Behold a Dark Mirror

by Theophilus Axxe

  CHAPTER 25

  The work part would be hard, when it arrived, but it hadn't arrived yet. Eugene Galt looked at the data cartridge on his desk. No games, D'Souza had said. That meant his revenge against Ayin Najjar had to become a part of D'Souza’s agenda.

  On the other hand, the furnishings in his office were splendid: authentic rococo, centuries old, worth a fortune. The view from the windows was enchanting, sprawling forests and a lake with a few sailboats. He'd have to hire his staff; for now he'd borrowed a decorative secretary. She sat idle without complaining.

  He'd read a lot of classified literature in the last few days. ConSEnt was a powerhouse with its fingers all over the place. How deep the fingers reached and how strong they were, he'd only imagined. Now he'd begun to know, and to understand D'Souza's concern with self-restraint.

  ConSEnt owned Power. Eugene didn't have a problem with Power, or with managing it, except for Ayin. D'Souza would soon give him a mission: something requiring statesmanship, understanding, imagination, and flexibility. He could make a difference—he'd reached a position where he was poised to make history happen. The good of ConSEnt was the good of the human nation, to an extent. If ConSEnt prospered, the average person would continue prospering. Hence, he was working for the common good. In practice, he was a philanthropist. And if history is always written in blood, who was he to change that?

  What purpose had moral restraint, with the common good of humanity at stake? Effective execution and results according to plan were all that mattered. And if there were no justifiable restraints in his public life, why should there be any restraints in his private life? Duality was hypocritical, and Galt didn't think of himself as a hypocrite.

  *

  "I understand you summoned me, sir," Galt said, cracking the door of D'Souza's office.

  "Please come in," Tissa said. "I suppose by now you're wondering what will come next. Take a seat and be ready to listen." Tissa, sitting in a beautifully restored Chippendale chair, pressed a button on a remote.

  A sound-only PA announcement filled the office with a synthetic voice:

  "This is an automatic broadcast from beacon WWF 104-22-3582 repeated in an infinite loop. This identification header..."

  Daylight was gone when the message ended, leaving a pensive Galt staring at his boss.

  "Questions?" D'Souza asked.

  "Where does it come from?"

  "Doka. It's a remote planet next to the Frontier."

  "The Frontier? When was it broadcast?"

  "Not long ago," D'Souza answered.

  "How did it get here so soon, then?"

  D'Souza told Galt how Regalia had happened upon this broadcast and had become the gateway to Doka. He explained, with minor alterations, his own ascent to power, and how ConSEnt expected swift preemptive action.

  "We are pursuing a few major objectives," D'Souza said. "First, we need to acquire, and limit access to, the original document—the so-called ‘indisputable proof of veracity’ of this claim. Next, we need to identify and find the authors of this broadcast. Third, it's imperative to prevent this news from reaching Earth at an inconvenient time. Finally, we must prepare a spin to turn this mess to our advantage."

  "What's our position with the Tower?" Galt said.

  "From the perspective of ConSEnt, the Tower has been a tolerated necessity for a long time. The Tower gives credibility to Power Sharing. The Tower holds the middle ground between anarchy and our Empire. Anarchy is undesirable. The Empire of ConSEnt—well, sooner or later it will happen."

  "So we're preserving our image, while incidentally protecting the Tower. If the Tower fell, either anarchy or the Empire would be the outcome."

  "Crude, but correct," Tissa said.

  "Are there contingency plans if the Tower should fall?"

  "Yes, there are. Our psychodynamic analysis shows we need a high-impact catalyst before confronting the Tower. We need an overwhelming emotional event entirely in our favor."

  "This broadcast—it's a setback, isn't it? It forces ConSEnt into a defensive position, compelling us to support the Tower."

  D'Souza nodded. "This is a step sideways if we manage it successfully. It's a little disaster if we don't."

  "Who initiated the broadcast?"

  "Good question. We have some leads, but nothing conclusive. There are organizations that live to dismantle order. Some of them are intent on hurting ConSEnt—they boast the usual high ideals of freedom and goodwill, and apparently ConSEnt does not meet their self-proclaimed standards. It's not sufficient that commerce would cease to exist without us; it's not sufficient for ConSEnt to share liberally the wealth it earns. There are always do-gooders who intend to impose their ideals using illegitimate means. A representative of one of these bands of brigands visited Doka just before the broadcast began. It's our job to fight them at their level: A team of ours is already in pursuit."

  "And?" Galt leaned forward.

  "You and I must come up with a plan to implement damage control," D'Souza said. "A good plan."

  "Sir," Eugene Galt said, standing up. "May I have a transcript of the broadcast? And time to sleep over it?"

  "Take a night. Two. Three. This is not immediately urgent, but is absolutely important." D'Souza opened the central drawer of a credenza, pulling out a jewel box with a data grain. "Do you have a softbook for this cartridge?"

  Galt nodded, took the cartridge. "Thank you, sir."

  "Any ideas, Galt?"

  "I think I may have one."

  CHAPTER 26

  The trip to the safehouse was a drunken dream: silent turns, bumpy rides, and a vertiginous drop. Upon arrival, Nero felt nauseated. When the bag came off his head, he saw a bare room with a bed, a locker, a basin, and a toilet. On the mattress sat his backpack that someone had recovered for him. A man stood next to him.

  "Where are we?" Nero asked.

  The man said, "Welcome to our training center. I'm not introducing myself, and you will not introduce yourself to me. I'll be one of your mentors for the next few days."

  *

  Nero learned about deception and violence. The study was difficult: He understood the necessity, but disagreed with the means. His attitude made him a mediocre apprentice because he felt dizzily uncomfortable with ferocity. Nero admired even more Kebe's strength of character, since her proficiency in these arts had not come at the cost of her humanity.

  He took his meals alone, sitting on his bed. His company was multimedia study material and from time to time his tutors. He met nobody else, talked to nobody else. For all he knew, he and his mentors were the only people in the safehouse.

  As a pastime, in a lotus position, he closed his eyes and concentrated. When he was lucky, he felt his body tingle and the pressure on his buttocks and legs become lighter. Sometimes very light. A little at a time he was learning about mental focus, which ways worked better. Some attempts did not work at all. Other times he woke up in a corner of the room different from where he had sat. He nibbled at the Cheshire tail with diligence.

  The lights went out for six hours each day. In the dark, the silence was even thicker. Margo was in all four dark corners of his cell and the children hid under his bunk, chiding him for failing to find them. But there was only blackness, more violence to come, more treachery... Until an unexpected knock at the door interrupted his routine one morning after reveille, while he was putting his pants on. Nero finished dressing and sat on the bunk. "Come in."

  Kebe appeared in the doorway. "Hi, Nero," she said. As she entered and closed the door, his cell filled with the fragrance of her perfume—so different from the smell of stale air; her clean, flowery scent made him miss the sunny side of life.

  Nero stood up. "I'm glad to see you again."

  "I am too, Nero." She reached for his hands. "Have you c
hanged your mind about us?"

  He shook his head. A spell of silence set in—it had to be broken. "How was your trip?" Nero asked. "Any problems fleeing Doka?"

  Kebe sat on the bunk. "Some trouble on Raphael, my third landing—but I moved too fast for them. I stopped five times and launched seventeen shuttles. How did it go for you?"

  "Borodin was a hassle."

  "What happened?"

  "Kebe—someone's on Doka."

  "What?" she exclaimed.

  "I don't know how it happened, but they are there already."

  "Impossible! How do you know?"

  "Here, look at this." Nero rummaged in a pocket of the backpack and took out the hologram projector with the movie of Margo's look-alike hooker.

  Kebe saw what Nero was holding and turned pale.

  "Stop!" she screamed and dove for Nero's hand holding the marble. Nero, startled by her yell, straightened up suddenly, bumping hard into Kebe's incoming dive.

  They both lost their balance, and the marble dropped. It bounced on the metal frame of the bunk at an odd angle, hitting the floor next. The impact started the show.

  Kebe's hands gripped her hair, "Oh my God! Oh my God!" she screamed.

  The quarter-size picture of an older man saying: "I'm pleased to have this opportunity to address you..."

  Kebe grabbed the projector, attempting to crush it under the metal leg of the bunk—to no avail.

  "...has already begun. But the future..."

  Kebe was momentarily distracted by the trembling holo of Doka's satellite dish, then doubled her efforts to crush the marble.

  "...to meet any desire of yours. And we can find you anywhere. My associate will be answering your call at the place where you received this message. Call on him: You won't be disappointed." It clicked and stopped.

  Kebe, her hair undone, stood staring like a gargoyle. She screamed again, slamming her palms on her thighs.

  "Why—What..." Nero started.

  She grabbed Nero, his backpack, and the marble, hurling herself and him into the corridor. She started running.

  "What happened?" he said, panting.

  "Follow me, come!" she said.

  The corridor ended; it was one of the six radial arms converging onto a round room. The room was empty. Kebe picked up a house phone, spoke perhaps five words, hung up. In seconds a man with long hair appeared. Kebe showed him the marble. They whispered for an instant. He shook his head vigorously. After more whispering the man won the argument.

  Kebe gave him the marble.

  Kebe and the man walked to an instrumentation panel next to Nero, opened it, perused a red section covered by a glass pane, broke the glass, and in sequence entered codes on a keypad. A dial showed a 30-second countdown timer running. 29... 28...

  Kebe walked to Nero, "Let’s go," she said.

  They entered the arm opposite to the corridor they had come from, ran to its end. Kebe started fidgeting with a pressure door, pulled a lever, pushed buttons.

  "Attention," the PA system announced behind Nero. "This is not a drill. Evacuate the station immediately. This is an emergency. Evacuate the station immediately. This is not..."

  "What's going on?" Nero asked again.

  The pressure door swung open. Kebe pulled Nero past it. He stumbled on the threshold. A vault full of underwater lifepods was before them; she gestured to Nero to get into the first one next to the door, entered after him. She sealed the entry hatch and ignited the launch sequence.

  In seconds, the pod's explosive ejector went off, pushed the pod out, and nearly knocked them unconscious. The motor caught and hummed, letting Kebe control their course from a simple pilot's station she operated lying flat on her stomach. Nero, next to her, still wondered what exactly was going on.

  A shock wave hit the pod so violently that Kebe lost control of the vehicle. A pressurized line snapped, spraying water all over the cabin. Nero fought to find the shut-off valve. The pod rocked and tumbled without guidance. Kebe wept, biting her lower lip, fighting to maneuver the pod.

  "We'll make it," Nero said.

  "I know we'll make it," she cried. "It's the other six hundred people I'm crying for."

  Nero was desperately trying to understand. Kebe efforts brought the pod back on a steady course.

  "The shock wave," Kebe then explained with effort, her tears streaming, "was too hard. The safehouse is gone. It was deep underwater, Nero. Bernard—the man with the long hair—is dead. He took the frame tracker—the marble. He went to the other pod bay, tried to leave the station, get the tracker away from the safehouse." She cried. "I should have done it myself! Shouldn't have let him talk me out of it. He shouldn't have wasted time trying to change my mind. I shouldn't have wasted time listening to him! The marble was a frame tracker, Nero. It broadcasts on activation. I haven't seen many of them."

  "Frame tracker?" Nero said.

  "Death and destruction, Nero. ConSEnt has a weapons lab—few know that. The frame tracker is one of their contraptions. I don't know much about trackers. They work like a frame—they have unique signatures and broadcast their position when queried. But anything shipnetted to a tracker, instead of reappearing, explodes. Some say it's an antimatter bomb."

  "All this in a marble?"

  She nodded, sniffling.

  "I just killed six hundred people," he whispered.

  "No you didn't!" Kebe yelled at him. "You didn't! ConSEnt did!"

  "I brought the bomb in."

  "You didn't know that! I should have searched your backpack instead of letting someone else do it for me—I've been sloppy, I've underestimated them again!"

  "It was my fault."

  "You didn't know what you were up against. Frame trackers are the nastiest, scariest weapon spawned of evil. They wanted to know where you were going, Nero, they wanted you. You must have done well to escape. All the people who died," Kebe suffocated the tears engulfing her throat, "wherever they are now, I promise you, they're not blaming you: none of them. You're the key to all this—all our work, all our lives. You're the one who can stop ConSEnt. No one blames you. Bernard chose certain death to let me be with you. He didn't blame you. I'm not either—I would have died, to let you continue. I'm not blaming you."

  "You're... not?"

  "I lost many friends, Nero. You're one of the few who's left; I don't want to lose you, too. The safehouse... There's nothing left of it now, and not much left of the organization—pieces here and there. After this, Nero, we're on our own. You and me."

  The pod's drive hummed in the vacuum created by Kebe's silence. Nero's stomach shriveled.

  "I destroyed it—your organization."

  "No you didn't!" Kebe cried. "It wasn’t you!"

  Nero shook his head.

  "There's still you and me," she said, "and more of us at large. You didn't do it—ConSEnt struck the blow. You've been used. ConSEnt knew of us, knew of our safehouse—but they didn't know where it was, not until now."

  Nero's soul was in turmoil: ConSEnt, ConSEnt, always ConSEnt. He was a clumsy vagabond without a home, without natural affections but the friendship of the woman next to him. What a poor excuse to justify his life. What hopes he'd been nurturing, ConSEnt had stolen. Why would Kebe believe in him as the one who could stop this folly, stop ConSEnt?

  ConSEnt the violator of hope. ConSEnt the manipulator, who raped his dreams and left him destitute, with six hundred more deaths on his conscience.

  ConSEnt the murderer, he thought. The knot in his stomach floated up and down, halted his breath.

  ConSEnt killed six hundred people without regard. ConSEnt exploited the image of Margo!

  Damn ConSEnt—damn! A vow of personal revenge lodged its seed in Nero's heart, darkening it, staining it with a black streak that had an
entirely new flavor to him. The flare of rage wearing thinner, exhaustion overtook him, leaving him prey to his conscience, and to overwhelming awareness. He was a miserable virus bent on avenging a mythical mankind of an invincible cancer. What a task! What a flight of fancy!

  Nero huddled next to Kebe, trying to feed on her inexhaustible fire. He knew he couldn't carry another burden of guilt. He didn't kill six hundred more people, he had to believe Kebe—ConSEnt was the villain, ConSEnt was the murderer. He must hate ConSEnt for his own sanity—where was his fury? Even rage would be better than this despair.

  "We must hide," Kebe whispered. "Now that ConSEnt knows, they'll be coming to search for survivors. They might rebuild our records—there was no time to erase."

  "Why us? Why pursue us with that determination?"

  "We're a fly in their ointment—and they don't have Lenny's original, yet."

  "Is this worth six hundred lives to you?"

  "It is to them, Nero."

  *

  At great risk, Ettore tracked the pod as soon as the news reached him. He found Nero and Kebe beneath a cliff, arranged for the destruction of the pod, and found emergency shelter in the form of a remote hunting cabin.

  "It took a lot of good people many years of their lives to build that safehouse," Ettore said, sitting at the wooden table. Nero was sitting next to him; Kebe lay on a bunk. "And an eyeblink for ConSEnt to destroy it." His huge right hand was wrapped around a mug of grappa, from which he sipped liberal swigs at regular intervals. "Many friends died: they're heroes, Nero—like you." He stood up, his head next to the logs of the roof. "We must honor their death." He started singing with an unsteady voice:

  Dov'e' la vittoria

  Che porga la chioma?

  Che schiava di Roma

  Iddio la creo'

  He sat, passing the sleeve of his shirt over his eyes, taking another big gulp from his mug.