state about the manipulation of the archive and the lack of response to his complaints. More irritated by the minute, Bruna checked her bank account with Bancanet and confirmed that her situation was even worse than she had expected, because they had withdrawn the third repayment on the personal loan she had taken out months earlier when she found herself out of work and out of sorts. Next, she rang the person in charge of maintenance in her building to tell him about her broken vapor shower, and the man replied that, according to the autoa.n.a.lysis records, there was nothing wrong with it. So the android took advantage of the moment to give him a piece of her mind, very loudly. Then, still trembling from the adrenaline hit, she went into the kitchen, pulled the built-in oven out from its cavity, and dropped it on her foot. Or rather she didn't drop the oven, as the appliance simply slipped from her hands; but it missed her foot only because her rapid reflexes allowed her to jump into the air and save her toes. And the oven crashed loudly onto the floor, and the door cracked and came off.

"A curse on all the wretched species," she muttered in desperation.

She'd have to buy a new oven, and buy it very quickly, despite the parlous state of her finances, because the appliance no longer fit into the hole and she couldn't risk having someone come in and find her secret hiding place-the hiding place from which she now removed the small plasma gun, putting it in her backpack. She had a vague but persistent feeling of danger, and she decided to take a weapon with her to the meeting with the mem pirate. Then she went to her main screen and checked manually one last time to make sure that she hadn't received any call or message from Lizard.

"That d.a.m.n stubborn mule," she muttered.

Bruna was ready, and she had to leave now if she wanted to use public transportation to get to her appointment with the mem pirate. But instead of doing that, she flopped into the chair and told the computer to call the inspector. The man's face filled her screen, more impenetrable than ever.

"What do you want?"

Clearly, he wasn't in a good mood. The android had no idea what she wanted; maybe to apologize somehow for her behavior the day before. But Lizard's unpleasant curtness instinctively made her adopt a similarly harsh tone.

"A question: Do you think what the amba.s.sador said about the tattoos being forgeries of Labaric writing is true?" she improvised.

Paul lowered his heavy eyelids a little farther.

"What do you think?" he replied in a somewhat irritated tone.

The rep thought for a moment.

"It infuriates me to say he's right, but I think that's the case. Lies tend to come with lots of unnecessary details, and he made no effort at all to embellish what he said."

"Could be. Anything else? I'm really busy."

"I'm going to meet a mem pirate this morning."

Bruna heard herself saying it and was amazed. Why was she telling the inspector such an important detail? Because I don't want him to hang up, she answered herself. Because I want us to go back to being friends. But in reality, it had been a stupid thing to confide. Lizard would undoubtedly start talking about Nopal again and advise her against going to any meeting arranged by him.

"Fine. I hope it goes well."