It was cold. The winds coming from the desert near the canyon were responsible for the low temperature; winds that slid downhill to run freely through the wild.

The weather there, humid and hot during the day, used to take a 180-degree turn at dusk. Something almost as extreme as the sinking feeling in his chest right now.

Under a deep, blue night, at the foot of one of the area’s many cliffs, Broga strolled along the clearing, overlapped by the cold winds swimming between his legs.

In front of him, the cave’s entrance opened like the black mouth of a stone monster, and behind him, the forest shuddered with the air currents.

No. Those murders had not been an ordinary dream. And if there was any doubt, now he had the proof before his eyes: The perimeter around the cave was fenced off with a laser net; its green fluorescence contrasted with the glare of the moon and the brightness of the night dew. It was the net used by the military to preserve a crime scene. And there was that hideous crimson crest with the image of the winged white horse with laurel leaves, attached to a pole, flying in the wind, announcing to nobody that that place was now under investigation by the Empire.

The man hidden under a Cyclops android mask, who had ignored the warning signs forbidding the entry of any unauthorized person, leaped past the electric fences. It wasn’t a big deal to do it with cybernetic legs.

Of course, it wasn’t a big deal to put the guards to sleep either with an ultrasonic stunner. Better to knock them out before they noticed his presence. There was no need to make a fuss.

Now, in the sector within the fence, his footsteps creaked once again on the ground. That crackle, crackle, crackle which sounded when advancing on gravel and tree leaves, let him know he would no longer find anything of value there, that the imperialists had done their raking and had taken everything.

His pulse rate increased.

He entered the cave that smelled musty. The whistling of the wind sounded just like the wailing of a lone wolf.

His throat felt rough. Now he was short of breath.

He went through the crime scene, and following the signs left by the forensics, came to a hole in the wall, the same hole that had appeared in his dream. Through this, he got into the facility that lay inside the canyon and walked through the corridors. Now the whistling of the wind, which was passing through the abandoned nooks of the lab, sounded like a sad moan.

He knew what had happened, but it was too late to grumble about it. He knew what he would find, or rather, what he would not find, but it was too late to think about that too.

What the hell had happened to the android he had left there to avoid these kinds of situations? There was no trace of him. Most likely, he was taken out of service by the military. Or worse, by Brun himself.

His blood pressure went up. He had to calm down. He had to be careful.

Everything in the building had been confiscated. They had taken from the furniture to the necropsy tables, and from the smallest computer to the largest refrigeration machine, although all of that had been ruined for years. In the corridors and rooms, there was nothing but polished floors, without a speck of dust.

The Army’s Criminal Division had done the cleaning; there was no other explanation for such neatness. Furthermore, there were marks on the floor tiles that gave away the dragging of things, marks that crossed the galleries until they reached the desolate hangar where they became vehicle tracks, vehicle tracks that later disappeared under a metal door, a sliding door that led to the outside and where, long ago, he had brought in the same things that had now been taken.

In the company of darkness and silence, Broga looked at the door and went back several years ago, to the time when that door had been opened frequently to receive equipment and other supplies, to the time when he had had a team of professionals working in that facility.

Scientists, neurosurgeons, and nurses; twelve minds set for the same goal: his brother Brun.

And among them had been Clemente.

Broga remembered one time when he descended from a gray sky about to crumble and found Clemente waiting for him next to that same door, barely open, his radiant albino face peeking out, along with that beard and that tousled white hair that shone like some kind of beacon against the intense green of the surrounding forest.

“Where did you find him?”

As soon as it left his lips, Clemente’s voice scattered in the wind and among the trees. Broga, however, who was equipped with high-pitched hearing receptors in his helmet, could hear the question as well as if it had been whispered in his ear.

“Wandering near the swamp,” he replied, arriving with Brun in his arms. “This time it was easy. I just had to follow the trail of burned branches.”

Brun was half wrapped in Broga’s lab coat, though he was naked underneath; he had lost his clothes who knows where. And, of course, he had the same blank stare as usual, as if he wasn’t even aware of himself. No surprise for Clemente there.

“Heeooo-Emmeenntteee,” Brun babbled.

“Hello, Brun. We’re glad to have you back,” Clemente replied with a polite smile, albeit with no real joy behind his glasses. His purple eyes, decorated with long white lashes, could rarely camouflage what he really thought and felt. He waited for the brothers to enter and closed the door behind them using a crank.

The outer façade of the gate was covered with rocks and plants that blended it with the surroundings. Once closed, there was no way to recognize it as such; even for those who knew its secret, it was difficult to distinguish it from the other cliffs in the canyon.

Clemente made sure it was locked securely, then showed Broga the now completely scorched electronic lock.

“It’s the third one he’s destroyed so far this month; the tenth one since you brought him here,” he said. There was reproach in that tone.

Of all the members of Broga’s crew, Clemente was the only one who could address him that way and not choke on it. Maybe because he allowed him to do so. And maybe he allowed it because he liked Clemente; maybe too much, the rest of his employees would have said.

Although the truth was that Clemente was not only the closest to Broga but also the most capable of his team of scientists. An albino young man, slim and with an angular face, as white as good-looking.

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 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. That was the vivid image of a guardian disappointed with his troubled protégé and yet full of love and compassion for him.

Clemente rested his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat and went after the brothers. He noticed Brun had some scratches and cuts on his legs and on what could be seen from the arm that protruded from time to time from under the coat; cuts probably caused by the thorns of the bushes and tree branches. 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 you’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 kill them myself,” Broga said.

Clemente sighed.

“We should think of a contingency plan, then”, he said. “Next time Brun escapes, maybe we won’t get so lucky. He could kill someone while leaving the lab. Or he could run into a hiker in the canyon and draw attention to us.”

Broga shook his head.

“As long as we’re in here, there won’t be any problems. This lab has the best radar interceptors.”

Clemente lowered his glasses a little to expose the intensity of his gaze. “—Equipment given to you by your benefactor,” remarked; “none other than a member of The Order, the same ones we’re hiding from.”

Broga was surprised. What he had just heard was a starched fit of jealousy?

“Sebastian is not like the others. He has my full confidence,” he said, though he was surprised by the speed of his response; he would never have thought a youngster like Clemente would force him to excuse himself like that.

“I know,” Clemente said; “but The Order has eyes everywhere and—”

“The Order takes Brun for dead,” Broga hastened to say. “Brun, the Totem, the project’s logs, and the lifeless clones; all lost.”

Clemente sighed once again.

“Consumed by fire, the night when one of their Cyclops androids went haywire and blew their damn lab through the air,” he said and shrugged. “I’ve heard that story a thousand times. But no matter how well orchestrated it was, do you really think they bought it?”

“Those I was interested in having it bought, they bought it,” Broga said. “It was an excellent display of logistical coordination by my benefactor.”

They took a few steps in silence, and Broga gave the young man a sidelong glance; he knew there would be more inquiries regarding the recent incident.

Clemente cleared his throat.

“I know that no one is looking for what is assumed to be dead. Still—” he said and searched for words to continue. He didn’t know how to get him to reason. “Broga, your brother took three of his dead little clones into the woods because, according to him, he wanted his little brothers to take a walk.”

Brun chuckled as if he remembered his little mischief and looked down to hide from the gaze of the scientist and his brother’s.

“One of the bodies is still missing,” Clemente continued, “and it’s been two weeks since that. You get what I’m talking about?”

“I get that you should look better.”

Clemente got so furious his face seemed to flare up, contrasting with the lack of color in his beard and hair.

“We’re scientists, not rangers,” he said, and almost choked on his own saliva. “You know what would happen if someone finds the body of a child nearby?”

“It’s been out of the tub for two weeks,” Broga said. “The decomposition process will have sped up so much that soon it will be a pile of bones. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Clemente took a deep breath.

“You’re missing the point,” he clarified as if it were necessary. “Why don’t you change your mind about—?”

“Keep Brun sedated to prevent further escapes?” Broga finished the question. “We already sedate him to sleep at night.”

“Sure, Broga; but…”

“Clemente, I didn’t steal the Totem just for the Plasma. Read its damn logs! Altering the chemical processes of a Binary’s brain using drugs…”

“I know, I know,” Clemente interrupted him. “Altering the chemical processes of their brains could trigger the epigenetic memory of the Primary Plasma the Binary carries in the blood since his first months of life, after receiving the first dose. Totem log 0038. Yes, I’ve read all the logs. And several times.”

Broga looked at him as if he were asking, ‘So?’

“I wasn’t talking about keeping him asleep 24/7, but about looking for an alternative,” Clemente said. “Also, you missed mentioning part of the log. It not only speaks about drugs but of any kind of intervention that brings long-term consequences for the Binary’s brain, such as surgery, which is exactly what we’re preparing to do here.”

“I’ve taken my precautions,” Broga said, pursing his lips. So many second-guesses were getting under his skin.

“The lobotomy that was implemented on Brun,” Clemente continued, “was not implemented on the next set of clones because The Order was terrified that another one of you would end up like this,” he said and pointed at Brun; “a walking energy bomb. I’m sorry, but every day I doubt more we can…”

Broga stopped and pivoted toward him. How much more irreverence would he have to tolerate! His green eyes, wide open under thick eyebrows, glued on Clemente. And although he caught some hesitation in the youngster’s purple eyes, he found no traces of fear in there. Clemente knew how to hold the gaze, and that was exactly what Broga liked about him.

“If I have a chance to give back to my brother what those sons of bitches took from him, I’ll take the risk. Understand?” he said. “Now, just do your job.”

Damn! How long had it been since that discussion? Five, six years? He remembered it as if it was yesterday. He remembered it almost as much as the day when all hell broke loose.