The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(94)

As though Mrs. Hall’s words, although faintly whispered, had reached the ears of the two strangers, one of them forced his lips into a taut smile and in voice devoid of any inflection, he murmured to his companion: “Old women and children. They are what I’m always afraid I’ll find when I pick up a scent.”

His companion did not reply; he simply contemplated him at length while the first man held his gaze, neither of them moving a muscle. But allow me to add, dear reader, just for the record, that despite their disquieting stillness the two men’s faces, illuminated faintly by the glow from the fire, weren’t altogether unpleasant: both had strong, symmetrical features that could even be considered handsome. And yet the exquisite paleness of their skin did not seem human and was moreover tarnished by a kind of dark tint that somehow seemed not to belong to it, like the shadow a cloud casts on the snow. At last, after the prolonged silence, the second man’s lips began to vibrate imperceptibly: “You are suffering from a serious fault in your peptidogenesis, my friend. Perhaps a guilt neutralizer would minimize the unwanted effects of your remorse.”

“I feel what you say is truth. But remember, we are no longer receiving any consignments from the Other Side.”

“I feel what you say is truth.”

There was another silence.

“What is the feeling of guilt like?” the second stranger asked.

His question elicited an even longer silence.

“How can I explain it? Imagine taking a huge dose of neuropeptides AB3003 and AZ001,” the first stranger finally replied, “that canceled out all your connective mutation neutralizers.”

The other raised his eyebrows slightly. “I feel surprised! Then . . . I suppose it is very similar to the sensation of pity.”

“So they say. Although I’ve heard that guilt is more addictive.” The first stranger stroked the handle of his cane with his forefinger. It was an extremely slow, almost imperceptible movement. “So . . . you’ve experienced pity.”

“I have: I suffered a slight mutation soon after arriving here. That is why I feel sympathy for what you are going through. My bio-cells developed their own connections based on segments of my AZ model, producing their own neuropeptide chains. For a while I experienced the feeling of pity. Thank goodness it was quickly diagnosed, and in those days there was no problem with the consignments. Even so, it took three types of neutralizers to solve the problem.”

“As I understand it,” said the man who was afraid of finding old women or children when he followed his next trail, “years ago they discovered that the AZ model was responsible for nearly all those random mutations, and the Scientists decided to phase it out. That’s why the last group of Executioners sent two years ago doesn’t have it.”

“Then they are lucky.”

“They aren’t aware of it: the feeling of satisfaction was a feature of the AZ model.”

The two men’s shoulders trembled for a few seconds, in what for them was presumably a moment of shared amusement. Another lengthy silence followed.

“Two years . . . It’s been two years since the Other Side sent anything or anyone,” remarked the first stranger.

“They are nearing the end. The temperature is almost zero and there are hardly any black holes left. Everything there is slow and dark now. They are saving their last, feeble strength in the event the Great Exodus might still be possible . . .”

“Then they’re saving it in vain,” his companion pronounced. “They’ll never be reborn here: this world is doomed. I feel frustration. I feel impotence. We’ve carried out a senseless slaughter.”

“We have done our job and have done it well. They needed more time and we gave it to them. We even provided two years more than they expected from their worst predictions. Remember that twelve years ago the Scientists calculated that this world had only a decade left . . .”

“Yes, but we, the Executioners, managed to claw back another two years.”

The man who did not want to encounter old women or children rapped the floor with his cane. The gesture was so out of character that his companion raised his eyebrows several millimeters in surprise. “Yes, we did our job,” the first stranger went on, ignoring the other man’s silent disapproval. “And we did it well. That’s why they created us, isn’t it?” The stranger’s voice, still inaudible to anyone who didn’t press his ear to his lips, was slightly raised, or perhaps it wasn’t, perhaps it had simply acquired a few nuances, like sarcasm or resentment, that the human ear could hear. “Even so, I insist it has been senseless.” He rapped his cane on the floor again as his face began to flush. “The Scientists haven’t managed to find a cure for the epidemic. They haven’t even come close. And exterminating the carriers . . . well, it was always a crude solution, as chaotic as the malady itself. The epidemic is uncontainable, it always was. All those deaths for nothing!”

“Return to a state of calm, my friend. Return to . . .”

“They boast of possessing Supreme Knowledge and look down on us; they refer to us as killers. It enrages me just to think about it. They have no idea what it means to look into a child’s eyes, to show him in your pupils the chaos for which he must die, and then put him to death . . . I could tell them a thing or two about their famous Supreme Knowledge!”