Tears in Rain
Page 32
“I have read your memorandum and in the first instance, I want to thank you for your interest and professional zeal. Because I’m sure you were motivated by the best of intentions. But you’ll understand, in the whole time I’ve been in this position, no one has resorted to emergency protocol CC/1. I don’t know if you’re aware that when this protocol is activated, a copy of your message is automatically sent to the state’s central administration. And to be honest, we all find that very tiresome. Government officials will now turn up, and they’ll carry out an investigation.”
“But that’s fine, that’s perfect. We need the USE security services to investigate the irregularities as a matter of urgency.”
The supervisor turned her head to one side like a bird and fixed her eyes on Yiannis. She was a skinny, wiry woman with small, hard eyes that rarely blinked.
“Oh, Yiannis, Yiannis. Either I’m not explaining myself well or you’re not understanding what I’m saying. Your memorandum was a mistake. An error. A case of overzealousness, to be precise.” She was speaking gently, as if she felt sorry for the archivist, but there was a sharp edge to her voice.
“Overzealousness? But how? Have you actually read my memorandum? And the other documents? It’s undeniable that someone is manipulating the entries.”
“I have read everything, I have studied everything, and my experts have studied everything as well. There’s nothing. You’re imagining things. There’s nothing more than a few small insignificant mistakes here and there. The usual errata.”
“But—”
“The usual errata! Your behavior is much more serious than those trivial mistakes. You’ve removed an article from the editing process, interrupting the flow of information, and what’s even worse, you’ve made an illegal, personal copy of a text that has not as yet been authorized. It’s unacceptable behavior.”
Yiannis noted that he was blushing. He couldn’t avoid feeling that he was a criminal; it seemed unacceptable to him, too. The standard phrases of regret and apology began to form in his mouth.
“According to the General Law Governing Archives, removing an illegal copy can be deemed an act of espionage. You could go to jail for it,” continued the woman.
The threat was so excessive and so obvious that Yiannis instantly swallowed the excuses he had been on the verge of offering. He snorted indignantly.
“I doubt that anyone would consider me to be a spy. I informed you instantly of my actions. I merely wished to alert you as soon as possible to the gravity of the situation.”
“But what problem are you talking about? You’re old, Yiannis, you’re tired. You’re imagining things. Didn’t you say that Professor Ras didn’t exist? Look.”
The woman touched the computer and a cascade of images inundated the big screen: Lumbre Ras at home in New Delhi; Lumbre Ras at an interplanetary holograph conference; Lumbre Ras receiving his Nobel Prize—if that little olive-colored man really was Professor Ras, as the documentary entries Yiannis was looking at suggested. He was stunned; this very morning, barely a few hours ago, there had been no one of that name on the Internet. Nothing. Lumbre Ras hadn’t existed. And now information about him was inundating the screen. Yiannis felt dizzy for a moment. Could it be true that he had been mistaken, then?
“You see? There is no problem, Yiannis. You are the problem.”
No. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a conspiracy. Someone had falsified all those images and loaded them into the system in a few short hours. He felt his dizziness growing. He felt he was floating over an abyss.
“If you don’t take my report seriously, I’ll speak to the management committee,” he said weakly.
“You’re not going to speak to anyone, Yiannis Liberopoulos. You’re fired. And, by the way, we’ve impounded your main screen.”
“What? My computer? You’ve gone into my house? But how dare you,” he stammered.
“Article 7C/7 of the Law Governing Archives—recovery of stolen material. We went with the police. All perfectly legal. And don’t bother checking your mobile, because it no longer has the copy you made this morning. We’ve erased it remotely from your console. So you have nothing. And no job, either. And you can be grateful that we won’t be pressing charges. And now, if you don’t mind...”
Yiannis got up meekly and left the office and then the building like an automaton, barely aware of where he was going. They had fired him. The archive was his life and they had fired him. And on top of that, they had entered his house and removed his computer. And in addition, something terrible was happening—a coup d’état against the regional state or maybe the planet. His head was spinning and he was covered in cold sweat. He was so dazed that he didn’t notice the car slowly coming toward him along the snow-covered street. A dark vehicle with tinted windows. In fact, he didn’t see it until it was right on top of him. Until the car roared and rushed at him like a black cloud. Yiannis shrieked, jumped backward, and twisted his ankle; the car skidded, skated over the ice, and grazed him as it went past—Yiannis saved himself by a matter of inches. The archivist, barely breathing, was struck by a terrifying suspicion. They’ve tried to kill me, he thought. They want to kill me.
Just then, the vehicle managed to right itself. The tinted window on the driver’s side was lowered and a man poked his head out and looked at him, enraged.
“Immmbeciiiiiile!” he yelled as he drove off.
Yiannis stood there, taken aback. And then he looked around. He was in the middle of the street. He made an effort to mentally reconstruct his last movements. He was so beside himself that he must have stepped off the sidewalk without paying attention to the traffic. The driver hadn’t tried to run him over; Yiannis had thrown himself under the car’s wheels without looking. His old heart was pounding in his chest and the ankle he’d just twisted was aching. Yes, he really was an imbecile.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Should it prove necessary, Nopal could disappear in under an hour. He had half a dozen secret apartments scattered throughout the world and a handful of fake identities at his disposal. In other words, Pablo Nopal wasn’t always Pablo Nopal. In fact, half of the memorist’s existence remained submerged in the dark waters of the invisible, like the artificial icebergs in the Bear Pavilion. Year after year, with persistence and a notable talent for the clandestine, the writer had been constructing himself a parallel life. Dummy companies, front men who had no idea for whom they were working, ID tags so perfectly forged that they were impossible to detect. (They were, in reality, genuine IDs produced by corrupt officials.) And a secret network of informers, because there’s no power without knowledge. It may be true that money doesn’t provide happiness, thought the memorist, but it buys security, which is more important and less volatile than happiness. What more could a sensible man aspire to than to be reasonably protected from pain? Even if one had to resort to socially condemned means and prohibited behavior to achieve it.
Nopal had not chosen to be like this. He had not voluntarily chosen the path of illegality, in the same way that the socially marginalized do not choose to be marginalized but instead find themselves banished to the other side of the line of what is deemed normal. Destiny had been unfair to the memorist, destiny had treated the memorist brutally, and he had been forced to learn to defend himself and to respond to violence with violence. The true survivor is the one who doesn’t hesitate to do whatever is necessary to survive, and Nopal was not the sort to hesitate. He often admired himself, observed his own behavior with a somewhat surprised curiosity, because he was unable to understand how it was possible for someone like him, who loved life so little, to be capable of hanging onto it so tenaciously, so fiercely. Maybe he did it out of pride, out of a firm decision never ever again to allow himself to be humiliated. Or maybe it was a question of cells behaving naturally, as they should, of the determination of the body to continue existing, of that feverish yearning to live that made many terminally ill people fight to their last breath to extend their existence despite their pa
in and deterioration. Yes, the metaphor of the sick man isn’t bad, thought the memorist. Nopal had always felt that there was something pathological about him, something that suffered. Life was an accursed illness that ended up killing you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bruna entered her hotel room almost blindly; visual distortion was one of the devastating side effects of her migraine. She lunged at her backpack and took out a paramorphine injection. She still had three left of the eight doses the hospital had given her. She injected one into her arm with trembling hands and fell onto the bed totally exhausted, waiting for it to take effect. She immediately felt the drug begin to course lightly through her body, putting an end to the throbs of pain, reaching past the back of her throat with the freshness of snow, sweeping away the maelstrom of bright corpuscles that were preventing her from seeing. What an indescribable relief!
She opened her eyes with a small start. So, she’d fallen asleep. She looked at her watch: she’d lost an hour but felt extraordinarily well. Rested and like new. She was in the room she’d hired as Bruna, although she was still wearing her human disguise. When she’d reached the hotel, she could only think of laying her hands on the paramorphine and had disregarded her usual work practices. She hoped that no one had seen her going into the room and that no one had checked the security tapes. It had been a mistake, but in any case she was going to leave the hotel right away. She jumped up and quickly began to rid herself of Annie Heart. When Husky reappeared in the mirror with the tattoo line scoring her body (dividing her, tying her down, as the essentialist put it), she felt strangely happy. It was like recovering an old friend.
She packed her bag and moved on to Annie’s room to pick up her belongings in there as well. She had almost finished when someone knocked on the door.
“Damn.”
She checked the screen and saw the image of a robot. She smiled, suddenly cheerful: she had just remembered the plasma gun. Maybe that cretinous Serra hadn’t canceled the deal. When she opened the door, she saw that the robot was an old, battered courier. It probably didn’t have visual verification capacity, which suited her. When the machine sensed Bruna’s presence, it began to produce sentences on its display screen.
Package for Annie Heart
Delivery subject to personal verification
ID please
The detective took out the fake ID tag provided by Mirari and held it up to the robot’s eye. The antiquated pile of metal gave a beep of confirmation.
ID accepted
Delivery requires prepayment
500 gaias in bills
Bruna went out into the corridor and walked to the automated teller machine that was on every floor next to the elevator. She paid for the two rooms, Annie’s and her own, and then withdrew five hundred Gs from her account. She returned to the robot and put the money through the opening. The cover on the safety deposit box opened and a pretty, electronic Thai massage kit appeared.
“Hey, what the devil?”
The robot was already disappearing down the corridor, squeaking as it went. Bruna was on the verge of making it come back and demanding the return of her money, but then she thought better of it. She went back inside her room, cleared the top of the small table and opened the package. Inside was a strange, egg-shaped, silicon object with wheels and suction cups—presumably the Thai massage kit—capable of automatically massaging, sucking, and applying soothing oils as it traveled over your body. The contraption had a central opening through which to insert the various liquids, and when Bruna opened it, she found the plasma gun inside. An ingenious hiding spot: the shape of the weapon had been adapted to that of the massage machine. The gun looked homemade and ugly; it looked as if it had been made from recycled, mismatched parts. That explained why the gun was so cheap. She set the weapon to minimal charge and micro-impact, pointed it to one side of the bed and fired. There was a slight, silent throb of light, then Bruna bent down and confirmed that there was a minuscule hole in the bedspread, something like the hole left by a moth. It looked like the ugly, junky machine did in fact work. Better than nothing. Things were becoming too dangerous to go around unarmed.
When she left the Majestic, night had already closed in but the air felt slightly warmer; the polar crisis was beginning to relax its grip. Although she was burdened by the weight of her bags, she didn’t even try to catch a cab: it was a given that at that hour, with the fear that prevailed, no one would stop for a rep. The travelators were working again, and Bruna walked quickly to combat the cold and to escape from the barrage coming from the public screens, which continued to show pictures of violent technohumans, supremacist declarations, interviews with Chem Conés and Hericio, and news of other, similar disturbances happening in various corners of the USE. The screens were burning with racial hatred. Bruna wondered if the beginnings of the Rep War had been like this. Would the androids have felt just as persecuted, just as plague-ridden, in that fateful year of 2060? Would the Jews have felt the same in the twentieth century? Would they have sensed the beginning of their end in the same way that she now sensed the political and legal escalation in the campaign against technohumans? Four years, three months, and thirteen days. The way things were going, what tragedies could happen in the four years she had left? She didn’t even know if she’d manage to live until her TTT. The future was crushing black rock, the roar of an avalanche.
Central Archive, the United States of the Earth.
Modifiable version
ACCESS STRICTLY LIMITED
AUTHORIZED EDITORS ONLY
Madrid, January 30, 2109, 10:30
Good morning, Yiannis
ACCESS DENIED
YIANNIS LIBEROPOULOS IS AN UNAUTHORIZED
EDITOR
IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A VALID CODE
QUIT THESE PAGES IMMEDIATELY
ACCESS STRICTLY LIMITED
AUTHORIZED EDITORS ONLY
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE
PUNISHABLE BY IMPRISONMENT UP TO
A MAXIMUM OF TWENTY YEARS
YIANNIS LIBEROPOULOS, YOU ARE ADVISED TO QUIT THESE PAGES IMMEDIATELY.
ANY ATTEMPT TO PERSIST IN FORCING THE SYSTEM WILL GENERATE AN ALERT TO THE POLICE IN THIRTY SECONDS.
COUNTDOWN TO POLICE ALERT
29
28
27
26
25
24
23
22
21
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bruna opened her eyes and confronted Yiannis’s face an inch from her own, shouting and gesticulating anxiously.
“For heaven’s sake!” she exclaimed, sitting upright.
A wave of unsteadiness rocked her world. The room shook, her head ached, her stomach turned somersaults. Her body reminded her—before her mind did—that once again she had had too much to drink the night before. The archivist’s shape was flapping frantically around the room like a trapped sparrow. It was a damned holo-call.
“Yiannis, that’s it. I’m canceling your holograph authorization right now,” groaned the rep, steadying her head with her hands.
“They’ve fired me! It’s a conspiracy! And I can’t get into the archive! I tried to let you know last night but you weren’t answering.”
True enough. She had a clear recollection of refusing calls. She’d arrived home, tired and depressed, and started to drink. At other times she drank because she was happy and relaxed. Or then again, because she was distressed. She was always finding reasons to get drunk. Looking back, her short life was composed of a succession of nights she could scarcely remember and countless mornings whose unpleasant beginnings she remembered all too well.
“Let me see...calm down and explain it to me again. Slowly. As if I were a bicho and didn’t understand your language very well.”
Yiannis began to rush through the story of his conversation with the supervisor.
“Okay, okay, I see. Look, it would be better if I came over to your place. I’ll be t
here in under an hour,” said Bruna.
And she switched off, cutting the old man off midsentence.
Four years, three months, and twelve days.
She breathed in and stood up.
Nausea and dizziness.
She decided to give herself another paramorphine injection. It wasn’t the best way to get rid of a hangover; it was like killing flies with a plasma gun or cutting off a hand because of a sore finger. But she knew she would feel better instantly if she did, and these times were so unsettled that it seemed wiser to go outside with all her wits about her. Anyway, her ribs were still hurting a bit, she rationalized, in an attempt to exonerate herself as she injected the dose. One more to go. A pity.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She had slept in her clothes again and they were all wrinkled and crumpled. She was still wearing the genuine netsuke from her fake mother around her neck. She decided to leave it on; she felt she needed its company. Or its protection.
The outside thermometer was showing fifty-seven degrees; the polar crisis was over. She had a brief shower with water, chose a metallic green outfit from her closet, and got dressed, now feeling really well, rested, and alert. And hungry, too. She headed for the kitchen area to prepare herself something and then she saw it—the puzzle was finished! Solved. She looked at it in amazement, and in among the shreds of fog that were blotting out the previous evening, she seemed to see herself placing the pieces. She must have been working on the jigsaw puzzle until all hours, and with extraordinary luck or superhuman determination. The image of the cosmos was complete and in the center, in the critical section that had previously been missing and had resisted her efforts for months, could now be seen the Helix planetary nebula, that spectacular gaseous object located in the constellation Aquarius that astronomers referred to as the “Eye of God.” The Helix, of course, thought Bruna, almost disappointed at how obvious it was. How had she managed not to guess? The Helix was the most famous cosmic accident and there were even a couple of crazy sects that believed it was sacred. The final piece of the puzzle had triggered a small 3-D effect and the image seemed to vibrate and pulse with the vastness of space. A beautiful eye trimmed with filmy, reddish eyelashes and with an intensely blue iris; a giant eye looking at her. What I do shows me what I am seeking. She was seeking the Helix nebula; she was seeking something obvious, and she hadn’t realized it. And she had had to get drunk and lose consciousness—she had had to allow herself to be guided by sheer intuition—in order to finish the jigsaw puzzle. The Eye of God. The lovely, cold, and indifferent eye that observes us.