Terra Nova: An Anthology of Contemporary Spanish Science Fiction

by Mariano Villarreal

  Polanco nodded. The situation was under control, at least for a month. Between Sink-Tooth’s old gang and the police, probably no one in the country was better guarded than the tourist Julian Marfleet. He wouldn’t be better protected locked in a safe. Because if that man died, the Indian Padovani would enter a legal limbo and be retained in Europe forever.

  “I’m happy that you talked with the lawyer. They should be aware of something: We,” Polanco took a breath, “the bodies and forces of security that support the new democratic government, have to have to make sure laws are obeyed, and we have to capture Padovani to put him in prison.” He paused. “What might happen in jail is something else entirely, which I don’t give a shit about.”

  “That’s right, Willy J. The lawyer thought the same. But I think there are others on Sink-Tooth’s side that aren’t sure if the Indian turned on them. Those are the ones that worry me.”

  “Good, let them kill each other, but the Indian goes to jail, okay?”

  “Okay, Willy J.”

  “When they make him return, he’s ours,” Salinas added.

  The commissioner scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “The gringos can help us with Europol so that Padovani returns before the month is over. For now, go back to the hotel. I don’t trust Carlitos. He’s probably drunk already.... And you say that Marfleet doesn’t leave the hotel? Then why did this bastard shit bother to come?”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty strange.”

  “Take a girl to the hotel. But be discrete.” Polanco looked at the ceiling for a moment. “And if not, try a boy. He’ll like something.”

  “How about Veronica, the mulatta? Will she do?”

  Veronica. Polanco’s tongue reflexively licked his lips. But he didn’t find the taste of the curves there that his imagination supplied.

  “Perfect,” he croaked.

  Mendoza blinked, which bothered him.

  Never, he thought. They’ll never stop calling me Willy J.

  III

  “A wiry, Native suntanned body.” Julian Marfleet had no doubt: the travel agency had cheated him. It was difficult to guess the age of the man he’d exchanged with, but he certainly exceeded the “maximum of thirty-two” that he had been promised in the contract. With a lot of effort, there might have been room to squeeze another wrinkle on that face. And worse: after he met the mulatta and took her to his room, he discovered the Native was impotent. A total swindle. If Veronica hadn’t been able to revive the lunch meat between his legs, no one could. He smiled as he remembered the scene because, in spite of everything, Julian felt like the happiest man on Earth.

  He had good reason, which it made it impossible to file a complaint about the travel agency, a division of FarmaCom: He wasn’t going to stay in Europe. In fact he couldn’t. He’d always had heart problems, a degenerative disease that he had resigned himself to, accepting the decline of his body because he had no choice. But when the doctors finally talked to him honestly, and what remained of his life was a tangible figure, he discovered something that he had never suspected: he was willing to do whatever was necessary to stay alive. Including to dump his death sentence on another man.

  He bribed a European government worker to be permitted to make an exchange. He wouldn’t have passed the medical test any other way. He spent the rest of his money on a contract for a month of vacation with FarmaCom. It was enough. It had to be. His exchange partner would die in Europe before the month ended, and he could go to South America legally and get a second chance. Not even impotence would spoil that trip.

  Although he intended to buy some pills to solve that problem. Veronica was worth it. As he wandered through the hotel lobby, he wondered who he could trust with a secret. He wasn’t going to just go out on the street and look for a pharmacy. No one would notice him unless he opened his mouth. He’d spent a lot of years living in Madrid and spoke Spanish almost perfectly, which wouldn’t help him because the accent would identify him as a European. It could be dangerous to wander through unknown streets without a bodyguard.

  In fact, he was beginning to think he actually had a bodyguard. Every time he left his room, it didn’t take long to spot one of the two plainclothes policemen who had welcomed him to the country. They never came up to talk to him or greet him, but they didn’t bother to hide their presence either, as if they were debt collectors who wanted to remind him that the debt was about to come due. Julian supposed that was normal, that FarmaCom took care of all its clients in foreign countries, but he thought they ought to warn them in the fine print that the officers of the law looked like criminals.

  He remembered Veronica and decided he had nothing to lose. He gestured to the police officers that he wanted to speak with them. One of them slowly approached while the other remained in place, looking around.

  “Can I help you with something, Señor Marfleet?”

  Julian spent a long minute explaining his situation, beating around the bush and speaking in such a low voice that he worried that he wouldn’t be understood. When he finished, he told himself that his attitude was absurd. Impotence affects a lot of men, especially at that age. What the hell, that body wasn’t even his. But the embarrassment the officer made him feel was real.

  “The thing isn’t working?”

  Without waiting for a reply, the officer returned to his partner and, with a lot of gestures, shared Julian’s problem, laughing. But that wasn’t all. Another man appeared who had to be a guest at the hotel because Julian remembered seeing him before. He recognized his suspenders. The two officers called him over and then all three laughed at his expense.

  Nothing was going to spoil his trip, but he had to admit that this was starting to annoy him. And he didn’t even know if that bastard was going to get him the pills. He turned to the elevators. As he waited, he breathed deeply. Don’t worry, he said, they don’t want to offend you. Cultural differences, that’s all it is. Luckily, he had a lot of years ahead of him to get used to it.

  IV

  The official name of the center was the FarmaCom Tourist Exchange Residence, but everyone called it “the nursery.” Some were willing to stay there and wait until the moment when they could return to their country and earn the rest of the money stipulated in their contract. Others wanted to escape and become immigrants in Europe —something harder to do than ever.

  Inside the walled premises of the residence, there were two blocks, one for men and another, smaller one, for women. A lot of people worked there: nutritionists, trainers, coaches, beauticians, cooks, physical therapists, doctors, psychologists... who cared for the bodies of the clients while they were elsewhere enjoying their vacations. They made the exchangers go on diets, take beauty treatments, and exercise, a lot of exercise. There were also guards armed with electric prods and tranquilizer guns. They were the “jailers.”

  Normally, the guards didn’t mix with the exchangers or talk with them unnecessarily. But if one of the clients was important, they guarded his body closely, to the point of accompanying him to the showers. They had to, because the showers had no surveillance cameras. FarmaCom guaranteed its clients that no one could film them inappropriately while they were on their trip, and this included any kind of nudity. The exchangers showered in groups of fifteen, always the same shifts, so they got to know each other well, and as in any consolidated group, they paid special attention to new arrivals.

  “What the hell’s going on with him?”

  The black man, Vladimiro, pointed to a fat man, new to the group, who was acting strange. He had turned toward the tiled wall as if he was ashamed to be naked. Which was ridiculous, Vladimiro thought, because it wasn’t his own nakedness and he wasn’t responsible for how he looked. A pair of guards, their faces covered in sweat from the humidity, didn’t take their eyes off him.

  “The jailers told me he’s a woman,” Ringo answered quietly and kept soaping himself up.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “She’s named Leidi. She’s from Ma
rgarita Island... Venezuela.”

  “Fuck.... How did that happen?”

  Ringo shrugged.

  “Some degenerate faggot wanted to be a woman and check out Carribean dicks. And the client has to have a lot of cash because the jailers won’t let her be alone.”

  The men finished soaping up in silence. Then Vladimiro shook his head.

  “Poor girl....” He grabbed her dick and pulled hard. “I don’t think I could stand a month with this white wanker, but at least they didn’t give me a cunt.”

  They wailed with laughter. The guards came over and warned Vladimiro about twisting the penis of a client. If he did that again, they’d dock his payment. Vladimiro raised his hands.

  “Okay, I’ll leave it alone. I won’t touch it again.”

  Ringo took the opportunity to complain loudly.

  “And aren’t you ashamed to bring her here? We all know she’s a woman. She should be in the other block!”

  There was a general murmur. The looks on the faces of the rest of the group were unmistakable: Despite what Ringo had said, they’d just learned about Leidi at that moment. They couldn’t imagine that inside that blushing fat man was the mind of a woman.

  One of the guards put his thumb in his weapons belt and got in Ringo’s face.

  “Don’t worry about her. We’re here to be sure you don’t get do anything funny and rape her.”

  The other guard laughed. Behind him, someone muttered “son of a bitch,” which was heard perfectly. The jailer who had approached Ringo turned around. One of the exchangers, the one they called “old man” or “Indian” —although he didn’t look old or Indian— stared back at him without blinking. His hands were curled into fists, and the water bounced off his pale skin covered in blond hair.

  “What are you looking at?”

  Ringo got between the two men and said he was going to file a complaint with the director. The guard pushed him away, his eyes locked on Padovani. No one breathed. A male voice, low and weepy, broke the silence.

  “Please, I’m done.... Please.”

  Everyone turned toward the fat man who seemed to be called Leidi. Then, without a word, the guards accompanied her to the dressing room. The only one there was.

  V

  “We have to take her with us.”

  Ringo spoke quietly, keeping his eyes on the cards, but glanced at the Indian Padovani and at everything that passed in front of the cell that the two shared. The Indian threw a card on the bed where they were seated and took another from the stock. He hardly moved his lips to speak.

  “They guard her closely.”

  “She can’t stand much more, old man. She’s going crazy.”

  “What will she do outside? Who’ll take care of her?”

  “You know who. Your friend.”

  The Indian shook his head.

  “Too many people. My friend’s shy. In fact, I don’t think you should come with me, either.”

  Ringo swallowed.

  “That’s okay. I’ll go with her on my own. But help me get her out of here, old man.... We’ll fuck these jailers alive. Let them laugh their asses off. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Padovani looked up at the ceiling. The tourist he’d exchanged his body with didn’t seem Spanish: he had blue eyes and blond eyelashes. But the fire behind the pupils was Indian. To include Leidi in the escape plan seemed like an unnecessary risk. She was too fat and not very agile. Still, he got an idea that might even improve the chances of success for all three if she came with them. In any case, he remained cautious and didn’t promise anything.

  Ringo stopped insisting, as if the decision had already been made in Leidi’s favor. Padovani asked himself if, after just a couple of weeks, he had become too transparent to his cell mate. He didn’t want to have to trust a stranger, but Ringo wanted to escape just as much as he did, and he seemed to be a resourceful guy.

  “I’ll need some money to find my friend.”

  The Indian said that more to himself than in hope of a reply. Ringo asked him how much money he would need. Padovani searched through the Parcheesi pieces that they used to bet and picked out a yellow one.

  “Less than this.”

  “Twenty euros? I thought you serious.”

  Padovani smiled.

  VI

  Make virtue of necessity. That was his real political ideology. When he had to be a revolutionary, he was the most fervent. When he had to become a big-time rancher, he was the most zealous about his land. And when the wheel of fate turned again and the time came when he might lose it all, he got thin on pure hunger until he recovered the wiry body of his youth, so he fooled FarmaCom about his age.

  It was the only way to get out of the country. The new government’s police were looking to lock him up the way they had Sink-Tooth. His old comrade —and later business partner— had to be waiting for him impatiently, the same as the few members of the organization that had freed themselves from jail. Padovani hadn’t turned on him, but he knew that Sink-Tooth didn’t trust his friends’ good luck, so he had more and more enemies, real or imaginary. It wouldn’t be over until enough people had been killed off. Better to disappear than be in that lottery.

  The Indian signed the contract for the exchange with a fake identity —he’d bought it from the real George Bartolomé for more money than the one thousand five hundred euros that FarmaCom offered for exchanges— and he let an implant from the IPv12 network be implanted in his head, and thus had escaped both jail and Sink-Tooth at the same time. He wasn’t going to wait until they gave him a vacating pill to go back. They could keep his dick —if it was still good for anything— and his butt, and they could fill them with venereal diseases if they wanted. The Indian Padovani did not accept returns.

  Faithful to his philosophy, by helping the fat man that was a girl, Padovani would get an advantage for himself. After including Leidi, the escape plan seemed much more solid:

  The black man Vladimiro pretended to go crazy in the shower and began to hit himself on the walls. The guards that protected Leidi got scared. They tried to corner Vladimiro, and when they did, they got careless. Ringo and the Indian attacked them from behind. They didn’t have to waste any ammo from the tranquilizing guns to leave them unconscious. A few punches were enough. Then, they dragged them to the dressing room.

  Leidi had gotten there first and was already dressed. She always hurried to cover herself. Ringo also seemed to be anxious to get the uniform off of one of the guards. Padovani couldn’t help watching, worried that he’d ruin everything by being nervous. Moving more calmly than his partner, he disguised himself faster. The clothing was a little big, but he could hide that.

  After dressing, Padovani shook the hand of every one of his companions in the shower one by one. Then he embraced the black Vladimiro, who was still on edge and didn’t stop laughing and saying, “Now they can fine me all they want.”

  The Indian had tried to convince several companions to collaborate with his plan, appealing to the motives that —he thought— would be most convincing to each one. Until, finally, Vladimiro offered to volunteer to do his bit in “the fight against imperialism.” The black man wouldn’t hear a word about escaping with them, although Padovani had offered the opportunity to him sincerely because he thought he would make a good ally. But the only thing Vladimiro really wanted was to return to his body as soon as he could and never leave it again.

  “Good luck.”

  That had been his goodbye. Padovani sat on the wooden bench in the dressing room next to Leidi. While Ringo fought with the boots, Vladimiro and the rest formed a tight formation to hold up the unconscious guards in the center, and shouting and joking, they left the dressing room in the direction of the cells.

  Ringo finished dressing himself and fell on the bench, puffing. Then he smiled at Leidi and winked. He seemed more calm. They waited while the voices of the group became fainter. Padovani, whose true body barely sweated beneath the scorching tropical sun, had
to dry the sweat from his hands.

  “Time to go.”

  They walked on either side of Leidi as far as the stairs as if they were accompanying her back to her cell. Together they went up to the second floor and entered the director’s office without knocking. The Indian had planned to be the first to speak, but Ringo acted first. Leaning over the desk, he took out the gun and held the barrel against the woman’s cheek.

  “Do what we say or I’ll kill you.”

  Not the least tremble in his voice or the smallest stammer. Padovani was impressed. The director, too, but for other reasons. Her eyes looked like they would fall out and roll away. She moved her hand a little toward the desk, and Ringo pushed the pistol harder against her face. She stopped moving, paralyzed.

  “Good. Now I suppose you’re going to understand, suddenly, that Leidi would be much better off in the block for women.”

  The director looked toward Leidi, whose fat body was leaning on the door to the office as if she wanted to keep someone from entering.

  “Get everything ready so we can move her there,” Padovani added. “Don’t try anything. You’ll be coming with us.”

  Ringo moved the gun back a little. The director took a deep breath.

  “This is ridiculous. No...” she began to say.

  The pistol hit her jaw hard enough to chop halfway through a tree. The woman’s head fell to one side, and Padovani felt a punch in his stomach. That had been a gesture of sheer desperation by Ringo. If the director was unconscious or worse, she couldn’t do anything for them.

  There was a bottle of water on the desk. He splashed it on her, and she murmured something incomprehensible. He shook her until she opened her eyes. The Indian took the role of good cop, which belonged to him after what Ringo had done.

  “Please, director. Do what we say. We don’t want to hurt you.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.