"I have something to say about that," Nero said. "On Borodin..." He wanted to tell them of the picture of the beacon, but was interrupted when a newcomer arrived.
"Nero," Kebe said, "we're taking you to the safehouse; for your own good we need precautions. I won't travel with you, but I'll join you soon."
The newcomer searched him, then put plugs into his ears, bandaged his eyes, and put a sack over his head.
CHAPTER 22
What can I do with the last four days of my life on Earth? Jenus thought. CD wanted him for a murder he didn't commit, in the investigation of which he might betray a murder he did commit. The Tower and ConSEnt wanted him presuming he knew goodness knows what.
He returned to the bed-by-the-hour shack, thinking of asking another favor of the lady at the reception. She was knitting, her needles ticking on a tiny garment.
"Are you making that for your baby?" he said.
"Nah," she answered, snapping chewing gum. "My daughter's."
He reached for his wristwatch, and labored an instant to disengage a small golden ornament from the band.
"Here—hope it'll work better for your grandchild than it did for me."
The corner of her lips tipped up when she saw the golden horn, a good luck charm. "I'll give it to Melissa," she said. "The father is a rascal—she'll be happy someone thought enough about her baby to bring a gift. But go away now. Someone's been looking for you."
"What?"
"Two men, they had a picture. They were rude, and they didn't offer nearly enough money." She winked. "Get a makeover."
"Yes, I thought about that. Know anybody?"
"Well..."
"Well?"
"Melissa's pretty good. She's going to school, but hasn't got a license, yet—that'll keep her quiet. Willing to try?"
"Where?"
"Come in here." She stopped knitting and opened the gate.
Jenus followed her into a janitorial apartment where a girl too young to be a mother was nursing a newborn.
"Hi, Melissa," Jenus said.
*
Melissa did a better job than Jenus had hoped for. He was now a dark man with a spiked haircut, ear and nose pendants, painted teeth, and a styled beard that hid his face. Still, he wondered if someone had truly been looking for him, or if this was a ploy to market Melissa's business. Ah, it was worth the risk. The landlady also procured an expensive framepost card for Jenus that her source guaranteed was clean.
How convenient, Jenus thought.
The makeover had been expensive and involved. He had to sleep on a cot in that dingy back room due to work in progress on his face. The baby had a colic and the night was awful.
"Go away now," Melissa told him when finished, after giving him breakfast. He did, without looking back.
He strolled past the C-cubed branch office. The clerk was assisting a red-haired, burly individual. He also noticed what looked like a second clerk, idle behind the counter. On a hunch Jenus sat at a garden bar far enough away to be inconspicuous and observed the kiosk. He ordered a soft drink and dialed the news.
Soon enough, the idle clerk brought his hand to his ear, sat up straight, and ran out ignoring all else. He soon returned with company: a man struggling to get rid of his forced escort and another man in black, who commandeered the true clerk to take a look at their guest. They let the unwilling guest go after the inspection.
Jenus licked his teeth, took a last sip of his drink and got up, turning his back to the CCC office. His legs felt weak. Walking from the scene he realized he'd likely escaped by twenty-four hours the end of his days. The hand in his pocket reached for his comforting emigration certificate; his license to live was still there.
He could hide for three days. He'd hide in Hawwa's place. And he felt miserable for doubting Melissa and her mother. His lucky charm had worked magic, after all; might it work as well for that baby.
*
Jenus stepped through the interplanetary framepost at the Gagarin colonial center. Life as he knew it was over, but that seemed less important right now to him than a few hours of sound sleep. His right foot had landed on Virgil; Jenus dragged the rest of his body out of the frame and looked around: The kernel was guarded by two military types with uniforms and weapons. The inner lock slid open, allowing a petite girl in. He just realized he'd succeeded with great effort in becoming nobody on a heaven-forsaken planet.
"Hello!" the girl greeted him.
He was alive.
"Hello," he said. He cherished the gray walls of the kernel, savored the odorless air flowing though his nostrils.
She looked at his card. "Mr. John Doe, my name is Georgia—I'm your welcoming committee."
Jenus looked behind him as if John Doe had just popped out after him, then realized she was speaking to him.
"Thanks," Jenus said.
"Mr. Doe, please follow me. I will show you the ropes before letting you loose." She invited him through the airlocks; his ears popped as pressure equalized. "Virgil's atmospheric pressure is approximately 135 kilopascals, a third higher than Earth's," Georgia said.
Dammit! Jenus thought. A third higher than Earth's. The dirt sample, the beginning of all his troubles: that sample had about the same pressure.
"Are you OK, Mr. Doe? Disorientation and anxiety are normal under the circumstances."
"Uh?"
"Your breathing rate just accelerated."
The bulkhead opened into a large room with more guards.
Too many, Jenus thought.
"Ms... Ah... Georgia, am I considered dangerous?"
"Not until so proven. You received immunity as part of your package, for which you paid dearly."
"Why all the guards?"
"Standard procedure, Mr. Doe. Please follow me to the blue room."
Jenus looked back at the framepost. A family of three was exiting the airlock accompanied by a male host. The young mother was carrying a sleeping baby; dad—presumably—was looking at the place like a child at his presents under the Christmas tree. Jenus followed his hostess to a partition decorated in blue.
"Please sit down. My job is to help you become the most satisfied settler you can be. The purpose of this meeting, and of two more to follow, is to introduce you to everyday life until you are acquainted with Virgil. I understand you are confused; I recommend that you postpone your questions until the end of this briefing."
She started talking, bringing up videos and papers, determined to make herself understood. By the end of the exercise Jenus wanted a bed more than his life. He got one, in a common barracks with nineteen other adult males. They snored and grunted and their feet smelled, but he was too tired to worry about any of that before falling asleep.
After induction was over, Jenus realized he was going to be the interplanetary equivalent of stable-hand labor. Singles lived in shared areas; greater priorities existed than privacy. Jenus needed to take the skill test; in the meantime, he was assigned as a hand to a construction crew. Ah, well.
*
A small crowd of workers reported with Jenus on the first day. The foreman was a stout middle-aged man of little pretense but strong words. "Sons," he said, addressing all the newbies, "now you are my construction crew. We are building stage one of the water reservoir for Pilgrim's Hope, capital-to-be of Virgil. That valley," he pointed to the lush expanse at his back, "will be full of water soon. You and I will make it happen. I've done it before, I'll teach you how to do it. Rest assured it's a lot of work. And rest assured you'll be able to tell your grandchildren, I did it, I made it happen."
Jenus and the rest were standing next to a field framepost. The dam and base camp were about twenty kilometers away from Pilgrim's Hope, which in turn was three time zones away from Pilgrim's Landing and the interplanetary way sta
tion.
"Anybody who never worked construction raise your hand."
Jenus's hand went up, along with two others.
"You three report to Ike here when dismissed." He pointed to a burly man with folded arms standing at his left. "He'll be your guardian angel. Listen to him and you won't get hurt. All the others, whoever's not a machine operator raise your hand. None? Jolly good. We got more cats than we can handle. Report to Don over there," he pointed above the crowd to a group in the distance. "He'll show you how to help the mechanics assemble the machinery. All the parts have been shipnetted here and just need be put together. All brand new! Any questions?"
One of the rookies said, "Sir, what do we have to do with cats? Is this place infested with rats?"
The crowd crowed. Ike said in a thunderous voice: "Cat stands for Caterpillar. It's any kind of construction equipment, big machines, bulldozers and excavators. Clear?"
The rookie nodded, stymied.
"OK, now gimme twenty." Ike said, addressing him.
"What?"
"You heard me. Twenty push-ups will help you remember the answers to your questions, so you won't ask them again."
Red-blooded hazing... Jenus realized he'd been enlisted.
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 unexpe
cted," 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."
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