Behold a Dark Mirror (27 page)

The room burst in a frenzy.  All attendees who weren't rushing to the doors raised their hands, each vying for Ayin's attention.  She enjoyed the chaos, savoring her little revenge.

"I'll hear the gentleman with Space Broadcast Services," Ayin said.

"Thank you, Ms. Najjar.  Has the Tower withheld any information pertaining to safety, or the lack of it, on Virgil?"

Ayin said,  "Everything the Tower knows about the dangers of Virgil is public.  Virgil is a new homestead, and the Tower is not omniscient.  There may be dangers we don't know of, yet.  All colonists are clearly warned this is the case.  We've not withheld any information.  Nevertheless, pioneering is a risky, if rewarding, undertaking."

"Ms. Najjar," a press woman interrupted.  "What exactly does the Tower expect from Virgil?  What's at stake for the Tower?"

Ayin said,  "The Tower, in obeisance to its Charter, plans to make Virgil available to mankind as another tribute to our—mankind's—expansion through the stars.  This is a glorious, but expensive task.  The Tower must recover the cost of the infrastructure for the colonization effort, plus a reasonable fee to fund further growth.  We will do so with an exclusive license to all planetary commercial revenue for an as yet uncertain, but limited period of time—according to Charter law.  When the license expires, the Tower will collect royalties for its role in regulating access and assuring a peaceful and prosperous environment for Virgil's homesteaders.  The job of the Tower is not to get rich;  it’s to help mankind grow.  This is what the Charter requires.  This is what the Tower does.  This is how the Tower plans to do it on Virgil."

"How long is the license?"  someone asked.

"Acquisition costs were extremely high, so the duration of the license is longer than usual," Ayin answered.  "Next?"

"Are there any joint efforts between the Tower and ConSEnt?"

"No.  There are none."

"But," another newsman asked immediately, "ConSEnt and the Tower are unofficially more and more interested in each other's business.  There must be a plan to cooperate closely with ConSEnt on many projects, perhaps including Virgil?"

"ConSEnt is a valuable corporate citizen, but the Tower is more than that—the Tower is the custodian of civilization as we know it.  The Tower has no business or plans to cooperate as a peer with a corporation over which it has regulatory jurisdiction.  The Tower represents the interests of mankind, not those of an individual corporate entity.  Cooperation with ConSEnt would violate the Charter.  The Tower may not engage in partisan politics or defend the interests of any specific business."

"How many people are currently on Virgil?"  Another said.

"As we speak," Ayin answered, "Twenty to thirty thousand.  Soon there will be many more—it's a beautiful place, come and see for yourselves.  Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your questions.  Please address further inquiries to my assistant."

She turned and walked to the curtain amidst a cacophony of voices pressing for more answers.  As Ayin disappeared backstage, an aide walked to the podium to provide canned answers to a flood of questions.

Backstage, Ayin sat in her booth, called for the public relations analyst.  She wanted a spin doctor's diagnosis.

"What's your take?" Ayin said.

"Almost flawless, Ayin."

"What’s the fly in the soup?"

"The questions on cooperation with ConSEnt."

"Well?"

"They were out of scope.  Who asked them?"

"Don't know—never seen those people before."

"Me neither.  This is twice suspicious, Ayin;  did you tell the truth?"

"You should know better."

"Yeah, well.  Good job, Ayin.  You handled it well."

Ayin relaxed: 
Yes, I think I did well,
she thought.

*

Stepping through the framepost was intense enough to overcome Ayin's sense of purpose.  On one side of the teleportation machine were dangers she knew how to manage:  crowds, politics, the press, her boss...  On the other side, there was Virgil and the unknown.  Nobody had ever argued successfully with Nature.  She looked back into the shiny nothingness of the frame.  The vastness she saw in it and the folly she saw in her own actions stopped her on her feet—for once she could feel the cold touch of hubris.

"Ms. Najjar, welcome to Virgil."  The voice of her host broke the spell.  He stretched out his hand to shake hers:  "We're honored by your visit."

"Thanks," she said, still in a dream and reaching for human contact.  His firm grip brought her back:  "Let's get through with this," she said to the real world, tossing her revelation into a mental wastebasket.

Her host led Ayin through the airlocks, past the guards, to the office of the VP Operations.  Virgil's governor jumped out of his chair and walked around the desk to meet her.

"Ms. Najjar!  How nice to have you here—please be seated," he said, adjusting an armchair.

Ayin inhaled the environment—essential, drab, with a touch of privilege but barely enough to mark the territory.  She hated field work, its bare-bones functionality, the lack of the trinkets of power.

"Well, Potter, I'm bringing you a load of trouble in addition to what you have," she said.

"Ms. Najjar," he answered, sitting on the sofa, "Your plan is bold and not without risk.  But I think it is a good plan—the best under the circumstances."

"Will we succeed?"

"Probably so.  I've instructed the tour guides meticulously.  They understand what must be done.  They're all trustworthy, the best I have."

"Good.  Your baby-sitters will have to herd my urchins with white gloves and steel chains.  They'll be arriving today as planned.  Let me know when they're all here.  You're a competent administrator, Potter, and you know Virgil much better than I do.  Make it work—I won't mess up your plan, I'll just carry out my part.  And I will remember," she said, standing up.  "For now, please show me to my room.  I'll stay out of your way."

*

Potter, Ayin, four more people sat in a row along the head wall of a plain conference room.  The end chair was empty, its occupant standing to address a crowd of fifty.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Virgil. I'm your chief guide," said the bald, athletic man at the podium.  Listening to him was an assembly of the cream of investigative journalism.  The small room was full of attentive ears, eyes, and recording machines.  "You've been brought here by Ms. Najjar so that you can witness for yourself what is happening on this planet."

Ayin's confidence was waning. 
How can I hope to make this work?  The hounds in this room will roam this cursed planet seeking rot and deceit—and they'll find it, because it is there,
she thought, but she maintained her poker face.

"You have all experienced the C-cubed interview and have been inducted and screened as if you were homesteaders.  That process was one hundred percent compliant with standard procedure—even the forms you signed.  Like all colonists, you were informed of the risks of Virgil in unambiguous terms.  You would have been denied admission if your medical checkup foreshadowed problems.  In fact," the speaker looked at a notebook, "four applicants were in poor health, and substitutes took their places.  You are, to all effects, colonists—except you have a return ticket.  I will explain now what will happen during the next three days."

The audience was perfectly silent.  The guide continued:  "My job—and that of the other guides here," he indicated the four people at the sides of Ayin and Potter, "is to help you tour Virgil as freely as possible.  I plan to accomplish that by enforcing the conditions you agreed to upon accepting Ms. Najjar's invitation.  You'll be apportioned in five groups of ten, each led by one guide.  Let me remind you of your obligations.

"One:  You will stay near your guide;  if you wish to visit a particular place, you'll ask your guide.  Your guide will try to accommodate your request, but the guide's judgment is final.  Two:  You're free to talk to anyone within a reasonable range of your guide, but you must remain within sight of your guide at all times.  Three:  Your tour is planned;  you will cooperate with your guide's plan.  All five groups will visit the same places, albeit in different order.  I remind you once more that you agreed to these conditions freely.  Failure to comply will result in your immediate departure from Virgil, at your guide's sole judgment."

"Don't you think this is too restrictive?"  a correspondent asked.

"Sir," the guide answered, "These conditions will ensure your safety.  Virgil is a giant construction site, staffed with professionals and crews who know how to keep out of harm's way.  Even so, accidents happen, some fatal.  Some accidents happen due to the hazards of heavy construction.  Other happen because Virgil's ecosystem is only partially understood.  Your job is to find out whether the Tower is maliciously hiding information.  Our job is to allow you to do so, and help you run your investigation as safely as possible.  You will find your guide reasonable and accommodating, but also firm.  I cannot overstate the importance of a collaborative effort."

"How can we visit a whole planet in three days?"  a woman said.

"Very good question, ma'am.  At present, an insignificant portion of Virgil's surface is inhabited.  We planned your visit assuming that you'd be interested in the inhabited part where work is ongoing.  There are twenty-five thousand people on the planet, and twenty-two construction sites, five of which are major.  It is possible to cover these areas in three days with reasonable detail."

"Does this mean we won't be allowed in the wilderness?"  the same woman said.

"That is correct, ma'am.  Only xenobiologists and xenobotanists are allowed in unexplored areas. 
I
am not allowed there.  Please remember that Virgil is uncharted territory;  we don't know what you might find if you start turning stones over."

"Are we allowed to interview your xeno specialists?"  a man said.

"Yes, sir.  As a matter of fact, that's the first thing on the program, before we split into groups—a wilderness team will take your questions.  Let me introduce the tour plan now."

Ayin faded into a daze while the guide reviewed the plan once more.  She had drafted it, approved Potter's changes, studied it, even dreamt of it.  And now it seemed to her an amateur's joke.

Pilgrim's Dam, Pilgrim's Hope, Pilgrim's Landing, science interview, farms and food supplies, living conditions, health, education, law enforcement, judicial procedure, commercial planning and admin, you name it:  she had put a handpicked sample of everything in the tour.  Too much—something was bound to go wrong.  Her nerves were fraying:  The best she could do was to spend three days in her room biting her nails.  Three days!  Too many—there
would
be an accident.  What had she been thinking?  Three hours were too much.

"Ms. Najjar?"  a voice called.

"Uh—Yes?"  Ayin said.

"Ms. Najjar, there's a question for you," the chief guide said.  "Will you participate in the tour?"

"No, no," Ayin said.  "I need to discuss some business with planet-manager Potter.  I'll be here when you folks come back."

"Then," the chief guide said, "we can now proceed with the science interview."

That was her cue.  Ayin stood up, Potter too.  They left the room while the speaker announced a short break.  She was out before anyone could approach her and ask her dangerous questions.  She sighed in relief.  The guide appeared competent at walking the razor's edge—leaving the hounds a leash just long enough to keep them from crying foul.

"Relax, Ms. Najjar, neither of us could do a better job than any of the guides," Potter said.

"I believe you, Potter.  However, your guides are the best that
you
have;  those reporters are the best in the
galaxy
."

"I understand.  We're outgunned, but we're playing at home."

"Potter," she said, "I like an administrator who can sell me a silver lining that's not there.  Since we'll sink or swim together, why don't you call me Ayin?"

He smiled, appreciating a privilege rarely bestowed:  "Well, Ms. Ayin—"

"Ayin," she interrupted.

"—Ayin, what do you say about a cup of tea?"

"I say it's a good idea, Graham."

CHAPTER 28

Nero lay flat on his back on a foam mattress without sheets.  He looked at the new tattoo on his arm, read the meaningless number once more.  The bachelors' barracks were a concrete slab with walls and a tin roof, furnished with metal bunks and barren of human presence.  It was mid-morning and everybody on Virgil was at work, his host had said;  he should rest a few hours, get used to the environment before being assigned.

Kebe should be here soon,
he thought.

Split, move to Virgil independently, meet there, check out the territory, figure out what to do next.  Very simple, in a sense.  He rummaged in his backpack, picked up his small gun, felt the engraving with his tired fingers: 
For my favorite company man, in case of mutiny
.  The favorite company man of a long-dead lost love had nothing left now, not even a name.  He cradled the gun between his hands, returned it to the backpack.  He shook the box with the Cheshire tail.  It still held a good supply.

If he didn't find something to do soon...  He sat up, organized his backpack.  Nobody was around;  only sounds of distant activity broke the silence.  Nero rearranged his position and began looking for a focus.  He stared at an imaginary point in front of him, cutting off peripheral vision first, and nibbling at the edges of his remaining field a bit at a time.  The exercise was tedious, fatiguing;  but sometimes magic would happen.  A tingle began, weak at first, where pelvis and spine attached.  He concentrated on it, keeping his eyes closed.  He willed it to grow, lulling his senses into ignoring the rest of his body.  Mind over matter:  no arms, no legs, the tingle became more and more important.  When he tingled—he'd found out—his image would quiver;  he'd established that much.  The tingle became overwhelming;  Nero was flushed with heat.  He knew that he was gone.  He opened his eyes:  all appeared normal, but when he snapped his fingers no noise came.  Nero thought of himself sitting in the very corner of the barracks—and his perspective changed suddenly to a view from that point.  The perspective breakdown broke his concentration;  the heat disappeared, the tingle returned, faded, his focus dissolved.  He snapped his fingers and the noise echoed on the walls.  Nero stood up, and walked back a few meters to his bunk, his starting point.