Behold a Dark Mirror (23 page)

CHAPTER 23

"What do you mean, no trace?"  Eugene Galt said, his voice trembling.

"Exactly what I said," Tom Bruxvoort answered, his face in the phone more annoyed than usual. "Dorato vanished—poof.  If he hasn't left yet, he's disappeared in mid-air.  We turned all the stones.  All of them—no cockroach."

"How can that be?  How?"  Eugene said, pacing.

"He's left Earth—what else?  He's gone.  The port-of-license at the Aurora Mall might have had a positive ID, but that's far from sure."

"So he may or may not be on Virgil."

"He could be anywhere.  He's gone."

"Well, Bruxvoort-hound, you got a run for your money this time," Galt said, smiling wickedly at the pain of defeat as one with little left to lose.  "Too bad.  We'll sink together now."

"Sink?  What do you mean, sink?  Hey!  Don't you—"

Galt hung up.  He could imagine Tom swearing, pounding the phone, then kicking in frustrated fury.

Even disgrace has its small consolations,
Eugene thought.  He gave instructions to his secretary not to answer his phone, which promptly rang.  The unanswered rings tipped up the corners of his lips ever so slightly.

Failing to get him on the jig, Bruxvoort would be here in minutes, so Galt had to leave immediately.  He stood up, glanced at the wall where his Flemish lady used to hang, sighed, grabbed the data cartridge on his desk, and got out.  He had taped the last conversation with Ayin, when she admitted to the deaths on Virgil.  Now he needed to determine how to realize the most damage to her from that tape—while gaining the greatest advantage from it.

He careened down the stairs two floors to the executive framepost;  he would avoid running into Bruxvoort arriving at the ground floor lobby.  Eugene dialed, and departed;  at destination he made a phone call and walked to the restaurant across the street.  He wasn't hungry, so he sat on a bar stool in the sunny lounge sipping fruit juice.

Before long, a stocky patron sat next to him, ordering a long drink.  "Weather's been good lately, don't you think?"  the stocky patron asked Eugene.

Galt said,  "The good days are gone.  I think a change of climate would suit me, I'll go south for a while."

"Have a good trip.  Come visit when you return."

"I'll do that," Eugene said.  He turned around and left. Strolling across a green patch of manicured vegetation, Eugene picked up the headpiece of his universal assistant and dialed.

"Hello?  Eugene, what a surprise—it's been forever!"  said the glamorous redhead in the video.  Sharp nose, angular jaw line, dash of freckles, blue eyes:  Her face was a wild promise.

"Hi Corinne, how are you doing?"  Eugene said.  "Can you take off?  We could have some fun together."

"Are you taking me to The Clearing again?"

He grinned.  "Perhaps.  I had something else in mind, though."

"Like what?"

"Somewhere exotic and remote.  Maybe renting a sailboat—without a crew."

"What an idea!  Will you teach me to sail?"

"That," Eugene said, "and much more."

*

Walking the corridors of ConSEnt, Eugene reminisced.  They had sailed in peaceful blue waters, between the ocean and the sky enjoying each other's company.  Life had existed a day at a time:  Corinne's acceptance of circumstances had no pretense—just the intent of having fun.  He knocked on a side door and stepped in without waiting.

"Hello, Galt," said the stout man sitting behind the desk, keeping his eyes on the documents before him.  "I was waiting for you, your timing is perfect."

"Thank you, sir.  I thought that—"

"Galt, a new hotshot is staffing his office.  I just got this.  He needs," he shuffled a stack of papers, reading from one, "
an individual with a perspicacious sense of opportunity, goal-oriented, a demonstrated ability to negotiate highly unstructured and ambiguous situations and lead for the greatest advantage.
"  With some imagination you fit the rest of the requirements.  Do you want the job?

"Any alternatives?"

The man erupted in a loud laughter,  "Nothing even close.  I told you, your timing is perfect."  His laughter faded.  "I don't want to baby-sit you any longer than necessary, so I've vouched for you as our undercover man with the Tower, now burnt.  I relied on you accepting this incredible opportunity."

"Thank you—I'll take it."

"Good choice.  Come along, I'll introduce you to your new boss—his glorified excellence Tissa D'Souza.  He's one of Donald Maast's lackeys."  He stood up.

"Maast, as in
chief of security?
"  Said Eugene.

"Right-o."

Eugene whistled between his teeth.  "Why didn't
you
take this job?"

"One:  I was one of Lenny Duskin's proteges.  Duskin is dead and I'm a fallen angel.  I'm happy I still have an office," he sneered.  "Two:  I know you can do this job;  you've got the mettle.  The better you do for ConSEnt, the better it will be for me and my children.  Now shut up and follow me,
sir.
"

They walked through a maze of elevators and corridors, crossing many checkpoint gates;  and then Galt waited while his guide talked to security.  They entered a marbled corridor framed by doors with ornate engravings, crossed a double-wide portal at its head.  Eugene noted the bas-relief of the portal was an exquisite hardwood carving depicting a pastoral landscape.

Behind the portal they entered an office twice as big as Ayin's.  The view from the windows was stunning: unoccluded horizons with snowy peaks in the distance.  A quiet man with olive brown skin sat behind an antique desk, looking at papers.

"Mr. D'Souza, sir, this is Mr. Eugene Galt, the man about whom I'd spoken to you earlier."  Eugene’s guide slipped away.  Tissa looked up.  His eyes caught Eugene's, engaging him in a wrestling match that Eugene defused by offering obeisance and lowering his eyes first.

"Mr. D'Souza," he said, "I'm so glad to meet you."

"Please take a seat, Mr. Galt.  I've heard interesting things about you."

"I'm flattered I caught your attention, sir.  Would you like me to elaborate on what you may have heard?"

"On the contrary, I know more about you than you could know yourself.  To start with, I understand you appreciate artwork;  paintings in particular."  He pushed an envelope across his desk.  "This is a check for a winning bid on a work you've manifested an interest in.  Consider it your sign-up bonus."

He felt as if this little dark man was staring at his naked skin—no,
under
his skin, at Eugene’s cloudy self.  He tapped his fingers to make sure the paralysis was only in his head, and stretched his hand to reach for the envelope.  Galt looked at it, put it in his coat.

"That's appreciated.  And unexpected," Galt said.

"Very well.  I don't play games, Mr. Galt, in the sense that I expect my agenda to become your agenda.  If you agree, you can keep your check and we'll talk.  If you don't, you can still keep your check and I'll arrange another good job for you."

He'd be in Urbino, the auction was his.  He could stay or leave.  Could he play without games?  Who was D'Souza?  What was the alternative—a good accounting job?

"Let's talk," said Galt.

"Very well, Mr. Galt.  We've established you won't have a personal agenda.  Do you agree?"

"Yes, I agree," Galt said.

"What makes you think you'll underwrite my agenda?"

"So far, nothing.  Let's talk about it."

"You've been formally employed by the Tower for some time.  Why do you want to work for ConSEnt now?"  D'Souza asked.

"I work for myself.  Serving the Tower, or ConSEnt, is a way to meet my purpose."

"Which is?"

"Self interest—as passion or mind may direct.  You've demonstrated you can accommodate my purpose admirably."

"I aim to please, Mr. Galt.  In the way of money and such trivia, your position can accommodate all reasonable and many unreasonable desires.  From your personal history, I'd say it's a match.  Where's your loyalty?"

"With my purpose.  And with anyone that supports it, like ConSEnt."

"Do you care for power?"

"Only as a means."

"I report to Donald Maast.  You'd report to me.  Do you understand how much power you could wield?"

Galt paused before answering:  "No, I don't think I do."

"That's right, you probably don't—not yet.  But you will.  Can you exercise self-restraint?"

"I'm a passionate and opinionated man, Mr. D'Souza.  But my appetite is finite.  I'm not addled by any addiction, as far as I can tell."

"Are you planning a family?"

"I'm too selfish for that, at least for the time being."

"Then your living quarters would be on this floor.  Would you object to being under surveillance?"

Galt raised his brows.  "No."

"I suppose, Mr. Galt, that you understand no man will ever be fired from your job.  Termination would be, so to speak, unequivocally permanent."

"That's not written in the contract, I imagine."

"There's no contract.  We look for a
sincere
commitment, at my discretion—I enjoy a lot of leeway.  In this regard you may be pleased to know that
my
passions are also finite."

"So, what is your agenda?"  Galt said. 

"My agenda is ConSEnt and my position:  success and prosperity, at any cost.  I do stress the
any cost
part.  Do I have your understanding in that regard?"

"You do."

"And your approval?"

Galt nodded.

"Do you still want this job?"

Galt wondered what type of dismissal a
no
would bring him now.  What did it matter?  Ayin was going to kill him anyway, and she offered far less.  "Absolutely," he said.

D'Souza stood up, offered his hand across the desk.  Galt rose from his chair, clutched the proffered hand firmly.

"Welcome aboard," D'Souza said.

"For life," Galt answered.  He knew he hadn't sold his soul to the Devil—how could he?  Eugene realized he had no soul to sell as he had none at all;  he'd just proven it to himself once more.  That brought him a lot of relief.

CHAPTER 24

Ike was red-blooded alright, but not malicious.  In a week Jenus had learned to answer to the name of John and to stay out of harm's way;  Ike decided to give him a tour as graduation gift.

"How much do you understand of mechanics?"

"A good bit," Jenus said. 
Given this company and circumstances,
he added mentally.

"We need to move thirty million cubic meters of material to build this dam.  See these?"  He pointed to a line of huge vehicles, some tracked, some with tires twice the height of a man.  "They've been used to build civilization ever since we stopped hauling dirt on the back of donkeys.  He patted a thick steel flank.

"I'm impressed," Jenus added, sincerely.

"You look like a guy that may end up driving one of the babes.  Once you get used to the ropes, I mean.  Wanna try one?"

"You mean...?"

"I mean a test drive.  You drive."

"Oh, yes, sir."

They climbed into the cab of a dozer.  Jenus took the operator's seat, Ike the side.

"Instrumentation check," Ike commanded, tripping a switch and passing his finger over the instruments.  "See?  Coolant, high pressure oil, low pressure oil, hydraulics one and two, revs, momentum, AI—that's artificial intelligence, radio, turbine temp, manifold temp, tranny temp, electric servos one, two, three, and four.  Just the basics."

"Ah.  Is it voice controlled?"

"Of course.  But the AI takes a while to train, so you'd better use the stick.  Know how to fly?"  he asked.

"Yes I do," Jenus answered.

Ike stopped cold.  "Indeed you are one strange grunt."  He opened a box and took out a palm control, fitted Jenus's hand to it.  "Like flying," he said.  "So, John, your palm's fitting?"  And without waiting for the answer, "Engage and take us out."

Jenus fiddled with the palm control.  The engine ignited as it was supposed to do, shaking the frame of the machine with a blast and a roar.  The turbine temp gauge moved from blue to green, the combustion manifold temp rose and stopped at 2500 degrees C.  Revs climbed to 60,000 and steady.  Momentum was growing slowly, hydraulic pressure was building, but the servos were dead.

"What's wrong with the servos?"  Jenus said.

"Nothing, they're not engaged.  Good eye, John."

Jenus released the brakes, the dozer rolled.

"Easy, John.  Momentum's still low.  Let the turbine build it up before spinning."

Jenus guessed this was another variation on electrostatic motors and magneto-hydrodynamic generators;  overflow power from the turbine was stored in the flywheels and released on demand.  Electricity charged the flywheels and powered hydraulics and the now-disengaged servos.  He coasted at 3 kilometers per hour.

"The blade operates with the attitude controls, stick and pedals.  You can move it in any direction.  Try it, Johnny," Ike said.

Jenus moved the 7-meter wide blade up, down, to a skew alignment, to another, back to straight.  At the same time, he steered the dozer, following Ike's directions.  He turned to look at Ike.

"Doggone, you're not an operator yet.  But I bet you could be one in four weeks.  I'm impressed."  He said.

"Thanks," Jenus answered.

"Are you interested?"

Jenus thought it out for a moment:  "Sure," he said.

"OK, John, take us back and start hoping."

*

That evening Jenus was elated:  This was his first success on Virgil.  He might make it as a bulldozer operator—way better than grunt and more certain than a job as a lab technician.

The canteen served hot dogs that night.  Jenus was hungry;  sitting at a melamine counter he chewed down two or three nondescript pink sausages and bread buns without tasting them.  The fluorescent lights bothered him, so he stepped outside right after dinner.  The air was tepid.  It smelled sweet, filled with scent of exotic vegetation.  He wondered if Earth's atmosphere smelled weird to those born off planet.  He took a lonesome stroll on the dirt roads of Pilgrim's Landing;  people didn’t break into one’s privacy uninvited—such appeared to be the colonial custom.