Behold a Dark Mirror Page 3

  "You know where we're going, honeybunch; please do drive." Jenus said, looking forward to the air conditioning. He added, "Thanks for soothing my ego and asking."

  Janet smiled.

  The electric motors purred, pulling them out of the parking lot. His shotgun seat had an uncomfortable, annoying, and shifting pressure point under his left thigh, probably a broken spring. After a half hour on a dirt road through rainforest, a clearing opened showing their destination under the darkening sky: a cluster of huts, one of them very large.

  They parked; heat and humidity hit Jenus again after the coolness of the vehicle. Music and laughter drifted off the largest hut; smells of spiced foods wafted in the air, fighting the ever-powerful presence of Enchantment.

  Maybe the Amazon basin, Jenus considered. Electric lights shone in the primitive-looking buildings; a small painted sign announced the place as The Clearing.

  Jenus took in the caliber of the machinery in the parking lot, which included a number of aircars and a few orbital hoppers. Only an exclusive clientele traveled by aircar, and hoppers were plain unaffordable to own as a personal vehicle: had to be either part of some corporate fleet or rented for the occasion. He wondered how much this meal would end up costing him.

  Janet looked at him. "The food is good–now I've told you all I know. I've never been here before; should we go on?"

  Right..."Why not? It looks exciting."

  At the door, a small man greeted them with a half smile: "New patrons?"

  "Indeed." Jenus answered, looking around.

  "Sir, ma'am: identity documents, for both of you, please? No records kept, of course, but we need to take precautions." He winked. "I am sure you understand. As you may or may not be aware of, we have a substantial cover charge. We accept cash also."

  Janet looked at Jenus, who looked back at her and shrugged. She offered her ID; Jenus offered his, and his credit chip. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

  The little man smirked and disappeared with their documents. Shortly he returned. "All appears in order sir," he said looking at Jenus, and nodded to Janet, "Ma'am. I'm sure we won't disappoint you. Tonight there's an excellent program. The cover charge takes care of your food and drinks. Emanuelle will be your hostess.

  An elegant dark-skinned girl approached them: "I am Emanuelle. Please call me for anything," she said, then bowed and gave them a small gadget with a red button on it. Emanuelle wore her dark complexion like a sophisticated piece of makeup. Jenus thought her accent appropriately exotic; Janet looked at her as if she was a piece of antique furniture with too much history.

  "Would you like a table that is private, or a table closer to the show for this evening?"

  "Private will be fine," Janet said quickly.

  Emanuelle led them to a booth with a thick native hardwood table and chairs upholstered in pastel silk, not too soft nor too hard, and no loose springs: Nero found them sincerely comfortable. The outer wall of the hut provided a side to the booth. Tall soundproof dividers rose behind their seats. The fourth side opened to the center.

  "A drink before dinner?" Emanuelle offered.

  "Yes, I'll have a highball, lots of ice please. Janet?" She nodded. "Two then, Emanuelle."

  "Sir, Madam. I'll return immediately." She bowed and disappeared.

  The hut was spacious, with a wide funnel-shaped circular floor higher at the outer edge than at the center. At the center of the funnel a bright round well sank about two meters into the floor. The flat bottom of the large well was the stage presumably; the walls of the stage were vertical, and several doors opened into them. Jenus could see a few patrons as dark outlines in the dim surroundings; if the clientele of The Clearing liked a low profile, its ambiance obliged.

  "Why's the stage below ground?" Janet said.

  Jenus looked at her and shrugged. "You tell me, honeybunch..."

  A showman–a fine singer–played melodic songs on a piano. Good music, intimate lighting and setting, fascinating exotic smells mixing with Enchantment, the texture of fine cloth covering their seats, intricate carvings in the hardwoods fulfilled the moment. And Janet was exquisite company. Jenus sighed, contented. He winked at Janet; she winked back. The other huts, Jenus joked to himself, must be kitchen and bathroom. I wonder how much is the cover charge. He wanted to check, but not enough.

  Emanuelle returned with their drinks and introduced them to dinner; she was a skilled hostess. He ordered a crab soufflé with sweet pea mousse; Janet took some strange bird on the spit with a sauce of cream and mixed berries. The crab was buttery and spicy, with a delicate chewy texture–a match for the sweet-and-sour mousse, smooth with crunchy bits and tart enough to be distinct, but never overwhelming. Janet appeared delighted with her food, too. The wine turned out well: dry, smooth, chilled, with a personality to match the formidable fare.

  As they were eating, the show continued with a comedian–Jenus and Janet laughed until they cried. Then there was a juggler. A magician followed, and next a can-can ballet. By then, dinner was over, including dessert: They both had whipped marsala and sweet avocado pudding on thin crusty slivers of chocolate, which they fed to each other. Jenus loved the creamy pudding, the texture highlighted by the bittersweet crunch of the chocolate, the woody marsala underflavor contrasting its sweetness. It was even better when eaten off Janet's palm...

  A liveried man entered the stage to announce the main attraction for the night, 'Jack and the Crocodile.'

  Lights went down, spotlights shining onto the stage. A door opened to let a young man into the limelight. When the door closed behind him, the youngster tried to re-open it to get out, as if unaware of the audience.

  A low door opened, allowing onto the stage a large crocodile, one of the few left on Earth. Drums rolled in the background.

  A crocodile killed on stage, live, Jenus thought. The youngster looked terrified. How's the kid going to kill that monster?

  Janet fidgeted.

  The beast slithered towards the boy, who ran away.

  Jenus readjusted himself in his seat.

  The reptile kept snapping his jaws at the boy, moving ever closer. The boy kept running, dodging, apparently growing more and more tired.

  Jenus turned to Janet: "What’s going on? Did they get the wrong man here? Do you think the kid is in trouble or is he setting us up?"

  Janet didn't respond. She had turned even paler under her jet black hair. The tail of the crocodile whacked the youngster on the leg. The youngster stumbled. The crocodile turned around, almost bit him before the boy could get up and out of reach once more, limping.

  "Jenus..." Janet whispered.

  "Uh?" Jenus cocked his head, his attention on the show.

  "Jenus, I have a sick feeling," she went on a bit louder.

  Jenus's attention partly shifted. "Yeah, I can see you don't look well. The food..."

  "No, Jenus, not the food," she said. "It's the show. This is the wrong show, Jenus."

  The kid on stage was having a harder and harder time.

  "Jenus, this is the wrong show!" Janet cried, which got Jenus's full attention. She was hysterical. "This is not man-kills-beast-for-fun, this is beast-eats-boy-for-hunger. Jenus, do something! Now!"

  "No way, can't be! You mean...?" The light dawned on Jenus. His jaw dropped: "You're right," he whispered, looking at the boy, now limping only a couple of meters away from the pressing animal. "But it can't be like that..."

  Janet rose to her feet. "If you do nothing, I'll have to do something myself."

  Jenus snapped out of his trance, looked into her eyes for an instant. He fumbled with his coat, his forearm deep under, and pulled his electrogun from the holster. Janet's brows rose, her mouth open.

  Jenus stood up. Hiding behind the dividers, he held his breath, aimed with care and fired a bu
rst of needles. Janet stared at him, backing against the booth. The rolling drums covered the soft crackle of the shots propelled by a powerful electrostatic charge. On stage, the crocodile slowed down.

  "I can't believe I did that," he said and turned to Janet: "Now, we run."

  Janet was still pale. "I didn't know. I didn't know, this is so sick, so sick, sick."

  "Let's go before someone figures out what happened. Quick."

  The little man at the door ignored them. He stared towards the stage, muttering "Lousy sleepy overfed sonofadinosaur."

  Outside, they raced to their off-road. Jenus took the wheel and drove back in half the time it took them to get there. When they got to Janet's place, she had calmed down a little.

  Jenus tried to comfort her. "It wasn't your fault."

  She sniffled.

  "You saved a boy's life tonight," he said. "But we'll have to talk to Corinne tomorrow."

  "You've... You've been great," She said.

  Jenus felt better when he took the frame home, but the feeling didn't last. His apartment was a shocking mess: It had been searched, a professional job, not a corner left untouched. His canary was dead in its unopened and intact cage. Jenus hastily checked whether the intruders had found what he suspected they were after.

  CHAPTER 4

  Whose voice was it? Nero wondered.

  "Kebe!" He said the first word he had spoken in days. "Kebe Hope. What a surprise this message from her is." Smiling, he shifted in his chair and turned the volume up a bit, lending if possible an even more attentive ear to the recording:

  "As you may already know, the head of security at ConSEnt died recently. Leonard Duskin was a powerful figure, but just how powerful nobody knew until now. We obtained some intelligence, and since I want something from you, I'll indulge you with details.

  One of our sections was engaged in a hit-and-run mission at ConSEnt headquarters. I know, this was stupid. They're all dead now; I can't figure why they did what they did, and they never told anybody. The story is a patchwork of real info and big holes that my imagination filled. It starts like this: Somebody thought up a scheme that involved junking loot with a custom tracking beacon. The ploy, however, didn't work as intended.

  I’ll tell you that we scan most of ConSEnt's garbage–keep it a secret. One of our people picked up a strange echo and was smart enough to wonder why. She found a tracker where none should be, and you won't believe what she fished!

  Duskin's personal journal was wrapped in a waterproof bag. I can say this: Duskin had written it in longhand as if he didn't trust that information with any other witness but his ink pen. We now have it.

  I can't fathom why ConSEnt didn't keep better care of such an asset. I think Donald Maast was overeager to claim his chair and threw out the baby with the bath water—he cleared Lenny's effects and sent everything to classification without looking through the stuff himself. He didn't know about Duskin's journal.

  Duskin hadn't told him, probably: Old Lenny wasn't guessing he'd die in bed with a prostitute–contrary to the official and honorable version of his demise. Maybe he was planning to tell Maast about the journal from a less casual deathbed.

  Some clerk ended up stuffing all paperwork into his own office, thinking he'd get around to it sometime. Most of what these clerks read is sleep-inducing red tape; little deserves curiosity.

  I'm supposing our agent may have known about the journal from one of Lenny's broads. Lonely old men tell their lasses stuff they wouldn't tell their confessors. I can speak personally, from a broad perspective. The pun is intended.

  Well, the book is too hot to handle. There's enough in it to discredit both ConSEnt and the Tower and start a civil war or two. I don't know what to do with it yet. I don't trust my boss, and I need time to think.

  Here’s where you come in, living at the end of the universe. I'd like to safe-keep the book at your place. Ah! You don't know anybody underground, except me–right?

  I want to offer you this job, pal. Take it, and believe me, it will be worth your redemption: you do want a piece of the action. In any case, my life depends on your discretion. I want to trust you, I know I'm right.

  Everything is under control, for now. I'll be waiting to hear from you. If you don't want anything to do with me at all, please eat this card: You don't like food anyway, so it won't bother you. Otherwise, you know where to reach me. I hope this will be a good excuse to see you soon. I'm loving it, giving you another chance at life! Please, please, take it.

  Oh, P.S.: Of course, you understand why I'm not signing, don't you? My apologies."

  Silence fell, broken by the howl of the wind. The card popped out of its slot with a click. The screen came to life with bright orange letters: End of Recording.

  He needed something to drink. Nero shrugged at how the Tower ran the government. He didn't like ConSEnt, either, but he'd never had any bad experience. So Kebe was a real underground hotshot. A smile came to his lips: Many questions are better answered when not asked. He had wanted to ask many of Kebe, but didn't.

  Nero walked to the stove to brew licorice tea. He had meet her about two years ago, on Earth, in a picturesque rat hole called Maun after Margo had died, just before he realized his personal destiny had no redemption in store. He had taken a trip to Africa to do something new. A good part of that continent, he had been told, looked then as it had looked centuries earlier. From what he could remember, they were right.

  It seemed to Nero that the quality of people he met on vacation had to be inversely proportional to the comfort of the journey. He and Kebe had found each other at a bring-your-beans game-watching jaunt a local guide had set up.

  He would have asked her to... To what? He maybe had felt whole for a short while, but it could not have lasted. Kebe was someone of value, but he didn't have any purpose left.

  She left him an address for his private dynabase. Later, he mailed news to his correspondents about his move to Doka. Some of them did write.

  Kebe was onto something hot that had now become an inconvenience to Nero: If I say yes, I'll be up to my neck in intrigue. If no, I'll admit to being less alive than I'd like to believe.

  He poured boiling water over a bag of licorice tea. Steam from the cup rose in the air, mixing with the dry airflow from the heating vent. After steeping, he dropped an ice cube in the hot mug; the ice cracked on contact with the liquid. When he sipped, the sweet tang stretched into his throat at the right temperature, hot enough to zing, but not to scald–like he had remembered Kebe before tonight. Now he had to figure out what his own stance about ConSEnt and the Tower would be. Or rather, he must decide yet again what to do with his life. Ah, well.

  *

  In a previous life Nero had always followed politics only for business. As far as he knew, the Tower was entrenched in a government where small cadres of cognoscenti catered to each other's political needs. Maybe that was good, and maybe not; as a practical man, Nero didn't care. He had freedom to pursue his goals, which was enough.

  Even if he was certain Power Sharing as the Tower preached it was a cheap lie, his activism consisted in speculating over lunch about stopping that demagoguery. As far as Nero was concerned, PS was another failed experiment like democracy before it.

  On the other hand, the hold on power of Consolidated Shipping Enterprises was as secure as ever. To Nero's reckoning, ConSEnt made the good and the bad weather about matters of teleportation. The Tower was supposed to be in charge, and it was: It opened umbrellas or donned shades, depending on the rain or sun that ConSEnt decreed.

  Nero guessed that ConSEnt had Napoleonic ambitions–and could fulfill them. There was a joke that ConSEnt was the sole reliable source of census data, even if it didn’t collect survey forms. The Enterprises built, owned, and operated all teledevices in use. They also traced anybody moving through
their equipment; so, in a way, they could know where everybody was at all times.

  ConSEnt was above the law when Nero had left for Doka. ConSEnt alone decided who would have access to the frame, or who'd be barred from society. Yet, ConSEnt had never been in Nero's way.

  After tonight, he would choose a side. Perhaps.

  Establish what is right and wrong, and do what is right, Margo preached. Easier said than done. Performance, I'm good at; right and wrong... I was right, because what I wanted was right by fiat. Now it's different. I don't know–I don't!

  Nero paused; he felt a knot forming in his throat.

  Margo would have known. My wife would have if she were alive, if I had not killed her, if I had not killed my children. He took a sip of licorice. Swallowing it was painful.

  A large window opened onto the now-dark landscape outside his trailer. The edges of walkways shone with the eerie luminescence of gloweed, which was dim, but sufficient to mark the way. Kebe had given him a worthy question to answer, and maybe an excuse to see her again, too. Tomorrow he would make a decision. Yes, tomorrow.

  *

  That night he had a dream. Margo came and brought a book. She read to him from it, but Nero could not remember what she told him. The book had a golden cover, and he knew it was about love. He had read part of the book; but Margo was reading from pages Nero never touched. Margo's words were soothing. Every word was good. Then she had to go, kissed him on the forehead and hugged him before leaving.

  When she left Nero woke up and wept. Margo knew about right and wrong. In his dreams, she was never angry for what happened. She never accused him. She never blamed him. That didn't stop Nero from blaming himself with endless anger: forgiveness was impossible. He made the rules, and he had broken them. He broke them because of love, he thought. No, that was not love. If he had loved Margo and the children, he would have done better. He would not have broken the rules–his rules. His own rules would have saved them.