Dirty Mirror

by R S Penney

  Councilor Derok, a tall man in a maroon jacket who wore his silver beard trimmed nice and neat, sat in a chair in front of the desk. He was the man who had tried to oppose Dusep's insistence that lethal force was the only thing that would deter a terrorist.

  That wasn't what bothered her.

  Councilor Dusep himself stood in front of the other window, stroking his chin as if lost in thought. “Director Tal,” he said before anyone else could speak. “I imagine you'd like to explain yourself.”

  Larani squeezed her eyes shut, breathing deeply through her nose. “I was unaware that anything I've done requires explanation.” She strode deeper into the office. “Perhaps you'd like to make a specific complaint.”

  Dusep turned to face her with one hand over his stomach, his face a mask of stone. “Very well then,” he said in crisp, cool tones. “Would you care to explain how this lapse in our security happened?”

  “No one is here to place blame.”

  That came from Voran Derok. Larani saw him in her mind's eye as a misty shadow rising slowly from his chair to stand behind her. “The purpose of this meeting is to assess our options going forward.”

  “I believe the plan put forward in today's emergency session covers that,” Larani said. “In fact, I was one of the authors of that plan. So, you already know my position.” Being the Head of the Justice Keepers guaranteed you a spot on the Planetary Security Team of pretty much any administration, though she often found that other members of that team treated her suggestions with suspicion. Was that because many of those people had worked with Slade when he filled that role?

  The plan that Council approved this morning may have seemed rushed, but in truth, the PST had been working on it ever since the first attack on Vertical Farm 17. It should have gone through several more committee meetings before it was approved, but after last night's fiasco, Council was desperate to do something.

  Spinning on his heel to face them, Dusep marched across the room as if he meant to mow her down. “I am uninterested in-” The man paused in mid-step, noticing Jack for the first time. “Who is this?”

  Larani opened her mouth to answer.

  Jack stepped forward with his hands in his pockets, smiling down at himself. “No one important,” he said with a shrug. “Just a guy who thinks nationalism is an old song for small men with a lot of anger and no good ideas.”

  Sarona Vason laughed.

  Dusep's mouth tightened, and his face went crimson, but he nodded and continued with his diatribe. “A situation like this should never have been allowed to happen in the first place,” he rasped. “It shows how utterly unprepared we were for-”

  “Yet another round of assigning blame will get us nowhere, Jeral.” Sarona Vason had her hands on the windowsill as she spoke, and she kept her back turned as if this conversation were of no interest to her. “The plan has been approved.”

  “For the moment, but I intend-”

  “Enough.”

  When the Prime Council rounded on them with her arms folded, her face as dark as a looming thundercloud, everyone else stepped back. “We've been over this more times than I can count,” she snapped. “Make whatever motions you feel are appropriate, Jeral; I wish to speak with Larani.”

  The councilor strode past Larani on his way to the door. “Mark my words, Sarona,” he said. “Sooner or later, someone will do something far worse than blowing up a few automated distribution centres. And on that day, you'll wish you had taken my advice.”

  He left without another word.

  Grinning down at the floor, Jack rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Guy's doing it all wrong,” he muttered. “That kind of speech works better if you shake your fist and shout 'You'll rue the day you ever-' ”

  “Jack…” Larani hissed.

  The young man really did need to do away with his habit of making jokes at the worst possible time. Jena may have put up with that nonsense; Larani would not. Not in front of the Prime Council, anyway. “You wanted to speak with me, ma'am,” she said.

  Instead of answering, Sarona Vason directed a motherly smile toward Jack. Some people found his impishness charming. “The man is a bit of a pompous windbag, isn't he?” she said softly. “Is it much the same on your world, Agent Hunter?”

  “You know who I am?”

  The Prime Council let out a peal of rich, satisfied laughter. “I wouldn't be much of a head of state if I didn't, now would I?” She sat down on the edge of her desk with hands folded in her lap, a position that looked oddly casual in light of the formal robes she was wearing. “I've read a bit of your history.”

  Closing his eyes, Jack nodded to the woman. “I figured you might have,” he said, stepping forward. “That being the case, you know how dangerous a man like that can be if he gains momentum.”

  “All too well.” Sarona let out a deep breath. “Which is why it is imperative that we restore order as quickly as possible. Voran, would you excuse us please?”

  “Very well,” he said. “Good luck.”

  When he was gone, Sarona hopped off the desk and flowed across the room to a small wooden table near a bookshelf. She poured herself a cup of tea from a pot that she found there. “Now then,” she said after a moment. “I want an honest answer. How likely is it that Slade's people are behind these attacks?”

  The woman spun around, and it was clear by the intensity of her stare that she was in no mood for sugar coating. Were Slade's people somehow involved with the Sons of Savard? The question made Larani somewhat uneasy.

  It wasn't that she had never considered that possibility – after the last year, she had begun to see Slade lurking in every shadow – but she couldn't see anything that Slade's underlings might gain from this. Which, of course, meant that it was all too likely that they were involved in some way.

  “Honestly,” Larani said, “I'm not sure. I've considered interrogating the Keepers who joined Slade's cause, but if they do know something – and it's a big if – they likely wouldn't tell us.”

  “Slade did love a good terror campaign,” Jack said. “But if his people were behind this, why use a bunch of untrained malcontents to do their dirty work? With all the other resources at their disposal, it doesn't add up. Where are the ziarogati, the battle drones?”

  It was clear that Sarona wasn't convinced.

  The Prime Council stood in front of a bookshelf with a teacup in hand, her eyes downcast. “If I recall your reports,” she said. “Slade relied quite heavily on an untrained militia when he terrorized New York.”

  Jack squinted at the woman. “That's true,” he said with a curt nod. “But Slade didn't rely on them exclusively. If Slade's people wanted to attack our infrastructure, they would have methods for dealing with Justice Keepers.”

  Stroking her jawline with the tips of her fingers, Larani shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “It is a possibility worth considering,” she admitted. “I will have my agents look into it, but for now, I think that we should operate under the assumption that we're dealing with homegrown terrorism.”

  “Why would Leyrian citizens do this?” Sarona whispered.

  In response to that, Jack stepped forward and stood before the Prime Council with his hands clasped behind his back. “With respect, ma'am,” he began. “I would consider that to be Leyrian arrogance.”

  Sarona Vason lifted her chin to stare at him with dark eyes that seemed aflame with barely contained anger. “Is that so, Agent Hunter?” she asked, raising one gray eyebrow. “Do enlighten me.”

  Should Larani put a stop to this?

  No. This wasn't one of Jack's ill-timed quips. She had brought him on as her attache because she wanted someone who would challenge authority. If Jack was going to do that effectively, she would have to let him off his leash.

  “Don't get me wrong,” he said. “I am thrilled to have the opportunity to live here. For someone who grew up on Earth, the prospect of a world without poverty is nothing short of miraculous, but I have noticed, in m
y many interactions with your people, that Leyrians seem to think they have created the perfect society. You're so pleased with it, you can't imagine why anyone would want to leave it.”

  “We're hardly keeping anyone here against their will, Agent Hunter.”

  “Aren't you?” he responded. “The Antaurans began raiding your outer colonies, and what was your response? You told the people living there to come home.”

  Sarona lifted her cup to her lips and took a long, slow sip, no doubt giving herself a moment to think. “You make it sound so one-sided,” she said. “You do realize that taking aggressive action against the Antaurans could have started a war.”

  “I'm aware of that, ma'am. But I-”

  “Jack,” Larani cut in. “Enough.”

  She stepped up beside her subordinate, heaving out a soft sigh. “At the moment, we have no reason to suspect Slade's faction,” she said. “What evidence we do have suggests a local terrorist cell.”

  “Then I suggest you find them quickly, Director Tal,” Sarona replied. “Before the situation escalates.”

  A metal grating on a slanted glass roof filtered purple moonlight that fell upon a walkway lined with potted trees. On his right, the sidewall of the Music Therapy Centre was lined with arch-shaped windows with their own white grating. To his left, there was nothing but green grass that stretched on to a line of fir trees.

  Brinton was curled up on a wooden bench with his cheek pressed to his forearm, trying to get some sleep. Trying and failing. Aside from the odd camping trip, he'd never had the misfortune of having to go without a bed. But he couldn't return to the church or to his own house; the authorities were looking for him.

  Luckily, they would never think to look here. He had not set foot in this building in over ten years, not since his mother's failed attempt to turn him into a violinist during his teenage years. He had played for patients suffering from depression. Not with anything that could be called proficiency, mind you, but he had played.

  The weather was warm enough to let him sleep outside, and the chances of anyone searching for him here were small. The Music Therapy Centre had no security bots and no cameras. Why would they? Theft was practically unheard of in a society where people could fabricate almost any material good at no cost.

  “You look tired.”

  Brinton sat up.

  The strange hooded woman who had given them weapons seemed to melt out of the shadows further up the walkway. Silhouetted by purple light, she wore a sleek black dress with thin straps, and her cloak hung limp behind her.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Brinton pressed fists to his eyelids and massaged them with his knuckles. “The explosions last night didn't exactly make it easy to rest,” he said. “I take it the attack went well.”

  “You were absent.”

  He stood up with a grunt, hunching over and slapping a palm against his forehead. He raked fingers through his hair. “I've done my part,” Brinton said. “I blew up the first one, remember?”

  When he found the courage to look at her, the woman just stood there with her arms folded, her face hidden in the shadows of that hood. “Commitment to righteousness must be absolute,” she said. “You of all people know that.”

  “I'm not putting myself in further danger!”

  She flowed toward him in heeled boots that clicked as they struck the tiles of the walkway. “I thought you were a man of God.” When she looked up into his eyes, Brinton could just make out the outline of her nose. “Is your faith so easily shaken?”

  “I follow the Covenant of Layat! Brinton spat. “If you knew the first thing about that, you'd know the Companion is not a god.”

  It was the living embodiment of the life force of the universe, the source of all light and warmth, but he supposed that for people who did not study theology, the distinction was somewhat irrelevant.

  She reached up to touch his cheek with bare fingers, her caress leaving a tingle in his skin. “Yes,” she murmured. “You worship an abstract concept masquerading as a god. Would you like to see the real thing?”

  “The real…”

  Hair stood on the back of his neck.

  When he turned, there was…something…in the walkway, a ripple in the light that he couldn't quite trace with his eye. But he could hear a faint scuttling as it came closer. And then there was pressure, pressure on his mind.

  Brinton fell to his knees, touching fingertips to his temples. He felt hot tears leaking from his eyes. “What are you,” he whispered. “What are you?”

  He barely noticed as the woman slipped up behind him, barely felt it when a knife slid into his throat. There was a brief ripping sensation, and then his blood was spattering against the gray tiles of the walkway.

  He saw it on his hands, blood staining his fingers, dripping from them. It was hard to think, hard to focus. Dimly, he was aware that his body was heaving. He would have been coughing if he had been able.

  May the light of the Companion guide you home, he thought, reaching for the words he had been taught from childhood. If he spoke the words – he couldn't speak the words – but if he focused on them the Companion…the Companion.

  There was no Companion.

  The darkness swallowed him up, and he found nothing there to welcome him. No loving presence, no guiding light. There was no Companion.

  And his life was over.

  Brinton woke to find himself curled up naked on a floor that felt soft and slimy to the touch. The room he was in…Was it actually a room? It looked more like a cavern, but the walls glowed with a soft blue light.

  He sat up, gasping.

  Closing his eyes, Brinton started pawing at his face with his hands. It certainly felt like the face he had always known. “Where am I?” he called out, surprised by the sound of his own voice. “Where…”

  He scrambled backward across the squishy floor, panting and wheezing until his back hit the cavern wall. “Where am I?” Now he was screaming, his voice hoarse. Was this the afterlife then? It wasn't supposed to be a physical place. Everything he had been taught suggested that dwelling in the Light of the Companion was a state of mind. But there was no Companion…

  As he gathered his wits, he noticed a strange pool just a few feet to his left, a pool filled with a viscous green sludge that seemed to drink in the light from the walls. It was a bad idea – he knew that – but he couldn't resist.

  Brinton dipped his hand into the liquid, and when he pulled it out again, trails of slimy green goop dripped from each finger. “Companion have mercy,” he whispered. He knew the afterlife legends of many primitive cultures, and some spoke of horrors beyond a man's wildest imaginings. “Can anyone hear me?”

  “Calm yourself, Brinton.”

  A glance to his right revealed the strange hooded woman coming through a hole in the cavern wall. She moved with ease as she stepped over a corpse that had been casually discarded near the doorway. “You're alive,” she informed him. “By the grace and wisdom of the Inzari, you have been given another chance at life.”

  “How…”

  The woman froze in her tracks, planting fists on her hips and staring down at him from the depths of that hood. “Did I not tell you that you would meet a god?” she asked. “Of all your fellow conspirators, I thought you would be able to listen.”

  Brinton shut his eyes, a ragged breath exploding from him. “I died,” he whispered. “How did they…I mean this shouldn't be possible.”

  “They're gods, Brinton.”

  Tears streamed over his cheeks, and he shook his head, trying to get his bearings. “This isn't possible,” he sobbed. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But…Why did you kill me?”

  She dropped to one knee before him and leaned in close enough for him to see that she was smiling. “As proof, my boy,” she said. “False gods demand blind faith. True gods offer proof.”

  He winced so hard it made his temples throb. “It's a trick.” Dropping to all fours,
he crawled away from her as fast as he could. “You stitched me up, and you gave me a blood transfusion. I never actually died.”

  The woman said nothing in response.

  She just rose gracefully and gestured toward the body that had been left to rot by the door. Deep down, Brinton knew that he didn't want to look; after all the horrors he'd endured, the last thing he wanted was to see a dead man's face. But some part of him had to know. Some part of him couldn't resist.

  He crawled over to the body.

  As he drew near, he saw that the corpse was wearing the familiar black clothing of an acolyte of the church. The dead man was sprawled out on his side, turned away from Brinton. It can't be…It can't be…

  Gently, Brinton took the other man by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

  His own dead face stared back at him, glassy eyes fixed upon the ceiling. The skin was a sickly shade of gray, and there was a deep gash across the throat. The man's shirt was stained with blood.

  “Impossible,” Brinton whispered. “If that's…”

  The hooded woman approached him from behind and then bent over to offer him a pocket mirror. He took it and found the same face he had always known reflected in the silvered glass. He was Brinton…but so was the dead man lying next to him.

  Craning his neck to stare up at the woman, Brinton squinted. “I was in there,” he said, tapping the corpse. “And now I'm in here?”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “An oversimplification.” Her cloak flapped as she paced a circle around the corpse. “I lack the time to give you a proper understanding of metaphysics, but yes…For all intents and purposes, you have been given a new body, one in the peak of health.”

  “Am I clone?” It was hard to form words. Too many thoughts tried to force their way out of his mouth at once. “I remember dying. I remember the knife. I remember my training as an acolyte, my first crush…”

  “You are Brinton,” the woman said as if that settled it.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Nothing.”

  She stopped in front of the hole in the wall and looked over her shoulder. Peering into that hood made him shiver. “We will not coerce your obedience, Brinton,” she said. “You have been given proof of divinity; it is up to you to decide what you want to do with that knowledge.”