Part 23 (1/2)
And he cut the link. The rep was left staring at the screen, flabbergasted. What? He wasn't even going to bother to argue with her? Four years, three months, and fourteen days. Four years, three months, and fourteen days, she repeated mechanically. But she didn't feel any less devastated.
Just then a call came through on Annie Heart's mobile from the supremacist Serra. Of course, Bruna thought gloomily. No doubt my meetings with the supremacist and the pirate will coincide. When things were going badly, they usually got worse. She answered with the screen switched off.
”What can I do for you?”
”You're lucky. Hericio will see you. In half an hour's time, in front of Saturn.”
The detective caught her breath.
”No.”
”No?”
”No, not today. Tomorrow.”
She could sense the man's stunned silence.
”What do you mean, not today?” he said, finally.
”Look, you're the lucky ones, not me, because I could be a good contributor to your cause. If Hericio wants to see me, it means you've already checked out my good intentions. Fine, so now I want to check out yours. Since I'm going to give you a tidy sum of money, I want you to treat me well, politely, even with a little respect. What's this business of expecting me to come running like a dog when you whistle? It will be tomorrow or not at all, because I'm leaving the day after tomorrow. And since I'm generous, I'll let you choose the time. I have all the time in the world for Hericio tomorrow.”
She stopped talking and held her breath, amazed at her own audacity.
”All right. I'll see what I can do,” grunted Serra before disconnecting.
Bruna slowly released the air from her lungs. She hoped she hadn't ruined everything. She pushed the chair back to stand up and the wheels jammed: they were caught up in some frayed rags. Intrigued, the detective pulled on the fabric, and tight little b.a.l.l.s of half-chewed cloth began to emerge. She had just discovered one of Bartolo's secret stashes of food; the chair's hollow leg was filled to bursting with a haul of various rags. Bruna emptied the tube-initially with irritation, then with a certain tenderness, and finally with something akin to longing. But her mood turned foul when she realized that she almost missed the silly animal and that she was even contemplating storing the rags somewhere. This is definitely not my day, she said to herself as she threw the rags into the incinerator.
At least she left her apartment on time, and after catching the subway and two sky-trams, she reached the designated location on the outskirts of Madrid. It was a former industrial zone that had fallen into disrepair. Almost all the premises were closed and a good number were in ruins. Weeds were growing in the cracks in the walls, and small mountains of ancient refuse had fossilized in the roadways, creating a soggy mess that time and rain had leeched of color. There was hardly any traffic moving on the streets, which were full of potholes and laid out in a grid. In the ten minutes she spent wandering around until she found the warehouse, she didn't meet a single pedestrian. A charming place.
Warehouse 17-B in Sector 4 looked like just another ruin, which was why it took Bruna some time to find it. The whole zone lacked GPS tags, which showed its age and degree of deterioration. The detective had to find the warehouse by sight, as almost all the signs were either ripped off or covered, making them illegible. In fact, the bra.s.s plate for 17-B was on the ground next to the warehouse door. It looked as if it had fallen off, but when Bruna tried to pick the bra.s.s plate up, she discovered that it was bolted to the pavement. The sliding front door of the warehouse-the only visible entrance-was misshapen, rust-ridden, and twisted, and looked as if it hadn't been opened for years and would never be opened again.
”h.e.l.lo? Is anyone here?”
She banged on the rusted metal panel a few times without much enthusiasm, asking herself if she'd gotten the address wrong. She was about to ring Nopal to confirm the location of the appointment when suddenly the door lifted upward, silently and easily. Bruna stepped inside and the door noiselessly lowered itself again behind her. Clearly, it was a new system and in good shape; the broken, rusted exterior was merely a facade. The detective looked around. She was in a small, white, empty vestibule.
”Enter the lift and push b.u.t.ton B,” ordered a computer-synthesized voice.
It was a gray freight elevator, an industrial relic from the twenty-first century. There were only three b.u.t.tons: A, B, and C. She pressed the one she'd been told to press, and the box shook and started to rise very slowly. When it stopped and opened its doors, she found herself in a large living room, richly decorated in neocosmic style. Floating divans and form-hugging sofas in the latest style shared s.p.a.ce with select antique pieces-an art deco desk, a small Chinese chest of drawers. The walls displayed animated images of panoramic vistas: a beautiful deserted beach and, in the background, a white village at the foot of a mountain. The design of the landscape artwork was ingenious and it seemed as if the walls of the room were actually huge, outward-looking windows. The pictures even maintained continuity, so that if a dog was running across one wall it moved on to the next wall without losing the appropriate perspective. A really expensive piece of work.
”Come in. Over here.”
The s.p.a.ce was so big and so full of furniture that initially Bruna had trouble working out where the voice was coming from. Eventually she located its owner in a group of red divans. They studied each other as Bruna walked toward him. He was a young man and very slender. But when she reached him, the rep realized that the smooth, childlike little face was the product of surgery. He was undoubtedly much older than he seemed to be at first sight. Close up, he had a plastic, inexpressive appearance. Unpleasant.
”Looks like being a mem pirate is pretty lucrative,” said Bruna by way of a greeting.
The man's mouth formed what was presumably a smile. But it was so tightly stretched that the corners couldn't bend.
”Yes, business isn't bad. I'll take your remark as a compliment, since I'm doing you the favor of seeing you...to give you certain information that is of interest to you. So I won't a.s.sume that you are so stupid as to insult me as soon as you arrive. No, I'll presume you have been surprised by this beautiful apartment, and your sentence is an implicit recognition of how lovely it is.”
Bruna swallowed. The man was right. She cursed herself for being a big mouth and, in particular, she cursed the aggression that memorists aroused in her. The memory of Nopal, and Nopal's arms as they were dancing, flashed through her mind like a searing wind. It was even worse if memorists didn't bring out her aggression.
”You're right, it was a compliment. It's just that we replicants aren't very good at social niceties. Of course I'm impressed with your home. May I sit down?”
The man nodded his a.s.sent and Bruna dropped into the divan facing him. The piece of furniture swayed slightly in the air as she lowered herself into it.
”I'm even more impressed by the fact that you have agreed to see me. Why did you?”
”For that, you have to thank Nopal,” the memorist answered, waving a skeletal hand in front of him.
”Are you friends?”
The man snorted sarcastically.
”Friends. I wouldn't say that. Hmmm...not exactly friends, no. But I'm seeing you because he asked me to.”
”Then Nopal must be very persuasive, because on top of everything you've received me in your own home. Extraordinary. Very...intimate.”
The man made the same attempt at a smile as before. His excessive, crude plastic surgery didn't match the exquisiteness of the apartment. His clothing seemed vulgar as well: ostentatious but tasteless black velvet, never mind the gold necklaces strangling his skinny neck. Clearly the guy was out of place in this refined environment.
”I don't have much time. Are you going to waste it talking about Pablo Nopal?” he growled.
”I'd rather we talked about the mems.”
”Which ones?”
”The doctored ones. The ones that make the replicants go mad and then kill them.”
”I know nothing about those. I never killed anyone. Pirate, yes; murderer, no. I only work with traffickers I trust. Reliable people. They have the customers, they get a hold of the hardware; I restrict myself to writing the content.”
”Right. And I a.s.sume you know nothing about who might be behind the deadly implants either.”
”Well, you do hear things out there. I know it's someone from outside.”
Labari was Bruna's immediate thought.
”Outside Earth, you mean?”
”Outside the profession.”
”Yours is a profession?” she asked, disappointed.
”As much as yours, with the difference that I am more professional than you.”
Bruna sighed.
”I don't doubt it. Forgive me. But if you really are so good, you would have been asked to write the killer mems.”
”I've already told you I didn't.”
”How many are you? I mean, how many illegal memorists like you are there out there?”