Tears in Rain (7 page)

“Shit,” murmured Bruna despite herself.

She had felt the impact of the scene in her stomach, but a millisecond later she had managed to recover her aplomb. She pressed the button again and this time paid closer attention.

“You’re smiling the whole time. It must be an image from a news bulletin, or—”

“It’s from the end of one of last year’s rallies. We holographed the whole thing and sell it in our souvenir shop. Our sympathizers buy it. It’s a way of raising funds for the movement.”

“So anyone can get hold of it.”

“We have many supporters, and that hologram is one of our most popular items.”

Bruna picked up a particular timbre in Myriam’s words, an ironically sarcastic tone, and glanced up. The other woman gazed back at her with an impenetrable look. Long, wavy, chestnut-brown hair, a tailored suit, makeup on her face. For the leader of a radical movement, she had an oddly conventional look. Bruna pressed the ball again. The superimposed image of the disembowelment seemed to be real, not virtual. Maybe it was of an animal in some slaughterhouse.

“It’s in fact a fairly clumsy piece of work, Chi. I’d say it’s a homemade job. But it’s very effective, because that wholly unexpected and horrific butchery prevents you from noticing the defects. Can I hang on to it?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll return it as soon as I’ve analyzed it.”

“As you can understand, there’s no way I want it. But yes, I suppose it’s evidence that has to be kept.”

Hah
, thought Bruna,
I’ve got you
. Myriam had accompanied the sentence with a small sigh, and her strong and somewhat arrogant pose of the world-leader-who-is-above-such-trifles had cracked a little, showing a flash of fear. Yes, of course she was frightened, and rightly so. Husky vaguely recalled other, earlier incidents during Chi’s rallies that were violent and disruptive, even some supremacists who had tried to shoot her—or was it blow her up with a bomb? When Bruna had arrived at the RRM headquarters, she’d had to go through various security checks, including a full body scan.

“And you say that, apart from you, there are only two other people authorized to enter this office?”

“That’s right. My personal assistant and the head of security. And neither of them opened the door. The register that records lock activity shows no one entering here from the time I left the previous night until when I returned the following
morning. And by then the holograph ball was already on my desk.”

“Which means that someone has manipulated the register. Maybe someone internal. The head of security?”

“Impossible.”

“You’d be amazed at the infinite possibilities of the impossible.”

Myriam cleared her throat.

“She’s my partner. We’ve been together for three years. I know her. And we love each other.”

Bruna had a fleeting vision of Myriam as a potential lover. That cold self-assurance punctuated by the fragility of fear; that loud, intrusive activism linked with her old-fashioned appearance. Why, she even had fingernails painted in the retro style! All those contradictions magnified her attractiveness. For a moment Bruna convinced herself that she could understand why the head of security had fallen for her. But finding Myriam sexy put Bruna in a bad mood.

“And what can you tell me about your personal assistant? Do you love him enough to exonerate him, too?” she asked, with uncalled-for rudeness.

Myriam Chi didn’t react.

“He’s also beyond suspicion. We’ve worked together for too many years. Don’t make a mistake. Don’t waste your time looking where you shouldn’t. I repeat that this is linked to trafficking in adulterated memories. I’m certain of it. That’s what you have to investigate and that’s precisely why I’ve called you: because you saw one of the victims.”

Indeed, Myriam had told her all this in a commanding tone as soon as Bruna had arrived. The RRM leader had explained to her that before Cata Caín, there had already been four other reps who had died in similar circumstances. And that when she became interested in the matter and went to talk with friends and colleagues of the victims, she began to receive strange threats: anonymous, untraceable phone calls; increasingly threatening
messages on her computer; and finally the holograph ball, more intimidating because of its appearance in her office than because of its gruesome content. Bruna wasn’t used to having her clients tell her what she had to do; usually, it was the opposite. People hired private detectives when they felt at a loss, when they felt threatened but weren’t sure by what, or when they needed to prove some suspicion so dark that they didn’t even know where to begin to look. A private detective’s clients were generally lost in confusion. Otherwise they would have gone to the police or the courts. And Bruna knew from experience that the more confused the person hiring her was the better their working relationship would be, because then the client would give the sleuth greater freedom and be more grateful for the smallest fact the detective might find. If truth be told, a private detective was a finder of certainties.

“Why haven’t you been to the police?”

Chi smiled sardonically.

“You mean, to the
human
police? You want me to go and ask them why there’s someone out there killing reps? Do you think they’re going to be very interested?”

“There are technohuman cops as well.”

“Oh, right. Four wretched imbeciles playing the part for the sake of appearances. Come on, Husky, you know we’re totally discriminated against. We’re a secondary species and third-class citizens.”

Yes, Bruna knew it. But she felt that the discrimination against reps encompassed a greater discrimination—that of the powerful against the wretched. Like that poor human in Oli’s bar, the Texaco-Repsol billboard-lady. The world was basically unjust. Perhaps reps had to put up with worse conditions than humans, but for some reason, feeling that she was part of a victims’ collective made the detective feel ill. She preferred to think that injustice was democratic and rained its formidable blows on everybody.

“Moreover, I don’t trust the police, because it’s likely the enemy has infiltrators on the inside. I’m convinced there’s something much bigger behind this business of adulterated memories. Something political.”

Come on
, thought Bruna, irritated.
Next she’ll say there’s a plot
. They were entering the paranoid zone typical of these radical movements.

“Something that might even be a conspiracy.”

“Well, Chi, allow me to question that. I don’t usually support conspiracy theories,” Bruna couldn’t avoid answering.

“That’s fine by me, but conspiracies exist. Look at the recent revelations about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. We’ve finally managed to find out what happened.”

“But at this stage, a century and a half after the assassination, the truth is of no interest to anyone. I’m not saying that conspiracies don’t exist; what I
am
saying is that there are far fewer than people imagine, and they tend to be improvised, one-off jobs rather than perfect Machiavellian constructions. People believe in conspiracies because it’s a way of believing that deep down, horror has some order and meaning, even if that meaning is evil. We don’t support chaos, but there’s no question that life is totally senseless. Pure sound and fury.”

Myriam looked at her with some surprise.

“Shakespeare...what an educated quotation for someone like you.”

“And what am I like?”

“A detective, a combat rep, a woman with a shaved head and a tattoo that splits her face.”

“Right. Well, I’m equally surprised that a political leader would recognize Shakespeare’s words. I thought activists like you dedicated your lives to the cause, not to reading and painting your fingernails.”

Myriam smiled crookedly and briefly lowered her head, pensive. When she raised it once more, her face again showed
that unexpected fragility that the detective thought she’d seen moments earlier.

“Why don’t you like me, Husky?”

The detective shifted uncomfortably in her seat. In reality, she was sorry she had said so much. She didn’t know why she was behaving in such an unusual way. Discussing chaos in life with a client? She must have lost her mind.

“It’s not that. Let’s just say I find people with a victim mentality annoying.”

She’d done it again! Bruna was astonished. She was continuing to argue with Chi, totally out of control.

“You think, for example, that denouncing labs that don’t look for a cure for TTT is feeling victimized? I have the data: considerably less than one percent of the budget for medical research is spent on the search for a cure for Total Techno Tumor, even though we reps make up fifteen percent of the population and we all die of the same thing.”

Four years, three months, and twenty-three days
, thought Bruna, without being able to do anything about it. She was just as unable to do anything about the awful impulse to keep arguing.

“Believing that the entire universe is conspiring against you seems like a victim mentality to me. As if you were at the center of everything. The feeling of superiority is a defect that tends to accompany a victim mentality...as if you deserved any merit for being a product of fate.”

“Fate and human genetic engineering in our case,” whispered Myriam.

The two women stopped talking and the seconds passed with embarrassing slowness.

“I know you, Bruna,” the RRM leader finally said in a soft voice—so soft that the sudden use of her first name seemed both necessary and natural. “I know people like you. You’re so full of anger and hurt that you can’t put words to what you feel. If you admit your pain, you’re scared that you’ll end up being nothing
more than a victim, and if you acknowledge your anger, you’re scared you’ll end up being a tyrant. The point is that you hate being a rep but you don’t want to admit it.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“That’s why I disturb and intrigue you so much,” continued Myriam, unperturbed. “Because I represent everything you fear. That rep nature that you hate. Relax. In reality, it’s a very common problem. Look at the people on the Trans Platform—you know, the association that encompasses all those people who want to be what they’re not: women who want to be men; men who want to be women; humans who want to be reps; reps who want to be humans; blacks who want to be white; whites who want to be black. At this stage, we don’t seem to have aliens who want to be Earthlings, or vice versa, but it will happen; we haven’t spent enough time in contact with the extraterrestrials yet. I think we reps and humans are sick beings; we always feel our reality isn’t enough. So we consume drugs and give ourselves artificial memories; we want to escape from the confinement of our lives. But I assure you that the only way to resolve the conflict is to learn to accept it and find your own place in the world. And that’s what we do in the RRM. That’s why our movement is so important, because—”

Despite herself, Bruna had listened to Chi’s argument with a degree of attention, but when the woman cited the RRM, a stream of uncontrollable and liberating sarcasm popped out of the detective’s mouth.

“An eloquent homily, Chi. A fantastic speech. You should turn it into a holograph and sell it in your shop. But how about we get back to the matter in hand?”

Myriam smiled. A small grimace, tight and cold.

“Of course, Husky. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’d forgotten that I’ve just hired you, and you charge by the hour. My assistant will give you all the information we’ve gathered on the earlier cases, and deal with you regarding your professional fees.
You can ask him to add a few gaias for the time you spent listening to the speech.”

Bruna felt the sting of the small slight. It was as if she’d been slapped. And in a way, deservedly so.

“I’m sorry if I seemed rude earlier on, but—”

Myriam completely ignored her and continued to speak. Or rather, to give orders.

“Just one more thing: I want you to go and see Pablo Nopal.”

“Who?”

“Nopal. The memory writer. You don’t know who he is? Well, you should. Unfortunately for him, he’s quite well known.”

In fact, Pablo Nopal’s name did ring a vague bell with Bruna. Wasn’t he the one who’d been accused of murder?

“He had problems with the law, didn’t he?”

“Exactly so.”

“I don’t remember much. I don’t like memorists.”

“All the worse for you, because I think that in this instance you’ll have to talk with a few. Go and see Nopal right away. He might know who wrote the adulterated memories. And then come and tell me. I want you to give your reports to me alone. That’s all for now, Bruna Husky. I hope to have some news from you soon.”

“Just a minute. We haven’t talked about your personal security. I think you should change your habits and take certain additional measures. Maybe we should—”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been threatened with death, and I know perfectly well how to defend myself. Moreover, I have an excellent head of security, as I’ve told you. And now, if you don’t mind, I have a complicated morning in front of me.”

Bruna stood up and shook the woman’s hand. A hard, rough hand despite the fingernails painted a delicate shade of pastel blue. On the wall behind Myriam’s chair there was the inevitable framed picture of Gabriel Morlay, the mythical rep reformer. How young he looked. Too young, given his fame. Chi, on the
other hand, had little wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and lacked a certain freshness overall. She must already be close to her TTT, although she was still a beautiful woman. Myriam’s attractiveness hit Bruna again like a splash of cold water. The private detective felt dissatisfied and uncomfortable. She suspected she’d behaved like an idiot. She expelled that irritating thought from her head and tried to concentrate on her new assignment. She’d have to speak with that excellent head of security, she said to herself. The fact that she was Myriam Chi’s life partner not only didn’t exonerate her but turned her into a suspect as well. It was statistically proven that money and love were the main causes of violent crimes.