Behold a Dark Mirror (31 page)

"It'll get here in batches.  We'll need to hide partial shipments."  Kebe said.

"True, but it shouldn't be too hard to hide a few crates on Virgil.  Let's get back."

He started to retrace their steps.

"How can you find your way in this maze?"  Kebe said.

"Easy.  By the way, come here; get hold of me and act your part.  Look impressed, in case someone spots us."

Kebe obliged willingly.  As soon as she had wrapped her arm around his waist, a pack of welders materialized from around a corner, walking in the opposite direction.  A couple of them looked at Jenus and Kebe.  A whistle rose from the little crowd.

Kebe stopped Jenus in his tracks, pulled him close, and kissed him conspicuously.

"Hey!" one yelled.

"Woo-wee!" the men whooped.  Their steps waned in the distance before Kebe let Jenus go.

"Wow," Jenus said.  "That was aggressive."

"Did you mind?"

"You must be joking!"

"If it had to happen, why wait?"

"You're a good kisser,"  Jenus said.

"Well, even if this was only skin deep, I think our mutual interest might grow in time."

"It will," Jenus said, taking the initiative for a replay.

Jenus and Kebe held hands for the rest of the way out.

"Any plans for the evening?"  Jenus said.

"Not really."

"Look, we don't know each other very well.  Why don't we sit by the bushes and talk about life for a while?  There isn't anywhere else to go."

She looked at him.  "By the bushes—sure, why not?  But I don't feel like talking too much."

CHAPTER 32

"What do we do now?"  Potter said.

Ayin punted.  She could spill her guts to the Chairman, relieve her conscience, and say goodbye to her future.  Or she could wait and see, play for time, cross her fingers, and pretend that Max Hopkins didn't exist.

What do I have to lose?
  She thought.  "Play it as if all went well," she told Potter.  She stepped through the frame that took her back to earth.  A day went by without sleep and without any news from Max Hopkins.  Another day passed.  Soon she'd have to report to the Chairman:  she stopped drinking and pulled herself together.

*

Low lights bathed the Chairman's office.  Heavy curtains on the windows let no sunshine through;  sconces on the walls held lights as dim as the tongues of a dying campfire.  She was in the lair of the tiger—a senile, sharp-fanged tiger.

"How is your plan progressing?"

"At present, there are no signs of disruption, sir."

"It's amazing that your plan went smoothly at all, Ayin," the Chairman of the Tower said, his leathery face just visible between the wings of his chair. 

Ayin maintained her poise even as her confidence was cracking. 
What does he mean by that?
  she thought. 
Is he implying that I lied?  Did Potter spill the beans?

"Do you have reason to believe there's trouble on the horizon?"  he said.

Ayin was the mouse facing the cat—well, the tiger.  "Sir, I'm troubled by our inability to identify a cause for the epidemic plaguing Virgil.  That's a thorn in my side, sir;  the situation is unsustainable.  I've had reports that guards repelled homesteaders at gunpoint."  She rushed to add:  "Only a few isolated incidents, but a bad omen."

"I share your view, Ayin.  What else?"

"Well, sir, our cover-up—"

"Your cover-up, Ayin."

She swallowed, longing for a tumbler of liquor, her facade unflinching,  "My cover-up is an elaborate large-scale operation.  So far it's working.  I hope it'll continue to work."

"You
hope
, Ayin?"

"Sir, by now this plan has a life of its own.  We—I had control at the beginning.  Now, anything could happen."

"And how is it going so far?"

"No signs of disruption yet, sir."

Here,
she thought. 
If he's going to call my bluff, he'll call it here.  Or never.

The Chairman turned his chair, leaned forward with his elbows on the desk.  "Don't fail me;  make it work."

*

As days turned into weeks, lack of activity from Max Hopkins relieved Ayin.  His syndicated columns just stopped, with a lame justification from Universal News.  Potter informed her he'd censored a few outgoing messages that looked like press reports.  Ayin attributed those to the two other journalists that had chosen to stay on Virgil—Hopkins was too good to goof like that.

Weeks turned into a month;  relief turned into concern.  If Hopkins was so good, why wasn't he writing?  Potter reported as expected that people continued to die and work progressed.

Max Hopkins's agenda became Ayin's obsession.  He didn't write—why not?  She paced across her office, hands behind her back, talking to herself:  "My speculations are going nowhere!"  she yelled at the desk, gesturing in broad sweeps.  "Who would have any facts?  Hopkins, of course."

A knock at the door interrupted her.

"Who's that?"  Ayin said.

"Sir," her secretary peeped through a crack in the massive doors, "the envoys from the Saaswas delegation are asking for the audience you promised them six months ago.  They—"

"Tell them to go away."

"But sir, a diplomacy breach could—"

"Away!"  Ayin said;  then she reconsidered, "No, you're right. They'll be here for a week—my apologies and reschedule to their earliest convenience, make room in my schedule.  You're right, but go away now.  Leave me alone."

The secretary retreated.  Ayin strode with even more intensity, turning her mind back to her true concern.

"Facts—enough with suppositions.  Who can give me facts instead of hot air?  What the hell is Hopkins up to—and how am I going to stop him if I don't know what he's doing?

"UNA must know—if anyone knows, Universal News must know.  What do I have on them to make them talk?  Nothing!  So I'll tell Potter to wear a wig and ask them, Would you please give me a sneak preview of the scoop of the century?"

She answered herself, tilting her head:  "And why should we do that?"  She replied in a stridulous tone:  "Because I'm from the government, I'm here to help you," then laughed—that had been the slogan of the demise of democracy, the onset of the Disorders, and the ascent of Power Sharing.

Ayin plopped into her chair, banging her fists on the desk in a raving fit.  "I've got to get to UNA!  I've got to find a way!"

She raised her head, her eyes staring ahead into the void, struck by inspiration:  "If they won't talk, then their actions will speak for them."  She leaned back into her chair, stretched her legs, and kicked her shoes off.  "Oh yes."

*

"Data mining passes as a tedious occupation, Ms. Najjar.  Few realize how much red tape even a business like UNA generates.  Few realize how many sources a mining effort needs to examine:  for UNA, we were past two hundred thousand."

"Since your contract comprises payment on a count of sources, your diligence should make you money," Ayin said.

"Yes, but in this business those motivated by money alone can't last long, sir.  We—my firm—take pride in our passion for data mining."

"I'm pleased to hear that, but what's it to me now?  What did you find about UNA?"

"Well, Mada..." He caught his slip:  "Sir, your directions were extremely vague."

Ayin cast a sidelong gaze at the man.  "Yes, you said that already."

"You will understand then why our report is bulky.  Finding, as you requested, any change in patterns of behavior occurring during the last ten weeks is a vague goal."  He produced a small box for Ayin.

She opened it:  A half dozen neatly aligned data barrels, each the size of a small sausage, stared at her.  "What?"  she whispered.

"Sir, I've insisted beyond measure on the need for precise goals to reduce the search space.  Otherwise..."

"Otherwise you are giving me more data than the Gross National Product report of an industrial planet!  You... You..."

"Sir!"  The consultant stood up.  "I understand your concern for privacy.  For a modest fee we can add a change order to submit this to an analyst with higher security clearance."

Ayin inhaled trying to maintain self control.  She stood up in a snap, staring at the man before her.  She turned, pacing her office.  In a tone unnaturally calm she said:  "So, if you were me, how would you reduce the answer to a manageable size?"

"Sir, as I—"

"Answer carefully," Ayin interrupted, "and remember that you are motivated by passion, not by money."  She returned to the desk, leaned forward, resting her hands on the polished surface.  "I am, too.  I'm very passionate in getting what I want."

The consultant swallowed.  "A cha–change in behavioral pattern can be anything, sir.  It's impossible to reduce the set without further directions from you."

"Suppose I wanted to go on without help—what should I do?"

"That may be possible, sir, but will be time consuming."

"Explain," Ayin said.

Do this and do that, the consultant said.  When he was finished, Ayin realized she didn't understand what to do much better than before he had started.  She took the data barrels to her console, put them in the reader, and started browsing.

*

Ten days later, Ayin was exhausted.  She'd nearly wrecked the Saaswas commercial alliance (that was bad), lost three kilograms of weight (that was unusual), and realized a number of things about UNA.  During the last several weeks, UNA had changed suppliers of disposable napkins.  It had dramatically curtailed usage of embossed stationery.  It had upped a notch the floor space allocated to middle management.  It had started ordering limited quantities of analytical chemistry equipment.  It had increased the ration of proteins in the average meal that the canteen provided.  And it had otherwise implemented an incredibly large number of meaningless changes.  Ayin wondered,  was there any relationship with Max go-to-hell Hopkins hidden in this information?  Or had she missed what she was looking for?  She sent a message to Potter, who sent back his recorded opinion on the matter:

"Ayin, I'm as concerned as you are about Max Hopkins' inactivity.  I've censored a few more press dispatches of some interest, but I agree—Hopkins wouldn't goof like that.  Your data mining of UNA was a brilliant idea;  I've examined your findings, and perhaps I have some interesting feedback.  I've been fishing for anything that may be suspicious, and I found clues in the customs reports.  During the past weeks, there've been shipments of equipment with bills of lading unmatched to anything we requisitioned.  At the time, the tiebreaker policy was to let them by, faulting some glitch in record keeping.  The material was innocuous enough: 
analytical equipment
.  Again, this is speculation, but I've been unable to trace this material to a final destination, so perhaps we have a match.  I'm waiting for urgent instructions on what to do if the case repeats itself."

"Potter, Potter, you'll run half of my kingdom," she sang, drinking her celebration. 
Lab equipment,
she thought.  The sleuth was after the root cause.  Max wouldn't be happy to call the Tower to the table;  rather, he wanted to nail the Tower to the table with facts beyond disputation.  That was the bad part.

The good part was that Max, after all, was working for her.  Ayin knew she couldn't ask him a greater favor than to find out why people on Virgil were dying like flies.  And she would not stop him—not yet.  So she dispatched instructions:

"Potter, I'm elated with your investigation.  Max Hopkins is trying to find out why people are dying on Virgil—and using your untraceable lab equipment for this end.  We cannot let him go public, but we can let him carry on his investigation until he comes up with results useful to us.  We need to raise the stakes here;  let him work, let him have his equipment if more arrives.  Find out who's helping him:  Keep tabs on all the chemists and on others who may know how to operate the equipment.  Find out what he's discovering.  When results are just short of ready, we'll step in.  We'll need to find a way to silence Max Hopkins, too.  Your brilliant suggestions are welcome."

CHAPTER 33

"So far, all the shipments from Doka have been decoys, sir."

Eugene sat in his rococo chair, resting an elbow on his desk, his forearm upright and supporting his head.  He looked at the investigator.  "So?"

"Well, we've traced forty percent of the mail:  all nondescript objects of similar mass—small rocks,"  the investigator said.

"According to whom?"

"We asked the recipients."

"Did you recover the rocks?"

"Some, sir.  We checked them in with the xeno lab, which confirmed all were exogenic—not of this Earth."

"Meaning, they were from Doka?"

"Undetermined, sir.  On the other hand, who else would ship rocks by interplanetary mail?  That's too exp—"

"I realize that.  What about the rocks you didn't recover?"

"Sir, it's plausible the recipients dumped them as claimed.  We had to take their word."

"Without further confirmation?  Dumping a rock from outer space—would you do it?"

"I don't underst—"

"Of course not.  I want the background of all the dumpers searched and scrutinized."

"That's a big job."

"Put in a requisition for all the staff you need."

"Yes, sir."

"Get confirmation that all rocks recovered are from Doka."

"Yes, sir."

"And find out about the remaining sixty percent.  Keep in mind that we are looking for one real shipment among hundreds of decoys.  What you found is expected."

"We'll wreak a lot of havoc in many ordinary lives, sir."

Eugene paused.  "You're a sleuth by choice, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Learn to enjoy what you are doing.  The people you'll investigate will cower before you, wonder what will become of them.  They'll plead with you when you find something amiss in their past.  And you will be their judge."  Eugene looked him straight in the eyes:  "Do you understand what I mean?  What this means for you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Isn't this what you wanted?  Discretionary power—lots of it.  You'll have it in spades.  Find the needle in my haystack.  Go now."  Galt dismissed him with a wave.  The investigator turned on his heel and walked to the door.

Eugene realized he'd have to keep an eye on him. 
We'll wreak a lot of havoc...
That was an uncouth statement, to put it mildly.  Wrecking lives was his job!

Who cares about lives?  Eugene's problem was to find the journal:  Where was the manuscript of Duskin's diary?  Recover that book, that's all that mattered.  And then there was Ayin.

The journal, however, came first.  It was Eugene's opinion that the mail search was necessary due diligence, but wasn't going to produce the journal.  Mail was easy to trace, and the rebels on Doka apparently knew what they were doing—compelling ConSEnt to waste resources on a wild goose chase.  Still, they
might
have mailed the journal.

Where would they have hidden the book—on Doka, perhaps?  Eugene thought that was a misconceived hiding place.  The beacon, too, was on Doka;  leaving the journal there would have been double jeopardy.  Yet, only by a twist of fate Doka had become accessible by frame;  if it had not, retrieving the book would have been next to impossible for a long time.

The likelihood that whoever left Doka had carried the book along was real.  Everything pointed to two people leaving the planet, one of whom had been naive enough to bite, so to speak, on a frame tracker.  Eugene smiled:  he'd managed to re-route to himself some of the credit of destroying the base on Vivitar III;  that had reaped a lot of glory.  Maybe, Eugene thought, the journal had been destroyed with the base.  That possibility was substantial but by no means a certainty.