Tears in Rain (15 page)

Although the plans and details are also unknown in this instance, there is
no question that Cosmos is a dazzling construction. A multitude of pyramids made out of carbon nanofibers are linked to one another to form a megapyramid. The result is a sort of tubular net, a framework from which the buildings or living modules are hung, interconnected by “streets” that run through the interiors of the tubes.

The construction of these artificial worlds was observed on Earth with growing distrust and apprehension. However, any effective opposition to the creation of these floating nations was prevented by the fact that the two projects were being driven by multinational social movements and, more importantly, by the chaos and loss of life provoked by the
Robot Wars
. And when they were finally inaugurated, millions of desperate residents of Earth attempted to gain admission to either of the worlds in order to escape the tremendous desolation caused by the wars. Cosmos and Labari did not participate in the
Global Agreements of Cassiopeia,
because they refused to grant technohumans and aliens the same rights as humans. Nevertheless, both the Ones and the Aristopopulists subsequently signed bilateral agreements with the United States of the Earth, although relations have never been easy. This coexistence, full of suspicion, secrets and tension, has been dubbed the
Second
Cold War
by analysts. That said, given that the two worlds continue to be mortal enemies and have no diplomatic relations whatsoever, the USE has on occasion found itself obliged to carry out the role of unofficial intermediary.

Finally, some sources speak of the existence of a third Floating World, a much smaller structure, possibly even self-propelled——more a megaspaceship than an orbital platform——inhabited by a democratic, tolerant, and free society that enjoys a reasonably just and happy life. This community would have begun its clandestine existence during the turbulent years of the Robot Wars, and since then would have managed to hide itself in space. It is known as
Avalon
, but everything points to its existence being an urban myth.

T
he first thing Bruna was conscious of, as always, was the stabbing throb in her temples. The hangover drilling through her head like a fiery screw.

Next, she sensed a reddish light through the membrane of her eyelids—eyelids that were still too heavy to feel like opening. But the light suggested that it was very bright. Maybe it was daytime.

Whiplashes of pain shot across her forehead. Thinking was torture.

Bruna nevertheless forced herself to think. And to remember. A black hole seemed to have swallowed up her most recent past, but on the other side of that enormous void the rep began to recover broken images of the previous night, landscapes glimpsed through the fog. Noisy venues full of people. Packed dance floors. Before that, the Forensic Anatomy Institute. Chi’s corpse. The street, the moon. And Bruna putting a candy under her tongue. Again, she glimpsed a confusion of venues. A faceless character inviting her to have a drink. The public screens chattering against a black sky. A group of musicians playing. A hand making its way up her back. She shivered, and that forced her to become aware of the rest of her body apart from her ever-present, pounding head. She was facedown on what seemed to be a bed, arms bent on either side of her body, her face resting on her left cheek.

Bruna breathed slowly so as not to arouse the monstrous headache further. She had no recollection of how the night had ended, and she had absolutely no idea where she might be. She loathed waking up in a strange house. She hated greeting a new day in a neighborhood she didn’t know, and having to check location coordinates on her mobile in order to find out where she was. She felt the sheet with her right hand, but it was impossible to determine by touch alone if it was her own bed. She had no alternative but to open her eyes.
Four years, three months, and twenty days.

She raised her eyelids very slowly, afraid to look. Sure enough, there was a lot of light; a merciless daylight that beat down on her retinas. It took her a few seconds to overcome the dazzle, then she recognized the small fake-leather armchair half-covered by the messy pile of her clothes—the metallic skirt, the thermal jacket. And the T-shirt tossed on the familiar synthetic wood floor. She was in her own apartment. That was a start.

The good news encouraged her and, supporting herself on her hands, she managed to raise her trunk. As she was doing so, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that beside her the bedspread was bulging over what appeared to be another person. She wasn’t alone. Not everything was going to be so simple, of course.

Being totally nude wasn’t the best way to introduce herself to a stranger, so she grabbed the jacket from the nearby armchair and clumsily put it on, still sitting on the bed. Then she took a deep breath, summoned all her energy and stood up. Standing next to the bed, her temples throbbing, she looked at her visitor, who, judging by the lump, was very big. A bulky body lying on its side with its back to her, completely covered by the sheet. Well, not entirely. Up top some hair was visible—coarse—and the nape of a neck, a green neck.

Bruna gasped for air.

It couldn’t be.

It
couldn’t
be.

She put a hand up to her head to relieve her headache and contain the riot of horrific thoughts. Stealthily, she made her way around the bed until she was close to the face of the sleeping occupant—a wide, flat nose; bushy eyebrows; greenish skin.

She had slept with a
bicho
.

She felt like throwing up.

But had she really slept with a
bicho
? What she meant was, had she...? Merely exploring the idea in her head turned her legs to jelly. She had to sit down on the bed so that she wouldn’t fall. And that movement woke the alien.

The alien opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were honey colored, with a melancholy expression. He was an Omaá. Frantic, Bruna tried to remember what she knew about Omaás. They were the most numerous Others on Earth because, apart from the diplomatic delegation, there were the thousands of refugees who had fled from the religious wars on their world. Those refugees were the poorest aliens precisely because they were stateless, and that meant they were the most despised of the
bichos
. They were...hermaphrodites? Or was that the Balabís?
Hell’s bells!
Bruna was terrified at the thought of having to see her bedmate in his entirety.

Moving slowly, meticulously and with infinite calm—the same way that a human would move in the face of a small animal he didn’t want to frighten—the
bicho
sat up in the bed, naked from the waist up, and with the rest of him covered by the sheet.
Oh, yes
, thought Bruna with faint disgust,
and these are also the translucent ones
. What was most disturbing about extraterrestrials was their appearance, at the same time so human and so alien. The impossible similarity of their biology. The Omaá was tall and muscular, a robust version of a man with arms and hands and nails on the ends of his—Bruna stopped to count them—six fingers. But the head—with its bristly hair and bushy eyebrows, its wide nose that resembled a snout, and its sad eyes—was too much like that of a dog. And then there was the worst part, the
skin: semibluish; greenish in the wrinkles; and worst of all, semitransparent, which meant that, depending on the activity and the light, you could make out bits of the internal organs, pink suggestions of pulsating viscera.
Hell, what would it feel like to touch that damn skin
? She had no memory of having touched it, and if truth be told, she didn’t want to remember either. So
now
what were they going to do? Ask each other their names?

The
bicho
smiled timidly.

“Hi. I’m Maio.”

His voice had the husky roar of the sea crashing against rocks, but you could understand him all right, and his accent was more than acceptable.

“I...I’m Bruna.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

A silence bristling with unasked questions sprang up between them.
And now what?
the rep asked herself.

“Do you remember...Do you recall when we got home last night?” Bruna asked, finally.

“Yes.”

“In other words, you...ahem...I mean, do you remember everything?”

“Yes.”

Damn
, thought Bruna,
I’d rather not go on checking
.

“Well, Maio, I’ve got to go. Sorry. I mean,
we
have to leave. Right now.”

“Okay,” said the
bicho
with a friendliness bordering on gentleness.

But he didn’t move.

“Come on, we’re going.”

“Yes, but I have to get up and get dressed. I’m naked.”

Oh, yes. Of course! Are Omaás that modest
? Though it went without saying that she wasn’t ready to look at him either.

“I’ll get dressed, too. In the bathroom. And in the meantime, you...”

Bruna left her sentence hanging in the air, grabbed her clothes from the previous night so that she wouldn’t have to waste time looking for something else, and locked herself in the bathroom. Dazed, her head still splitting with pain, she had a short vapor shower and then put on the metallic skirt and T-shirt again. She grunted with displeasure when she realized that she didn’t have any underwear at hand and remembered what she’d done with her panties the night before. Not having the garment now really annoyed her. She wet her face with a tiny jet of her really expensive water in an attempt to clear her head and then stealthily opened the door. In front of her, the alien stood waiting for her beside the bed like a well-behaved dog anxious to please. He had to be about six and a half feet tall. He was wearing a sort of tubular skirt that hung from his waist down to the middle of his calves. That was when Bruna remembered that that was how the Omaás dressed, with those skirts made from material that resembled fluffy wool in warm, earthy colors—ochre, burgundy, mustard yellow. Elegant attire, although the skirt that Maio was wearing was quite threadbare. The worst thing was that on top he was wearing a horrendous Earthling T-shirt, one of those promotional freebies, with a garish image of a frothy beer. It was two sizes too small and was stretched to bursting point across his strong chest.

“It’s to cover me up. The T-shirt. I’ve noticed that you Earthlings don’t like to look at bodies with transparent skin,” said the alien in his oceanic voice.

Yes, of course
, thought Bruna. Omaás usually went about with their chests bare, apart from some wraparound belts whose usefulness was a complete mystery to the rep. Maybe they were just for decoration. Anyway, the T-shirt was awful. He was an astral beggar.

“Right. Good. Okay. Well then, let’s go,” spluttered the detective.

They left the apartment and on the way down they came across a couple of neighbors. Bruna could see the amazement
in their eyes, and the fear, repugnance, and curiosity.
Just what I needed
, she thought.
Apart from being a rep, now I’m with a
bicho,
and on top of that, a
bicho
with the grubby looks of a vagrant.
When they reached the street, they stopped, facing one another.
Should I have offered to let him use the bathroom?
wondered Bruna, feeling slightly guilty.
And shouldn’t I have offered him some breakfast?
If he was a refugee, as seemed likely, maybe he was hungry. And what did these creatures eat? The problem was the alien’s sad dog look, those ever-so-human eyes that you only ever found on strays, that wretched appearance of an abandoned little animal, despite the size of his bulky body.
For heaven’s sake
, thought Bruna. She’d slept with some dreadful people during her craziest nights, but waking up with a
bicho
was going too far.

“Well, good-bye, then,” said the rep.

And she headed off without waiting for a reply, hopping onto the first travelator she came across. A few yards farther on, just before the travelator took a wide curve around a corner, she couldn’t resist the urge to look back. The alien was still standing by the entrance to her building, looking at her helplessly.
Get lost
, thought Bruna. And she let herself be carried on her way until she had lost sight of the
bicho
. Finished. Never again.