Behold a Dark Mirror Page 9

  "You said you shot a Cheshire?"

  "I'm pretty sure I hit it between the eyes—so to speak."

  "That's unheard of." Nero said.

  "I got it."

  "Lots of first-rate gunslingers tried to shoot Cheshires—none of them ever succeeded, Kebe. I'm sure at least some of them were as good as you are." He looked at her, smiling.

  "What's the alternative?" She said, oblivious to the tease.

  "Maybe the Cheshire let you shoot it—to give us this." He raised the rope.

  "A rope?" Kebe said.

  "You know what it looks like?"

  "It's a cord—don't play games."

  "One of their tails."

  Kebe gasped. "You're kidding! Why would they want us to have a tail?"

  "It didn't taste bad." Nero held his breath. The implication in his statement had a menacing slant. "It tasted funny, but not bad."

  "How much did you eat?" Kebe said.

  "There's my bite mark here, see?" He showed Kebe. He smacked his tongue twice. "It's all gone now," and rubbed his tummy. "Keep me in sight for the next couple of days."

  Kebe looked at him with concern. The hangar was approaching quickly; chills rippled across her back in anticipation of leaving the warm cabin.

  *

  Engaging the generator was as simple as tripping a switch now, Nero told her as they walked into the hangar. He said the switch triggered a pinhole in the plasma torus of the fusion reactor. A leak of plasma was driven through the reaction mass of the magneto-hydrodynamic generator, igniting it. Hot ionized gases streamed across electrodes, generating power, and were then cooled down by heating water that produced steam for the micro-turbines.

  "Who cares? I want electricity for the mailer, and I want to get out of here," she replied.

  Kebe wished that Nero shared her concern about Cheshires; but Nero clung to his belief. "They're peaceable," he insisted. She dreaded each step they were taking.

  In sight, he'll stay within my line of sight, she thought.

  "There." Nero turned the handle on the control module. The machine ignited with a roar. Something whirred, accelerating.

  "Let's get out now," Kebe said.

  "Sure, sure." Nero started walking back to the door; this time he was steady on his legs. The whine was sharp, shifting onto even sharper registers.

  "I'm amazed at how fast you're recovering." Kebe shouted too loud.

  "I was clothed heavily. My left ear bleeding was from an old scar." Nero said, looking over his shoulder at her. "In a way, that scar is the reason I'm here, you know. It was the trap that destiny laid for my hubris." Kebe, now wearing Nero's parka, was shivering and chose not to inquire further.

  As they moved away from the generator, the hangar became quieter. The claps of their footfalls died in a million echoes; Nero walked a little ahead of Kebe. Her hand was steady on the microwave gun. Nero disappeared around a corner; Kebe quickened her pace: In line of sight, she thought.

  Yet before she could round the corner the sound of Nero's steps had vanished. Her hair tickled, pushed outward again: she ran towards him, ignoring fear’s sudden grip.

  "Nero!" She said pulling her gun, her hair sticking out straight, her skin suddenly clammy, the trigger half squeezed.

  When she reached past the edge of the corner Kebe stopped as if hitting a glass wall. Her free hand moved to her gaping mouth. Instead of shooting, the other hand dropped her gun to the floor.

  "Oh, my God," she said, "my God."

  CHAPTER 10

  Civil Defense was not done searching by nightfall, so Jenus tried to sleep on the couch in his office. He took a pill and managed to snooze a couple of hours before more questions. Where was he yesterday? The day before? With whom? Why? Was the lab insured? For how much? How was business? How did he hurt his head? On and on.

  He had to lie at times, making it up as he went along. Too little sleep did not help; he knew right away he was digging his grave. Yet, if he told the truth, he would not even have the few hours that CD needed to check his tale.

  When CD was done, they told him he was free, and also: "Mr. Dorato, please remain at your apartment. An agent will be in touch with you."

  Sure, Jenus thought.

  "If CD cannot locate you within six hours, we'll issue a warrant for your arrest." The officer said. "Standard procedure in murder investigations."

  CD left a man on the premises. Jenus went home.

  *

  His apartment was still inside out. The maid service, Jenus guessed, couldn't decide how to put things back together and had given up. He sat on the springbox of the couch. An envelope stuck to the wall with red tape caught his eye.

  He got up, peeled the tape, opened it. "Mickey's, will trade," the message said. There was a bootleg framepost card, too, in the envelope: nice touch.

  At least this didn’t promise help, Jenus thought; they just wanted his data. The note must be from whoever had kidnapped Janet. Jenus’s life was unraveling; he watched it all happen like a show about someone else. Might it be another trap? These people wanted information first, and maybe afterwards also wanted him dead. No matter what, he had to get Janet out of this: She had no part in it. He owed her and consequences did not matter much.

  There was freedom in that resolution, and a deliberate commitment of a kind he had never felt before. Few things mattered now—and some were brand new. He didn't know if Janet would still care for him. He knew, however, that he'd know no peace unless he made restitution.

  Jenus gathered some belongings, his electrogun, some items from his safe now scattered across the room. He searched for his armor undershirt of monomolecular yarn: under the couch, between the pillows, amongst the books fallen from his bookcases. He found it underneath his ripped mattress.

  He picked up from under a chair a crumpled origami sculpture and stuffed it in his backpack. He thought of sleeping for a few hours, but that might be a mistake. Jenus walked through his apartment one last time—he felt no grief.

  The entrance door latched behind him. He took the elevator to the ground floor and walked to the back exit. The iron door, rarely used, swung open ranting and squeaking. Beyond the lawn, two kilometers of thickets and wild vegetation grew before the next building: he had walked that path many times in the opposite direction, trying to clear his mind from too much alcohol after playing poker. Forty minutes later, he put his thumb on the door lock at his destination.

  "Voice tag: Jenus Dorato," he said, and the door clanked open for a habitual guest. He climbed the stairs to the first floor, and to the framepost. He slid his new bootleg card into the dispatcher and dialed Mickey's Emporium.

  *

  A sparse weeknight crowd attended the club. Jenus slipped out of the airlock and sat at the bar. The barman came by, a new man—Jenus knew all the attendants by name.

  "Sir?"

  He longed for a stiff drink, but the day was not over. "Irish coffee, hot. Strong coffee, little whiskey."

  "Very well. By the way, my name is Sam, sir."

  "Hi Sam. I'm... Fred, drop the sir. How's the evening?"

  "Slow night. There's a couple of strange fellows in the booths, with a really hot chick. Over there." Sam pointed to the right with his head, raising his brows, and departed to fix Jenus's drink. Rightward were the private booths, so the 'strange fellows and the hot chick' remained out of sight.

  Jenus had no plans: He was invited, he came. The Irish coffee arrived. He nursed it; the drink went down leaving a trail of fire, and Jenus felt revived—but it wouldn't last.

  A stout man in a trench coat stepped out of the framepost and sat next to Jenus. His unevenly dark hair was greased and pulled back, and thick eyebrows underlined his forehead in an almost continuous line. Lighting was too dim to notice any oth
er distinguishing features with clarity. They looked at each other for an instant.

  "Vodka, Sam, double."

  "Lemon dash, Tom?"

  "Of course." Tom glared at the bartender. "Hello, Dr. Dorato," he also said, stretching his hand toward Jenus. "I like your taste in hangouts."

  "Hello," Jenus said, ignoring the proffered handshake.

  Tom withdrew his hand: "You must understand my interest is professional: I don't feel for you, either way. This is business." His vodka arrived; he downed it in one gulp.

  "I have what you want," Jenus said.

  "Very well. Let's trade."

  "Where is Janet?"

  The man looked towards the private booths. "Your friend is here. She's in good company."

  The really hot chick—she must be drugged, or this place would be in pieces, Jenus thought. "How could you be so sure I'd take your offer?" He wanted to dive for the booths.

  "I wasn't: I guessed right," he said. "Let's do business. Your merchandise?"

  "All you want is here." Jenus picked up a crumpled origami sculpture from the pocket of the backpack and put it on the bar.

  "Very clever." Tom took the paper, undid the folds, and stared at several blank sheets. "Too clever for me."

  "These are reproductions of what I delivered last Saturday to heaven-knows-whom. All the information is there; the ink disappears after printing."

  "You mean they're erased? Don't pull my leg."

  "The ink becomes transparent, but it's still on the paper."

  "So what good are these sheets?"

  "You can treat the ink to retake a hue. I'm sure you have access to that equipment; to the naked eye the treated ink is a light watermark."

  "Do you expect me to take your word for it?"

  "Treatment is more complex than what I can improvise in a bar. By the way, what about Janet?"

  Tom stood up and went to the private booths. He came back with a lady's shoe in his hand. "Here." He gave it to Jenus.

  "I want to see her—do you mind?" Jenus made to stand up.

  "Yes, I mind." Tom was icy; his hand ran to the inside of his coat. Jenus sat down.

  "You see," Tom said, "you are giving me less certainty about your merchandise than I am giving you about your friend."

  "Bullshit!" Jenus slammed a fist on the bar.

  "Cool your jets. How can we resolve this stalemate?"

  Jenus's veins throbbed, but he knew better than to blow steam at this man. He inhaled deeply, under control: "Do you have access to a meth lab?"

  "I don't understand."

  "I can treat the ink with that equipment."

  "Let me check—and do not move." He walked apart to make a private call, still eyeing Jenus. He spoke a few words, waited forever, and scribbled something on a notebook before returning.

  "Yes," he said. "I have access to a lab."

  "Then let's go." Jenus set off to the framepost. Tom got up, too, nodded to Sam, and walked to the dispatcher to dial their destination.

  A putrid-smelling lobby enclosed the framepost at the other end; Jenus followed Tom out of the room that hosted the machinery. They walked through a few alleys lined with hingos sleeping on the bare ground; Jenus for the first time in his life saw a rat nibbling at the toes of a live, if unconscious, man.

  Me, tomorrow, Jenus thought without self-pity.

  Tom knocked at a door covered with old graffiti. The door cracked open, they slipped in. A man with a three-day beard sat at a desk, looked at them listening to a plug in his ear. He pointed to another door in the filthy office. They took a flight of stairs downward, and then followed a wet, dark corridor for a while.

  "In case you're wondering, the only way out is back." Tom said. Their splashy steps were the only sound Jenus could hear. The air smelled of mould and organic decay.

  Shortly, they stopped in front of a side door and waited until it opened. Tom walked in, Jenus followed, and his jaw dropped: Here was a bright room with benches, burners, chemical glasses, sinks and all the equipment of a well endowed laboratory.

  "Will this do?" Tom said.

  "I guess so. What is—"

  "No questions. Please treat the ink." He gave Jenus one of the blank sheets.

  Jenus nodded, and began working. Tom sat, watchful. In twenty minutes Jenus gave him back the sheet.

  "Hold it under the light." He showed Tom how to look.

  Tom nodded. "What about the other sheets, Mr. Dorato?"

  "I couldn't know which one you gave me—they're all good."

  "I understand. Who besides you knows how to do this trick?"

  "It's not a secret. There." Jenus scribbled a note on a sheet that he tore and gave him. "This is a paper I wrote."

  "Very well."

  "Janet?"

  "We'll see to that soon. Get out now."

  In the corridor Tom insisted that Jenus walk ahead of him. "There's no way you'll get lost. I want to watch you."

  Along the way Jenus heard a crackle behind his shoulders. Violent, repeated strikes hit his back. His upper body jolted forward, his neck whiplashed. He lost his balance and fell face forward on the floor, so fast he could not raise his arms to protect his head. Before hitting the ground, he realized: The bastard shot me in the back.

  *

  A trickle of filthy water lapped his face. He shot me in the back, echoed in Jenus's mind as he regained consciousness. How long? How long have I been down?

  "Janet," he groaned, trying to get up. His left arm was numb, caught at a weird angle under his body. He flexed his right arm, stretched ahead of him along the flow of the foul water; it responded. His legs also responded. Pulling up to a kneeling position was difficult. The numb arm had strength to move, but no sensation.

  He breathed. His back ribs hurt where they bore the brunt of the impact from the needles. The armor had stopped the needles from piercing his body and exploding in his lungs. Jenus stepped forward once, twice. His wristwatch showed maybe ninety minutes since Tom had tried to kill him. Was Janet still at the bar? He had to find her. Garbage. The bastard left my corpse for the cleaning crew. He felt his jacket: his electrogun was still there. An angry bruise had grown on his forehead, which was painful but didn't bleed. The corridor was deserted, the stairs in sight. He could walk, but he sat down to think first.

  Janet. He needed to get to her. She had to be at the bar: his mind clung to that hope like ivy to a wall. Since he was dead, he could make the rescue a surprise—beginning with the warden upstairs. He felt for his gun, loaded with 250 needles. He had never used it on a person before; yet he could not risk that anyone sound the alarm—he needed to get to Janet.

  Will I have the nerve? Jenus stood up. His whole body ached in red fits.

  He climbed the stairs. The door was locked, but the lock opened from this side. He tripped the lock and kicked; the door slammed open. Jenus stormed into the small lobby: the warden was watching a skin video; he raised his eyes and tried to move. Jenus shot him twice before allowing himself the time to think about what he was doing.

  CHAPTER 11

  Nero was in Kebe's line of sight, and then again, he wasn't. She could see a yellow Cheshire a few meters ahead through Nero's translucent body. Reaching for him, her fingers met viscous thickness where she saw his hand: thicker than water, but flesh it wasn't. She retracted her arm.

  The Cheshire vanished. Nero reacquired his natural appearance, staggered, and collapsed to the floor. Kebe grabbed him to slow his fall and was caught in the tumble. She was now trapped under his weight and had to wriggle her way out.

  Nero’s vital signs were disquieting: His heart was racing, respiration was shallow, his flesh too warm. Kebe, her shock more powerful than her fear, ran to retrieve the first aid case she had abandoned next to t
he generator.

  Nero's pupils were fixed, unresponsive, as if he'd been heavily sedated, but his blood pressure was ridiculously high.

  "Nero, don't give up on me! What's happening to you now?"

  She administered an intravenous heart tonic—which slowed down his pulse—and cracked open another vial of ammonia, but her intuition that this time it wouldn't work was confirmed.

  "What do I do now?" Kebe passed her trembling fingers through her hair. She tried to pull him, dragging him onto the concrete—to no avail. "Ah!" She said, stomping her right foot, and sat on the freezing floor, head in her hands.

  Nero was a wreck; Kebe clutched her knees to her chest. Now this hangar was as hard as many corners in her past, and she was alone again. Yet the inner fire that had always driven her still burned bright: it was the same fire that carried her through Galagos 5th and the gurda farms and fueled her fight. Unquenchable, it fed off the beat of her heart, the pulse of her life: Giving up, her inner self roared, is not an acceptable solution. You must stand up by yourself. Things are as bad as you allow them to be.

  She got up, straightening her clothes, smoothing creases with numb hands. She stood erect defying the emptiness of the building, puffing vapor with each breath.

  "Can you hear me Lord?" She screamed, answered by many echoes challenging the silence. "Can you hear me? You've listened to me many times, I know you're there!"

  Kebe paced in circles in small steps to quench her panic and fight the chills. "I have something to tell you," she said. Her eyes brimming with tears, she mumbled her dearest prayer: "You called, Lord, and I answered in the day of my ignorance and pride. I sought fulfillment around me, to find that empty deeds have no purpose. I sought my happiness in that of others and they were content, but I was not."

  Kebe combed her fingers through her hair as she continued: "I sought truth, but found iniquity, for the pursuit of truth is haughty: Truth stands alone and answers no calls. Then I was lonely and searched comfort from love, but found another's weakness tiresome and comfort fleeting. All days are short and purposeless. Plodding one step next to another is wearisome. Time passes and death is the only certainty, and the call of conscience. Direction matters not but in righteousness!"