Behold a Dark Mirror (12 page)

Kebe sat back in the warmth for an instant, aware of Nero's body covering the floor of the cabin.  She knelt over him.  His pulse was still racing, his pupils stony.  His chest moved regularly, if too often.  She wedged his torso between the seats, secured him, and sat in the driver's chair:  "Time to go home, Nero.  Don't you croak on me."  She looked at him:  "Don't you dare," she said, her voice breaking.

The ride to Hi was smooth.  Nero grunted, giving signs he was waking up.  As he moaned, the muscles along Kebe's spine began relaxing, her composure became looser.  Still unconscious, Nero jerked an arm across her lap and retracted it with an intimate caress.  Incredibly, she was aroused at the touch.

Nero eventually opened his eyes.

Kebe, still driving, looked at him.  "Are you still here?"

"Yes, I am," he answered.

"Do you know what happened?"

"I had terrible dreams."  He realized he was back in the tractor.  "How did I get here?  The generator..."

"It’s running.  Do you remember what happened?"

He shook his head.  Kebe told him.

"This is new," he said very slowly.

"New!  Is that all you have to say?  You became
transparent,
doggone you.  And you were floating on air in the arms of the beasts. 
New?
  A new flavor of ice-cream is
new.
  This is...  This is...  This is..."

He moved to a seat and sat on its edge, resting his head in his hands.

"How's your head?  You still need skull imaging;  where is the infirmary?"

*

Nero was sitting on the examination bed;  Kebe auscultated his chest.  "Your heart sounds OK, buddy."

"Don't call me buddy!"  he yelled.

She stepped back.

"I'm sorry, Kebe:  Margo called me that.  Forgive me."

She approached him:  "You're a difficult patient today, Nero.  Over there," she indicated, pointing at the imager.

While Nero was being scanned, Kebe poked his finger and collected a few blood drops.

The imager beeped.

"Acknowledge," she said.

"New voice print acknowledged," the machine answered.

"Present, pathology, summary," she said.

"I didn't know you were a medical specialist."

"I'm not.  I'm a self-taught emergency nurse."

The scanner announced:  "Malfunction:  calibration request, reading systematically biased high.  Alternative diagnostic:  metabolic functions 145% above normal."

Kebe slapped the case that housed the AI of the scanner.  "Piece of junk," she said and walked to the blood analyzer.  She looked at the data page.  "Oh, my," she said and stared at Nero.

"You're acting as if I'll turn green and sprout antennas."

"You’ve just done worse than that an hour ago," she said.  "Either you are not human or you should be dead.  I thought the scanner AI was fried, but maybe it isn't."

"I abandoned mankind a long time ago.  And I'm probably dead, too."

"This piece of plastic," she knocked on the analyzer, "agrees with you.  I don't."

"You're stubborn."

"And you're a miracle, Nero."

Nero smirked.  "I'm tired, and..."  His expression changed to one of total surprise.

"Nero!"  Kebe rushed to him.

"No!  I'm not relapsing.  You...  you're thinking...  that I should try the tail again, but you're scared because that may hurt me.  You're scared for me.  And for yourself, but that's a different fear:  a lesser fear."

"Are—are you guessing?"

"No;  I know."

"You're right, one hundred percent,"  she said.

"Kebe, what's happening to me?"

She hugged him;  he tucked his head against her neck, and held her, listening to her breathing.

CHAPTER 12

The dead warden lay sprawled in a intricate contortion.  Jenus ran, fighting the realization he'd just killed a man—a worthless man, but a man nonetheless.  He ran until pain and exertion slowed his pace.  Ache in his flesh and sorrow from killing were congealing into  rational fury:  Jenus was angry at his betrayal, at being unable to help Jaya, at the abuse that power carried out unpunished, at what he had just done—even if out of necessity.

The homeless in the alleys looked at him, Jenus imagined, with lust for his clothes and his health.  Behind his focused wrath, Jenus looked at them with—compassion?

Retracing his path through the framepost, he stepped into Mickey's Emporium to the greetings of Steve, the late night bartender:  "Hello, Jenus."

"Hi Steve," Jenus said, striding to the booths, his gun ready to fire from the pocket.  Three dividers down the line, a petite female body lay face down on the couch.  Nobody else was around;  Jenus's backpack—he had left it at Mickey's—was planted in the opposite corner of the booth.  He approached Janet, shook her gently:  no response.  Jenus shook her again with no reaction, rolled her over.  Her lips looked swollen and cyanotic.  He sought the pulse in her cold neck—none.

He let her go, brought his fists above his head and, screaming like a savage, slammed them on the wooden table.

His inarticulate yells brought Steve to the booth right away.

"Jenus, Jenus," Steve reached with a hand to his shoulder.  "Calm down, Jenus.  What's going on?"

Jenus stopped pounding and spread his hands on the wood, leaning on his arms, breathing noisily through his flaring nostrils:  "She's dead!" he ranted.

"What?"  Steve felt Janet's wrist:  "Oh, crap!"

A couple of people from the other side of the bar came to peek at the mayhem;  Steve took charge and shooed them off politely.  Jenus stood immobile, leaning on the table.

"Jenus, what happened?"  Steve said.

"I don't know.  You saw me, I just arrived."  Tears blinded his eyes;  he collapsed on the seat next to his backpack.

"I'll have to call Civil Defense."

"Of course," Jenus said, nodding.

Steve stepped over to the office.  Jenus grabbed his backpack and disappeared through the framepost.

*

For a few days he languished in a motel, nursing his bruises, living between denial and panic.  Sometimes he managed to forget where he was;  when he couldn't, he began to entertain a death wish.  In his backpack he carried more cash than most people dream of, and yet he felt destitute: Hope was gone;  Janet was dead;  he had killed a man.  His life had evaporated, dumping on him a load of ugly reality.

He had no family—the Guild had been his family, now he was a wayward son without a return ticket.  He couldn't face another day like this.  His body had recovered enough to make movement less painful;  he had to get out of the bedroom.

Wandering without a goal he ended up prowling the halls of the book museum.  Stacks of them were on display, forests of shelves:  expensive, beautiful, intellectual.  He picked a volume at random. 
Black Magic and Alchemy
, the title said.  He sat in a reading chair and opened the cover, trying to concentrate.  Rain was tapping on the windows;  little of the day was left.

I'm no artist at deception,
Jenus thought.  He knew they'd catch him soon.  Then what?  Maybe they'll say, 'Mr. Dorato we know your life is out of phase, we're here to help, after all you paid taxes all your life.'  He dropped the book flat on his knees.  It smelled musty;  the cloth of the binding had a coarse texture, not unpleasant;  its color was a faded blue, with red and black inscriptions in elaborate characters.  The backrest of his reading chair was too upright, the padding too stiff—it bothered the bruises on his back.  Jenus wriggled and closed his eyes.

Things and dreams and money and reason and living fast, faster keep your head busy, hot, dry;  then evening comes, and wet drizzles.  Window panes are dim and covered with droplets, life is cold and remote and darkness arrives too early.  A needle stretches from nowhere to pierce a spot of the heart that never existed before today, whence sorrow gushes and tears flow.  Silence weeps of fragility and death, and vanity strikes so hard nothing can shield the blow.  Lack of love, lack of purpose covers the brands wasting in the hearth of youth with black cold ashes so full of emptiness even flesh aches for the pain.

Jenus's reverie broke when his chair jolted, bumped by a lanky teenager carrying a stack of books too heavy for his frame.

"Sorry sir!" the kid proffered in a hurried whisper, "Very sorry!"

Jenus looked up, nodded politely.  Then he got up and put the book back;  outside, darkness was complete.  As he moved away from the quiet area, the PA system was playing
La fille aux cheveux de lin
.  Goose bumps rose on his skin;  some perceptions are so intense they always feel brand new, but even Debussy's flaxen
fille
now reminded him of Janet's black hair.  Guilt knows no rational boundaries.

He walked past the framepost, continuing towards the exit door by the park.  A security guard looked at him, stepping forward as if to stop him from going that way, but retreated when Jenus nodded as if he knew what he was doing—which he did not.

Rain pelted his head, his shoulders right away, turning him into a wet scarecrow.  Gloweed showed the footpath in the darkness between subdued street lamps.  Jenus's city shoes filled with water.  A mile—or ten—later he was soaked through, feeling as dreary as the night around him.  He sat on a bench in the rain under a street lamp, waiting.  He mused: 
something had better happen.
  A malignant Universe hid somewhere past the glare of street lamps, beyond the reach of Jenus's thoughts.

Sounds of sloshing steps arrived much later from outside the light cone.  A shadow followed them, owned by a long raincoat hung on shoulders below a hollow face, gray hair, and a gray and soaked fedora.  A pocket bulged—a bottle.  The hollow face looked at Jenus.

"Enjoying the rain?"  a somber voice said.

"Sort of," Jenus answered.

"You're no mugger," the hollow face said.

"No."

"Neither am I.  Mind if I sit?  This is my favorite bench."

"Plenty of room."

The raincoat sat down, looking at Jenus:  "Looks like you're not used to walking in the rain."

"Are you?"  Jenus said.

"I like it."

"Oh."  Answered Jenus, shivering.

"Care for conversation?"  The raincoat said.  "Or for some of this?"  He pulled a bottle of good quality liquor and two small metal cups.  "I always carry an extra cup for a case like this."

Jenus nodded.  He was cold; a bit of alcohol would be good.

The stranger poured into the cups.  He handed one to Jenus, downed his own in one gulp, refilled.  "It does nothing for me anymore."

Jenus took two sips.  "Good stuff."  The liquor rumbled down his throat, stretched its flames to his fingers and toes, killing the shivers momentarily.

"I drink too much of it," the raincoat volunteered.  Looking at Jenus's wet clothes, he added:  "You'll be sick tomorrow."

"Maybe."  Jenus drank the rest of his cup.

The stranger downed the second cup, then refilled, and offered more to Jenus, who declined seconds.  "You're not drunk," he said to Jenus.

"No."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Long story," Jenus answered.

"We all have a story.  Mine is short."

"Down and out?"

The man shook his head, "Old and bored.  I'm—was—a professor.  Corporation of the Regents of the Universal Library.  Retired."

"Why are you here?"

"I told you, I like it."

"That's all?"

The professor refilled his cup, emptied it.  "No. I'm bored.  Life is a joke, and I never got the punch line.  Are you a philosopher?"

"Chemist."

"Ah, a Guilder."

Jenus thought an instant before answering.  "No."

"Then you're corporate.  Let me tell you the secret of life:  Corporations are boring.  The Universe is boring.  And every academic is the sole custodian of the Greatest Theory Yet."

The professor downed another cup before continuing.  "Have you thought about cause and effect?  It's shallow.  You can't validate your assumptions from your results.  Science is a myth.  Reality analyzed with imperfect knowledge will remain imperfect—objective truth is the biggest lie of all."

The professor looked at Jenus:  "Love is even more shallow.  Only, for some reason it still works sometime.  This is maybe good, maybe bad, depends on your values."

Jenus stood up in the rain:  "Thanks for the drink," he said.

The professor looked up:  "Don't tell me, I bored you."

"It was the part about values."

"I ramble," said the professor.

"I hurt," said Jenus.

"Hurting is good, keeps boredom away—but it's too easy to chase, too easy."

"Would you mind explaining?"  Jenus said, still standing.

"Chasing pain?  Find the answer to the right question."

"What's the question?"

"What are you here for?"

"Is that it, or are you asking me?"  Jenus said.

The professor stared at Jenus:  "That, my friend, is a private matter.  But don't become another me.  I'm here to be bored."

Jenus turned around and walked off.  Lights from distant buildings pierced the dark here and there.

Crazy lunatic.

Don't become another me
kept echoing in his ears. 
Don't become another intellectual tramp without a purpose.

Jenus was shivering.

What was he to do?  In an instant Jenus was certain he knew what to do.  Then he changed his mind, a different goal appeared, a new plan equally certain, equally assured of success.  The confusion was unbearable.  Fragments of an old rhyme came to his mind, ebbing and bouncing between his ears: 
Future lingers 'fore your fingers...

Within a firestorm of thoughts, decisions and confused emotions burned through his mind, incinerating everything in their wake.  His resolutions changed too fast, straw fires burning quick, and fading, replaced by new and changing fuel. 
New start, new beginning, no ties.  No:  build on your past.
  The agony was that of flies on sticky paper, trying to pull out only to become more entangled. 
A blank, crisp new page—but wait:  there's a precious lot written already.
  Jenus's intellect understood;  his heart refused to. 
No honor remains, where's my honor?—What honor?  There's never any honor to be had.  Pride is wasteful.

Jenus lived in a timeless haze until he realized that he had walked past the marked grounds and he must have left the park long ago.  Under his feet, the ground was rougher.  Ruins from the Disorder spotted the night, darker outlines against faint lights in the distance.  He could not estimate how far or for how long he'd been walking.  Panic surged, soon overcome by indifference.

Why should I worry?  What do I have to worry about?
  Jenus thought, feeling exhausted.  The rain persisted.  He was asking too much of his psyche and his body, yet he walked on, braving uncharted territory.

When he got tired,  he sat on a piece of concrete in the rain.  The rhyme kept running over and over in his now feverish distress.

Future lingers 'fore your fingers

reminiscing time's morass...

...yes, time tickles the fingertips of man's intellect.  The future is here—that is, it will be here, and then it's not, killed by its own birth.  Gone, and returning, but never the same.  It was too cold:  He wrapped his wet coat tighter around his body.  Cigarette?  How could he think of a cigarette?  The memory alone of the smell made him heave.

...
seeking answers watch the dancers

just beyond the looking glass...