Skip to main content
Outdated Browser

For the best experience using our website, we recommend upgrading your browser to a newer version or switching to a supported browser.

More Information

Fiction

Like a Rolling Stone

By Enrique Prochazka
Translated from Spanish by Megan McDowell
In Enrique Prochazka’s Andean tale, hunter becomes hunted.

The fat man was interesting. A tourist, of course, who had only come to Qoyllur Rit’i to rubberneck. Zimm had seen him on previous days down on the plain below the ice, walking around the campsites set up most recently on the Sinakara depression. There was no mistaking his shape; Zimm figured he must weigh at least three hundred pounds, which ruled him out as a typical festival pilgrim. Plus, the fat man hadn’t brought altar candles with him up to the still night-darkened ice, nor did he stop to recite the liturgies—bah, superstitions—he’d watched the natives take part in. His clothes were completely Western. He wasn’t carrying a light; he moved slowly, with determination, studying each step. Surely, Zimm assessed, he was aware of his limitations and had tasked himself with fighting them through perseverance. Zimm had a very high opinion of perseverance; it was even greater than his already great respect for discipline. He liked the fat man, though that wouldn’t for a second keep Zimm from eliminating him if protocol required it.

A little after midnight, through his biovisor, Zimm had seen the fat man ride up a ways on horseback, then hand over the nag and continue on foot, going noticeably slower than the rest of the climbers, but with method, with rhythm, probably counting steps, planning breaths and pauses to rest. It didn’t seem like the fat man’s first time climbing a mountain, he thought, stashing that observation in the detailed and abundant mental archive with which he fed protocol. Years of training had granted him a certain instinct for fishing out relevant information where there seemed to be none.

From his niche, high up on snowy Colque Punku, Zimm went on observing the bulky but distant figure, following its progress step by step over ice studded with pilgrims, each one furnished at least with a lit candle. From time to time he switched to infrared. Infrared was entertaining. Sometimes, on nights when the weather changed abruptly, from the lowest parts of the glacier a noise rose up that almost could not be called a noise; it was a kind of push of air that he felt in his carotids, his cheeks, his stomach, almost making him nauseous. Zimm knew that the entire middle and lower part of the glacial tongue was broken into large blocks of ice and that the sound came from their settling: ice cubes the size of buildings shifting one or two inches beneath the mountain, which would only thunder seriously if they ever came completely apart and collapsed the glacier’s edge. (Of course they never did that: only small blocks tumbled down, melted, and silently disappeared.) But in those partial, constrained movements, the enormous ice blocks writhed to their limits and vibrated to recover their shape, and that to-and-fro produced that vague sound, that occasional complaint, soft and deep, that you heard more with your skin than your ears. Zimm could have sworn then that with his infrared implant he could see that sound like a lilac-colored reverberation at the edge of the blocks (normally a uniform indigo shade) that were complaining. His instructor sergeant wouldn’t have believed a word of it, and the geek who’d designed the damned gadget would say such a thing was impossible. But he had seen it. And since catching the sound’s elusive St. Elmo’s with an infrared biovisor was a matter more of perseverance than luck, whenever it happened Zimm chalked up a small victory. He also got less bored.

For now the infrared was unnecessary. The starlight bathing the glacier now pocked with a constellation of candles, as well as the tenuous dawn barely breaking through behind him, offered enough light to make out even the expressions on the fat man’s face. Of course, Zimm saw him greenish on his neural screen. Although the sergeant instructors called this a color display, the targets’ faces showed up as shining greenish-white blotches, as if making it easier to imagine them as aliens . . .

The fat man had stopped to talk with a group of local women, señoras who all that night had been sliding along the first ice chutes, the ones on the east side of the ice tongue. Suddenly he walked away from them, moving with curious determination toward the center of the glacier, but then some outcroppings of ice to the south hid the man from Zimm’s sight. He turned to attentively follow a conflict that seemed to be breaking out a little higher up, on the flat area near the large gray undulations that marked the end of the “social area” of the Sinakara ice tongue. One group of natives was arguing with another: another of so many such fights and conflicts, maybe rituals, that as a privileged spectator of Qoyllur Rit’I, Zimm had watched start, escalate, and come to blows and, if the wind was favorable, to curses he could hear with cutting clarity from a quarter-mile away. The two bands in this fight were no more interesting than any of the others, except that one of the two (the one that seemed likely to win) was led by his most conspicuous target, a certain person of interest that he’d been studying for days: a giant native man about whom Zimm had orders to gather information. A lot of information. He was monitoring the situation through his bio-instruments—thinking about returning to his surveillance of the fat man, calculating that he should be back in the line of sight—when something on the south side of the glacier produced a kind of mineral cry or moan, an implosion of crystal, a mental whine of crushed glass that Zimm had never heard before and that, though it ended abruptly, in some way went on sounding in his inner ear. He opened his mouth and swallowed deliberately to balance the pressure. He attributed the sound, at first, to moving ice under “his” mountain; he knew that the perch on Colque Punku where he spent his days and nights was creaky and unstable, but the new noise had come precisely from the area where the fat man had been headed. He judged that if the elements [Solitary Fat Man] and [New, Alarming Noise] shared space in some way, he had to find out.

But he didn’t find the fat man where he expected. He used an accessory that let him widen the view of his biovisor even further, and he searched his surroundings methodically in a typical search grid. Then he saw him, much further down than where he’d last seen the fat man. But he was an inert body, fallen on his back, obviously wounded or dead. The fat man’s mass was unmistakable: it had to be him. Right away he noticed something even stranger and he switched to a higher magnification.

The body wasn’t whole.

Surprised, Zimm pulled his face away from the accessory and expelled a torrent of air through his headsuit. Thinking, calibrating possibilities, he blinked several times before returning to the eyepiece. Suddenly the loose fragments fit together. That extraordinary screeching had been artificial: it hadn’t come from the ice, but from a weapon.

It was certainly interesting that someone was copying his methods on the very same mountain; still, it posed a serious problem. A hidden adversary who was (also) able to do that to a human target at night and from very far away was something he should, at least, be informed about. Although his own holographic camouflage would completely shield him to human eyes, he didn’t know what capabilities this other had, and the next victim could very well be him. And that noise! His teeth were still remembering it, as was the hair on the nape of his neck. He hadn’t liked it at all. No weapon he knew of—and he thought he knew of all of them—moaned on so many wavelengths: its echoes were still scratching at his hypothalamus, his cerebellum. His trained mind went on yellow alert and in half a second the juices and enzymes had started dispersing throughout his body. He had to act. In little more than a minute he cut the distance separating him from the fat man’s body in half; wrapped in the nothing of his hologram, he emerged again on the glacier’s surface, invisible as ever.

Panting, Zimm surveyed his surroundings with the infrared. Now the implant would give him an advantage over natural light, even over the green fantasmagoria presented by the nanotube booster integrated with his optic nerve. He didn’t find the scattered remains he sought: he deduced that the missing part of the fat man must still be in one piece. This was also new. Humming a few bars of a Bob Dylan song, he searched for a long time, focusing on the downward slope where the revealing orange-ish dot must have rolled, and perhaps now was already growing cold, changing to yellow, to green, and to the milky blue that would end up matching the temperature of the glacial indigo. But he found nothing. Nor did it help to widen his view, including in his search the surroundings above and to either side of the fat man’s cadaver. From his new position he went on with his meticulous scrutiny of the stretch between him and the victim, to either side, even up the glacier from where he had just descended. His search grid confirmed his objective as important and he knew that perseverance would eventually bear fruit. It always did.

But not this time. There was nothing. And worse, there was no one. At least, no one who emitted the heat one would expect from a body of warm blood, and neither (he dared think) from the exhaust pipes of motors or electric actuators . . . worse still, there was nothing that reflected the visible light. Or the ultraviolet. Or the other three spectrums his biovisor allowed him (which the instructor-doctor who’d implanted them had jokingly referred to as “Ozma,” “SETI,” and “LGM”), and which an ever more worried Zimm used to sweep his surroundings again and again.

Nothing.

Sure, he was perfectly comfortable inside his thermochemical balancing system—a web of warm fluids circulating through the network of tubular vessels sewn into his clothes. And sure, imagination was not his strong suit. But there, at night in the heights of that dismal mountain in the Peruvian Andes, Zimm began to remember the legends told about that mountain, terrible legends that the protocol prepared by his Commander had wisely exploited . . .  and he had to admit he felt a chill. Because, in effect, there was a stubbornly invisible thing decapitating people on that mountain.

And this time it wasn’t him.

“Historia del Hielo” © Enrique Prochazka. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Megan McDowell. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

The fat man was interesting. A tourist, of course, who had only come to Qoyllur Rit’i to rubberneck. Zimm had seen him on previous days down on the plain below the ice, walking around the campsites set up most recently on the Sinakara depression. There was no mistaking his shape; Zimm figured he must weigh at least three hundred pounds, which ruled him out as a typical festival pilgrim. Plus, the fat man hadn’t brought altar candles with him up to the still night-darkened ice, nor did he stop to recite the liturgies—bah, superstitions—he’d watched the natives take part in. His clothes were completely Western. He wasn’t carrying a light; he moved slowly, with determination, studying each step. Surely, Zimm assessed, he was aware of his limitations and had tasked himself with fighting them through perseverance. Zimm had a very high opinion of perseverance; it was even greater than his already great respect for discipline. He liked the fat man, though that wouldn’t for a second keep Zimm from eliminating him if protocol required it.

A little after midnight, through his biovisor, Zimm had seen the fat man ride up a ways on horseback, then hand over the nag and continue on foot, going noticeably slower than the rest of the climbers, but with method, with rhythm, probably counting steps, planning breaths and pauses to rest. It didn’t seem like the fat man’s first time climbing a mountain, he thought, stashing that observation in the detailed and abundant mental archive with which he fed protocol. Years of training had granted him a certain instinct for fishing out relevant information where there seemed to be none.

From his niche, high up on snowy Colque Punku, Zimm went on observing the bulky but distant figure, following its progress step by step over ice studded with pilgrims, each one furnished at least with a lit candle. From time to time he switched to infrared. Infrared was entertaining. Sometimes, on nights when the weather changed abruptly, from the lowest parts of the glacier a noise rose up that almost could not be called a noise; it was a kind of push of air that he felt in his carotids, his cheeks, his stomach, almost making him nauseous. Zimm knew that the entire middle and lower part of the glacial tongue was broken into large blocks of ice and that the sound came from their settling: ice cubes the size of buildings shifting one or two inches beneath the mountain, which would only thunder seriously if they ever came completely apart and collapsed the glacier’s edge. (Of course they never did that: only small blocks tumbled down, melted, and silently disappeared.) But in those partial, constrained movements, the enormous ice blocks writhed to their limits and vibrated to recover their shape, and that to-and-fro produced that vague sound, that occasional complaint, soft and deep, that you heard more with your skin than your ears. Zimm could have sworn then that with his infrared implant he could see that sound like a lilac-colored reverberation at the edge of the blocks (normally a uniform indigo shade) that were complaining. His instructor sergeant wouldn’t have believed a word of it, and the geek who’d designed the damned gadget would say such a thing was impossible. But he had seen it. And since catching the sound’s elusive St. Elmo’s with an infrared biovisor was a matter more of perseverance than luck, whenever it happened Zimm chalked up a small victory. He also got less bored.

For now the infrared was unnecessary. The starlight bathing the glacier now pocked with a constellation of candles, as well as the tenuous dawn barely breaking through behind him, offered enough light to make out even the expressions on the fat man’s face. Of course, Zimm saw him greenish on his neural screen. Although the sergeant instructors called this a color display, the targets’ faces showed up as shining greenish-white blotches, as if making it easier to imagine them as aliens . . .

The fat man had stopped to talk with a group of local women, señoras who all that night had been sliding along the first ice chutes, the ones on the east side of the ice tongue. Suddenly he walked away from them, moving with curious determination toward the center of the glacier, but then some outcroppings of ice to the south hid the man from Zimm’s sight. He turned to attentively follow a conflict that seemed to be breaking out a little higher up, on the flat area near the large gray undulations that marked the end of the “social area” of the Sinakara ice tongue. One group of natives was arguing with another: another of so many such fights and conflicts, maybe rituals, that as a privileged spectator of Qoyllur Rit’I, Zimm had watched start, escalate, and come to blows and, if the wind was favorable, to curses he could hear with cutting clarity from a quarter-mile away. The two bands in this fight were no more interesting than any of the others, except that one of the two (the one that seemed likely to win) was led by his most conspicuous target, a certain person of interest that he’d been studying for days: a giant native man about whom Zimm had orders to gather information. A lot of information. He was monitoring the situation through his bio-instruments—thinking about returning to his surveillance of the fat man, calculating that he should be back in the line of sight—when something on the south side of the glacier produced a kind of mineral cry or moan, an implosion of crystal, a mental whine of crushed glass that Zimm had never heard before and that, though it ended abruptly, in some way went on sounding in his inner ear. He opened his mouth and swallowed deliberately to balance the pressure. He attributed the sound, at first, to moving ice under “his” mountain; he knew that the perch on Colque Punku where he spent his days and nights was creaky and unstable, but the new noise had come precisely from the area where the fat man had been headed. He judged that if the elements [Solitary Fat Man] and [New, Alarming Noise] shared space in some way, he had to find out.

But he didn’t find the fat man where he expected. He used an accessory that let him widen the view of his biovisor even further, and he searched his surroundings methodically in a typical search grid. Then he saw him, much further down than where he’d last seen the fat man. But he was an inert body, fallen on his back, obviously wounded or dead. The fat man’s mass was unmistakable: it had to be him. Right away he noticed something even stranger and he switched to a higher magnification.

The body wasn’t whole.

Surprised, Zimm pulled his face away from the accessory and expelled a torrent of air through his headsuit. Thinking, calibrating possibilities, he blinked several times before returning to the eyepiece. Suddenly the loose fragments fit together. That extraordinary screeching had been artificial: it hadn’t come from the ice, but from a weapon.

It was certainly interesting that someone was copying his methods on the very same mountain; still, it posed a serious problem. A hidden adversary who was (also) able to do that to a human target at night and from very far away was something he should, at least, be informed about. Although his own holographic camouflage would completely shield him to human eyes, he didn’t know what capabilities this other had, and the next victim could very well be him. And that noise! His teeth were still remembering it, as was the hair on the nape of his neck. He hadn’t liked it at all. No weapon he knew of—and he thought he knew of all of them—moaned on so many wavelengths: its echoes were still scratching at his hypothalamus, his cerebellum. His trained mind went on yellow alert and in half a second the juices and enzymes had started dispersing throughout his body. He had to act. In little more than a minute he cut the distance separating him from the fat man’s body in half; wrapped in the nothing of his hologram, he emerged again on the glacier’s surface, invisible as ever.

Panting, Zimm surveyed his surroundings with the infrared. Now the implant would give him an advantage over natural light, even over the green fantasmagoria presented by the nanotube booster integrated with his optic nerve. He didn’t find the scattered remains he sought: he deduced that the missing part of the fat man must still be in one piece. This was also new. Humming a few bars of a Bob Dylan song, he searched for a long time, focusing on the downward slope where the revealing orange-ish dot must have rolled, and perhaps now was already growing cold, changing to yellow, to green, and to the milky blue that would end up matching the temperature of the glacial indigo. But he found nothing. Nor did it help to widen his view, including in his search the surroundings above and to either side of the fat man’s cadaver. From his new position he went on with his meticulous scrutiny of the stretch between him and the victim, to either side, even up the glacier from where he had just descended. His search grid confirmed his objective as important and he knew that perseverance would eventually bear fruit. It always did.

But not this time. There was nothing. And worse, there was no one. At least, no one who emitted the heat one would expect from a body of warm blood, and neither (he dared think) from the exhaust pipes of motors or electric actuators . . . worse still, there was nothing that reflected the visible light. Or the ultraviolet. Or the other three spectrums his biovisor allowed him (which the instructor-doctor who’d implanted them had jokingly referred to as “Ozma,” “SETI,” and “LGM”), and which an ever more worried Zimm used to sweep his surroundings again and again.

Nothing.

Sure, he was perfectly comfortable inside his thermochemical balancing system—a web of warm fluids circulating through the network of tubular vessels sewn into his clothes. And sure, imagination was not his strong suit. But there, at night in the heights of that dismal mountain in the Peruvian Andes, Zimm began to remember the legends told about that mountain, terrible legends that the protocol prepared by his Commander had wisely exploited . . .  and he had to admit he felt a chill. Because, in effect, there was a stubbornly invisible thing decapitating people on that mountain.

And this time it wasn’t him.

“Historia del Hielo” © Enrique Prochazka. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Megan McDowell. All rights reserved.

Like a Rolling Stone

El hombre gordo era interesante. Un turista, desde luego, que sólo había venido al Qoyllur Rit’i a curiosear. Zimm lo había visto en los días anteriores, en el llano debajo de los hielos, rondando por los campamentos más recientes establecidos en la hoyada de Sinajara. Su perfil era inconfundible; Zimm le calculó al menos trescientas libras de peso, lo que descartaba que fuera uno de los típicos peregrinos de la fiesta. Además, aquí al hielo aún nocturno el hombre gordo no había subido cirios ni se detenía a practicar las liturgias —bah, supersticiones— en las que había visto ocuparse al resto de los nativos. Sus ropas eran completamente occidentales. No llevaba linterna; se movía despacio, con determinación, estudiando cada paso, seguramente al tanto de sus limitaciones y dándose el trabajo —apreció Zimm— de combatirlas mediante la perseverancia. Zimm tenía una muy alta opinión de la perseverancia, aún más alta que el ya gran respeto que guardaba por la disciplina. El hombre gordo le cayó bien, aunque eso no le detendría un segundo en eliminarlo si se lo indicaba el protocolo.

Poco después de medianoche, a través de sus biovisores, Zimm lo había visto subir a caballo hasta donde dio el jamelgo y luego caminar notoriamente más despacio que el resto de los ascensionistas, pero con método, con ritmo, probablemente contando pasos, planeando respiraciones y pausas para descanso. No parecía ser la primera vez que el hombre gordo subía a una montaña, pensó, guardando esa observación en el abundante y detallado archivo mental con el que alimentaba el protocolo. Años de entrenamiento le habían dotado de cierto instinto para pescar lo relevante allí donde no parecía haberlo.

Desde su nicho, muy arriba en el nevado Collqepunku, Zimm continuó observando la gruesa pero distante figura, siguiendo su avance paso a paso a través del hielo tachonado de peregrinos, cada uno provisto al menos de un cirio encendido. Pasó a infrarrojo de vez en cuando. El infrarrojo era entretenido. A veces, en las noches en que el clima cambiaba abruptamente, desde las partes bajas del glaciar subía hasta él un ruido que casi no podía llamarse ruido, era una especie de empuje de aire que él sentía en las carótidas, en los carrillos, el estómago, y que casi daba náuseas. Zimm sabía que era el reacomodo de los grandes bloques de hielo en los que estaba quebrada toda la parte media y baja de la lengua glaciar: cubos de hielo del porte de edificios moviéndose una pulgada o dos montaña abajo, que sólo tronarían en serio si terminaran de partirse y se derrumbasen en el término glaciar. (Claro que nunca hacían eso: llegaban ahí pequeños, terminaban de derretirse, desaparecían en silencio). Pero en estos movimientos parciales, limitados, los hielos enormes se retorcían hasta su límite y vibraban para recuperar su forma y en ese ir y venir producían ese vago sonido, ese ocasional quejido, suave y profundo, que se escuchaba más con el pellejo que con el oído. Zimm podía jurar entonces que con su implante infrarrojo podía ver ese ruido como un reverbero liláceo en las orillas de los bloques (normalmente de uniforme tono índigo) que se estaban quejando. Su sargento instructor no le creería ni una palabra, y el geek que diseñó el maldito aparato seguramente le diría que tal cosa era imposible. Pero él lo había visto. Y ya que atinarle al escurridizo santelmo del sonido con un biovisor infrarrojo era un asunto más de perseverancia que de suerte, cuando ocurría Zimm se anotaba un pequeño triunfo. También se aburría menos.

Esta vez el infrarrojo no le hacía falta. La luz astral que bañaba el glaciar tachonado ya de una constelación de candelas y la tenue alborada que apenas asomaba a sus espaldas le brindaban luz suficiente como para distinguir incluso las expresiones del rostro del hombre gordo. Él lo veía, desde luego, verduzco en la pantalla neural. Aunque los sargentos instructores llamaran a éste un color display, siempre las caras de los objetivos saltaban como brillantes manchas blanco-verduzcas, como facilitándole la tarea de imaginar que se trataba de aliens

El hombre gordo se había detenido a conversar con un grupo de mujeres locales, señoras que toda esa noche habían estado deslizándose por los primeros toboganes de hielo, los que había en el lado este de la lengua glaciar. De pronto se separó de ellas, moviéndose con curiosa determinación hacia el centro del glaciar, pero Zimm lo perdió de vista tras unos resaltos de hielo en dirección al sur, mientras seguía con atención un conflicto que parecía estarse desarrollando un poco más arriba, sobre el área llana cercana a las grandes ondulaciones grises que marcaban el final de la “zona social” de la lengua de hielo del Sinajara. Un grupo de indígenas discutía con otro: una de tantas peleas y conflictos, quizá rituales, que como espectador privilegiado de dos Qoyllur Rit’is Zimm había visto empezar, crecer y resolverse a golpes y, si el viento era favorable, a insultos que a medio kilómetro de distancia escuchaba con cortante claridad. Los dos bandos de este lío no eran más interesantes que otros, salvo porque uno de los dos (el que al parecer llevó las de ganar) estaba liderado por su target más conspicuo, cierta person of interest que venía estudiando hacía días: un nativo grandote acerca del cual Zimm tenía órdenes de acopiar información. Mucha información. Estaba monitoreando la situación a través de sus bioinstrumentos —pensando en renovar la vigilancia al hombre gordo, calculando que ya lo tendría nuevamente en línea de vista— cuando algo en el lado sur del glaciar produjo una especie de grito o quejido mineral, una implosión de cristales, un chirrido mental de vidrio molido que Zimm nunca había escuchado antes y que, aunque terminó abruptamente, de alguna manera seguía sonando en su oído interno. Abrió la boca y tragó saliva deliberadamente para equilibrar las presiones. Atribuyó el ruido, inicialmente, al movimiento de los hielos en ‘su’ montaña; sabía que la percha sobre la que pasaba días y noches en el Collquepunku era inestable y crujiente, pero el nuevo ruido había provenido precisamente de la zona a la que el gordo se había estado dirigiendo y juzgó que si los elementos [Hombre Gordo Solitario] y [Ruido Alarmante Novedoso] compartían un espacio, él tenía que saberlo.

Pero no encontró al hombre gordo donde lo esperaba. Recurrió a un accesorio que le permitía abrir aún más el plano de su biovisor y buscó metódicamente por los alrededores, en una grilla usual de rastreo. Entonces lo divisó, bastante más abajo de donde lo había dejado la última vez. Pero era un cuerpo inerte, caído de bruces, obviamente herido o muerto. El volumen del hombre gordo era inconfundible: no podía ser otro. De inmediato notó algo aún más raro y pasó a un aumento visual mayor.

El cuerpo no estaba completo.

Sorprendido, Zimm alejó el rostro del accesorio y expulsó un gran chorro de aire a través de la escafandra. Pensando, calibrando posibilidades, pestañeó varias veces antes de volver al ocular. De pronto las piezas sueltas encajaron. Ese  extraordinario chirrido había sido artificial: lo había producido no el hielo, sino un arma.

Era interesante que alguien copiara sus métodos en esta misma montaña, pero no dejaba de ser un problema serio. Un adversario oculto capaz (también) de hacerle eso a un blanco humano de noche y desde muy lejos era algo de lo que él debería, al menos, estar al tanto. Aunque su propio camuflaje holográfico lo velara completamente a ojos humanos, no sabía qué capacidades tenía el otro, y bien podía ser él la próxima víctima. ¡Y ese ruido! Aún lo recordaban sus dientes, el pelo de su nuca. No le había gustado nada. Ningún arma que él conociera —y creía conocer todas— arrancaba quejidos en tantas longitudes de onda: sus ecos seguían raspándole el hipotálamo, el cerebelo. Su entrenada mente pasó a alerta amarilla y jugos y enzimas tardaron medio segundo en empezar a dispersarse por su cuerpo. Debía actuar. En poco más de un minuto redujo a la mitad la distancia que lo separaba del cuerpo del hombre gordo y envuelto en la nada de su holograma volvió a emerger a la superficie glaciar, tan invisible como siempre.

Jadeando, Zimm revisó los alrededores con el infrarrojo. Aquí sí el implante le daría una ventaja sobre la luz natural, incluso sobre las fantasmagorías verdes que le presentaba el aumentador de nanotubos integrado a su nervio óptico. No encontró los restos esparcidos que buscaba: dedujo que la parte faltante del gordo debía seguir de una sola pieza. Eso también era nuevo. Tarareando para sí unas líneas de Bob Dylan, buscó un largo rato, de preferencia ladera abajo, hacia donde debería haber rodado ese revelador punto anaranjado que quizá ya se enfriaba pasando al amarillo, al verde y a la lechosidad azul que terminaría por igualar su temperatura al del índigo glaciar. Pero no encontró nada. Tampoco le valió ampliar el plano, incluir en la búsqueda los alrededores de arriba y a los lados del cadáver del hombre gordo. Desde su nueva posición siguió escrutando disciplinadamente el trecho que lo separaba de la víctima, a los lados, incluso en la parte alta del glaciar, de donde él acababa de descender. La grilla de búsqueda le confirmaba la importancia de su propósito, y él sabía que la perseverancia finalmente daría fruto.  Siempre lo daba.

Pero no esta vez. No había nada. Y peor, no había nadie. Al menos, nadie que emitiera el calor esperable de un cuerpo de sangre caliente y tampoco (se atrevió a pensar) de escapes de calor de motores o actuadores eléctricos… peor aún, nada que reflejara la luz visible. O la ultravioleta. O las otras tres longitudes espectrales que le permitía su biovisor (identificadas en plan de broma por el médico-instructor que se las implantó como ‘Ozma’, ‘SETI’ y ‘LGM’) y que un cada vez más preocupado Zimm usó para barrer una y otra vez su entorno.

Nadie.

Nada.

Aunque estaba perfectamente cómodo en su sistema de equilibrio termoquímico —una malla de fluidos tibios que circulaba por la red de vasos tubulares tejidos en su vestimenta— y la imaginación no era su fuerte, allí, de noche en lo alto de esa montaña tenebrosa en los Andes del Perú, Zimm recordó las leyendas que había sobre esa montaña, leyendas terribles que el protocolo preparado por su Comando había tenido la astucia de explotar… y tuvo que admitir que tenía un escalofrío. Porque, en efecto, había algo tercamente invisible decapitando gente en esa montaña.

Y esta vez no era él.

Read Next

january-2015-kacper-kowalski-nanning
february-2013-international-graphic-novels-volume-vii-ladybirds-requiem-akino-kondoh-hero