Weight of the Heart (Bruna Husky Book 2) (13 page)

“Sale of items on the other side,” said the guy in a bored voice when he saw her coming his way.

“Sale of items? No, I’ve come for information.”

“Information on the other side,” the man said in the same monotonous voice.

Bruna turned around. Just then a woman came into the building. She was leaning on a crutch and limped with determination to the opposite counter. Bruna walked across, her feet sticking to the dirty vinyl floor, and stood behind the recent arrival. She was a human, aged about sixty, with a round, pleasant face despite a long scar disfiguring the right-hand side of it. She had an old, cheap artificial metal prosthesis instead of one arm, which must have provided very limited movement.

“Good afternoon,” exclaimed the woman with spirit.

One of the employees, a young human, stood up and made his way to the counter. “Good afternoon, Irene! I’ve got your stuff. I’ll bring it to you right away.”

The young man walked over to an area at the back where there were containers and filing cabinets. The woman turned to the rep and gave her a gleaming, excited smile that exposed a mouth full of metal teeth.

“Have you come to find a prosthesis, too?”

“A prosthesis? No, not me. I’ve just come to make an inquiry.”

“I asked because you combat reps use them a lot. This is really fantastic for me. I was knocked down by a subway train, you know—total destruction! And I don’t have medical insurance. They suggested euthanasia. But as you can see, I’m still here. As you know, flesh and bones burn at nine hundred degrees. But titanium and Tirix tolerate up to one thousand four hundred, even one thousand six hundred degrees. So they recycle the prostheses and sell them quite cheaply. It’s costing me time and effort, but little by little. Look how well I’m doing already,” said the woman proudly. “This young man has helped me a lot, given how things are. He looks out for what I need and saves it for me.”

There was a metallic sound from the back of the room, and both Bruna and the woman looked that way. There was an entrance at the back wall that the rep hadn’t noticed, and two humans wearing burgundy work overalls with “Moyano S. A.” embroidered on them had just appeared. They were walking behind a small motorized trolley that was transporting a gray rectangular box made of stiff cardboard. They had taken away Merlín’s body in a sealed box just like that. The body of
her
Merlín. The workers headed to the counter and exchanged a few words with the man who was staring into space. Then they placed their hands on top of a digital print reader and secured the trolley on top of a trapdoor in the floor. A warning bell sounded, and the platform began to descend, taking the box down below floor level. This was the only aspect that this squalid moyano shared with the Almudena crematorium—the descent of the bodies toward who knew what underworld.

“Here they are, Irene. Look.”

The friendly employee had returned with a little cloth bag in one hand. He tipped the contents onto the counter, and half a dozen thick screws, each about five centimeters long, rattled onto the fiberglass surface.

“I think they’ll do the job because the rep—er, the technohuman—was about your size,” said the young man, glancing sideways at Bruna after correcting himself for using the colloquial but derogatory word
rep
.

“How wonderful, Pascal! How wonderful!” said the woman enthusiastically, throwing herself at the pieces like a child at a toy.

The trapdoor in the floor closed behind them with the noise of an ancient mechanism. Bruna’s eyes followed the employees, who were going back out the door through which they had entered. In a brief moment of silence she could hear the squeak of their shoes on the sticky vinyl. The only sounds were the squish-squish of the shoes and the jingle of the screws of some sad replicant, whom no one had accompanied in her final moments and for whom no one had shed a tear. A pantomime of a life and a wretched death.

18

I
t was just under four kilometers from the moyano to her place, and Bruna jogged it in fifteen minutes. She slowed down about a hundred meters from her building’s entrance and sensed a car starting to move just as she passed it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that it was big and dark in color. An immediate rush of adrenaline electrified her body.
Danger: black plasma.
They were going to fire at her, just like they’d done with Yárnoz and the secretary. She threw herself facedown to the ground, went into a forward roll, and ended up crouched behind a bench. The concrete bench wouldn’t provide any protection against the lethal ray, but at least the assassin wouldn’t be able to see her, and that would affect their aim. She scanned the section of sidewalk she’d just thrown herself across and saw no sign of the impact of the devastating energy beam. They hadn’t fired yet. Bruna pricked up her ears. Other than her heartbeat there was no sound. The few people out on the street had taken off, terrified by Bruna’s sudden lunge and the car that had clearly come to a halt. If the occupants were getting out of the car to finish her off, the rep would be done for.

“Bruna Husky? You are Bruna Husky, right? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

A male voice, educated, rather mellifluous. If he was a murderer, his modus operandi was very strange.

“I’m from the Ministry. I’m sending my business card to your mobile.”

The gadget on the rep’s wrist vibrated: “Ministry of Industry, Sustainable Development, and Energy. Regional HQ. Antonio Preciado Marlagorka.” Quite some name; only imbeciles used a double-barreled surname. Or racists, to distinguish themselves from technohumans, who, as was to be expected, had only one. “Director-General of Energy Security.” A big shot. The information was followed by a photo, and it all seemed genuine. Bruna crawled the length of the bench and carefully peered around the end of it. The car door was open, and inside, looking expectant and somewhat confused, was the same imbecile as in the photo. The techno got to her feet slowly, feeling slightly ridiculous about her spectacular somersault. The guy’s smile was so forced and artificial that it suggested disgust. It was quite clear that this human with the double-barreled surname didn’t like reps. Bruna walked to the car with a bad-tempered expression on her face, stretching herself to her full height so that she’d look even taller and more menacing.

“What do you want?”

“Something I think you might find of interest. Get in please.”

The rep got in and sat down facing the man.

“Do you mind if we go around the block a few times while we talk?”

“What you want to tell me is going to take that long?”

“Five-minute circles around the block till I say otherwise,” Marlagorka instructed the automatic console.

The door closed, and the car started. The man leaned back in his seat and looked at Bruna. His head was incredibly pear-shaped. He had a narrow forehead, chubby and pendulous cheeks, straw-colored hair, and blue eyes so pale they were almost transparent.

“I’m really worried,” he said with a sigh.

Bruna felt like laughing. He’d said it in an intimate, personal tone, as if he were going to entrust her with doubts about his wife’s fidelity.

“Oh yes?”

“I know the girl for whom you act as guardian has been exposed to a severe dose of radiation and that you presented the necessary report to the Ministry.”

“I didn’t. The hospital did.”

“Rightfully so. It’s an obligatory action protocol. For everyone’s safety.”

“Right.”

“And I know that this report got lost. It disappeared. It never reached its destination, my directorate. We’re investigating at which point it vanished into thin air and how it could do so without leaving any trace. Because, you see, it hasn’t left any trace. And I’m in charge of security!” He shouted the last sentence suddenly and without any warning, completely beside himself. He took a deep breath, smoothed his thin hair, and recovered his bland, slick manner. “That in itself is already very alarming. But as you well know there’s more.”

“What is it that I know?”

The man gave a tired wave of his hand. “Let’s not waste time playing games please. I know of your involvement in the case. Your interview with the fake Rosario Loperena and your presence at the crime scene involving Gand and Yárnoz. As you will appreciate, thanks to my position I have access to all police reports.”

The rep felt a sudden weight in her chest and a bitter taste in her mouth. So that miserable Lizard had included in his report the fact that she was present when Gand died. She had given him that information, him alone. It was a secret, told in confidence, and he had betrayed her.

“What’s your point?” Bruna said, trying to hide her unease with an arrogant tone.

“There’s something you don’t know. Carlos Yárnoz had a senior position in our ministry. I knew him. I worked with him. He was my boss. I took over his position in fact. It turned out he was spying for the Labarians, who had just founded their Floating World. Hours before he was to be arrested, he escaped and went into exile on the Kingdom of Labari. Do you understand?
Hours
before. How did he find out? We clearly have a mole in the Ministry, a spy who’s been working undercover for twenty years. That would explain the disappearance of the report on your ward.”

Luckily, Bruna hadn’t had time to talk to Lizard about her conversation with the memorist. And now she never would.

“There can’t be many people who have been working at the Ministry for more than twenty years,” Bruna said.

“There are two hundred and forty-seven to be precise, and within the energy sector, seventy-six. We’re a big family. And on top of that we can’t limit our search to just the veterans. The mole might have recruited and trained another mole to substitute for him. That’s what usually happens.”

“All right, you’re right: what you’re saying does interest me. But I’d prefer to know why you’re telling me all this.”

“I want you to follow Yárnoz’s trail. I want you to go to Labari and check him out.”

Bruna thought the proposal was so ridiculous that she burst out laughing.

“Me? To Labari? Reps are banned from the Floating Worlds!”

“That hasn’t prevented you from visiting Labari clandestinely.”

Husky’s laughter came to an abrupt halt. “I see you are well informed.”

“That’s my job, Husky. Security. My specialty is information. I’m good at it, although these unfortunate circumstances might suggest otherwise.”

“Fair enough. It can be done. I can disguise myself and get to Labari. But it’s an added risk, an additional difficulty,” said Bruna, fidgeting in her seat. “Why me? Don’t you have a whole squad of agents working for you?”

“Let’s assume the worst-case scenario. Let’s say they uncover you. The Ministry can’t afford to send one of its own. I don’t want to provoke a serious diplomatic crisis. You’re a detective, you’re interested; you are in fact already investigating the case. I’m offering you my help. Think of it as a collaboration.”

“What will you be contributing exactly?”

“Fully guaranteed forged documents, a plausible cover story for your trip, and enough money to cover your costs.”

“Just my costs? There are also my professional fees, which will be considerable for this case.”

“I’m audited by the Treasury, to whom I’m accountable, so I can’t afford to pay you officially. This is an unofficial and secret trip. I’ll cover the expenses out of my own pocket. But I’ll offer you something in return. Something I believe you’ll find generous. Will you be generous enough to appreciate it?”

Bruna looked at him, intrigued despite herself.

“I’m offering to add the little Russian girl to my medical insurance. I can do it. They’ll cure her.”

The proposal surprised and shocked Bruna. Various things twisted themselves into a knot inside her head: distrust of Preciado; anguish for the girl; fury at feeling this anguish for the girl; a sense of having fallen into a trap; curiosity, excitement, intense worry. An unpleasant storm of emotions.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it quickly. You’ve got twenty-four hours. The day after tomorrow I’ll look for another way.” He instructed the console, “Pull over next to the sidewalk; there’s a passenger getting out.”

The car stopped and the door opened.

“You have my private numbers on my business card. I await your reply, Bruna Husky.”

The rep stood stock-still on the sidewalk and watched the car drive off. At what cursed moment had it occurred to her to become responsible for Gabi?
Three years, ten months, and six days.

“Oy, oy, oy, a combat te-e-e-chno!” someone cried out right beside her.

A group of young humans—boys and girls, carefully dressed to look unkempt, the boys with manes of hair, the girls with little colored braids or half-shaved skulls—walked past, taking up the whole sidewalk. Happy, carefree, restless like a small summer storm. Friday night was just getting underway, and they were on the hunt for adventure. Searching for intensity. They looked as if they had just reached the age of majority and were free of the curfew imposed on adolescents. They’d probably taken some pills to make them feel good, a little oxytocin stolen from their parents’ medicine cabinet, or maybe even some candy, a massive and illegal dose of oxytocin combined with other synthetic neuropeptides—an explosive cocktail that instantly did in your head and your heart. The girl who had yelled out the comment about the combat techno was walking with her friends, but every couple of steps she’d turn around and throw the detective a flirtatious, disturbing, challenging look. Bruna knew that some humans found reps—and military reps in particular—very attractive, especially if the humans were young and playing at being transgressors. The false epic of war—a dirty, cowardly, wretched war. The girl would be barely the obligatory age of sixteen, just a kid, but that was already six years more than Bruna was going to live. One of the adolescents accompanying her gave her a friendly cuff so she would stop turning around to look at the rep, and all the human kids laughed stupidly, happy to be alive. They moved in unison, full of color and vibrant energy, like a school of tropical fish. Gabi would never reach that age. Or she would if Bruna went to Labari.

She rode up to her apartment, her body aching with despair. She felt the ache in her stomach, in her shoulders, in the fatigue of having to breathe. Night was rapidly falling, and when she walked into her apartment she had to turn on the light. The whole city was getting ready for the weekend, but she was again hiding inside her cubicle, her hole, in the routine of days and nights until she consumed her small quota of time and reached nothingness. She poured herself a glass of wine and grumpily verified that there was only half a bottle left. She walked over to the jigsaw puzzle and tried to concentrate on the irregular shapes of the gaps, on the precision of the reconstruction, on the ordered chaos. At least that relaxed her. It made her forget. It was white noise that covered the world’s scream.

“Are you at home? Can we talk?”

It was Yiannis. The rep suppressed a gesture of annoyance.

“Yes.”

The archivist’s hologram seemed to be floating above the puzzle.

“Gabi is bleeding from the nose and gums,” he said, looking upset.

“Has she emerged from under the bed?”

“No, but there were bloodstains on the floor, so I asked her.”

“I read somewhere that human children tend to have nosebleeds.”

“But her gums are bleeding as well! No, no, no. It’s the radiation. She’s getting worse. It’s inhuman that they won’t cure her just because we don’t have the money.”

Yiannis was wringing his hands in nervous desperation. Through his translucent hologram fingers, Bruna located a new piece to slot into her puzzle. It was astonishing how she could compartmentalize the space inside her head.

“Don’t worry, Yiannis. She’ll get well.”

Then she told the archivist all her news. The deal with Preciado Marlagorka overjoyed the old man. His happiness ought to have been contagious, but Bruna continued to feel full of darkness. She sensed that the trip was a trap, and one of her own making.

“What’s the matter, Bruna? You seem strange.”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “Nothing makes much sense.”

“Saving the girl doesn’t seem like much to you?”

“Yes, I guess doing that is good. Although I won’t even be around to know if the treatment is working.”

“Oh, Bruna . . . Do you remember who Socrates was?”

“Of course. One of your wise men of ancient times. The one who had to commit suicide.”

“Yes, that’s the one. They condemned him to death and led him off to prison with the order that he drink a lethal dose of hemlock the next morning. His friends bribed the guards so he could escape, but he refused to do it.”

“Why?”

“He said his escape would make him appear guilty. And also he didn’t want to live far from Athens. But I didn’t want to talk to you about that. What’s interesting about him is that he spent that night surrounded by his friends but dedicated most of his final hours to learning to play a very difficult melody on a flute. His exasperated friends asked him why he was wasting his time on this. What use would it be to him, if his life was going to end at dawn? He replied, ‘Why am I doing it? So as to learn a song before I die.’”