Weight of the Heart (Bruna Husky Book 2) (15 page)

“Yes. And I’ll leave it there. I’ve got to go on a trip,” said Bruna.

“I hope your trip goes really badly,” shouted the monster.

Bruna did have to get ready for her flight to Manaus, but more than that, she had no idea how the heck she was going to get out of the mess she’d created in the story. She stood up and became aware of the archivist leaning against the doorjamb.

“Have you been there for long?”

“Long enough. What an optimistic story. Perfect for a child who’s so . . . so . . . well, so normal.”

Bruna looked at Yiannis carefully, trying to detect whether anger or just playful irony lay behind his words. Lately, the highs and lows of his amygdala were making it harder to interpret his emotional state. The archivist left the room with the rep.

“Lucky you’ve made that deal with the Ministry, Bruna,” whispered the old man happily, full of emotion. “The medical insurers just rang to say I should bring her in tomorrow for her first consultation.”

Bruna had negotiated with Preciado Marlagorka that the girl’s treatment start right away, in case she didn’t return from Labari.

“How do you propose to get her to come out from under the bed?” said Bruna.

“Ah! Yes, of course. I’ll work out something.”

“Yiannis, you’re lying. Has the girl already come out?”

“Yes. She abandoned her hidey-hole a few days ago. I’m sorry. Forgive me, but I promised her I wouldn’t tell you. She says that otherwise you won’t finish the story.”

Just then a call came in on her mobile. It was Mirari.

“I’ve got what you asked me for. I think it’s her,” said the violinist curtly as soon as her face appeared on the screen.

A video of the Black Widow started to play. The quality was poor, and the shot of the assassin was taken from below and took up only one small corner of the image. It must have been shot by chance. You could see a woman standing next to a tree. She moved offscreen and reappeared right in front of the lens as she skillfully cut the throat of a man, who dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The murderer’s face could be made out most clearly in that moment, when she’d finished slitting his throat and was letting go of his body. She was visible for only a second, and her hair was different, but there was no question it was her. Bruna shivered.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” said Mirari.

“Yes.”

“A smart operator. This is the only image of her. It was taped on a homeless person’s mobile. He’d moved away from his spot for a moment and left the camera on in case someone stole the four meager items he owned.”

Bruna recalled that when she’d found the little Russian begging in the lung-park, another beggar had left his mobile behind to mark out his workspace. It must be common practice among that profession.

“Annia Cuore, also known as Nichu Nichu, Albertina Dai, Macu Croix, Ingrid Ming, Xime Gayo, and half a dozen other aliases. Aged between forty-five and fifty-five, depending on the source of information. Of Italian, French Canadian, Japanese, German, or South African origin, also depending on the source. As you can see, it’s all quite vague. Professional assassin. Independent. Rumor has it she’s worked for Trinity. But as you well know, the existence of Trinity itself is uncertain.”

Trinity was supposedly the world’s most powerful underground organization, the essential mafia, a very discreet club of tycoons with just thirty-three members. If you believed in Trinity, you believed it controlled the planet’s three most powerful commercial sectors: arms, drugs (including, and in particular, the legal ones—in other words the pharmaceutical industry), and energy. It was said that you could become a member of the group only when one of the existing Trinitarians died, and then only at the invitation of the other thirty-two. It was also rumored that they were ruthless, heartless, and loyal only to their own interests. Vicious and indifferent to human suffering.

“Left-handed, a music lover, heterosexual, a polyglot, and a cruel psychopath,” Mirari continued. “One other thing: it seems she’s no longer in Madrid. Someone called Nichu Nichu and matching her description flew to São Paulo two days ago.”

São Paulo! In the former Brazil. The same region as Manaus, the location of the ele-port. Could the Black Widow also be heading for the Kingdom of Labari?

“Mirari, please try to find out if she’s taken the Manaus space elevator or if she’s made a reservation in the name of one of her known aliases.”

“Done,” said the violinist, and abruptly cut out.

Bruna stood there brooding. She didn’t know what it was, but something wasn’t right. Something was grating. There was a hint of menace in the air. She’d been overly inept these past few months. She was letting her attention wander.

“You’re too tense, too obsessed, my dear,” Yiannis said. “You’re like that tiger in that saying who stares only at the bars of his cage, so hard that he doesn’t even blink. If I were you, Bruna, I’d try to look in other directions as well, especially during this trip. Look all around you! What I mean is that it’s going to be dangerous. Take really good care of yourself. I’ve just sent some folders to your mobile containing information I’ve put together for you on Labari, Yárnoz, and Onkalo. I hope they prove useful. Come back in one piece.”

The archivist hugged her, and Bruna allowed him to do it, although she was unable to avoid her usual severe discomfort. She didn’t know how to accept embraces. Not even those of Bartolo, who, sensing that she was leaving, had jumped up to her neck and was giving her an affectionate, dribbly hug. The incessant back-and-forth of the tiger awaiting the moment of his salvation. Yiannis’s phrase seemed to trigger something at the back of her mind again, as if she’d be able to comprehend something essential. But then everything became blurred, slipped away, became confused. No, she wasn’t a tiger. She was nothing. She was nobody. Too human to be a techno, but disappointingly techno to humans.

The monster’s loneliness was absolute.

20

T
he surface of the recently liquefied dermosilicone was iridescently oily. Totally naked and holding the warm little pot in one hand, Bruna gazed at herself in the mirror. At times she was consoled by the contemplation of her slim, agile body. A tortured mind, a beautiful animal. Quickly and expertly she began to apply the delicate pink film of dermosilicone over the line of her tattoo, using a very long brush to help her cope with her back. Once the entire line was covered, she stood under an ultraviolet light with her arms and legs outstretched like Da Vinci’s
Vitruvian Man
, a copy of which adorned a wall of her apartment—a gift from Yiannis. The light dried and fused the thin film in two minutes, completely erasing the tattoo that coiled around her body. Now she would only be able to remove that invisible film with dermosolvent. Before it hardened, she made a small ball of what remained in the pot and used it to remodel her nose by altering the shape of the bridge. Two minutes of ultraviolet light. She must remember to put a bit of dermosilicone, the portable light, and a little solvent inside the secret compartment of her suitcase just in case.

Next she padded her cheeks with two little cushions of anatomical rubber to fill out her face and soften her high cheekbones. She added brown contact lenses, which gave her eyes a round human pupil, thick, straight eyebrows, and an auto-adhesive wig with short brown natural hair. A thin layer of makeup in sheer tones followed, which blurred her features a little. Then some simple comfortable clothes: stretch overalls, a white T-shirt, sneakers. She scrutinized herself in the mirror. She seemed younger and more obviously naive. A basketball player, a good girl with healthy, orderly habits. Finally, she put the fake ID tag onto a thin silver chain adorned with little hearts and flowers and hung it around her neck. She’d noticed that the tallest, roughest, and most masculine-looking female athletes often wore some childishly tacky, feminine item.

She removed her mobile from her wrist and replaced it with the one associated with her new persona. Mobiles were very easy to track, so she couldn’t risk taking her own, but it pained her to leave it behind. Just then a message arrived from Mirari: “Almost completely certain that she didn’t take the elevator yesterday or today. I checked all passengers. No reservation under any alias in the next two days, but that’s not as reliable. Good luck.”

It wasn’t a lot, but Bruna had a feeling that it was a sign of good fortune. She grabbed her suitcase and prepared the secret compartment. It was an absolute masterpiece of hidden engineering: it consisted of a box that was attached to the axle of the wheels from the outside but was completely invisible, thanks to a sophisticated trick of the light
achieved through a system of holograms. The box was made of Tirix, which couldn’t be detected by any sort of scanner, and seemed to form part of the wheel structure of the case when imaged by scanner rays. The only disadvantage was the small amount of space it provided. Bruna put in her small, easy-to-hide plasma gun—a regulation Beretta Light similar to the ones used by the secret police—four laser charges, her morphine patches, two extra pairs of contact lenses, a little pot of dermosilicone, and a tube of solvent. There wasn’t room for anything else. She wouldn’t be able to take the ultraviolet light, so if she needed to use the dermo, she’d have to air-dry it. Much slower, but doable.

She finished packing her case, constantly keeping in mind the bland, healthy preferences of Reyes Mallo, and then installed and encrypted the files Yiannis had given her on her new mobile. It was risky carrying information on Onkalo and Yárnoz with her, but if someone got to the point of decrypting her mobile, things would have reached such a bad stage it wouldn’t really matter. She had about ten minutes before the tactile picked her up to go to the airport, so she used it to warm up some fake chicken soup in the Auto-Chef—the artificial chicken was in fact jellyfish, like almost all reconstituted food. Ever since the jellyfish plague had eliminated almost all marine life, humanity basically fed itself on these revolting beasts. Naturally, the word
jellyfish
was never found on the packaging. At most
cnidario
would be listed in minuscule letters with the rest of the ingredients.

When Deuil arrived, Bruna was blowing on and sipping her soup, which she had to admit tasted of chicken. The rep welcomed him in, feeling a bit uncomfortable. Deuil had always been in a position of power with regard to her, power that had increased after the last, very disturbing session. But she was the one who was in charge on this trip; she was the one who had already visited Labari and who had experience with disguises and action. She wanted to make that absolutely clear right from the start.

“Hi, Fred. From now on it’s important that we always call each other by the names of our new identities. To make it work, you have to live inside it, partially believe that you are Fred Town.”

“Don’t worry, Bruna, I’m not an idiot.”

Deuil began to laugh at his own mistake, and Bruna was on the point of joining him, but her concern over the reliability of her companion was stronger than her good mood.

“Fred, by all the beings.”

“Honestly, Reyes, don’t worry,” the tactile said, turning serious. “I’ll do a good job. I know a lot about how to make myself pass for someone I’m not.”

Deuil hadn’t altered his physical appearance, because it was of course unnecessary, but he did look quite different to the way he normally did. He was also wearing sports gear—track pants, sneakers, a small cap that covered his samurai topknot.

“I like the little cap, but your topknot is very striking. Maybe you could cut your hair for the trip.”

“Never! Anyway, the Labarians like long hair.”

“True. In men it’s a sign of belonging to the upper class. But that’s a ponytail, not a topknot.”

“If we find ourselves in a jam, I’ll let it down.”

“If we find ourselves in a jam, I hope you really are a judoist.”

Deuil bowed his head in a grave and gracious gesture. “It’s true.”

“Which belt do you have?”

“A high one.”

“Which one is it?”

“Red and white.”

“Red and white? That’s not possible. Red and white? Ninth or tenth dan?”

“Ninth.”

The techno was stunned and impressed. Was he lying? No. Why would he lie? The tactile had become a little more complex, a little more imposing. One way or another Deuil was managing to make Bruna feel insecure and ignorant in his presence. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant either.

“They don’t concede that grade until you’re sixty or seventy. How did you get it?”

Deuil smiled, and his almond-shaped eyes turned into two dark slits as he said, “There’s a lot about me you still don’t know.”

21

T
he elevator was a cylinder split into three levels, with a cable running down its center. There were twenty seats on each level. Bruna and Deuil were on the bottom level, the one farthest from their destination. That was unfortunate, because it was the level that vibrated the most and the one where passengers were most likely to feel dizzy. All three levels were full. For a means of transportation between two states with no diplomatic relations, it was surprisingly popular. There was of course only one vehicle a day—or rather, two, one in each direction. But since the trip took two days, there were a total of four elevators on the cables at any given time. Ten seats in each elevator were reserved for official use. Seats were sold well in advance, and the rep assumed that the Ministry had organized their tickets by getting them seats reserved for officials.

Bruna had been able to verify in the departure lounge that the Black Widow wasn’t traveling with them, which was a relief. She glanced over at the tactile. He had converted the seat next to her into a bed and was calmly dozing, a sleep mask covering his eyes. She envied his serenity, the way in which he seemed to plant himself on top of the world, feet well balanced, self-confident, strong, and stable. She took advantage of his being asleep to study him thoroughly. His broad, wide forehead, fully on display because his hair was caught up on top of his head; his temples with the hair shaved above his ears; his thin, straight nose; his Asian cheekbones; his very large angular hands; the long, extremely slim line of his body, with its smooth muscles; his slender hips; his small round buttocks, like those of a boy.

“So? How do you find me?”

Deuil’s words startled Bruna. He removed his eye mask. He had caught her in the act just as she was examining his butt.

“What?” asked Bruna.

“What are you thinking? You’ve spent a good while carefully checking me out
from top to bottom. A full scan. Did I pass the test?”

“How do you know? You were sleeping. Maybe not sleeping, but you had your eyes covered.”

“I feel you. I have already told you that we living beings emit all sorts of signals: magnetic, thermal, hormonal. When you develop empathy, as we . . . sports coaches do, it’s much easier to decipher and understand the other. Especially if that other is as physically close as you are. Physical closeness is essential. As is emotional closeness, and we’re developing that, too, aren’t we?”

Bruna looked away and said, “I find that odd, Fred. Usually I don’t share my emotions easily.”

“Well analyzed. That’s one of your problems of course. When you become capable of showing your need for affection, you’ll be much freer. I’m going to go back to sleep, Reyes. You can continue to look at me if you want.”

The rep turned toward him, irritated by his words, but the tactile was smiling. A rogue and a flirt, he winked at her as he replaced his eye mask and lay down on his side with his back to her. Bruna relaxed. Deuil was a surprising man. She didn’t know if she was attracted to him or intimidated by him. Or perhaps both.

She got up to stretch her legs. As she did so, she became aware of the constant slight rocking of the cabin and felt dizzy. Suddenly, reality seemed to her to be a painted veil that might tear at any moment. The world had lost its spatial coordinates and was melting, becoming deformed, dissolving. Bruna held on to the back of her seat and breathed deeply, her heart echoing in her temples, until things resumed their specific weight, their reassuring solidity.

They were rising up the nanotube cable at a median speed of seven hundred kilometers per hour. She tried to visualize the mechanism: a very long, fine rope swaying as it disappeared into the interplanetary darkness. The elevator was hanging from the counterweight located ninety-six thousand kilometers from Earth, almost a third of the way to the Moon, hanging like a thread from a web. Thinking about all of this made her even more aware of the minuteness of the little box in which they were traveling, of the ethereal delicacy of her meteoric ascent. Her dizziness raised its ugly snout again, so the rep decided to sit down and use the time to go over the documents Yiannis had provided.

The Floating Worlds were two gigantic artificial structures that maintained fixed orbits with respect to Earth. They were constructed using private funds and populated toward the end of the eighties by humans fleeing from the devastation caused by the Plagues and the Robot Wars. Their dictatorial regimes—an ultratechnological totalitarian system in the case of the Democratic State of Cosmos; an archaic religious tyranny on the Kingdom of Labari—both cultivated political isolation and a complete lack of transparency with respect to the real situation on their worlds. It was estimated that there were between five and six hundred million inhabitants on each platform. They were all humans, as both Cosmos and Labari banned technos and aliens.

Bruna opened the Central Archive document on Labari:

The Kingdom of Labari is named after the founder of the
Church of the One Creed
, the Argentinian
Heriberto Labari
(2001–2071). A podiatrist by profession, Labari was born on September 11, 2001, the day of the well-known attack on the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City, a coincidence that he would subsequently use as evidence of his predestination. When he turned thirty, Labari declared that he had received a divine message. He gave up his work, founded the Church of the One Creed, and dedicated himself to preaching about the
Labaric Cult
, which, according to him, was the original and primordial religion, brought to Earth by extraterrestrials during ancient times, and subsequently through ignorance and greed perverted and broken up into the planet’s various beliefs. The cult offers a syncretic mix of the best-known religions, especially Christianity and Islam, together with ingredients from role play and fantasy games, with overtones reminiscent of a medieval, hierarchical, sexist, subservient, and highly ritualistic world. In order to disseminate his teachings, Labari wrote some twenty science fiction novels, all of which became very popular: “My fantastic tales are the Christian parables of the twenty-first century.” It must be remembered that the founding of the Church of the One Creed coincided with the terrible years of the Plagues, one of the most violent and tragic periods in the history of humanity, and Labari’s message seemed to offer security and the possibility of salvation. When the prophet died in 2071, killed by a fanatical Shiite assassin, there were already hundreds of millions of
Ones
throughout Earth, ranging from Arab sheiks from the Gulf region to important wealthy Western entrepreneurs.

A few years before his death, Labari had begun to speak about the construction of a stratospheric world, not only in order to flee from an ever more convulsed Earth but also to create an ideal society based on the rigid parameters of the Labaric Cult. His posthumous novel,
The Kingdom of the Pure
, specified in great detail what such a place would be like. Labari is shaped like a thick ring, or rather, an enormous pneumatic tire. By all accounts it was generated by semiartificial bacteria capable of reproducing themselves in space at dizzying speed and forming a light, semiorganic, porous, and practically indestructible material that does not lose its shape. The details of this highly innovative technology remain a secret. It is striking that a society that is officially antitechnology has been capable of a scientific discovery of this caliber, even if the processes employed are either natural or seem to imitate nature in some way. The Kingdom’s inhabitants live inside the walls of the outer ring, and in the interior an immense reservoir of water and hydrogen-releasing algae supplies its energy needs.

Bruna had traveled to Labari on one other occasion, on one of her first cases after being granted her license after her obligatory military service. She was there two days and had to leave in a hurry because they were on the verge of discovering who she really was; she had taken her own mobile, a beginner’s error. Luckily, the administration governing the elevators was an independent body and belonged to a consortium on Earth. When they came to arrest her, she was already inside the cylinder, and the elevator had already detached itself from the ele-port. Legally, she was in international territory, and the captain had refused to hand her over. That woman saved her life, as there was no doubt she would have been tortured and then executed as a spy. Bruna had been lucky that the captain of the elevator was a woman and favored Bruna, as female Earthlings usually found the extreme machismo on Labari unacceptable.

The rep now recalled how the captain wasn’t allowed to address the Labaric employee at the ele-port directly but had to speak to him through her second-in-command, a male. In fact the current ruler of Labari was not Heriberto’s own daughter, who was still alive, but rather a grandnephew, Javierundo, because women couldn’t ascend to the throne of Labari. Women were nobodies. Their standing was even worse than that of reps on Earth. What a tortured and pathological relationship the Labaric male had with the womb that had created him. What fear he had of his giant.