Clemente took a breath and waited for Broga and Brun to enter the spacious hangar.
Turning a noisy old crank with his bare hands, the young scientist closed the hatch behind the two brothers, shutting out the rain that had already begun to fall. He then showed Broga the now completely charred electronic bolt, which they normally activated the heavy mechanism with.
“It’s the third one he’s destroyed so far this month,” he said. Like everything else that had passed his lips in those last few minutes, his tone was heavy with reproach.
Of Broga’s team, Clemente was the only one who could address him like that and not choke doing it; perhaps because Broga himself would let him do so, and perhaps he did because he liked Clemente—perhaps too much, the other employees would have said if asked. However, the truth was that Clemente was not only the closest to Broga, but he was also the most capable of his group of scientists and doctors.
Broga adjusted his gloves—it made him uncomfortable to have his cybernetic hands, or any part of his prosthetic limbs, for that matter, exposed to someone—and pressing the device to the back of his neck, he retracted the pieces of his silver helmet until it disappeared, exposing his head. His short hair and hairless face—he’d shaved that same morning—were caressed by the breeze that blew through the hangar. He put one arm around Brun and, holding the lab coat with his other hand, led his brother down a corridor.
Seeing him like this, Broga was the spitting image of a tutor disappointed with his troubled protégé, for whom he felt nothing but love and compassion despite the fact he only brought annoyances to his life.
On the control panel next to the hatch, Clemente checked for the second time that the radar interceptors were working, he tapped the side of his long white coat again, feeling the weight of what he carried in his pocket, he rested his hands in these and then went after the brothers. He noticed Brun had a few scrapes and cuts on his legs and on what was visible on his arm that protruded from time to time under the coat, cuts surely caused by the thorns of the bushes and the branches of the trees. Again, nothing out of the ordinary there.
“The guards are being treated in the infirmary,” he reported. “They only suffered minor burns, but I’m afraid we’ll have to give them a raise. I heard one of them was talking about quitting.”
“No one will leave here until they fulfill their contract, otherwise, I will execute them myself,” Broga said.
Clement sighed. “We’d have to think of a contingency plan then,” he said; “or the next time Brun escapes, the rest of us may not be so lucky.”
“If you’re that afraid, there’s the door,” Broga nodded. “Quit. I would allow that to you.”
Clemente cocked his head as if to say, ‘C’mon! As if you didn’t know me!’ “You know I wouldn’t.”
“Then shut your mouth.”
“Broga, I’m not only speaking for our physical integrity but also for the Project. Brun’s escapes must stop.”
“If it didn’t take you guys so long to figure out what causes those urges in him, Clemente, maybe that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Finding it out is difficult when your patient is missing pieces of his brain,” Clemente said, scratching his white beard in frustration. He knew that Broga had already seen his point, and it infuriated him that he still didn’t see reason. “Broga, the last time your brother returned from his escapes, he brought back six containers of his clones. Where do you think they could have come from?”
Brun confirmed this with a nod. “Ah-brought-dem-from-Bednaddo’s-lab,” he confessed.
Clemente nodded, although he didn’t bother to explain that his question had no other intention than to be rhetorical. “You brought them from Bernardo’s lab to help you look for more potions,” he clarified. “We know, Brun. And you took one of them into the woods, right?” Brun nodded, and Clemente turned back to Broga. “That corpse is still missing, and it’s been two weeks since then. Do you understand the danger that this represents?”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Broga looked at him. “I understand that you should search better.”
Clemente became so enraged that his face went from radiant white to a deep red. “We’re scientists, not rangers or babysitters,” he said, nearly choking on his own saliva.
“The boy’s body has been out of the cryogenic container for two weeks, Clemente. The decomposition process will have accelerated so much that he’ll soon be a pile of bones. No need to worry.”
Clemente took a deep breath. “You’re missing the point,” he clarified, as if necessary. “You know the Order has Cyclops roaming everywhere under orders to report any sighting of Brun, now more than ever. If they were to track the arrival coordinates of his dimensional transport, it won’t be long before we have them here, banging on the hangar doors.”
“That’s what signal interceptors are for,” Broga pointed out with a nod.
“Until one of his escapes wrecks them all,” Clemente retorted. “Why not keep—?”
“—Keep him sedated to avoid it?” Broga finished the question. “We already sedated him to sleep at night.”
“Sure, but...”
“Clemente!” Broga turned to him. “I went out of my way to hack every file on Templeton’s computers. You have each of his logs at your disposal. Don’t waste my effort and read them! Altering the chemical processes of a Binary’s brain using drugs...”
“I know,” Clemente went ahead. “Altering the chemistry of the Binaries’ brain could awaken the epigenetic memory of the Primary Plasma, stored in their DNA after receiving the initial dose during their first months of life. Log BPP.761. Yes, I’ve read his reports. And several times.”
Broga made a gesture as if to ask, ‘So?’
“I wasn’t talking about keeping him asleep twenty-four-seven, but about looking for an alternative,” Clemente pointed out. “One other thing, you forgot to mention that this report has an addendum added years later by Templeton himself, who not only talks about drugs but also about any type of intervention that has long-term consequences for the Binary’s brain, such as a surgery, which is exactly what we are preparing to do here.”
“I’ve taken my precautions,” Broga said, his lips pursed. So many second guesses began to exasperate him.
But Clemente wasn’t about to let go of his case so easily this time. “The lobotomy that was implemented on Brun,” he said, “it wasn’t implemented in the next batch of clones because Templeton feared another of you would end up like this.” He pointed at Brun, “a walking energy bomb. I’m sorry, but every day I doubt more that we can…”
Broga stopped short and turned on him again, this time with genuine fury on his face. How much more irreverence would he have to tolerate?!
“I’ve spent years stepping outside with my face covered to avoid any cameras,” he said. “I put my neck in the guillotine every time I need to enter anywhere to steal anything. I work during the day and spend my nights monitoring each employee so that there are no leaks of information that could expose us, and that means sacrifice, time, and money, a lot of money. If with all that, it’s still not clear to you that I’m willing to take risks to give back to my brother what those sons of bitches took from him, you’re an idiot.”
Broga’s green eyes, wide open under his bushy eyebrows, fixed on Clemente’s purple eyes, and although there they detected a certain reluctance, shining behind the lenses of his glasses, they found no trace of fear. Clemente knew how to hold his gaze, and that was exactly what Broga liked about him.
“Now just do your job. I’ll take care of security,” Broga finally added and continued on his way.
Clemente had never seen him so irritated, so fed up; he’d never heard him utter so many words in a row; the weight of the project was oozing out of him big time. The albino young man stood still for a moment, watching him walk down the corridor, taking the staggering Brun with him.
“Broga…” he called him and waited for Broga to glance over his shoulder before he took out what he had been carrying in his lab coat pocket and showed it to him.
It was a small chrome cylindrical container, much like a metal cigar. Broga’s eyes widened.
“This came a few minutes ago,” Clemente announced. “Your friend Sebastian sent it. He said he’s been trying to contact you; I told him that surely you had turned off your radio.”
The darkness disappeared from Broga’s face as if a ray of light had descended on him, so much so that his copper hair seemed to lighten. The urge to run to Clemente and take the item pulsed through him, and if he’d dropped his emotional defenses a bit, he might even have rewarded him with a hug, but Brun was with him, so he didn’t do anything; it was better to keep his distance.
“It’s empty,” Clemente clarified, shaking the container. “I know what it’s for, but I don’t know what it means now. I think you do.”
Broga agreed. He could barely contain his joy. “It has returned,” he replied. “Sebastian has brought back the missing piece to finish the Totem.”
Clemente, however, needed more than a cryptic phrase to forget the bad taste from a while ago, and Broga knew it.
“His father had a—” Broga said but went silent. He had been about to say ‘dose.’ With his eyes, he pointed to Brun and explained, “A few years ago, taking advantage of a certain commotion caused by a certain character, Sebastian stole one of his father’s consoles with one of those little things inside to give it to me. Since I didn’t have the test subject available yet, we decided to send it for a few rides in orbit… to the moon. Now that everything is ready, it’s back. Finally, we can start with the operation.”
----------------------------------------
Hell! How long had it been since that day? Two years, almost three? He remembered it as if it had happened yesterday.
He remembered it almost as well as the day everything went to hell.