Behold a Dark Mirror (11 page)

There was freedom in that resolution, and a deliberate commitment of a kind he had never felt before.  Few things mattered now—and some were brand new.  He didn't know if Janet would still care for him.  He knew, however, that he'd know no peace unless he made restitution.

Jenus gathered some belongings, his electrogun, some items from his safe now scattered across the room.  He searched for his armor undershirt of monomolecular yarn:  under the couch,  between the pillows,  amongst the books fallen from his bookcases.  He found it underneath his ripped mattress.

He picked up from under a chair a crumpled origami sculpture and stuffed it in his backpack.  He thought of sleeping for a few hours, but that might be a mistake.  Jenus walked through his apartment one last time—he felt no grief.

The entrance door latched behind him.  He took the elevator to the ground floor and walked to the back exit.  The iron door, rarely used, swung open ranting and squeaking.  Beyond the lawn, two kilometers of thickets and wild vegetation grew before the next building:  he had walked that path many times in the opposite direction, trying to clear his mind from too much alcohol after playing poker.  Forty minutes later, he put his thumb on the door lock at his destination.

"Voice tag:  Jenus Dorato," he said, and the door clanked open for a habitual guest.  He climbed the stairs to the first floor, and to the framepost.  He slid his new bootleg card into the dispatcher and dialed Mickey's Emporium.

*

A sparse weeknight crowd attended the club.  Jenus slipped out of the airlock and sat at the bar.  The barman came by, a new man—Jenus knew all the attendants by name.

"Sir?"

He longed for a stiff drink, but the day was not over.  "Irish coffee, hot.  Strong coffee, little whiskey."

"Very well.  By the way, my name is Sam, sir."

"Hi Sam.  I'm... Fred, drop the sir.  How's the evening?"

"Slow night.  There's a couple of strange fellows in the booths, with a really hot chick.  Over there."  Sam pointed to the right with his head, raising his brows, and departed to fix Jenus's drink.  Rightward were the private booths, so the 'strange fellows and the hot chick' remained out of sight.

Jenus had no plans:  He was invited, he came.  The Irish coffee arrived.  He nursed it;  the drink went down leaving a trail of fire, and Jenus felt revived—but it wouldn't last.

A stout man in a trench coat stepped out of the framepost and sat next to Jenus.  His unevenly dark hair was greased and pulled back, and thick eyebrows underlined his forehead in an almost continuous line.  Lighting was too dim to notice any other distinguishing features with clarity.  They looked at each other for an instant.

"Vodka, Sam, double."

"Lemon dash, Tom?"

"Of course."  Tom glared at the bartender.  "Hello, Dr. Dorato," he also said, stretching his hand toward Jenus.  "I like your taste in hangouts."

"Hello," Jenus said, ignoring the proffered handshake.

Tom withdrew his hand:  "You must understand my interest is professional:  I don't feel for you, either way.  This is business."  His vodka arrived;  he downed it in one gulp.

"I have what you want," Jenus said.

"Very well.  Let's trade."

"Where is Janet?"

The man looked towards the private booths.  "Your friend is here.  She's in good company."

The really hot chick—she must be drugged, or this place would be in pieces,
Jenus thought.  "How could you be so sure I'd take your offer?"  He wanted to dive for the booths.

"I wasn't:  I guessed right," he said.  "Let's do business.  Your merchandise?"

"All you want is here."  Jenus picked up a crumpled origami sculpture from the pocket of the backpack and put it on the bar.

"Very clever."  Tom took the paper, undid the folds, and stared at several blank sheets.  "Too clever for me."

"These are reproductions of what I delivered last Saturday to heaven-knows-whom.  All the information is there; the ink disappears after printing."

"You mean they're erased?  Don't pull my leg."

"The ink becomes transparent, but it's still on the paper."

"So what good are these sheets?"

"You can treat the ink to retake a hue.  I'm sure you have access to that equipment;  to the naked eye the treated ink is a light watermark."

"Do you expect me to take your word for it?"

"Treatment is more complex than what I can improvise in a bar.  By the way, what about Janet?"

Tom stood up and went to the private booths.  He came back with a lady's shoe in his hand.  "Here."  He gave it to Jenus.

"I want to see her—do you mind?"  Jenus made to stand up.

"Yes, I mind."  Tom was icy;  his hand ran to the inside of his coat.  Jenus sat down. 

"You see," Tom said, "you are giving me less certainty about your merchandise than I am giving you about your friend."

"Bullshit!"  Jenus slammed a fist on the bar.

"Cool your jets.  How can we resolve this stalemate?"

Jenus's veins throbbed, but he knew better than to blow steam at this man.  He inhaled deeply, under control:  "Do you have access to a meth lab?"

"I don't understand."

"I can treat the ink with that equipment."

"Let me check—and do not move."  He walked apart to make a private call, still eyeing Jenus.  He spoke a few words, waited forever, and scribbled something on a notebook before returning.

"Yes," he said.  "I have access to a lab."

"Then let's go."  Jenus set off to the framepost.  Tom got up, too, nodded to Sam, and walked to the dispatcher to dial their destination.

A putrid-smelling lobby enclosed the framepost at the other end;  Jenus followed Tom out of the room that hosted the machinery.  They walked through a few alleys lined with
hingos
sleeping on the bare ground;  Jenus for the first time in his life saw a rat nibbling at the toes of a live, if unconscious, man.

Me, tomorrow,
Jenus thought without self-pity.

Tom knocked at a door covered with old graffiti.  The door cracked open, they slipped in.  A man with a three-day beard sat at a desk, looked at them listening to a plug in his ear.  He pointed to another door in the filthy office.  They took a flight of stairs downward, and then followed a wet, dark corridor for a while.

"In case you're wondering, the only way out is back."  Tom said.  Their splashy steps were the only sound Jenus could hear.  The air smelled of mould and organic decay.

Shortly, they stopped in front of a side door and waited until it opened.  Tom walked in, Jenus followed, and his jaw dropped:  Here was a bright room with benches, burners, chemical glasses, sinks and all the equipment of a well endowed laboratory.

"Will this do?"  Tom said.

"I guess so.  What is—"

"No questions.  Please treat the ink."  He gave Jenus one of the blank sheets.

Jenus nodded, and began working.  Tom sat, watchful.  In twenty minutes Jenus gave him back the sheet.

"Hold it under the light."  He showed Tom how to look.

Tom nodded.  "What about the other sheets, Mr. Dorato?"

"I couldn't know which one you gave me—they're all good."

"I understand.  Who besides you knows how to do this trick?"

"It's not a secret.  There."  Jenus scribbled a note on a sheet that he tore and gave him.  "This is a paper I wrote."

"Very well."

"Janet?"

"We'll see to that soon.  Get out now."

In the corridor Tom insisted that Jenus walk ahead of him.  "There's no way you'll get lost.  I want to watch you."

Along the way Jenus heard a crackle behind his shoulders.  Violent, repeated strikes hit his back.  His upper body jolted forward, his neck whiplashed.  He lost his balance and fell face forward on the floor, so fast he could not raise his arms to protect his head.  Before hitting the ground, he realized: 
The bastard shot me in the back.

*

A trickle of filthy water lapped his face. 
He shot me in the back
, echoed in Jenus's mind as he regained consciousness. 
How long?  How long have I been down?
 

"Janet," he groaned, trying to get up.  His left arm was numb, caught at a weird angle under his body.  He flexed his right arm, stretched ahead of him along the flow of the foul water;  it responded.  His legs also responded.  Pulling up to a kneeling position was difficult.  The numb arm had strength to move, but no sensation.

He breathed.  His back ribs hurt where they bore the brunt of the impact from the needles.  The armor had stopped the needles from piercing his body and exploding in his lungs.  Jenus stepped forward once, twice.  His wristwatch showed maybe ninety minutes since Tom had tried to kill him.  Was Janet still at the bar?  He had to find her. 
Garbage.  The bastard left my corpse for the cleaning crew.
  He felt his jacket:  his electrogun was still there.  An angry bruise had grown on his forehead, which was painful but didn't bleed.  The corridor was deserted, the stairs in sight.  He could walk, but he sat down to think first.

Janet.
  He needed to get to her.  She had to be at the bar:  his mind clung to that hope like ivy to a wall.  Since he was dead, he could make the rescue a surprise—beginning with the warden upstairs.  He felt for his gun, loaded with 250 needles.  He had never used it on a person before;  yet he could not risk that anyone sound the alarm—he needed to get to Janet. 

Will I have the nerve?
  Jenus stood up.  His whole body ached in red fits.

He climbed the stairs.  The door was locked, but the lock opened from this side.  He tripped the lock and kicked;  the door slammed open.  Jenus stormed into the small lobby:  the warden was watching a skin video;  he raised his eyes and tried to move.  Jenus shot him twice before allowing himself the time to think about what he was doing.

CHAPTER 11

Nero was in Kebe's line of sight, and then again, he wasn't.  She could see a yellow Cheshire a few meters ahead
through
Nero's translucent body.  Reaching for him, her fingers met viscous thickness where she saw his hand:  thicker than water, but flesh it wasn't.  She retracted her arm.

The Cheshire vanished.  Nero reacquired his natural appearance, staggered, and collapsed to the floor.  Kebe grabbed him to slow his fall and was caught in the tumble.  She was now trapped under his weight and had to wriggle her way out. 

Nero’s vital signs were disquieting:  His heart was racing, respiration was shallow, his flesh too warm.  Kebe, her shock more powerful than her fear, ran to retrieve the first aid case she had abandoned next to the generator.

Nero's pupils were fixed, unresponsive, as if he'd been heavily sedated, but his blood pressure was ridiculously high.

"Nero, don't give up on me!  What's happening to you now?"

She administered an intravenous heart tonic—which slowed down his pulse—and cracked open another vial of ammonia, but her intuition that this time it wouldn't work was confirmed.

"What do I do now?"  Kebe passed her trembling fingers through her hair.  She tried to pull him, dragging him onto the concrete—to no avail.  "Ah!"  She said, stomping her right foot, and sat on the freezing floor, head in her hands.

Nero was a wreck;  Kebe clutched her knees to her chest.  Now this hangar was as hard as many corners in her past, and she was alone again.  Yet the inner fire that had always driven her still burned bright:  it was the same fire that carried her through Galagos 5th and the gurda farms and fueled her fight.  Unquenchable, it fed off the beat of her heart, the pulse of her life: 
Giving up,
her inner self roared,
is not an acceptable solution.  You must stand up by yourself.  Things are as bad as you allow them to be.

She got up, straightening her clothes, smoothing creases with numb hands.  She stood erect defying the emptiness of the building, puffing vapor with each breath.

"Can you hear me Lord?"  She screamed, answered by many echoes challenging the silence.  "Can you hear me?  You've listened to me many times, I know you're there!"

Kebe paced in circles in small steps to quench her panic and fight the chills.  "I have something to tell you," she said.  Her eyes brimming with tears, she mumbled her dearest prayer:  "You called, Lord, and I answered in the day of my ignorance and pride. I sought fulfillment around me, to find that empty deeds have no purpose. I sought my happiness in that of others and they were content, but I was not."

Kebe combed her fingers through her hair as she continued: "I sought truth, but found iniquity, for the pursuit of truth is haughty: Truth stands alone and answers no calls. Then I was lonely and searched comfort from love, but found another's weakness tiresome and comfort fleeting. All days are short and purposeless. Plodding one step next to another is wearisome. Time passes and death is the only certainty, and the call of conscience.  Direction matters not but in righteousness!"

Her voice broke in halting sobs;  she put her hands on her face to hide her shame.  "Forgive my weakness, Lord."  She sat on her heels next to Nero fighting for composure.  Her unsteady voice was muffled through her fingers: "There is no sleep in evil, therefore I resolved to live well. I decided, but fulfilled not, as life commanded its way. So I refrained from life, and did not seek joy, for there is none but with disappointment: yet I had no respite from sorrow. When the tears are dry,  all intentions are vain. Will is vain, resolutions fruitless, ambition without purpose and full of grief."

Tears blurred her vision, rolled on her cheeks.  Her words were rent between sobs and whimpers, but she pressed on: "I knelt and sought your bosom, for your hope is eternal and all is useless, but peace to understand that. So I sought wisdom in your love. You called again, and I had no answers in the night of my ignorance and pride."

She stood up, her hands tightened in fists at her side:  "I have no answers, Lord!  None at all!"  She yelled, staring at the darkness below the roof.  Sniffing, she cleared her eyes and looked down at Nero—and jumped back.

Six Cheshires were biting into Nero's body.  She reached for her microwave gun that was still on the floor, but stopped before firing.  Nero's body phased into the spooky translucent condition and rose from the floor—the Cheshires were lifting him.

Kebe stared dumbfounded.  Nero's frame hovered half a meter up.  Something had to happen:  She tried a step forward towards Nero—and Nero's body moved away to maintain distance;  a step away, and the body followed her.  She turned around, her back to the Cheshires, and walked to the exit.  The presence of the beasts behind her shoulders was wrenching.  She peeked:  The Cheshires still carried Nero after her.

The wind bit her like salt in a fresh sore.  Momentum kept her walking, teeth chattering, to the tractor idling nearby.  She climbed the ladder to the heated cabin.  She opened the door and a waft of hot air caressed her.  Collapsing on the seat, she looked back at Nero's body following her.  She cowered in the farthest corner of the cabin.  The beasts brought Nero in and waited.  Air temperature dropped rapidly with the door open;  the cabin was freezing.  Kebe looked.  Obeying some mysterious command, the Cheshires at last lowered Nero and disappeared.

She jumped to the door and shut it;  the cabin started heating up.  Still shivering, she knelt in thanksgiving:  This was another miracle in her life.  Some people thought she was excessive;  they questioned her sanity.  They didn't know.

She gave thanks in her silent prayer to the only Being she really trusted in the whole universe:  the One who had never abandoned her;  the One who jammed the lock on the door of her room many years ago when a mob raided her home and killed her parents and sisters.  The One who kept a deported orphan sane on Galagos 5th—where all died mad, intoxicated by gurda spores;  who did so much for her that she was not able to account for it all.  The same One who also was the Unbearable One, trying and testing her at any available occasion.