Lilith: A Snake in the Grass

Epilogue

The man came out of it slowly, only vaguely aware of who and where he was. He removed the headset almost idly and rubbed his temples. He had a headache that was killing him.

He looked around the control cubicle for some time, as if not believing that he was really here, on the picket ship, in his own lab, and not down there somewhere, on Lilith.

Finally he managed something of a recovery. “Computer?”

“Responding,” a calm, male voice responded.

“You now have the raw data and the data filtered through me,” he noted. “Any conclusions?”

“For the first time the connection between the aliens and the Lords of the Diamond is confirmed,” the computer responded. “I also have an awful lot of data that asks more questions than it answers… Not enough now—but we do have another report in. I might also point out, sir, that Marek Kreegan knew only about Cal Tremon, so this might well mean that they do not suspect the other three.”

“That’s something,” he admitted grumpily. “Did you say we had another?”

“Yes, sir. Cerberus. Because of the peculiar nature of the Warden cell there it was not possible to do the organic mind-link, but we imposed a command on that subject agent to report when able and then forget he reported. It is a technological culture, sir, so that was possible. I believe we have a full accounting. Would you like me to play it for you?”

“Yes—no!” he shot back, a little angry. “Give me a little bit, will you?”

“If you have a headache and natural fatigue, sir, I can provide the needed, counters in window slot number two.”

He nodded. “All right, do it. But give me a little.”

He couldn’t tell the computer that the headache didn’t matter, that the fatigue didn’t matter, that none of that mattered. What troubled him was far deeper and far more upsetting.

Cal Tremon, he wondered, are you really me? Would I have acted that way, would I have done things that way? Why are you a stranger to me, Cal Tremon? Are you not my twin?

Marek Kreegan’s account and version of the Confederacy bothered him, too, if not as much. It was unthinkable to believe that way. It would make all this a lie, a joke. It was unacceptable.

Still, he told himself, perhaps this was an aberration. Cal Tremon’s body, his hormones, whatever, affected the mind. It had to.

Suddenly, instead of fearing the Cerberus report, he needed it, and badly. He had to know. Was Cal Tremon the aberration—or was he truly seeing himself?

If so, could he face the stranger in these four mirrors?

He settled back in the chair and sipped a drink. Finally, he sighed. “All right. Run Cerberus.”

“Acknowledged,” the computer responded. “Recorders on. But if I may say so, sir, it would be of great help if you would put on your headset.”

He sighed, picked up the fragile crown, put it on and adjusted it for maximum comfort, then settled back, wondering why his hands seemed to be shaking so.

Mirror, minor, in the mind … Would I lie to you?