Behold a Dark Mirror (20 page)

Nero rented a cheap room in London as Jimmy Reeves and started planning his new looks.  Nero Vetrol was clean-shaven and had bushy eyebrows.  Frank Goldsmith had a flatter nose and sharper cheekbones.  Jimmy Reeves would have a trimmed beard and a crew cut.  He'd have to change the nose:  Nero couldn't stand the flat schnoop that now was his, although it had served him well.

The first cosmetic salon he patronized for the job asked for his signature and retina imprint on the disclaimer form;  that was unacceptable.  Eventually he had to settle for a one-person shop staffed by a woman whose practice included asking few questions.

"Any special treatment?"

"Can you make me blond?"  Nero said on impulse.  "Hair, beard, eyebrows."

"Pubic hair?"

"No, thanks."

"Of course I can.  That will be extra, for hair and beard.  I'll give you the brows and instant hair regrowth for free."

Nero sneaked back to his room, picked up what little he had left there, and found another place to hide.  His own ID forgery was passable, but not as good as Kebe’s.  He accumulated a few provisions and set out for guttering to Brighton.  He found a beaten path heading south just outside of the city limits and staked it out waiting for vagabonds or a gang to go his way.  In a while, a small band of two men and a woman showed up, walking their way southward.  He moved towards them, waving his hands. 

"Hey, are you going far?"  he said from a distance.

The three people looked at him without answering.  Nero stopped at a safe distance.

"I'm going to Brighton.  Can I walk with you?"

"Why do you want to walk with us?" one of the men said.

"Because it's safer than walking alone."

"Why us?"

"You were the first to come by."

The man looked at his companions.  The woman shrugged.

"She's my wife, understand?"  the other man said in a shrill voice.  "She's off limits, understand?"

Nero nodded.

"Do you have food?"  the woman said.

"Enough for myself and some to share."  They all nodded.

"I vote yes," the first man said.  "If he wants to jump us, he don't need to do it this way.  I guess he's OK."

"Ay," said the other man.

"As long as you leave me alone," the woman said.

"So I'm joining you," Nero said.  "Where're you heading?"

"South," she said.  The three resumed their trek.

Nero started walking with them.  No need to probe any further:  south was good enough.

The woman walked with a limp.  Her hair was dirty, her expression blank, like she had lived through more than she could bear.  Her alleged husband was a short man who plodded along looking at the ground, permanently scratching his mousey hair and beard.  He carried a small backpack and had a lot of loose skin on his neck.  The other man was lanky and tall, and walked in long strides.  He was malnourished, but still had the appearance of physical strength.

"Hey stranger," said the tall man after a while.  "You said you had food to share.  What do you have for me?"

Nero looked in his backpack, pulled out a can of beans, and tossed it to the man.  He grabbed it, looked at the label smiling, and put it in the satchel he carried.  That was all the conversation Nero had until they prepared camp for the night.

When stopping before dark, at the direction of the woman, the three men gathered wood, which they piled up at camp.  In the meantime, the lady had built a simple hearth with a few stones;  in it she started a fire, which she fed with the wood to a size she thought appropriate.

"Stranger," she said, "we share our food.  You can cook for yourself, or share our pot."

Nero pulled out another can of beans and gave it to the woman.  She added it to the pot along with some potatoes and other bits of food, and set dinner to cook on the campfire.  Darkness had fallen;  the bright, wavering flames were all the light they had in a moonless night.

Her husband giggled for no apparent reason, still scratching his long unkempt beard.  The tall man looked intently at the flames.  Nero had been with them for half a day and still didn't dare ask their names.

The woman passed the pot around, dishing out even portions.  They ate in silence, except for the slurping and hissing of the little man who, at least while eating, had stopped scratching.

"We keep watch at night," the tall man said to Nero.  "It's not always safe out here."

Nero nodded.  "I'll do my part."

"Four people, two hours each.  We'll make dawn.  On watch, stay awake and feed the fire:  It keeps the animals away.  I'll take first.  You will take second.  He’ll do third, she’s last.  If you hear or see something, wake me up."  he said, patting his satchel.  "Now, go to sleep."

Nero complied.  He undid his sleeping mat, used the pack as a pillow, and cuddled under his blanket.  Years of experience sleeping under strange skies gave him confidence to be alert even in his sleep.  He woke up in a flash as the tall man approached.

"You're a light sleeper," the man said.

"Practice," Nero said.

The man went back to his spread and lay down.  Nero sat upright at first, then stood up and paced.  The night was dry and cool.  There was no wind.  He tossed a piece of wood on the fire, which crackled and rained sparks.  These traveling companions were the best he could wish for.  No questions, no confidences.  So far, they had been more trustworthy than many acquaintances with credentials.  He didn't know their names;  they didn't ask for his, either.

The sky was clear over his head.  He looked at the constellations;  he hadn't seen Ursa Major in years.  He looked down.  If his late father could see him now, could talk to him now, Dad would come up with something so offensive Nero couldn't bear the thought.

Brighton was the glorified epitome of the tourist trap;  so many people came and went by frame, by air, and by sea that unmasking Jimmy Reeves would be a challenge worthy of ConSEnt.  He sat down;  time to figure what to do after Brighton.

Ursa Major moved with majesty;  as scheduled, Nero approached his relief and shook him.  The man wiggled and snorted, waking up in a fit of panic at the sight of Nero.  Then he remembered.

"Yes, yes," he said.  "My turn.  Go to sleep."

The next few days were as dull as the first afternoon.  Then the band arrived at the break-off place a few hours away from Brighton.  Nero changed course;  the others kept plodding their mysterious path to some eventual destination.  Nero had spent more time with them than with anyone else during the last year except Kebe, and he still didn't know their names.  He left them his sleeping mat, his blanket, and the rest of his provisions.

Nero found a place to take a shower, buy clothes, sleep.  The next day Jimmy Reeves teleframed to Rio de Janeiro—an ugly, overpopulated, crime-ridden megalopolis of fifty-millions.  He planned to hide here for a while, change face, and leave as Paulo Mastao.  Paulo would head to Hong Kong and on to Vivitar and the
Space Crab;
  if he couldn’t elude ConSEnt, he wouldn't be able to do better.

A black tongue of smoke was rising in the distance, perhaps from a fire.  It occurred to him that Frank Goldsmith was now wanted on Borodin for the theft of a large number of rental shuttles.  Well, no day like today to give his Portuguese a try.

CHAPTER 19

"An anonymous package, then."

"Indeed," Jenus answered.  The clerk behind the desk tried to explain that anonymous emigration had low status.  That John Doe and Jane Doe were assigned lowly ranks until—if ever—proven fit for something better.  That these Mr. or Ms. Does at times wished they had kept their names.

Jenus insisted.

The clerk returned with an envelope full of paperwork.  "It will take you about a day to fill out the papers.  Please return with a completed application.  Just in case," he smiled, "We cannot accept anonymous applications before 24 hours have elapsed.  This rule should give you time to think it over."  As he spoke he marked the application package with date and time.

Jenus smirked at him.

"After the application is filed, you will undergo a medical test.  If you wish, you can take a battery skill test, too:  that may help you find a better assignment if you have any skills—you are waiving any qualifications associated with your identity."

"Wait!"  Jenus said.  The clerk looked at him without surprise.  Maybe at this point most people changed their minds, Jenus thought.  "What skills are in demand on Virgil now?"

The clerk consulted an old touchscreen at his side, maneuvering through menus to reach information buried in deep layers.  When he was done, he turned the screen towards Jenus.

"Go ahead, read," the clerk said.  "Touch where it shows data you're interested in, if you want to know more.  There's no guarantee any position will be available at a later time."

Jenus looked at the screen.  It said
manufacturing
and
services
and
construction
.  He tried
manufacturing
.  Another page opened: 
by trade
, and
by industry
.  He followed the leads until it showed there were two positions open for chemical lab aides.  He sighed.  The clerk reoriented the screen towards himself.

"If you pass the medical test," the clerk added, "you will be tattooed with a serial number.  After you reach destination, the only trace you will leave on earth is your serial number and whether you took the battery test.  If you don't take the test here, you'll have to wait weeks to take it at destination.  If you take it here and lose the results, you won't be allowed to take it again."

  The clerk fiddled with some papers below the desk, then turned to Jenus.  "There are transportation quotas, also.  If you're headed for Virgil, your waiting list for the trip is a week long.  While you wait, as an anonymous emigrant you may seek anteroom asylum."

"Anteroom?"  Jenus said.

The clerk looked at him with surprise, and said:  "Anteroom, quote, is extra-jurisdictional territory established by the
Colonial Commerce and Emigration Act
, which is binding to all authorities signatories of the act, and their organizations, end quote.  In plain language, that means nobody can claim jurisdiction on anteroom territory.  He folded his arms while explaining, "The anteroom was created to fix some technicalities for clearing customs.  On the other hand, ee-jay regs exist for people, too, to get rid of undesirable individuals at no cost to society.  Number one, you waive the right to private property on the planet where you take on anteroom status.  That means all you own is forfeited.  Number two, you waive your identity and residence rights where you take on anteroom status.  In case you're wondering," the clerk grinned, "if you take on anteroom status you become a non-person, but groundside you've nothing left."  The clerk leaned over the counter.  "You're falling off the edge of the world:  That's great if you're wanted.  But your only remaining option is to leave."

Jenus closed his mouth, looked at the trim clerk.  "What happens if I don't take anteroom status?"

The clerk said,  "Until you leave Earth you're still on the radar chart of anybody who has an interest in you.  Anonymity will protect you after you leave.  As I said,
after you depart
all that is left of your identity as it pertains to emigration is your serial number. 
Before you depart
, unless you take on anteroom status, you're just yourself."

"Oh."

"Well," the clerk said, "Let me connect the dots for you.  Anteroom status is useful to really bad people.  You see, anonymous emigration is one-half of the deal for them."

"I imagine there are explanations in this package."

"You bet.  Still keen on anonymous emigration?"

Jenus nodded.

"I promise you, if your problem is less than capital, there are easier solutions.  Whatever your case, bring the application letter to a lawyer and have it explained.  It's not pretty."

"Thanks...  Thank you."  Jenus turned and strode to the door.  No denial clouded his faculties now:  Anonymous emigration was virtual oblivion.  On the other hand, he'd be otherwise soon dead, reaching oblivion the traditional way.

The emigration office he had just left was in the east wing of the Aurora mall.  He strolled past a walk-in medical clinic, his head in a cloud, past a police kiosk with one sleepy attendant in sight, past a food store, and reached the notorious gates to the mall proper, the central hub.

A sign screamed in high-contrast fluorescent letters:  "NO ADMISSION UNDER 14 - COMPLIANCE ENFORCED - SEVERE PENALTIES FOR TRESPASSERS."  For the benefit of the illiterate, a mechanical voice looped on the same message.

On the other side, a variety of outlets pandered to the base instincts of mankind—the part that was fourteen or older.  He strolled past too many live, almost alive, or inanimate exhibitions of human degradation.  Intermezzos of dealers in chemical dreams on the edge of legality harmonized with promises of ecstasy of electrochemical, digital, or biological varieties.

Jenus sleepwalked past the excitement, still considering options.  He stepped into a bed-by-the-hour lodge, looked at the lady behind the desk, gave her his cash chip.

He looked at his watch:  "Twenty-three hours," he told her.

She charged the fee for the room and returned it:  "Second floor, room twenty-five."

"Thanks."

"Hey!"

Jenus stopped, looked back.

"Are you sure that envelope is gonna do it for you tonight?  Can I keep you company?"

"No."  He started to move away.

"Can I help you find company?  Wanna leave the cash in the safe?"

He gave the chip back to her:  "Take some for yourself and forget you saw me."

The woman took the chip and charged it without taking her eyes off him, then returned it. "You've never been here, sir, unless somebody pays me more money, which is unlikely."

Jenus pocketed the chip and turned back, headed for room twenty-five, second floor.  Once in, he locked the door and laid on the bed, face up, staring at the ceiling for an eternity.  Slowly he walked to the washbasin, opened the cold water, washed his face, looked at himself in the mirror.

"Confidence," he repeated to the glass, "is not built from what you own.  Confidence is made of what you can do without."  He straightened up and ran a wet hand through his hair.  He picked up the envelope with the application, sat at the small powder table, and opened it.  He began to read and take notes.

*

"This is my completed application," Jenus announced to the same clerk he had met the day before.

The clerk looked at the forms, at the watch, then at Jenus:  "So you are decided."  He fed the papers to a scanner.  "Do you wish anteroom asylum?"

"Y... How long does it take to obtain anteroom asylum after the application?"

"Thirty seconds, it's instantaneous."

"Can I apply later?"

"Any time you wish."

"Where is the anteroom?"

The clerk smiled.  "Anywhere.  You carry it with yourself.  Your status is filed with your records."

"You mean there's no confinement?"

"No.  But you own nothing, except the clothes on your back and what change is in your pocket."