Behold a Dark Mirror (29 page)

A crop picker on a farm had a bad case of the foams.  He died, of course.  But Potter had pulled a magic trick of sorts.  Nobody of consequence was at the farm when it happened, and Potter swept it under the rug before anybody realized what had happened.

She'd have to remember Potter when she became Chairperson of the Tower.  Someone will have to fill the position she'd vacate.  Someone like Potter.  But oh, wait, now maybe that was not going to happen anymore.  Anyway...

All teams of correspondents were somewhere else on Day Three, which was good, and they all returned to Pilgrim's Landing at the scheduled time, and all the damn urchins were going home on Day Three.  All of them would be off her back.

So one went, and then another, and another.  Only a few urchins remained by the time Max Hopkins's turn came.

"I'm staying," Hopkins had said.

Damn!  All of them had to go.  That was the plan,
Ayin thought.  Here was the one circumstance none of them had imagined—nobody who had a life would consider staying, right? 
Wrong!

So Hopkins gave up his return ticket and claimed his right to a homestead on Virgil.  Max
damn
Hopkins, Universal News Agency, the news hero of the Perimeter Wars, was now going to get his third Galaxy Award by ruining her career.

Even more damning, Ayin enjoyed reading Hopkins's brilliant columns.  Lately he wrote from his desk;  she thought he'd retired from the field. 
He's come out of mothballs with blazing pistols to get me,
she thought, and gulped the rest of her drink.

After his example, another couple of buckaroos had decided to stay.  Not a thing anyone could do to force them off planet:  The plan qualified them C-cubed;  if they wanted to stay, nobody could kick 'em out.  Nope.  That was the law.

She lay down for a while.  Day One had been such a success.  She had to celebrate Day One...

Part IV: Crescendo

In the long run, no form of government survives the people who staff it—especially not in our upwardly mobile caste system, where it's so difficult to embrace corruption in an evolutionary manner.  Lately, I've become an admirer of democracy in that regard.

Ayin Najjar

CHAPTER 30

"Why are you drinking alone, big boy?"

Jenus took his eyes off the bottle of whiskey to look at the woman who had just addressed him.  Her solid, shapely figure could indulge without effort a lonesome bachelor.

"Mind if I sit?"  she continued, pulling a chair up to Jenus's table.  Hazel eyes, large round nose, full lips and square jaws, dimples in her smile;  her curly blonde hair showed dark roots.  She wore little makeup and had nice teeth.  Her voice was firm, solid—a good match to the rest of her demeanor.  She helped herself to one of the glasses that Jenus had asked the waiter to leave with the bottle.  She poured.  Jenus watched.

"Of course you don't mind," she said.  "You're so lonely you're screaming for company."

"How do you know?"

"Those who want to drink alone have only one glass.  So?" she said.

"So what?"

"Back to square one.  Why are you drinking alone?"

She smiled, but her smile faded as Jenus explained,  "Two people I work with died.  One died in my arms a few weeks ago.  The other died yesterday."

She nodded.  "Did you kill them?"

Jenus raised his eyebrows.  "Do I look like I did?"

"Hard to tell.  You might as well, for all I know."  She was playing with the glass;  she hadn't drunk a drop yet.

"Heavens no, I didn't kill them," Jenus said.

"Then how did they die?"

"Do you want my opinion or the official rap?"

"Try both, let me test your imagination."

"My opinion is I don't have a clue, but I'm sure the official story is baloney.  The Tower blames fevers for the one who died yesterday, and epileptic seizure for Rick."

"Was Rick your friend?"

"Closest friend I've had in a while."

"So you really are lonely, now."

Jenus nodded.  "In more ways than one."

"Just arrived?"

"Months ago."

"What drove you here?"

"Long story."

"Ah,"  she said,

"And my name is John Doe."

"An anonymous colonist!  This is becoming interesting:  what are you running from?"

"I'm not running from anything—I'm here because I don't like to run away."

"That's a bit oxymoronic."

Jenus thought.  "Guess I'm getting drunk."

"Not even close.  This bottle's just started;  that's your first glass."

He looked up.  "Look, ma'am, you surely are decorative, and I could use a sympathetic ear, but I'm not here to argue my points."

"I apologize—I didn't mean to irritate you.  What do you want to talk about, instead?"

Jenus stared into vacuum.  "How about you?"

"My name is Rebecca... Doe.  That's my name, promise—found in a dumpster and raised in an orphanage.  I came here because anything is better than my former life, which I want to forget."

"I propose a toast to celebrate a converging purpose."

"Deal."

They raised their glasses, and both sipped.

"You're not a drinker, John."

"Not any more.  Neither are you."

She nodded.

"So what are you doing in a bar, Rebecca?"

"Looking for people like you—what else?"

"I don't get it."

"Well, you're sad for your friends.  I can tell you mean it, so maybe you're a decent human being—sort of.  You don't believe the Tower, which means you can think.  And you're reasonably good looking."  She winked.  "What do you do for a living?"

"I drive a bulldozer."

"Yawn.  What
did
you do for a living?"

Jenus looked at her.  "Classified."

"Have you taken your battery test?"

"Not yet."

"Wow—you must be one hell of a clever guy.  You came here two months ago with the skin mama gave you, a false name, and nothing more.  And you're making a living as well as the average grunt, maybe better.  You haven't taken your test, and you don't look to me like you're a career bulldozer operator, so that's not even your trade."

"You're an amazing X-ray machine."

"Thanks.  Actually, I have some information to trade that you may find interesting."

"Oh, yes?  What would that be?"  Jenus answered, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Would you like to know more about what killed your friends?"

"My friend.  I didn't know the guy who died yesterday."

"Whatever," Rebecca said.

"Yes, I'd like to know more.  But..."

"But?"  Rebecca said.

"Somehow I believe curiosity will get me in trouble."

"Well, maybe in the future, but not yet.  The Tower is trying to keep it hush-hush, but there's no rule—yet—that forbids discussing what I want to talk to you about."

Jenus creased his brows.  "Meaning?"

"As I said, I have information to trade, not to give away."

Jenus nodded.  "How much?"

"Oh, maybe two hours of your time."

He grinned.  "When do we go?"

"How about now?"

He cocked his head.  "Let's go, then."  They walked out. 

"How old are you, Rebecca?"

"No more than thirty-five, no less than thirty-four."

"So you really were found in a dumpster."

"I was found in a kernel."

"Same thing."

"I agree."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a baker—you've eaten my bread already.  I also make pastry."  She looked at him with a mischievous dimpled smile.

Along main street all was quiet.  Rebecca walked briskly;  her steps echoed off the buildings.  A clock showed 23:33, which today was night-time.  The warm air smelled odd to Jenus—it wasn't the fragrance of Earth's spring or summer.  A scent reminiscent of cilantro and vanilla, dry and stark, faint and foreign, laced the night.  He wondered when he'd get used to it;  wrong smells were worse than bad clocks.

"We're here," Rebecca said.  She opened a door to a long corridor and entered first,  Jenus followed.

Time keeping, to Jenus, was a sign of the real attitude of the Tower concerning Virgil. 
Me Tarzan, you ape,
Jenus thought.  He could hear Tarzan yodeling when he thought of the foam on Rick's dead mouth.  Yesterday he had watched Tarzan pounding his chest over another corpse.  On Virgil, Tarzan tended a rat farm as a sideline business.

At the end of the corridor, Rebecca disappeared down a flight of stairs and through a door.  The buzz of conversation in the room muted:  Everyone watched Rebecca and Jenus.  Rebecca smiled as if she'd done this a thousand times.

"This is my friend John Doe.  He lost two workmates during the last few weeks and he doubts the Tower's explanations.  I invited him here to talk it over with us," she said.

Everybody looked at Jenus.  He guessed there were maybe forty adults in the room, no children.  Most sat on the floor, a few sat on chairs or on the table.  The group lacked the appearance of formal leadership.

"Hello," Jenus said, nodding at nobody in particular.  The situation was embarrassing and awkward.

"Hello John," boomed a huge man wearing a yarmulke.  "I'm Terry:  welcome to our meeting."  He had a beard and was balding;  the yarmulke covered the crown of his head.  Terry looked like a ton of muscles;  his head rested on a neck the size of a tree-trunk, his mouth was cut sharply, and his eyes were cautious and firm.  He showed no teeth when he spoke.

"Hello," echoed more voices on cue.

"Rebecca, you and John sit down and join us," said a woman from a darkened corner that Jenus couldn't see.

Rebecca looked around and found a place on the floor for both of them, away from the door.  They stepped across the room and slumped against the wall.

"As I was saying," a man continued, "it looks like an epidemic.  I know of 25 people who died last week."

"I counted 28," another said.

"That's four people a day."

Three people started talking in a muddled cackle.

"Hey, take turns," Terry said.

"What about the symptoms?  Any difference?"

"Always the same.  Panic, high fever, fits."

"What does the coroner say?"

"The coroner doesn't talk sense!"  a man said.

Everyone mumbled and nodded;  whispers rippled through the crowd.  If this was an epidemic, Jenus wondered whether he had been infected.

"Is it contagious?"  he said.  Rebecca looked at him, nodding.  Several people volunteered answers:

"Nobody knows."

"The foams hit at random."

"People who were next to those who died are well."

"Do we have a catalog of occurrences?  Maybe there's a pattern," Jenus said.

"It's all hearsay,"  someone said.

"Better than nothing," a woman added.  "Better to make a database than to sit here and cry."

"Is there a medical doctor here?"  Terry said;  no one responded.  "A nurse?"

A man raised his hand.

"Would you be part of the team to compile occurrences?"

"Of course."

Terry pressed on:  "Who volunteers to help him?"

Five hands sprang up.

"Please state your occupations," Terry said.

"Carpenter," one said.

"Telecom technician."

"Rig mechanic."

"Social service counselor."

"Civil engineer."

"I propose," said Terry, "that we set up a network to report deaths as we learn about them.  This will feed information to the database;  we’ll see in time what we get out of it.  Any seconds?"

A forest of hands rose.

"All opposed say no."

"I say no," said a lady with red hair.  "Sooner or later this will become illegal.  Those working as contacts will have to keep a high profile and will be canned right away."

Heads nodded.

"Good point," said Terry.  "Suggestions?"

"I have some," said a petite woman with dark hair, who was sitting in the darkened corner.  "The contacts don't need to keep a high profile if we all agree on how to collect the data.  We don't need to hold meetings like these any more often than necessary, either."

"And how will we collect the data?"  Terry said.

"Tonight we just had a few volunteers and it looks like most of us don't even know their names.  Let's keep it that way.  It's safe.  Each of the contacts will keep in touch with ten of us in this room.  Exactly ten.  Each group will agree on a way they think safe to exchange information, and will act independently.  The four contacts will report to the database team."

There was a general murmur of approval.

"Sounds good," said Terry.  "Any opposed?"  This time there was silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen."  The man who'd been sitting next to the petite lady stood up.  "I think the database plan is a great idea.  But this is not a disease, not as we understand it."

"And what is it?"  a woman said.

Another man cut in.  "A witch-doctor voodoo curse."

"Very funny," said Terry, "Except you or your children could be next."

Silence fell.

"I know what's going on.  I was on this planet before the Tower came.  When we were here, one of my men died.  We never found out how.  We thought he'd been careless.  I now think he died with the foams."

"Do you think or do you know?"  a man challenged him.

"I can't go back in time, but I'm pretty sure.  What I'm about to say will be difficult to believe, but I have another witness that I'm not making this up.  You've already heard her speak tonight."

The petite woman with dark hair stood up.  The crowd murmured.

"Some of you may know me as the magician," the man continued. "If you think I'm a trickster, be prepared to change your mind."  A hushed murmur rose in a corner and died quickly.  "In any case, you'll want some proof after you've heard what I have to say.  I promise you'll have it."

Jenus listened to the magician as he talked about what he called Cheshires, about a place called Doka, and about autogenic teleportation.  He explained how he had run into creatures on Virgil he named Ghosts, about his idea that Ghosts may be a hostile breed of Cheshires.  He said, "The Ghosts didn't harm me, but I think they cause the foams."

The petite woman stood up again.  "I was attacked by a Cheshire on Doka.  If it had wanted to kill me, I think it would have.  I was scared at the time, but I must admit now that the Cheshire was trying to communicate.  I don't know the intent of Virgil's Ghosts.  Maybe they're trying to tell us something;  then again, maybe they're pursuing genocide."

The crowd stirred.

She continued,  "Mankind on Virgil may be on its way to extinction if we don't do something.  I was there when many of the events Nero just described to you happened, and what he said is true.  We've got to help ourselves because the Tower isn't going to lift a finger to help us."  She paused.  "The Tower knew about the foams but feigned ignorance because it couldn't—it still can't—explain them.  The Tower lured you and your families into a death trap."  She explained the news broadcast alleging the complicity of Ayin Najjar.