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.
"Hello," the giant said. "My name is Ettore, I'm the owner of the Crab. I've noticed you around for a few days."
Nero looked at him without expression. "Nice place."
"I've never seen you before. Newcomer? May I offer you a drink on the house? I'm promoting loyal patronage. If it suits your plans, I'd like to give you a tour. The Crab is an interesting place."
After four days of waiting, even this seemed promising to Nero. "I'll take another licorice. What've you got to show me?"
Ettore made a sign to the bartender. "You're obviously waiting for something, or you're stranded—don't worry, that's none of my business. If you are the right person, perhaps the Crab can ease your boredom or solve your problems." A broad grin with a million meanings splashed across his face.
A waiter brought another mug. Nero stirred it, took a sip, smacked his lips: "Show me."
Ettore invited Nero to follow. They stepped through a flap door into the rear of the bar, up a flight of stairs, entering a small waiting room.
"Let's sit," Ettore invited Nero, who obliged, sipping from his mug. The lights dimmed; in front of them appeared the video of a pleasantly full blonde with too much makeup and wearing a shiny red dress wrapping her curves without any shame. She said, "Hi. Welcome to the Crab."
Nero's heart jumped: The voice was Kebe's; the lip-sync was flawless. Kebe's voice went on explaining how most anything was allowed or tolerated on Vivitar III, and the Crab was the ideal outfit to take advantage of the opportunity.
When the lights came up Ettore said: "What do you think, want to know more?"
"Who's that blonde?"
"Do you like her?"
"I like her voice."
"Interesting," said Ettore. "You mean you care for the voice, not for the woman. What struck you? Perhaps I can find that voice for you. Follow me," Ettore patted Nero on the back. "Let's go meet the blonde, have a chat—perhaps do business."
Ettore proceeded through a door that gave into a room with gambling tables; on some clue that Nero must have missed, a portion of the floor retracted. They descended a staircase into a library.
Ettore sat down on an armchair. "Just a short wait."
Nero, his mug still in hand, kept quiet. Sipping, he examined five shelves of cartridges on digital biology and turned to Ettore. "That stuff should have been destroyed long ago."
"Well, it's available. At a price, of course."
"Don't you fear prosecution? The Perimeter Wars—"
"There's no law on Vivitar banning any books."
"But the Tower—"
"Do you still worry about the Tower after this week's news?"
"What news?"
"Where've you been, my friend? Didn't you hear the Tower's been working for ConSEnt all along?"
"Been working for ConSEnt?"
"Looks like somebody found proof the Tower bent over and greased up when ConSEnt wrote transportation laws. If they did that, they must've done worse."
Nero swallowed. "Where did you hear that?"
"It's all over the place."
Nero drew a hand through his hair. Nobody could have traced his shuttles; either they had caught Kebe, or the broadcast from Doka leaked. It had to be Doka.
Ettore said, "The Tower's credibility is sinking faster than molten lead in a pot of honey. However, back to us. You never talked to anybody the last four days. Do you like seclusion, or you just have a hard time making friends?"
"What?" Nero said, startled, emerging from his thoughts.
Just then, steps in the stairwell announced new guests. Two women appeared, the blonde in the holo and a petite, frail-looking brunette.
"Come on, pick your voice," Ettore said. "Pick well."
If Ettore was his friend, his cover as Paulo Mastao had to be broken. If Ettore was his enemy, then Kebe had fallen and Nero had nothing left to lose. But Kebe had sent him here: Ettore had to be a friend.
"What's your name?" Nero asked the brunette.
She looked at Ettore, who nodded. She invited Nero to follow her back to the video room. Four petite, green-eyed, dark-haired, pale-skinned women were sitting there, looking at him. They all looked different. His guide had disappeared.
One of the four girls was Kebe.
"What's this about?" he asked her, gesturing towards the ot
her women in the room.
The images of the three extra women dematerialized. Kebe stood up, straightened the creases in her clothes and stepped forward to hug him with pleasant intensity, resting her head on his chest, "Welcome to Vivitar III, Nero."
Nero plopped on the sofa, dragging Kebe with him. "Holograms," he whispered.
"Your heart is racing," Kebe said, her ear on his chest.
"How did you recognize me?"
She sat up, smiled complacently, and remained silent.
"How did you do it?" Nero said. "Thermal scanner? Voice-print patterns? I didn't see any equipment."
"The bar crew told us a male was buying licorice tea regularly. At the price I asked Ettore to sell it, that had to be you."
Nero sank back in his chair, "Oh," he said.
"Don't feel bad, Nero. We prey on people's weaknesses."
"I'd never thought of licorice as a weakness," he said.
"The need to breathe is a weakness under proper circumstances. You need training to recognize yours; consider this lesson one."
"Can I have my face back?" Nero said.
"If you promise you’ll be careful with it."
Ettore entered the room, offered his hand. Nero stood up, took it. Ettore's shake was true: "Welcome," the giant said. "And don't believe everything you hear. The Tower's dirty laundry is not public knowledge yet." He winked, gave Nero a bear hug and a pat on the back sufficient to break his spine.
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