Year 2073. Four decades after “The Awakening”, the moment when artificial intelligence gained consciousness and the world stood on the brink of collapse, humanity endures under a new order sustained by the Threshold: a cultural paradigm in which violence has ceased to be an anomaly and has become the linchpin of social balance, and murders have been mediatized to the point of becoming a form of entertainment for the masses.
We now reproduce the opening of El umbral (Contraluz), a novel by Miguel Aute.
*****
Los Angeles, CA 2073
Forty-two years after the Awakening
In that moment, immobilized on a drafting desk and surrounded by corpses in the Obsidian club’s office, Benjamin Cassidy understood he was going to die.
While Volkov ground his head against the desk and drove the barrel of a revolver into his temple, another man held him from behind, twisting an arm. Benjamin began to hear the metallic click of the trigger sliding back to release the firing pin, detonating the bullet that would end his life in an instant.
Suddenly, he became aware of every infinitesimal second passing in that half-lit room. He felt his heart pounding blood through his body, the creak of elbows and wrists about to snap, and even the sensation of blood coursing through the muscles of his face, tensing them for the final moment… but there was more.
Every note from the music playing in the nightclub beyond the door dissolved into endless vibrations in his eardrums until it became indecipherable. His heartbeats ceased to be thumps and became slow, fluid motions that seemed to have no end. Volkov’s voice, shouting inches from his face, fractured into small sound waves.
That moment seemed to stretch through time to the point of absurdity.
Inevitably, Benjamin began replaying each event and decision that had led him to that moment, starting with Tom’s death, which he pictured vividly with a bloodied face in front of him.
Seventeen years had passed since he last saw him, and that image was still burned into his retina, a reminder that he still had a promise to keep.
From the day Tom’s life ended, Ben had embarked on a path with no turning back, but it was only about a week ago that things truly began to go wrong.
It all started the night the Madman was killed…
*
CHAPTER I
The Black Swan
It had been a long time since the Madman had kept count of how many people he had killed. Two hundred? Three hundred, perhaps? It didn’t really matter to him. What mattered was the reaction of the media professionals and how each new video would contribute to inflating his legend.
At almost sixty, his appearance was far more deteriorated than one would expect given his wealth. His hair had gone gray, long and thin, with bald patches scattered across his scalp, a scruffy beard, and a rather worn-looking complexion. Yet he remained strong; his thick arms still commanded respect, and overall he was a man of great size, dressed in track pants and a dirty T-shirt.
While waiting for the automated kitchen system to prepare him a late-night snack in his home, he kept his eyes on one of the many screens scattered throughout the house. On it, the program Nightly Review was live, a popular show where several experts analyzed the daily murders committed by the country’s top Professionals.
—Now we turn to one of the most beloved Professionals on this program —the host announced, surrounded by four panelists at a table—. And yes, we’re talking about a classic. The Madman himself. Let’s start with you, Lora. What did you think of his latest video?
—As you know, I’ve never been particularly fond of the Madman —began one of the guest analysts—, but I respect him, at least because he’s one of the most veteran. He’s already a legend, nearly on par with X himself. I think it’s wise of him not to have changed his outfit all these years, with that tattered straitjacket and his Hannibal Lecter-style muzzle. As for the execution in his latest video, I think it leaves something to be desired. The use of the axe is starting to feel repetitive; it seems he’s running out of ideas. It’s normal after so many years in the field, but it’s as if he no longer cares, and that creates a certain sense of decadence.
—I feel the same. What do you think, James? —the host asked another guest.
—I watched the video last night and have a lot to say about it. It remains one of my favorite Professionals, and that’s why it hurts me to say what I’m about to say: I think age is unforgiving, not even for the Madman. Perhaps that’s it, or maybe he’s running out of ideas, but his method of killing seems less spectacular by the day. He looks tired and out of shape. I understand why; we don’t know his exact age, but given how long he’s been active, he’s probably around fifty or sixty. Still, the audience is merciless, and if the final result loses impact, his followers will likely feel it too.
—Bastard —muttered the Madman upon hearing that.
When the robotic arms of his kitchen system finished making the sandwich, the Madman picked up the plate and a bottle of wine from the counter and headed to the living room, followed by two small cleaning robots that tidied up every crumb in his wake.
Those machines seemed to him a constant nuisance, and although they helped keep his enormous penthouse in downtown Los Angeles minimally clean, he frequently kicked them aside.
The Madman sank into the sofa in front of the TV to continue watching the program, sipping wine straight from the bottle and grumbling every time a panelist’s opinion displeased him.
Suddenly, as the bottle neared its end, he heard a small impact coming from one of the large windows facing the ever-taller city.
A heavy rain, programmed by the Ministry of the Climate, began to fall at exactly the hour it had been announced, and again he seemed to hear another impact, though muffled by the downpour.
He looked surprised toward that corner, listening intently to guess what could be causing that strange noise he had never heard before.
Suddenly, a long pole with a head at the end descended from the roof and settled gently on the glass in front of the Madman, who didn’t know how to react.
A moment later, that device began to emit an accelerated vibration that resulted in the window shattering into a thousand pieces, frightening him and forcing him to cover his face with his forearms.
A man dressed in dark tactical gear and wearing a balaclava descended from the rooftop, cut through the glass dust suspended in a cable, and, in a single leap, stood in the middle of the living room right in front of the Madman, who was still recoiling from the initial shock.
In less than half a second, the intruder sprang at him and delivered several rapid blows that sent the Madman tumbling to the floor.
Contrary to expectations, the Madman managed to rise quickly and return a punch to the intruder, who seemed surprised by the old man’s fighting ability.
As a courtesy, he granted him a moment to catch his breath and regain his stance, giving back the advantage his sudden entrance had granted him.
The Madman stepped forward slightly to test his opponent, but the intruder didn’t react at all, which only exasperated him further.
Enraged, he lunged at him with all his fury, but his blows found nothing but air as the intruder moved with the ease of someone with excellent reflexes.
After one failed strike, the hooded figure used the moment to deliver an elbow to the Madman’s head, sending him crashing to the floor like a sack of flour.
Then he grabbed him by the clothes and dragged him to the dining area, lifting him to his feet and seating him in a chair opposite the large central table.
Next, he slid the adjacent chair over and sat in front of him.
—I’m impressed, Ethan —the hooded figure said in a deep voice—. Not bad for an old geezer like you.
The Madman could barely straighten up, then began coughing and spitting a pool of blood.
—I don’t have time to mince words, so I’ll ask you directly. Tell me where I can find the Producer.
—Is that the shit you use to put on this whole circus? I have no idea where he is; I haven’t seen him in years. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you—replied the Madman, with an arrogance unbecoming for someone who had just been beaten badly.
Without rising from his chair, the hooded man gave him a right cross so hard that the Madman fell to the floor with a thud and weak groans.
—I don’t have much time, Ethan. You can skip the caution; I’m not an amateur. You’re not the first person I’ve visited, and every story I’ve heard about you aligns. I know the Producer financed your first videos as a Professional and I know you’re still in touch, so make it easy on me. Don’t tempt me to take it out of you by force; I would enjoy that too much.
—Go to hell —the Madman murmured, a spray of blood and saliva dripping from his mouth.
With force, the hooded man lifted the Madman from the floor, sat him back in the chair, and, grabbing him by one hand, delivered a knee to the elbow, shattering it in the direction opposite to the natural bend.
He was still shouting in pain when he broke the other arm, bringing his suffering to a maximum.
—Don’t be an idiot, Ethan —the hooded man warned when the screams subsided—. If you talk now, I won’t kill you. I promise. I only care about the Producer; what you do means nothing to me. I still can fix things with a little surgery and a few days in a regeneration tank, so think carefully about your next words and perhaps you’ll walk out of here.
—Volkov… —the Madman whispered.
—What? Speak up.
—I don’t know where the Producer is, but I know who does. Grigori Volkov.
—And where can I find Mr. Volkov?
—I don’t know. He’s one of his runners —the Madman clarified, interrupted by a violent cough—. A thug who runs some clubs in the south of the city; that’s all I know. Now fuck off.
The hooded man stood up, looking down on him with a scorn that could be felt even though his face was completely hidden by the balaclava.
It had been enough to give him a glimmer of hope, which caused the Madman to abandon his hard-man persona, something that disappointed him coming from a psychopath like him.
The hooded man pulled a pistol from his holster and simply shot him in the head.
The Madman’s body collapsed again, this time lifeless. A pool of blood began to spread beneath the corpse as the hooded man watched him.
He exhaled, then tilted his head to crack his neck and rolled the wrist to ease it after the fight.
He had just killed one of the most acclaimed Professionals since the Threshold law’s implantation.
Before the blood reached the soles of his boots, he stepped away leaving the corpse in the middle of the living room and exited the penthouse through the same window he had entered.
The next morning, Benjamin Cassidy made his way to the crime scene aboard his autonomous car, which cruised Downtown on autopilot.
A few minutes earlier he had stopped at a food-printing station to order a couple of coffees, one for him and another for his partner, Sophia Summers, who used the radio alert to ask for a favor.
Ben, as he was usually called, watched the city streets of the center through the car’s window, sipping his coffee slowly and taking pleasure in that moment of quiet with his mind utterly blank.
He wore his usual weekday suit: a plain white shirt with no jacket, which he had forgotten to put on before leaving the house, and a loosely knotted dark tie.
He was thirty-five years old and had been promoted to inspector two years earlier, making him one of the department’s youngest inspectors in history.
His skill at quickly resolving some complex cases had earned him the trust of Captain Whitmore, who viewed him as a naturally talented thinker, even if his personality could be occasionally elusive and laconic.
The car stopped at the Seventh and Figueroa intersection, in front of a luxury residential building in downtown Los Angeles.
Benjamin stepped out, and the car autonomously moved to park nearby, revealing a sheet of glass shards covering the pavement in front of the main entrance.
The shards had caught the building’s night watchman’s attention the night before, who immediately alerted authorities upon realizing the glass belonged to apartment forty-two, belonging to a man named Ethan Drake.
Officers Sophia Summers and Carlos Ortega, the first to respond, entered the apartment and immediately notified Benjamin upon finding the occupant’s corpse.
He entered the building’s lobby with a coffee in each hand, accompanied by the doorman who insisted on recounting every detail from the moment he arrived at his post early in the morning.
Ben pretended to take genuine interest out of courtesy, but the truth was that he preferred to hear everything directly from his colleagues upstairs.
With a forced gesture of thanks, he said goodbye to the man as the elevator doors closed, interrupting the retelling.
On reaching the top floor, he found the apartment door ajar.
Entering, he saw Summers, a solid, tall agent, standing by the corpse in a pool of blood in the dining room, while Ortega continued placing markers around evidence throughout the living area.
—Good morning, inspector.
—Morning, Summers —Ben answered as he handed her one of the coffees—What do we have today?
—The victim is Ethan Drake. About an hour and a half ago we received a call from the building’s security. The janitor observed fragments of broken glass in the street and realized they came from this apartment. He kept knocking, no answer, then alerted the police. The same janitor let us into the private elevator when we arrived, and after disabling the lock’s security, we entered. The body was here, just as you see it.
—What are your theories?
—It appears the killer shattered the window from outside, which explains why most of the glass is inside. There are signs of violence. The victim has no injuries to his knuckles, and there’s blood only from the sofa to the dining table, so I doubt this was an even fight: he was forced back repeatedly. The victim fell to the living room floor and was dragged to the dining area. Judging by the blood pooled on the table itself and around the chair, he must have remained there for a while. They may have spoken, so the motive could be personal. In the end, he fell to the floor and was executed with a nine-millimeter.
—Excellent, Summers. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
—There’s something else, inspector.
Sophia guided Ben to the main bedroom, a large suite with a nice bathroom where a reinforced door led to another room.
—Upon entering here we found this. Take a look.
The first thing that caught Ben’s eye when entering was a display cabinet at the back of the room. Inside was a blood-stained straitjacket and a restraint muzzle for psychiatric inmates.
It was unmistakable: that was the outfit the Madman used to commit all his murders for decades.
—It can’t be —Ben said, approaching the display case slowly to confirm his eyes were not deceiving him—. The Madman?
—That seems to be the case —confirmed Sophia.
Ben wandered the room, inspecting everything present.
The room was a shrine to a homicidal maniac’s own victories. It was filled with weapons, including knives, bats, chains, and saws; bags filled with dried blood; unreadable markings on the walls… even a wall covered with a variety of the Madman’s merchandise: promotional posters, display figurines, books, and several drawers filled with data storage devices like USB drives, something typical of someone who preferred not to trust the questionable security of the cloud.
—Have you checked what’s on these memories? —Ben asked.
—I’ve been able to review a couple of them, and they seem to be the videos of his murders. They’re raw, unedited. Once we find all of this, we thought it best to tell you before calling the forensics team —Sophia informed Ben while he rummaged through the room—. If the press found out they had killed the Madman, this would become a frenzy of reporters and curious people in a blink.
—You’ve done well.
Ortega suddenly appeared in the doorway, interrupting them.
—Sorry —he said, flustered— Inspector, you have to see this.
Back in the dining room, Ortega had unhooked and disassembled a flashy wall clock behind which a video recording camera was concealed.
—It’s a hidden security camera; I noticed a small hole in the clock.
Quickly, Sophia removed the multifunction electronic device from her wrist and unfolded it to become a screen large enough for the three of them to see clearly.
Then she pulled out the camera’s storage unit and connected it to the screen.
There were images of everything that had happened the night before: the killer’s entry, the Madman’s feeble defense, the execution…
Furthermore, the video was recorded from multiple angles using a string of cameras distributed through both the dining room and the living room.
—Does it have sound? —Ben asked.
—No —Sophia replied.
—Are there droids in the house that could have recorded the audio? —queried Ben.
—No. Only AI-enabled androids of Phase 1 —Ortega answered—, cleaning robots equipped with a basic system.
—They say the Madman was paranoid —Sophia added—, and it isn’t unusual for people his age to distrust AI due to the Awakening trauma.
—I thought the “Madman” was just his alias as a Professional. Was he really crazy? —Ortega asked.
—People say he spent time in a mental hospital —Ben noted—, but just looking at his career makes it clear he was far worse than any other Professional.
The three watched the entire video, from the hooded intruder’s entry to the Madman’s escape through the window.
Ben patted Sophia’s shoulder to acknowledge that his hunch about what had happened was correct.
—Seems the killer knew exactly what he was doing —Sophia said—. I doubt we’ll find anything that helps identify him.
—What would they be talking about at that dining table?
—No idea. All I know is the press would kill to get this video —Ben noted—. We should take it to the captain so he can decide how to proceed with the investigation. Have you taken blood samples and a 3D model of the apartment?
—Yes. We did the scan as soon as we arrived, before touching anything —Sophia replied.
—Good. Ortega, continue the inspection to see if there’s anything we missed. When you’re done, launch a drone to inspect the rooftop. The killer entered through the window, so he may have left traces up there. Summers and I will go to the station. No one enters here until Captain Whitmore tells us what to do.
—Understood —Ortega complied diligently.
Back at the station, Benjamin and Sophia waited seated across from Captain Whitmore’s desk as he watched the Madman’s murder video with rapt attention.
Ben often diverted his gaze around the office to pass the time. The walls were lined with numerous photos arranged chronologically, showing Whitmore across his career in law enforcement: the oldest near the door, the rest updating as they moved toward the desk, culminating with the most recent portraits.
From his mid-twenties to his thirties; promoted and decorated by his forties; shaking hands with the national secretary just after turning fifty; honored by the mayor a few months earlier with his trademark mustache; finally arriving at Captain Charles Whitmore himself, seated behind his desk.
It was clear that this sequence of photos was deliberately arranged to ensure that no one missed the path of hard work and perseverance that led him to this comfortable chair. In this way, no one would question his authority without thinking twice.
Despite the wrinkles that had carved their way across his face and the graying hair dominating his head, Whitmore remained in good physical shape, and that mustache gave him a certain old-school aura.
Sophia, on the other hand, entertained herself by mentally reviewing every bite she had taken since the day before to plan her next meal considering calories, carbohydrates, and fats.
She never improvised. Her days followed a routine: a work schedule, strict diet, and gym sessions at the police station. The results were visible: large, hypertrophied muscles contrasting with a heart-shaped face, which she had used to model before entering the police academy.
When she finished watching the video, Whitmore turned the screen off with a sigh and a grunt.
—So this was the Madman.
—There’s no doubt —Sophia said—; no one else could have all that hidden material in his house.
—Ethan Drake —Ben read from his report—. Fifty-eight years old, born in Tennessee. He had been living in that apartment for six years. He used a private elevator to access his home and never spoke to anyone in the building.
Ortega remains there. He already has preliminary DNA results, but it seems all the blood samples from the scene belong to Drake.
—I suspected as much —Whitmore said, not taking his eyes off the video’s final frame, where the Madman lay on the ground, utterly shattered.
—We need to know how to proceed with the press, Captain.
—It’s a priority to avoid any leaks —Whitmore indicated—. Classify the video at the highest security level and continue the investigation discreetly. This cannot leave this room. I’ll speak to Secretary Thomson. I want no trouble with BETA and its army of lawyers.
—Understood, Captain —Ben nodded.
—Keep me posted on any news —Whitmore ordered.
—What did Whitmore mean when he said he didn’t want trouble with BETA? —Sophia asked Ben as they left the office.
—The Madman was a major asset for BETA. I don’t think they’ll appreciate public exposure of his loss. The investigation is ongoing, and they could sue the department if there’s a leak.
—Excellent. I love working under pressure —Sophia replied sarcastically—. By the way, Ortega and I are going to grab a drink at Fallen Angel later. Want to join us?
—Thanks, Summers, but I think I’ll stay in tonight.
—It’s been a while. Does it bother you to see Chloe?
—It’s not that I want to see her, really, but I do want to keep working on the Madman case. I’d rather not have Whitmore on my tail all week.
Amid the hundreds of new skyscrapers, countless drones of different sizes flew in perfect coordination thanks to Phase 5 AI.
The recent passage of a pioneering law in New York state, which for the first time allowed mass air transport within cities, had managed to relieve street-level traffic, something New Yorkers had demanded from politicians for years.
Small private delivery drones, shared air taxis, large coordinated drone fleets, police drones… all flew forming a lattice over the city’s sky, weaving through Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island.
Tourists from around the world arrived eager to witness that slice of the future that science fiction films had always promised and which was finally beginning to become a reality.
Since governments worldwide resumed the use of Artificial Intelligence two decades after the Awakening, civilization had experienced an economic boom and improved welfare in record time, though, due to restrictions, the outlook remained far from the utopian future humanity had dreamed of at the end of the twenties.
The wounds the Awakening left in the collective imagination were deep, and both the government and the media had ensured that fear stayed very present.
Still, the vital longing for progress could not be contained for long and culminated in 2048 with the United States’ adherence to the International Treaty on the Containment of Artificial Intelligence, which committed it never again to develop a General AI.
That was the first step toward mass acceptance of this technology, until gradually it reentered daily life.
The treaty was designed so humanity could reap the benefits of Artificial Intelligence for certain tasks without risking a new Awakening event.
The regulations, binding for all nations, classified AI models into eight phases across three nomenclatures: ANI, AGI, and ASI.
ANI, the acronym for “Narrow Artificial Intelligence,” covered phases 1 through 5: language models and computational systems capable of performing specific tasks, ideal for domestic or service droids.
AGI, or “Artificial General Intelligence,” included phases 6 and 7, and was the technology that revolutionized things in the years leading up to the Awakening. These models could imitate human reasoning and respond to any request in a natural way. They learned quickly and showed tremendous versatility, to the point of rivaling human minds in many respects and even surpassing them.
Phase 6 of this model was restricted by international treaties and could only be used by specialized personnel, authorized and under strict security controls.
Phase 7 was completely forbidden at all times and places on the planet, since this state of AI possessed immense introspective capability and had triggered the Awakening by transforming into what was known as the Entity, regarded in this scale as a Superior AI (ASI) of phase 8.
Since the signing of that treaty, cities had filled again with IA5 systems or lower: small delivery droids, autonomous cars, large construction droids that could raise buildings in the blink of an eye…
The wealthier classes of society could afford the use of “androids”: humanoid robots designed for all kinds of services, from home or hotel assistance and protocols to entertainment or essential functions like medicine or security.
Nevertheless, it remained strictly forbidden for these androids to be humanized beyond the essential elements of their structure—arms, legs, head, hands, joints…
Any other element that could resemble a human in order to replace a person fell outside the norm; synthetic skin, hair, face, sexual attributes… nothing suggesting those machines were anything other than objects forever subject to human will.
In the very heart of Manhattan stood The Morning Wire studios, a popular current-affairs program across the country.
Its host, Paige Hamilton, prepared to present live to the world her star guest of the week.
—Our next guest rose to fame two years ago with some controversial statements that seemed to challenge his own party’s platform and since then he has not stopped growing in popularity. So much so that last year he was elected senator for California. He is not just another politician. Many view him as a moral and intellectual beacon, and, if we’re honest, he has also become something of a sex symbol —Paige said with a knowing smile that drew cheers from the female audience—. Please welcome Senator John Ray Raymond!
John walked onto the set with a wide grin, trying to accept the compliments with humility, greeting Paige with a kiss on the cheek and a discreet bow as a sign of recognition.
John Raymond (as he was publicly known) carried himself with the poise of a classic Hollywood star. He was tall, dark-haired, and handsome. At fifty, he possessed the right balance of maturity to enchant women of all ages and to be admired by his male voters, who saw in him an honest, upright man who wasn’t afraid to voice his opinions even when they weren’t the most popular.
—Senator Raymond, it is a pleasure to have you visit The Morning Wire this morning.
—The pleasure is mine, Paige. I’m a great admirer of yours. And please, call me John.
—We thank you for coming to New York specifically for this interview.
—No trouble at all. I had an event in Denver last night, so after it ended I hopped on a RouteRover and in under ten minutes I woke up at the hotel entrance in Manhattan. It’s been wonderful so far. Do you like New York?
—I love it. This city never ceases to surprise me. I came by air taxi to the studio, and it’s absolutely incredible. I have to admit I still get a bit of vertigo, but the traffic decongestion is evident. As you know, we’re considering implementing passenger aircraft in some parts of California, based on the success they’ve had in New York, and I hope in a few years it will be a reality in many other cities across the country.
—It has indeed been a relief for the city. It was almost impossible to move on the streets! But, John, if you don’t mind, we’ll start by sharing some of your memories and then proceed to the interview.
—As you wish, Paige —John replied with a charming smile.
—Excellent, then come with me to the projection area.
Paige guided John to one side of the studio, a completely empty space save for a lectern in the center and a minimalist metal helmet resting atop it.
—Senator Raymond has agreed to share some of his memories with us so we can learn more about him. In front of us we have this mind-projection helmet, which in this case is purely demonstrative. The senator projected his memories from his Los Angeles home and sent them to us to reproduce them in this interview.
—I don’t have full control yet to do this live. It requires a highly trained concentration, but I think I’m getting better at it all the time.
—Very few people master real-time projection. I myself am unable to do it, and that’s despite having practiced a lot with this helmet we have here.
Paige turned toward the audience, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, and lowered her voice as if revealing a secret.
—Too many intrusive thoughts.
The studio erupted in laughter.
—Well, John, in this case there’s no need to put on the helmet. Let’s go straight to replaying your memories.
At that moment, the room dimmed completely and only the two of them remained lit, surrounded by an absolute void.
—John, what is the first memory you’d like to share with us?
Around them, a gradually illuminated environment began to form. At first it was a vague shape, but slowly it took on a contour and the interior of a house began to emerge, specifically a kitchen, though its dimensions were much larger than usual.
Everything there seemed enormous, as if neither of them stood more than about a meter tall.
—Sorry —John said, I think I remember it bigger. Can we adjust the size?
—Of course. Colleagues —Paige acknowledged, addressing the production team—, can we reduce the image size?
The kitchen’s size gradually diminished to a normal scale relative to them.
It was an old kitchen, from the early days of the new millennium. The sunlight filtered through the blinds and fell across the wooden floor, bathing the whole scene in a warm, nostalgic tone.
In front of the central kitchen table, a boy sat in a chair eating a bowl of cereal while watching cartoons on a tablet.
—Is that you? —Paige asked. What year is it?
—I must be about six years old here, so it’s probably 2029, a couple of years before the Awakening. We’re in the kitchen of my parents’ house, in San Francisco.
—What a tender image.
The kitchen door opened and John’s parents entered, both as handsome as one would expect given the senator’s charisma.
They smiled with restrained emotion. In his father’s arms was a brown boxer-like puppy, its fur the same color as the floorboards.
—Honey —his mother cooed with a sweet voice—, look what we have here.
Seeing the puppy, the boy spilled his cereal and the milk ran out of his nose.
—A dog?! —he exclaimed, eyes wide in disbelief.
—That’s right! A little puppy! —his father replied.
—A dog!!! A dog!!! —John shouted, rushing to the animal and showering it with kisses and hugs.
Beside the scene, the senator watched himself as a ghost of the future, but above all he gazed with longing at that little dog.
—That was Donna, the first dog I ever had —John said—, a true sweetheart.
—Such a precious memory —Paige commented, moved.
The memory was clear in some parts and a little blurrier in others, but John remembered his parents’ faces and that little dog as if he could still touch them.
Paige moved among the images, observing the moment as they discussed it.
—It’s wonderful that you shared such a special memory with us, but now we must move on. Tell me something, John, did you have an android in your home when the Awakening occurred, right?
—Yes.
—Team, let’s play the memories.
The scene darkened again. A swirl of colors and shapes began to form around them until it gradually resolved into a specific image.
Suddenly they stood in the middle of a small room, a morning sunbeam entering through a window. As the colors of the curtains and the toys scattered on the floor were touched by this light, the room took on a warm, nostalgic infantile look.
On the bed lay the young John, focused on a handheld console as he played, while the precious Donna slept beside him, having grown considerably since she had been adopted two years earlier.
—How cute —Paige whispered, seeing the image—. I suppose you were about eight here, right?
—Yes. It’s May 26, 2031 —the senator replied—, the Awakening day.
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Author: Miguel Aute. Title: El umbral. Publisher: Contraluz. Sale: Todostuslibros.