Behold a Dark Mirror (21 page)

"What if I am killed?"

"If that's your problem, we have a security area you may choose to live in until you leave.  You'll be granted a restricted—very restricted—temporary visa."

"I see."

"So, do you want anteroom status?"

"No."

"Would you like to take your battery skill test?"

"No.  I'll take it on Virgil."

"Very well.  Your departure date is," he consulted his terminal, "in four days if you pass the medical test."

"Where will I be examined?"

"At the clinic around the corner.  They can imprint your tattoo."  He pointed in the direction of the medical shop in the east wing.  "Go now—tell them this is CCC code fifteen-ten."

"Do I come back here for results?"

The clerk nodded.

Jenus headed onward to the medical shop.  The attending technician was courteous and aloof.  The exam included blood testing and routine peeking and poking.

Four days:  He could spend them wandering from place to place and take his chances.  Or he could seek asylum.  If he survived, he might one day want to come back to Earth.  Asylum would keep him from even hoping—no, he wouldn't give up hope.

He returned to the emigration clerk, who was gazing at his touch screen.  Jenus was still the only customer in the small branch office.  The clerk looked up.  "Welcome to the excitement of extraplanetary emigration, sir.  Your application has been accepted:  You are now part of the Civilian Colonial Corps, Cee-cee-cee, or Cee-cubed if you like."  He stood up to shake Jenus's hand.

Jenus took the hand he'd been offered.

"I must give you a general briefing."  He went to retrieve a holographic projector from a cabinet, then put it on the desk between the two of them.  They both sat down.

"Go ahead," Jenus said.

An image of a planet appeared, floating above the desk, rotating slowly.  White caps covered its poles, a yellow strip wrapped its equator, the rest was made of blue and green expanses.  A voice-over explained:

"Virgil orbits a class M star—like Earth's Sun—at 1.04 AU in an orbit with eccentricity 0.992.  Virgil is a little bigger than Earth, and a little lighter, with a gravity of 0.97 g that will be comfortable to all who grew up on Earth.  Its atmosphere is marginal in oxygen, but barometric pressure is one-third higher than Earth’s, yielding breathable air;  climate varies from arctic to hyperdesert.  All regions under development support human life comfortably."

Fluorescent markers appeared within the green expanses.

"You will live in proximity of the highlighted regions for the duration of your contractual engagement.  Afterward you may choose to extend your engagement or to exercise the homesteader clause."

The floating image changed to a coastal landscape with cliffs and beaches.

"You may choose the general location of your future property.  There is no animal life on the mainland or in the oceans.  Flora is thriving, and farm crops are encouraging.  Herds of industrial animals such as chickens, pigs, and cows have met preliminary success.  You
must
understand that any experimental planetary settlement offers
substantial
risks.  Virgil is no exception, as its ecosystem is virtually unexplored.  You
must
understand that this information is based on early research and may be misleading or inaccurate, albeit not intentionally.  You are now part of a project with great opportunity and great danger:  Virgil is not yet an established and safe settlement.  If you continue, you may put yourself in the way of as yet unknown life-threatening dangers.  For this reason you are offered incentives as presented to you.  Your host will now guide you through the remaining formalities.  Welcome to the challenge—and dream—of your lifetime."

Or nightmare
, Jenus thought.

The clerk moved aside the projector and pushed more red tape at Jenus, rattling one disclaimer after another.  Jenus knew he should have listened more carefully, should have asked some questions, but his mind was elsewhere:  Something in the briefing had bothered him.  It wasn't the danger;  he understood that.  Something else had struck a nerve.  The clerk was doggedly showing him a map, still yapping.

"...coastal region settlement is planning a city here.  You are under no obligation to locate your property according to these guidelines, which have been prepared as a convenience to you.  Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Do you need time to think?"

"About what?"

"Which setting do you prefer?"

"Do I have to choose now?"

"No.  But if you do your parcel will be 25% bigger."

"No, no.  Leave it pending."

"Very well, sir."

"What next?"  Jenus said.

The clerk went to the rear office and returned.  "This is your identity as far as Virgil is concerned."  He handed Jenus a laminated card with a magnetic strip;  a number was printed on it.

"That's all?"

"Yes, sir.  The card is linked to your C-cube records.  It's your one-way ticket to Virgil, and your emigration contract.  Your departure is Friday at 10:30 AM from the Gagarin colonial center.  Don't lose this card."

"So now I have four days to kill."

"Yessir."

"If I have any questions, will you still be here?"

"I personally staff and manage this branch office when it's open.  I'm alone, so you won't fail to find me."

"Thanks."  Jenus shook hands with the clerk.

"Good luck," the clerk said, patting Jenus on the back.

CHAPTER 20

"I heard Operation Ceres has started," Galt said.  Ayin Najjar had summoned him to her office;  this wasn't good.  She sat behind her desk, plump like the padding of her royal chair.

"Did you catch the chemist?"  Ayin Najjar said.

"We're making progress, Ms. Najjar."  She had
not
offered him a seat, which was becoming a bad habit of hers.

"Damn you, Galt.  Yes or no?"

He wasn't any closer to finding Jenus Dorato.  "Not yet, ma'am."

"Don't call me madam, you moron!"  She said.

Eugene Galt chuckled under his poker face.  The
madam
trick always worked.

Ayin recomposed herself with visible effort.  "Did you at least get your clumsy hands on the results of the lab analysis?

Of course I did, you fat cow,
he thought.

"I'm waiting for a report on that," he said.

Ayin burst out laughing.  It was a nervous, frightening laughter.  "You know what, Galt?  If, for a moment, I believed that you were a capable individual—which you
must
be, to have made it so far—I'd have to think that you work for ConSEnt."  She sealed her statement with a chilling smile.

A bucket of ice water rushed down Eugene's neck, all the way down his spine and buttocks and legs and congealed in his shoes, freezing his feet solid.  A tidal wave of goose bumps followed in the wake of the rush.  But he looked at Ayin with his polished and innocent look:  "Very funny, Ms. Najjar."  Fear cramped his stomach.

"I can't prove it yet.  Not yet, Eugene.  But soon I will—or perhaps I won't have to."

She's bluffing.  She wants me to run and to confirm her guess,
Eugene thought.

"Ms. Najjar, we're also investigating the allegation of treason," Galt said, fighting to project a calm voice.  "There are two good leads that—"

Ayin interrupted:  "Your reports are hope, wait, making progress.  This is business, Galt, not religion."

"Yes, ma—"  He caught his tongue.  "Ms. Najjar."

"We're losing three to five people a day and..."

Three to five a day,
Eugene thought. 
How can I exploit these news?

"...nobody knows why.  Settlers are dying like flies.  It can't go on much longer—something'll break," Ayin said.

"That's tragic."

"Do you mean it's tragic our plan will flounder or it's tragic people are dying?"

"Both, of course."

She sneered.  "Why are people dying?  How is this happening? You're screwing up like you're doing it on purpose!"  she yelled, slapping her right fist into her left hand.

Back to normal,
he thought.  "I assure you my team and I are doing our best."

"It's your team, now, isn't it?  We shall see about that.  This is your last chance:  Get Dorato by next week—or you're history, Galt, in more ways than one.  I don't want progress.  I don't want hope.  I want the data,"  Ayin said.

"A week?"

"How long is a week, Galt?"

"Twenty-one to thirty-five people."

"Get out of here!"  she said, throwing a paperweight at him.

*

Back in his office, Eugene pondered.  This was the second time he'd left Ayin's presence in disgrace.  After today's allegations, Eugene guessed he wouldn't get out of that office again on his own:  At best, he'd be escorted by Security.

The latest news he had about Dorato was not good.  Not a trace.  The man had disappeared,  and the retrieved data was meaningless: just dirt.  Bruxvoort was brutal.  After killing the girl, what was her name, Janet, he went after Dorato—poor bastard.

By now Dorato must have figured out he's got mean dogs on his tail.  He'll do anything to disappear.  Anything!
  Eugene though, pensive.

How many destinations offer anonymous packages?

After a brief investigation, Eugene conceded with grudging respect that Ayin was a fat, mean, dangerous bitch.  Only Virgil offered optional anonymity to aspiring C-cubers desperate enough to pay that cruel toll.  Anybody who wanted amnesty by leaving Earth had no choice but Virgil.  No wonder they had so many applications.  He picked up the phone.

The screen lit up with the image of a middle-aged man with thin lips and salt-and-pepper hair pulled back and greased.  His brows joined over the nose, which was squat and had large nostrils.  Pale blue eyes under thick lids were dim and small, as if added on second thought as a minor decoration to his face.

"Hello, Eugene."

"How long would it take to check out, oh, some four hundred John Does that are leaving for the Colonies?"

"Anonymous C-cubers?" Bruxvoort said, and thought for an instant before going on:  "After they left, six months, with forty or fifty agents.  We'd find one in five by then."

"What if John Doe hasn't left yet?"

"Are you looking for Dorato?"

"Yes."

"He's scared, maybe he'll panic.  How many emigration kiosks?"

"All of them."

"Big job!  What do we do when we find him?"

Eugene hesitated.  ConSEnt wanted Dorato dead.  The Tower wanted him alive.

"Dorato needs to understand it's our way or else," he said.  "He won't keep us from knowing what we want."

"What resources can I use?"  Bruxvoort said.

"Whatever you need—for one week, tops.  Get him tomorrow, if you can—if he hasn't left yet.  He could leave at any time."

Bruxvoort grinned from ear to ear.  "Consider it done," he said, and hung up.

Eugene's phone was tapped—like all phones in this building.  He had clearly told Bruxvoort that the Tower needed Dorato's cooperation;  What went beyond that order wasn’t his responsibility. If Bruxvoort butchered Dorato, Bruxvoort would shoulder the blame.

Two months.  Still two months before the auction in Urbino.  He needed more money.  How could he get enough if he left the Tower?  He'd land a boring job at ConSEnt;  no more bounty money.

But I'll stay alive
, Eugene thought.

The stakes were too high:  Ayin's nerves were fraying.  Five settlers a day—what was one life against that mounting grand total on her conscience?  She'd given him a week.  He could give Bruxvoort two, perhaps three days.  If Dorato didn't turn up, Eugene would jump ship.  And if he had to miss the auction of his life, Ayin would pay.

He leaned back on his chair, put his feet on the desk, picked a cigar from the humidor at his right, rolled the cigar next to his ear:  perfect, no creaks.  Eugene smelled it, passing it slowly under his nose.  The rich fragrance of the tobacco tickled his nostrils as only an expensive cigar could.

With his other hand, he reached for a dark bottle on the credenza, uncorked it, and poured a sample of cognac in a spotless crystal balloon.  He cradled it, rolling the liquor.

Watching the wall in front of him, he reveled at the serious countenance of the lady in black, at the creamy texture of her painted gown, at the rich, gloomy, gold undertones of the knickknacks sitting on the end table.  Eugene smelled the thin vapors from his drink and raised his eyes to heaven, put the glass to his lips, allowing the liquor on his tongue, in his cheeks, indulging it there to take all it had to offer before swallowing.  Then he lit up, exhaling a thick puff of smoke.

Dark lady, were you as good in bed as you look on my wall?
  he wondered.

*

Tom Bruxvoort weighed the odds.  He had a point of pride at stake.  Dorato kept eluding him, slithered through his traps.  He had even survived a point-blank assassination attempt.

He mocks me!
  Bruxvoort had overpowered better rivals;  Dorato was nobody, a jerk who had been lucky once too many times.  Dorato's luck had run out.  Bruxvoort promised to himself he'd teach Dorato a lesson—the last one of that bastard's life.

CHAPTER 21

Vivitar III was the ugly brother of Rossini.  The twin planets revolved around each other in a comfortable orbit pinned by Duce, a mellow star with no ambition but mediocrity.  Rossini hosted an Orthodox Roman Catholic community kowtowing to the current promoters of peace and order.  Its claim to fame was a suite of universally popular operas;  the earth- and sea-tides that Rossini and Vivitar III induced on each other had inspired the works, which were majestic.

Vivitar III, an easy jump away, catered to the dark side of Rossini, with bordellos, casinos, and non-catholic churches.  Modern comfort was expensive on both, as all its implements were imported:  Heavy industry didn't thrive on worlds rocked by tidal earthquakes.  Farming, however, was good.  Grain liquors, brandy, and
grappa
were cheap and, as the crowd at the
Space Crab
witnessed, popular.

Nero, sitting in a corner, was assessing his whereabouts.  After Rio, even Vivitar looked good.  The
Crab
was clean, if reeking of stale smoke.  The bar sported a complement of Vivitar's attractions:  a band playing on a small stage, some hookers, dark recesses with poorly lit tables, cheap alcohol.  And imported licorice!  He sipped from his mug, enjoying his expensive tea like a treasure.

He hadn't yet gotten rid of Paulo's vaguely Creole permanent makeup—Borodin had taught him to be cautious.  He hoped Kebe had a better plan than recognizing him by sight;  this was the fourth afternoon he had spent idle, sitting and waiting.

After his third licorice, as he moved to leave the place, a big hand dropped onto his shoulder and gently pushed him back in his seat.  It belonged to a bearded giant who came into his field of view and pulled up a chair, sitting down in front of him.  Besides a black beard and incongruously thin eyebrows, there was no other hair on his head.  Thick lips curved in a friendly smile, showing irregular teeth.  Between sparkling brown eyes his nose was sharp and straight, its bridge flowing smoothly into a steep forehead.