The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(122)

POSSIBLY YOUR CONCEPTION OF THE UNIVERSE WILL CHANGE. AND YOUR NIGHTMARES WON’T SEEM QUITE SO HARMLESS ON WAKING. PERHAPS YOU WILL NO LONGER BE ABLE TO LOOK IN A MIRROR WITH THE SAME EQUANIMITY.





23


EXECUTIONER 2087V WOULD HAVE PREFERRED not to suffer from the feeling of guilt that raged inside him, or to experience it acutely enough to force him to sabotage his own existence. If that were to happen—if he were audacious enough to disengage, to give up that dreadful mission for which he had been created—he would finally be able to rest in an eternal, guiltless peace. But, alas, his feelings weren’t controlled by him, but rather by those who had implanted deep in the most inaccessible part of his memory that molecular code expressly designed to create the personality of the perfect killer. The Executioner had to acknowledge that the Scientists had done an excellent job, even in cases like his, where something went awry, where life prospered among the thicket of circuitry, and the orderly chains of neuropeptides rooted themselves in some cell or other, possibly in a hidden strand of soul, where they began to produce their own connections. And so, as with humans, when some emotion spilled over uncontrollably, the perfect programming implanted in his entrails would dutifully respond, attempting in some way to compensate for the malfunction. Thus his feeling of guilt at slaying innocents would be superseded by an even more intense feeling of guilt at the thought of not slaying them, of failing in his duty. Yes, those Machiavellian minds, worshippers of the Supreme Knowledge, had certainly done a first-rate job on them, a job as admirable as it was futile.

The Executioner smiled sadly, although it might be better to say that his mouth curled up gloomily. Keep calm, he told himself, nothing matters now, everything is about to end, we’re all going to die . . . He felt reassurance, even a touch of serenity, and he gradually forced his vital signs to slow, to the point where when he slid like the ghost of a ghost past a cat dozing on a windowsill, the animal’s ears didn’t even twitch. It was something the Executioner was good at. Aware that when animals sensed them they became frantic, he knew the only way to prevent that was to attain a state close to hibernation, which rendered their movements imperceptible. That was the ideal emotional state to be in when stalking. Later, when the actual hunt was on, it was necessary to give way to other feelings: tension, longing, hatred, pleasure, melancholy, and guilt, above all guilt . . . But by that stage it would no longer matter if all the dogs and cats in the area began to howl and meow like mad, proclaiming his monstrous presence to the moon. When the victim was there with him, looking into his eyes, unable to understand why he or she had to die, it was already too late.

He reached the house and slipped across the tiny garden encircling it. Had the night not been so dark, and had the Executioner not blended so perfectly with it, I would be able to describe his movements to you, dear reader, but I can only imagine them: a series of silent, almost feline steps, followed by a fluttering cloak. He had no difficulty opening one of the downstairs windows and climbing into a small dark sitting room. The Executioner lifted his cane, and the eight-pointed star adorning its handle vibrated slightly, informing him that at present the house was empty. Even so, he decided to inspect the rooms one by one, partly because he did not trust his detectors, which were in a deplorable state, and partly due to an unhealthy need to know about the lives he was about to cut short. Who lived there? What were they like? What kind of carefree, tumultuous, or humdrum existence was he preparing to destroy? He didn’t know. He only knew that whoever lived there had jumped at some point, although it was possible that his detectors had finally gone completely haywire and he wasn’t just about to slay an innocent—for weren’t they all in the end?—but an innocent who was perfectly healthy . . . That afternoon, while he was trailing a level 2 Destructor, he had thought he detected the residual aura of a Latent at the center of this house and had made a note of the coordinates in order to return there later. In fact, Latents weren’t much of a catch for any Executioner, for they were former Destructors in whom, for some reason, the sickness had entered a dormant phase. That didn’t mean they couldn’t reactivate at any moment, but, compared to an active Destructor, trailing them was not a priority. However, gone were the days when the priorities of the hunt were clear. In the past, Executioners were fitted with perfectly calibrated detectors, so that in a single day they could locate an infinite number of trails whose coordinates were clearly traceable, easy to follow and to classify. But nowadays . . . nowadays they simply did the best they could.

Without the need for any light to see where he was going, the Executioner searched the downstairs until he was satisfied that it was indeed empty; then he went upstairs. There he entered the first room he came to, a small, cozy study that had a distinctly feminine atmosphere to it. He leaned over the bunch of roses sitting on a corner of the desk and inhaled deeply, letting the delicate fragrance flood his nostrils. Then he ran his hand gently over some of the objects on the table while he thought about all the times their owner must have handled them, whether with affection, indifference, or some other emotion, imbuing them with part of her soul. Wasn’t he, too, like those objects? Hadn’t his victims, before breathing their last, passed on part of their humanity to him? Yes, for as they dwindled before him he couldn’t help looking in their eyes, and that was when he discovered whether their lives had been fulfilling or cruelly unsatisfactory; whether they left behind a trail of bitterness and misunderstanding or had known true love; whether they left that world filled with rage, fear, or a melancholy acceptance. And in that instant of absolute communication, like an object steeped in the soul of the other, the Executioner was overwhelmed by the ecstasy of Supreme Knowledge, but also by the devastating power of guilt.