Broken Mirror

by Cody Sisco

  “I know what he did!” The herbalist’s face bunched and snarled as she stepped toward him.

  Victor retreated. Her eyes glistened. Ruby crystals of rage grew inside the seams of her wrinkles.

  She yelled, “What do you know? You come looking for answers? Then you listen close! You’ll never know peace until Samuel Miller is dead. He’s a living ghost, haunting us all, but especially you, Mr. Eastmore. I wonder why he let you live.”

  Victor’s heart stammered in his chest as he said, “Stop! Please.” Cringing, he stepped to a cubbyhole in the wall, took a jar of ear-like brown fungi, and opened it. The undersides looked like the air filters he’d stockpiled in his room when he was only four, which had saved him from Samuel Miller’s knockout gas long enough for Mía Barrias to show up and rescue him. He’d been saved. Samuel Miller would surely have killed him. How had he known what to do? his parents had asked him. He’d never told them about seeing the filters in his dreams or that sometimes listening to imaginary voices can save your life.

  “I was saved,” Victor said, “but not by him.”

  She stared up at the ceiling, or maybe past it. A long, wheezing breath deflated her body. “The worst part is that he blamed Buddhism, his twisted version of it. He said he communed with ghosts and helped his victims cross over to a better world, one he saw in his dreams.”

  “I’m not like him.”

  “We’re all like him.” Pearl lit a small rolled cigarette, full of some unfamiliar plant matter, not tobacco or cannabis—the scent was more complex. She waved the joint in his face, urging him to smell the curling smoke, but she didn’t offer it to him, nor did she explain what it was.

  “It’s too bad about your grandfather. Very sorry for your loss. Very sorry.”

  He picked up an abalone shell and watched the colors of the enamel iridesce. “I’m trying not to think about him until after my reclassification.”

  She continued on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I guess it’s no surprise that a powerful man would be cut down when he challenges powerful interests.”

  Victor gripped the abalone shell. It felt as if his heart had stopped beating. “What do you mean ‘cut down’?”

  She waved a hand at the ceiling. “Just foolish talk. Nothing he would want me to say.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Enough to know it was a great loss,” she said. “Without Jefferson Eastmore, I fear what will happen to all Broken Mirrors.”

  Victor scowled. “He already gave up on us by closing Oak Knoll.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “The problem is bigger than a cure. He kept the laws in check. You watch. They’ll stumble over themselves to tighten the net.”

  “Are you—Do you mean the Mesh?”

  She laughed. “No, but that’s a very good point too. You know what’s going on out there?”

  “A special market day?”

  She smirked. “It’s a war. And the sides are not equally matched. You people, the broken ones, you either fight or lose. Are you fighter?”

  “Do I look like it?”

  “Appearance is deceiving. How badly do you want to know the truth?”

  Her voice had changed again, becoming softer, clearer.

  Victor could tell she was deadly serious. “I’d do anything. I would. If you can help me, I’ll—”

  She put a finger on his lips. “I may have something for your dreams.”

  Finally. “What is it?” Victor asked.

  The old woman tilted her head. “Special herb.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Safe enough. Smell that one.” Her finger pointed toward one of two pink silk pouches displayed on a small black lacquered table.

  Victor picked up the pouch. It smelled moldy, sweet, and slightly spicy. Familiar. He said, “I recognize it. Fumewort.”

  “Now the other one.”

  Victor picked up the bundle and inhaled its scent through the silk. “It’s nice,” he said. “Tangy. Almost like jasmine.”

  “Calea ternifolia, the lucid dreaming herb, bitter grass. God’s help.”

  “I don’t believe in gods.”

  She chuckled. “Not that kind. I mean the gambler’s God, the one that make things go in your favor, or better, allows you to pull and twist the threads of fate.”

  “That’s delusional. Wait, you had this picked out already. How did you know I would need it?”

  She sighed as if all the air in her rushed out and left her deflated. “You need God leaf to put you in control, to make you lucid. In dreams, in life. One a reflection of the other. Bitter grass is the bridge.”

  “Tell me how I take it.”

  “Tea or tincture works. A big pinch before bedtime. Drink. Lie down. Sleep. Then take charge of your dreams. Something bad happens—you change it. Some monster tries to eat you? Make him explode, toss him in ocean, disappear, whatever you want. You say, ‘I’m in a dream; I want something different.’ Maybe you want pretty girl—zing, she shows up. Blink! Whatever you want appears. Lucid dreaming.”

  “Lucid dreaming,” he repeated.

  “In dreams, as in life.” She looked at him with her head cocked and her lips pressed together. “In ancient China, maybe not so ancient too, they would say you have a mad ghost inside you.” She waved her hand next to his face as if to dispel angry spirits around him.

  “You believe in ghosts?” he asked.

  “Not really. But if you asked me what possession looks like, I’d say, ‘Look in the mirror.’”

  He thought maybe she was insulting him, but he didn’t care. “How much do I owe you?”

  She shook her head. “I said before. Jefferson already paid me. You want to contribute, next time you tell me if the herbs are helping. I have other clients.”

  Victor met her gaze. “They’re taking bitter grass too?”

  She shrugged. “You think you’re the only Broken Mirror trying to manage?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “I see, they’re the crazy ones; you’re just misdiagnosed.” She looked askance, her mouth hanging open, mocking him.

  “No!” Victor took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m not normal, that’s for sure.”

  “Don’t be too sure.” She winked at him. “Some dreams are better forgotten.”

  Victor grumbled. The woman, with her changeling voice, was making fun of him. He paced in the small confines of the shop. He’d always avoided other people with MRS, except for one friend at university. But he should have gotten to know as many as possible. They might be able to help each other understand their condition better. If Pearl knew other people like him, then maybe Victor could talk to them and find out how they coped.

  He held up the pouches of fumewort and bitter grass, one in each hand. “Do the others take both of these?”

  “Some of them. Some need more than herbs. Here.” She unspooled a roll of butcher paper and carefully ripped a small piece the size of two fingers, scribbling something with a charcoal pencil.

  Victor took the slip of paper from her and saw a MeshID written in squarish numbers. “Whose is this?”

  “Someone who can help you.”

  “How?”

  She nodded at the paper. “Ask him. He’s a brainhacker.” She winked knowingly.

  “That’s illegal.”

  “In SeCa, maybe. Talk to him. Then come see me again.”

  “This isn’t some sort of trap the Health Board made to—”

  Her hawk-like screams of laughter cut him off. She shook her head. “I shouldn’t laugh.” Her voice changed again, lowering. “Best to keep suspicions to yourself until you can prove them.” She shook her head. “I should move to Europe. Open up a new-age herbal paradise serving everyone poison tea.” She cackled and shivers crawled up Victor’s back. “Only the sick need medicine. The rest need a reason to believe they’re sick.”

  Victor grimaced. Her talk of poison grated on his nerves. He grabbed the sachets, ignored her crooked smile, and turned
toward the door.

  Her voice called out behind him, “I know you, Victor. You’re the ghosts’ favorite! Come back soon.” Her laugh hooted behind him as he ran for the door.

  Outside, he uncorked a vial of fumewort tincture and drank every fiery drop. His gullet bristled. Victor hurried to the train station, making sure not to stumble over people squatting in front of shop fronts cooking their morning meals of soup and dumplings on portable stoves. The scents were intoxicating, pungent; yet strangely, they didn’t induce his synesthesia. Perhaps the fumewort was suppressing it.

  He thought back to what the herbalist had said about war. She was clearly an alarmist. She’d probably heard so many people with MRS complaining about persecution that she’d started to believe them.

  The strip of paper she had given him crinkled in his pocket. Whoever Pearl wanted him to contact probably wouldn’t even respond to Victor’s ping, but he should at least try.

  Victor took the train across the bay, retrieved his car from the parking structure, and drove to the Gene-Us campus. After dosing himself liberally with fumewort and bitter grass, he spent the day immersed in data sheets and visualizations.

  The office emptied out at six p.m. He found an unoccupied conference room, activated a Mesh terminal, and began a search query for the brainhacker’s MeshID.

  A profile screen swam to the surface as it usually did, but there was no information. The fields for name, location, employer—all were blank. The command cursor blinked, asking if he would like to initiate contact with the non-person.

  He pressed the “affirm” icon on the type-pad.

  The vidscreen filled with a shadowy figure, male in outline, broad-shouldered and short-haired. His face and clothes were a darker black against a hazy grayish background. Why vidchat at all if the image was going to be obscured?

  “Victor Eastmore?” a tinny voice asked. The modulation of the sound made it difficult to make out the words.

  “Who are you?” Victor asked.

  “You got this MeshID from Ming Pearl in San Francisco. You’re self-medicating now, she tells me.”

  Victor sat back in his chair, suddenly feeling exposed.

  “Don’t worry, our feed is masked,” the figure said. “It won’t register on any logs.” The man’s smugness was apparent even through the filter that obscured the sono and vidfeed.

  “She said you could help me.”

  “Correct,” the figure said.

  Victor asked, “Why would you want to?”

  “To get to the bottom of Jefferson Eastmore’s assassination.”

  Chapter 15

  HeAdSpAcE helps you reach your full potential.

  —HeAdSpAcE Brainhacker Collective slogan

  Semiautonomous California

  27 February 1991

  Victor blinked at the vidscreen.

  “I never thought you would get in touch with me so soon,” the figure said. The sonofeed rippled electronically, masking its true voice.

  “Who are you?” Victor asked.

  “I like to help people who need help from people like me.”

  The oblique nonanswer, a familiar style of bantering, tickled Victor’s memory. He shrugged the thought aside and asked the more important question, “Why did you say Granfa Jefferson was assassinated?”

  “‘Granfa?’ SeCa’s linguistic fetishes won’t bring about autonomy.”

  “Tell me!”

  Gruff gurgling came through the speakers. The figure reached out of the frame and put an object on his head that resembled a crown. When he spoke again, there was an additional scratchy distortion coming through the sonofeed. “If you’re seeing the herbalist, I’m willing to bet you’ve stopped taking Personil. It’ll be some time before its effects fade. These next few weeks are going to be tough.”

  Victor bristled. “You think you know so much about me, but you—”

  “How’s Alik? Have they pulled the plug yet?”

  Victor’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Wait, don’t tell me.” The figure hunched over—Victor heard the rapid stabs of fingers on an old-fashioned keyboard—then straightened. “Okay, it looks like your friend Alik is conscious for at least eight hours each day. He responds when he hears familiar voices, though he’s got nothing like normal speech—”

  “Cram it!” Victor knew all about Alik’s progress. The boy’s parents regularly apprised the Eastmores of his condition.

  “Control yourself. You know as well as I do the importance of cognitive equilibrium. I’m going to help you achieve it.”

  “Cognitive equilibrium?” Victor leaned forward, scrutinizing the figure’s outline. There was only one person who knew enough about Alik and about Victor’s condition to talk to him this way: Ozie, Victor’s friend and classmate during university. How was Ozie, a fellow person with MRS, wrapped up in all of this?

  Victor said, “I know you! I know who you are. No more hiding, Ozie.”

  The figure tore the crownish thing from its head, slammed a hand on the keyboard, and the feed went dark.

  Victor stared at the blank vidscreen. Evenings in the Gene-Us office were quiet, though a few of the professional staff would still be on site. Someone could walk by the conference room any minute and ask him what he was doing.

  It made sense that Ozie had become a brainhacker. He’d always loved computers and excelled at computing, engineering, all of the hard sciences, even more so than Victor, who got top marks in those subjects. If there were a way to hack into the human brain that wasn’t pseudoscientific fraud, Ozie would be the one to discover it. That must be why he disappeared at the beginning of senior year. Victor thought he’d been reclassified. Apparently he’d escaped SeCa instead.

  Victor knew he should get up, walk away, and forget about any talk of murder and assassination. Sure, he’d found polonium on the data egg. It was probably a defect in the manufacturing process. Quantum storage devices were notoriously difficult to make. The process probably required all sorts of dangerous materials. Victor was no engineer, and he knew next to nothing about radioactivity. He had a reclassification appointment to worry about, and he couldn’t afford to listen to Ozie’s crazy theories.

  Victor drummed his fingers on the desk. Curiosity got the better of him, and he sent a feed request.

  This time Ozie appeared unfiltered on the vidscreen, sitting on a high-backed, overstuffed chair. Behind thick-rimmed glasses, the whites of his eyes blazed in contrast to his skin—black as obsidian—and dark clothing, nearly invisible in the low-lit room. A metal cap that resembled an overturned colander sat on his head.

  “Greetings from the Organized Western States,” Ozie said in a low, carefully controlled voice.

  Victor smiled. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the only male friend he’d ever made. Crazy Ozie, always inventing some unbelievable bit of tech, always pushing Victor’s buttons—someone Victor could trust and tell anything.

  Victor had to set the record straight about one thing, though. “Alik’s coma wasn’t my fault. I told you. He picked the fight.”

  Ozie waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter how I see it, or you, for that matter. The Health Board cast a wide net, and with you they bagged the big fish. If an Eastmore could be diagnosed . . .”

  “You’re saying my diagnosis—more than ten years ago—was politically motivated?” Victor and Ozie had spent many hours discussing their symptoms, trying to understand themselves better by understanding each other, but they’d never talked about anything so sinister.

  “Not politically motivated, politically fortunate. Your diagnosis fits into their plans.”

  “Their plans?”

  “The Health Board.”

  “That’s classic conspiracy nonsense,” Victor said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “Don’t you want to know why Jefferson was killed? It’s shameful that you haven’t puzzled it out yet.”

  Victor wouldn’t let Ozie goad him. “Tell me about your hat,” he
said. “Is it magnetic?”

  Ozie leaned toward the vidlens and bowed his head. The device wasn’t metal after all but some kind of painted-gray ceramic bowl with protruding nodes that Victor assumed were magnetic coils. Ozie said, “I do my best thinking when I’m wearing this.”

  “Maybe you should turn it down and join the real world.”

  “I could make you one. In fact, Jefferson insisted on it.”

  Victor slammed his hands on the desk. “What are you saying?”

  “Jefferson said you’d come looking for me when the data egg opened.”

  “It hasn’t opened.”

  “Ah, I see. I’m not sure I can be of much help yet. Your grandfather was quite the planner. Though I guess his timeline is all messed up. Even so, the unopened data egg should be enough to subvert the new reclassification protocol.”

  “How?”

  “Magic.”

  “You’re a dick, Ozie. Wait, there’s a new protocol?”

  “Indeed. Jefferson opposed the latest revision. Unfortunately, with him out of the way, everything will go forward. More diagnoses. More ranchos. More Class One facilities. We’re talking doubling or tripling our numbers, and thousands of new jobs to go along with the expansion.”

  “You really think there are that many undiagnosed Broken Mirrors?”

  “I don’t use that term of oppression.” Ozie sighed. “SeCa is just the first phase. Next is the New England Commonwealth, the Southeastern Confederacy, the Northern League, Europe, and on and on. Draft bills are already circulating. SeCa incubated the system. Now it’s going to send its nasty laws around the world like a virus. You seriously didn’t suspect that’s why they got rid of him?”

  “This is . . . It’s just . . . Do you have any proof?” Victor asked.

  “You mean like the vidfeed showing him being poisoned?”

  Victor froze.

  Ozie smiled. “Got you.”

  “Why do you care about all this? You ran away. It doesn’t affect you.”

  “Doesn’t affect me? If they export this madness to the rest of the world, what do you think will happen? I’m pretty sure they would peg me as a Class Two right away, and I’m not much for farm animals. You and I are going to get to the bottom of this together.”