Behold a Dark Mirror Read online

  Behold

  a Dark

  Mirror

  Theophilus

  Axxe

  Copyright © 2013 Zum Ze Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Mihaela Barbulescu

  Edited by Suzanne Cone

  A Zum Ze book

  ISBN: 978-0-9887205-1-0

  In memory of Suzanne Cone,

  editor extraordinaire

  Future Lingers

  ‘fore your fingers

  reminiscing time's morass.

  Seeking answers

  watch the dancers

  just beyond the looking glass.

  But future dies

  before sunrise

  so behold a dark mirror...

  Part I: Andante

  Part II: Mosso

  Part III: Agitato

  Part IV: Crescendo

  Part V: Furioso

  Part I: Andante

  Teleportation—It works! It works even across the galaxy, and I invented it. I. Invented. It! I found out how to make it happen, but nobody will care: After it works reliably, it will be taken for granted. Yet the availability of teleportation will be more disruptive than electrical power was. But who honors Luigi Galvani? Or where is the glory of Lee De Forest?

  Oh, all will notice how pretty a framepost is. Its graceful web of filaments spinning from the bottom of the truss is a simple beauty impossible to ignore: Hair-thin blue, green, yellow drops of light shine against a background black and opaque as the depths of hell. And the sheen inside the truss is... Well, it's the Sheen, a visible projection of the physics that make it work, and a mystery to most mortals. I did not design it to look good. A framepost is not pretty; instead it is elegant, being endowed with the appurtenant beauty of an essential design—it looks that way because form follows function, that's how it works. Still, in the eyes of most, art—culture—is more relevant than engineering, because good engineering is transparent, expected, unmemorable.

  Sheep... Foolish flock. Control over technology is more important to history than culture: Yes, culture shapes history—and technology shapes culture. Gunpowder. The printing press. The internet. Just look in the shadows and under the rocks, past the pretty looks.

  God is a masterful engineer, even if he never brags about it: it's all about people, all about teaching his children, he claims. That's because he knows that engineering is too much power for mankind to handle: children playing with fire, eh?

  Only the heavens can stop little men, after they discover how nature works, and only those unstoppable little men get glory and honor. Or lacking that, fear and respect, yes? Consolidated Shipping Enterprises will shape history, eventually, and I will be the first little chief that calls the shots and plays with fire. I rule ConSEnt, and ConSEnt will, in time, rule history.

  History will remember me.

  Dr. Toshi Noh, Founder and Chief of Security, Consolidated Shipping Enterprises.

  CHAPTER 1

  Jenus Dorato stretched and threw the blanket aside. Cursing his headache, he staggered off his bed wishing last night's folly undone, a stale taste of hangover lingering on his tongue. Shivering under an icy shower he tried in vain to wake up from his nightmare... Still dripping, chills rippling across his skin, he walked to the kitchen over cold marble tiles leaving a trail of puddles. There, after gulping a foul remedy from a can, he sat down waiting for the aftermath: the texture and shocking flavor readjusted his stomach somewhat, but not his mood. The crease between his brows still held him hostage: He had gambled and lost everything–business, patents, even this apartment.

  There's no way out, he thought. His profession, an influential position: He’d blown it all. Back, undo that, just rewind a few hours! He couldn't let go, this was not happening, it must not be happening.

  He crushed the can in his powerful hand, tossing it into the disposal. Think. He needed to think, sit down, work out all the angles: Something would come up, must come up: a way out, a way to undo this nonsense. He couldn't concentrate. But he had to. The lab: nobody would be there on a Saturday. Yes, good idea, his thinking place: He had to dress now, go to the laboratory.

  Jenus chose a pastel long-sleeved shirt, tan slacks, matching cashmere socks and his favorite deck shoes, put it on quickly and walked to the framepost station in the lobby of the building. He slipped his card into the latch, punched the access code and jabbed the lock with his thumb, twice, thrice. A life-size holograph of his head appeared before him.

  "Idiot!" Jenus yelled, punching the air filling the image. "Shah!" His yelp echoed in the deserted hallways. He looked over both his shoulders, checking if anyone had heard or seen.

  "ID complete," the machine said gently. The Greek nose of the hologram was still intact, blue eyes and dimpled chin unscathed, red hair coiffed; his face smirked back at him and vanished. Jenus stepped through the outer door, which sealed behind him with a pneumatic hiss. The middle door opened and his ears popped. The inner lock was dirty with graffiti that maintenance hadn’t cleaned yet; he moved in, looking at the ceiling to avoid the unsightly marks. The middle door slid shut and his ears popped again. The inner door opened, bringing a waft of warm, metallic dry air.

  He stepped into the kernel, slid his card again through the dispatcher, punched the code for the lab. An androgynous voice announced: "Welcome, Dr. Dorato. Your connection is established. Please step through to destination or cancel now." He walked into the Sheen, hypnotic with impossible colors, and emerged on the other side 120 kilometers away, into the kernel at the lab just past the border of the Western Tax District. He walked to the reception area, where he took off shoes and socks. His feet and toes, sinking in the tactile orgy of the carpet fabric, told him once more Janet had chosen well. Perhaps, if this wasn't a dream, his sweetheart's moral constitution, unfettered by material yearnings aside from glorious carpets and a few other items, would be acid tested and pass.

  What have I done? "Damn!" he yelled, slamming his fists onto the heavy reception desk. A pencil holder trembled. Jenus inhaled hissing through tight nostrils. Resting his elbows on the desk he cradled his forehead in his hands, then straightened up, walking past the French doors into his very own private office and the golden sunlight from its windows.

  Unaware of the gesture, moving behind his desk he caressed the waxed wood with the tip of his finger whilst appreciating the light fragrance of the wax and of the leather furniture. As he leaned into his chair, it absorbed him deftly and held his body with a supple touch: Abandoning his arms to gravity, Jenus slouched against the backrest. Soon his hands started caressing the padding, feeling its smoothness, soft and exciting as a young woman's skin. His mind was beginning to work, evaluating options and what-ifs... But then the phone rang, again and again, breaking his rational dream: Jenus ground his teeth abandoning the train of thoughts just started.

  He took the call, yet the video remained blank: Tapping the screen did not help. "Dorato Analytical Laboratories, Jenus Dorato speaking; my video is malfunctioning, sorry for that. What can I do for you?"

  A muffled voice said: "Hello, Dr. Dorato. I'm sorry for your gambling accident, I am."

  Jenus leaned forward: "I beg your pardon? Who..."

  "That's not important at all, who I am," the caller interrupted. "We can do something for each other, however, yes we can," the stranger said. "There is a sample in Kernel 1 of your lab as we speak. Run standard methods ST-15 and SCP-860 on it. Leave all results in Kernel 1 in a class A vessel, and go home. Next, you will find at your apartment the original of your doc
ument"

  "Wait! What is this about? A sample? I cannot..."

  "Your gambling loss, Dr. Dorato, is documented. It can be claimed, you know, all is regular, the contract document, the paperwork. Except, I now have it. You are lucky, Dr. Dorato, because I care not for your money. Attractive, yes, you own a very attractive fortune. But you can do for me what I told you, do this work for me. The Guild must not know, of course. Zero, nothing. You're a smart man, Dr. Dorato. A fortunate man, too, because I want to trade you. You, too, want to trade, I imagine? Do your part first, I do mine next. Need we say more? I'm hanging up now, good-bye, this is all," and the line died.

  Jenus hung up slowly, carefully.

  A sample to analyze. But not informing the Guild?

  He inhaled the scent of his office, considering the dilemma, rationalizing it into a sacrifice on the altar of expediency; and then got up and walked to Kernel 1, where he found a primacap bowl. Picking it up, he halted. By association he could now become an accomplice of his anonymous caller. If the sample was maybe related to a crime he, as an accessory, would also be a criminal. Or would he?

  He paused, hesitated, but not too long. And then shrugged. Maybe.

  After donning a disposable coat, he prepared the equipment in the smaller analytical room: no need to trip the main switch. Primacap models were high-pressure vessels, uncommon but not rare; he put the bowl in the robotic opening device. Inner pressure 1.34 kilopascals, the dial read: 30 percent higher than atmospheric.

  Not dangerous mechanically, it won't explode, no. Perhaps the sample developed gas? Heaven knows what's inside, Jenus thought, scratching his head. Please work this time, he mused, patting the opening device that was the reason for the limited popularity of Primacaps.

  He set the ventilation volume on high, flipped the hazard light on and donned a respirator in case of leaks. The opening device cracked the bowl open; Jenus smiled. When the seal broke, gas invaded the vacuum compartment of the opening device with a hiss. The bowl was full of a soggy gray-brown paste.

  Over several hours, Jenus built a clearer picture. The sample was a messy concoction; Its composition: silicon and oxygen complexes of alkali and transition metals, with a good quantity of aluminum, water, and very heavy organic matter. The paste was a soil, just dirt; in simple words, plain mud. Some of the metals were unusual, but so what? Why, why was this rather ordinary dirt so important? Why stealth?

  This mud cannot produce gas, though. Jenus's curiosity was aroused. He turned to the strip-log of the gas analyzer, which by now was done. It recorded nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide, and a slew of minor gases. Percentages are wrong: If this is air, it's not Earth's. Curiosity was dangerous–its temptation, irresistible.

  He picked up the space almanac and turned it on. The recompilation date was five years old–hardly current. Searching it yielded a dozen planets with atmospheric pressure about 130% of Earth's own. Air composition cut down choices by two thirds. Of the remaining four worlds, two were sterile, no organic matter there. That left two possible candidates: Seth or Domus; that was half a decade ago, though. Jenus puckered his lips, turned off the almanac and put it back.

  He packed the remains of the sample into a class A container as instructed. After adding spent reagents, lab waste, and the data sheets with the results, he closed the lid. Forty minutes later he was done cleaning.

  On second thought, Jenus reopened the container, scanned the data sheets on the printer with the vanishing ink, and kept the copies. He also clipped from the originals all headings with the serial numbers of his equipment before resealing the container. The ink he used to print the copies would disappear, the pages looking blank until treated: one of his current experiments, ready for a specialty patent: Niche market, potentially very lucrative, he couldn't help thinking.

  Outside, evening had taken over. His mental concentration fading, reality struck Jenus–that, and weariness: What had he done? His actions were painful to accept. He didn't know what he had analyzed; he didn't know for whom he had worked; he wouldn't report the analysis to the Guild; he had done all this believing the promise of a stranger on the phone. Shaking his head, he trudged to the kernel. All he could think of was the container in his hands, the instructions obeyed so far, those he was to obey yet, and most of all he thought of the reward promised.

  *

  Back at the apartment, Jenus opened the door despondently. He reached to the switch, and when he turned the light on he saw a large envelope in his mail drop.

  His heart jumping, flush with adrenaline, he grabbed the envelope and tore its wrapping. Turning, he noticed the open door, slammed it shut, and strode through his apartment, ripping the remainder of the bundle as he walked. There it was: a folded paper, the fateful contract for which he had sold himself. A video and a hologram card were also in the package. 'Your witnesses,' announced a scribbled note.

  Jenus turned on his projector and slipped the card into it. The holo portrayed a bearded man at the exit of a theater. A street clock showed the same time when Jenus's life was ruined.

  Still staring, he dropped the worm into the reader, moving as though hypnotized. The machine whirred, showing an amateurish movie of a game between the Crusaders and the Wild Bears. His tall, fair man stood up from an aisle seat and climbed the bleachers' stairway approaching the camera. The scoreboard showed the same time as the holo.

  Fabricated evidence perhaps? Two people who looked like the witnesses to his gambling loss? As much as he wanted to believe that he was off the hook, his heart sank: only actors, and makeup, and photographic trickery.

  Another tightly wrapped little bundle lay unopened. Jenus reached for a knife in the kitchen drawer. He cut the swaddle, slowly; inside, a letter was rolled around an aluminum cigar tube. He uncovered the tube: STAY HOME TONIGHT was etched in the metal.

  The letter said: "I lost to Jenus Dorato the amount of 200.00 yees gambling. I don't have the money on me; this is my IOU for the amount due." It was properly signed by his nemesis. The amount was trivial, but it proved, if anything, that Jenus had won the bet.

  Excellent! Jenus thought, perking up. How could now the other party claim any right to Jenus's absurd loss? The letter was proof that Jenus had won the bet, even if he hadn't bothered to collect a relatively trivial amount; and alleged witnesses to an unavailable contract appeared to be elsewhere–even if the evidence was questionable. His gaze fell on the cigar tube. He was not a smoker, especially not a cigar smoker, but he could make an exception, yes indeed, a little treat. Yet the facts didn't make sense.

  Why would anyone turn from an opportunity like this? He collapsed on a chair at the side of the kitchen table. Regardless of logic flaws, he could not refrain from grinning: This was deliverance: if any complications arose, he could file a motion of misconduct with the Guild and get away with a slap.

  And maybe I'll marry Janet eventually–who knows. He wasn't sure about getting married yet, and Janet seemed content as things were.

  He palpated the textured aluminum of the cigar tube he was holding, cold, coarse. Upon shaking, the contents felt loose. After getting up and finding a lighter in a drawer, Jenus went for the cigar: The cap was tight, wouldn't unscrew. He tried harder, cracked it open, twisted it off, and tossed the contents onto his hand, expecting the aromatic smell and textured touch of rich tobacco.

  Oozy goo and a fleshy lump dropped instead on his palm, and smell of decay hit his nostrils. He jolted, cursing, shaking the chunk away from his palm onto the table, rubbing his hand on his pants over and over, accidentally pushing the chair that skidded and fell rattling.

  After a second of silence, the aluminum case rolled off the edge of the tabletop and clinked against white marble on the floor. A spatter of droplets coated the table surface and the otherwise immaculate tiled floor next to the case, which was now leaking thick fluid. Before him, defiling his kitche
n table, lay a coarsely amputated human finger.

  CHAPTER 2

  Nero's cart purred as he traveled to the power-generator hangar, the last stop he had planned for his workday. Light smells of oil and ozone exuded from the motor, the only scents in the sterile air of Doka. Rook was setting, its reddish light waning fast. The breeze from the cart's motion tousled Nero's salt-and-pepper hair; Temperature would remain tolerable while the weaker light of Zochar lingered before its sunset. With nightfall, a bone-chilling frost would take over.

  The road in front of him was flat, straight, and enormously wide. Grasslands flanked it on both sides. In the distance ahead he could see rock piles and the large hangar building. As he drove away from the heap farm, his rear-view mirror showed a jagged profile of man-made mountains becoming smaller instant by instant. Mining trucks, running in endless ant-like lines, had built the heaps of now-spent ore: The immensity of this thoroughfare, once engineered for gigantic vehicles and busier times, now buried him.

  Approaching the hangar, Nero slowed down and then parked, stopping the cart exactly between faded lines traced on the tarmac. He dismounted, stretched his legs, and scratched his back, running his gaze around an empty parking lot the size of an industrial farm. The operations manual required frequent checks of the power plant even if no maintenance was needed. Nero complied with the routine diligently: His survival depended on the generator housed in the hangar; he almost wished for it to fail, yet discipline required him to maintain it properly, so he did.