THE TORQUE WRENCH

The water was already running to the crushing plant when Mariana reached the junction with a torque wrench hooked to her belt. The tool had a short, toothed head, made to grip the isolation nut without touching the heated pipe. She came quickly along the road, her uniform stuck to her back, and stopped above the ditch to read the panel projected on her own forearm. The notice had ordered her to preserve the operation's water continuity during the remote certification visit. On the screen, the green continuity index, a calculation that turned diverted water into proof of environmental recovery, rose in light green while the thin conduit trembled under the earth. Nael went down first. The bad knee refused the slope and he had to steady his hand on the exposed root of the buriti. The wood that remained had lived buried for years, thick as a leg, compressed by the edge of the technical cover. The bees were covering the cut metal with wet mud. Mariana left the wrench on the ground. The order says I keep this open, she said. Ilva pointed to the conduit that went in under the road. The water went on to the conveyor belts, washed the dust that came out of the crushing plant, disappeared into the company's tanks. In the lower village, seven seconds reached the sink. There, the current filled a bottle in less than half a minute. Her panel opened an assistance window. The artificial intelligence had already prepared the report for the visit, associating the washing of the belts with particulate control and circular economy. All that was missing was Mariana's bodily confirmation. She looked at the visor until the glare marked her face. My maintenance quota goes into this, she said. If I interrupt it, they charge the volume to me. Nael crouched by the main pipe. He ran his fingernail along the white crust that had formed at the junction. He knew that material. In the days when he guided the machines, he would watch the operators tighten connections until the water found another way out. One turn too many stripped the thread. One turn too few left the metal singing. He picked up the torque wrench. Mariana held out her hand. You don't know the setting. I know where it breaks, he replied. She took the tool back. She went into the ditch, brushing the bees away with her sleeve. Some climbed up her arm, others clung to the visor. The root pressed the pipe from below. The ring salvaged from the condemned pump was still inside the capsule of the technician, who had appeared on the road without coming down, standing by the blue band of the licensed polygon. He raised the capsule. This ring won't take crushing-plant pressure, he said. It'll take house pressure, said Ilva. The technician looked at Mariana. The panel was still waiting for her iris. Behind the layer of instructions, a smaller notification reported that the green certification would be transmitted to the datacenter's buyer. The valley's water had learned to move up a category before it reached anyone. Mariana opened the capsule. She took out the ring with two fingers and fitted it into the mouth of the narrow conduit. The rubber resisted, crooked, spitting one of its edges out. She cleaned the mud from the junction with her palm and Tiago's blood came back to her memory like a stain under membrane. The wrench went onto the nut. First turn, said Nael. Mariana turned. The metal answered with a low crack. Another half. She stopped. The technician came down then, holding the edge of the ditch. He took a cutting blade from his pocket, made to remove a clamp without damaging the pipe. The blade vibrated when it touched the alloy. He clenched his jaw. The crushing plant's water pulled hard on the other side. If you close it all, it goes back to the branch line, said Ilva. Or it bursts the root, he said. Mariana adjusted the wrench, shifted her body's weight and completed the half turn. The thin conduit contracted. The water lost speed, struck twice against the ring and looked for the gap by the root. The bees drew back in a cloud, leaving the mud open. The technician cut the clamp. The piece sprang off. The root lifted a little, free of the pressure. A jet struck Mariana's face and ran down her uniform. The panel erased the green, redid the calculation, opened a charge linked to her body. Three shifts of water compensation. She did not wipe the water from her face. In the main pipe, the vibration thickened. Nael touched two fingers to the metal. The current was going back to the lower village, passing under the road, looking for the dry sinks. The licensed polygon lit up around them. Ilva climbed out first. The technician stayed in the ditch, gathering the broken clamp. Mariana held the torque wrench with both hands. When the infringement notice reached the panel, she did not offer her iris. She sank the tool into the wet earth, by the root, until it was covered with mud.