Jack L. Chalker - God inc 3 - The Maze in the Mirror

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THE MAZE IN THE MIRRORTHE MAZE IN THE MIRROR

ebook ver. 1.0

From Williamson to Leinster to Piper . . .

H. Beam Piper, who perfected it and to whom this book

is affectionately dedicated.

I feel honored that you all,

at some point in my life,

called me friend

Some Warnings for the Reader

This book is the third in a series featuring my two parallel worlds detectives

Sam and Brandy Horowitz in the universes of G.O.D., Inc. Like the first two, The

Labyrinth of Dreams and The Shadow Dancers, both Tor, 1987, it is a complete

novel, as all good series novels are. It is not, strictly speaking, a serial

continued from book to book, as are many other of my works. However, the time

frame on these books is progressive; this book is set considerably after the

time of the first two and the characters are the older, more knowledgeable, more

experienced characters who have undergone those previous cases and remember them

and assume you do, too. Also, one of our villains this time is a leftover

deliberately loose end from The Shadow Dancers, and the solution to the case of

the Maze in the Mirror is, in many ways, also a final solution to the

progression and loose ends of the first two books.

As such, while sufficient information is provided for you to read this book as

complete and independent of the others, I have made no other concessions and

some of the references and background might be a bit vague or confusing for a

new reader, as they are not explained but rather taken for granted. For that

reason, The Maze in the Mirror will be best appreciated by those who have read

either or preferably both of the preceding books. This is particularly true

since, while there is an element of mystery involved, this series is basically

a* set of private detective procedurals-that is, figuring out by legwork,

evidence, and deduction just what the dastardly plot is here and how to prevent

it is the object, not necessarily unmasking some unknown murderer, even though

unknown murderer there might be. I make that comment in light of some reviews of

the earlier books which were under the mistaken impression that these were

primarily whodunits and who therefore reviewed the whodunit rather than the

plot-and the two are not the same thing in a procedural.

Your bookstore should have the first two books if you do not. Any good,

well-managed bookstore run by intelligent owners of good taste should have all

my previous novels on their shelves. If not, then buy this one so you'll have it

and then order the first two from that store or find a better bookstore who

keeps the essentials in stock.

To forestall a bunch of letters to me complaining that there are real

anachronisms when the earlier novels are compared to this one, I should point

out that nowhere have I stated that Sam and Brandy are natives of our own

universe, just one that's rather close to ours.

Also, I want to reassure all of you out there that General Ordering and

Development has no connection (that I know of) with Guaranteed Overnight

Delivery, Inc., a firm of which I was ignorant until recently when I was passed

on the highway by a G.O.D., Inc. tractor trailer truck to my enormous shock. I

understand that some of my readers who are truckers have been giving drivers for

that real company a really uncomfortable time.

It might also be noted that this series is the first set of my books to be

banned anywhere in the U.S. A few distributors, primarily in some southern

states, have refused to take it because the overtitle appears to be sacrilegious

to them or they fear reader reaction for that reason. If something this minor

elicits that reaction, one worries about the fate of poor truckers for

Guaranteed Overnight Delivery who roll through those states and areas with the

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big black G.O.D. letters on their sides. . . .

Also, in the course of this book, many readers, particularly Americans and

Canadians, will find a lot of more or less familiar names and products, some but

not all valiantly spelled, here and there. These are used in good fun and for

internal logic and are not intended to cast aspersions on (nor endorse) products

or possibly popular musicians or anyone or anything else. I hope the companies

involved just consider them free commercials and take them in the spirit in

which they're used.

It is impossible to say if this is the last G.O.D., Inc. book at this point.

Certainly if I come up with another plot I think good or better than the first

three, or if I get to missing these characters, it's a possibility, although not

very soon. Perhaps your own reactions and the number of these books sold will be

the final answer. That's not to say that I write any book on the basis of

potential popularity, but certainly, having done these, whether I give in to any

inclination to do more or use the same limited time to create something new and

different will to some extent be influenced by whether or not there are

sufficient numbers of you out there who want to read more.

Jack L. Chalker

Uniontown, Maryland

October, 1987

A Visitor in the Night

The sky was dark and overcast as it usually was in the central Pennsylvania

mountains in winter, where the locals would refer to good days as "between

snows." There was certainly enough snow on the ground-about two feet had yet to

be given the chance to melt, and in January's still dark days it wasn't likely

to improve for quite a while.

Most of the nation, particularly the west, thinks of the eastern United States

as one vast paved-over region full of contiguous city stretching at least from

Boston to Richmond and perhaps all the way down.

None of the country is ancient to human beings, particularly those whose

ancestors came from Europe, but in comparative terms the east coast of the U.S.

is "old," with a history of settlement ranging from nearly five hundred years in

Florida to going on four hundred years in the original Thirteen. It seems

inconceivable to both westerners and Europeans, and even many eastern city

dwellers, that anything could remain relatively unspoiled after so long.

Yet, in fact, much of even such states as New York and Pennsylvania are actually

wilderness, with almost all the people bunched up on opposite sides of the

state, and even some of the smaller ones like New Hampshire and Vermont have

comparatively vast areas of unspoiled wilderness. Black bear still roam the

Pennsylvania hills in season, and deer threaten to overrun southern' New Jersey;

every time the cougar is declared extinct in the northern states one will

miraculously make an appearance. They've declared that animal extinct north of

Florida at least twenty times in the past fifty years.

The northern half of Pennsylvania is a vast and mostly unspoiled forest land

through which Interstate 80 carries traffic from the metropolis port of New York

in the east out to Ohio and then all the way to San Francisco, but through

Pennsylvania it finds little civilization. People are there, all right, but not

many of them, and they are scattered in small towns like Bellfonte and Liverpool

with nary a Philadelphia or Pittsburgh to be seen.

Penn State University, in fact, is probably one of the more isolated major

universities in the country. Not even I-80 comes too near, and it sits in Happy

Valley surrounded by stark mountains and a northern climate, often nearly

unreachable in mid-winter, its tens of thousands of students having to content

themselves with the small town of State College and a few others nearby who

exist only to serve them. The only other industry of note is the State Pen, the

counterpoint of Penn State (although many locals claim to have problems

differentiating the two), and because of its isolation and the climate around a

very difficult one to successfully get out of by other than legal means. You

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might escape, but after that you'd stick out like a sore thumb and it would be

very difficult to get away.

Some areas do have farms; either truck farms for the University and other small

towns; mostly, or breeding farms for dairy cattle and horses. On one such farm,

even more isolated than most and off any main roads, concealed by forest and

mountains, there stands a particular thick grove of trees and in the center of

that grove a very strange area with a high fence around it. It's not much to

look at, even inside, if you get past the warnings from the electric company, or

so it is stated, warning of high voltage dangers. In the middle is a

cistern-like cavity made of smooth, virgin concrete that has almost a

marble-like texture. It goes down perhaps ten feet, with an old and rusty ladder

to the bottom, but, once down, it doesn't look like much of anything, either.

Just a lot of crud and no outlet and no panels or anything else.

In fact, the only unusual thing about it is that even in the dead of winter the

immediate area of the concrete has no snow. It simply won't lay there, as if the

entire thing is heated-although if you dared it is cold to the touch-and there

is no water at the bottom as if there is some sort of concealed and clever

drain. Where the water goes and where the heat comes from is not apparent, and

there are few clues.

A driver on the nearby main road is going along listening to the local rock

station, on his way in to town for something or other, and suddenly there is a

bad burst of static that continues, going in and out, making the listening

experience unpleasant. He tries a few other stations and finds the same thing

happening, and curses, but within two minutes the effect is gone. Atmospherics,

he thinks, grumbling, and forgets about it.

The pulses, however, come from the recessed well concealed on the farm, and they

have determined that no one is within the grove at this time. This feeds a

signal back-somewhere-and, inside that concrete urn, something begins to happen.

It begins with a crackling noise, and the slight smell of ozone, and then a beam

of remarkably solid-looking blue-white light shoots up from the center, so sharp

and exact that it appears to be almost a pole that can be picked up. It shimmers

slightly, then bends once, twice, three times, as if on hinges, until it is now

a square. In the immediate area there is the sound of heavy but unseen

machinery, and the ground vibrates slightly.

The square appears to fold in upon itself and now there are two squares, then

they do it again and there is a cube, suspended just above the concrete floor

and slightly angled, the sides shimmering and glassy yet impenetrable. Then one

facet shimmers and a figure steps through; the figure of a man ill-dressed for

this climate and this weather. He is of medium height, darkly handsome, and he

is dressed in white tie and tails, including spats, although the outfit looks

not only out of place but rather wrinkled and the worse for wear.

He glances nervously around, then sees the ladder and heads for it, climbing up

with quick and confident purpose as if the demons of hell might pop out of the

cube at any moment themselves. At the top, he's somewhat stunned to see deep

snow and then a high fence, but he does not consider turning around. The spats

will have to get wet.

The cold, raw wind hits him in spite of the protection of the trees, but he is

already studying the fence, Finally he decides, takes off his jacket, and throws

it up so that it lands over the barbed wire. Then he concentrates and leaps,

pulling himself up by his fingers, reaches the top, then falls over into the

deep snow on the other side.

The cube emits more crackling noises, and he picks himself up fast. The jacket

is impaled on the barbs but it's down enough on the outside that he can reach

its bottom, and he pulls on it and it comes free, with an unpleasant tearing

sound. He needs far more than the jacket in this country at this time of year,

but he does not want to leave evidence that here is where he got off.

It's growing quite dark in the winter afternoon, which suits him in spite of the

temperature that might well freeze him and will certainly frostbite him if he

doesn't get someplace warm fast. The snow is less an obstacle for its depth and

chill than for its virginity; perhaps the darkness will hide his, tracks.

Laboriously, the man makes his way through the depths to the open field beyond

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and looks around. There is little to see except up on the hill perhaps a quarter

mile away. A large Georgian style house along with a barn, silo, and stables,

lights on both inside the house and floodlighting the grounds is the only

civilization in view. He heads for it as fast as he can, and now he really

begins to feel the horrible cold.

Heading straight for the house in the deep snow takes him a good twenty minutes,

and only willpower is keeping him going at this point. Breaking into the plowed

area in front of the house with its solid packed rock-hard base he trips and

falls, and struggles back to his feet. Only a few yards to the porch, only a few

yards to the door . . .

He makes it, leaning against the door, and pounds on it with what little

strength he has left. For a few precious moments there is no answer, and then he

pounds again, knowing that time for him is running out.

Inside the house a woman's muffled voice can be heard muttering, "Keep your

shirt on, damn it. I'm comin' as fast as I can."

The door opens and he is face to face with a portly black woman of medium height

with thick glasses and a totally confused expression as she sees him.

"What the hell is you?" she mutters, not afraid but startled.

"Pardon, Madam," he responds, in an elegant upper class London accent tempered

by a crackling voice and total exhaustion. "The name is Bond. James Bond."

And then the stranger collapses half inside her door.

Doctor Macklinberg shook his head in wonder and closed the door to the guest

bedroom as he exited into the hall. She looked at him quizzically. "Well?"

He shrugged. "Bad exposure. He should be in a hospital right now but you know

why we can't do that. Stripping him and getting him into the hot tub in the

basement was a brilliant reaction. He still might lose some toes or perhaps

worse-I can't tell this soon-but if he pulls through it will be because of your

quick thinking."

"I come in this house out of the storm and stripped and jumped in that thing

myself to thaw out too many times not to think of it," she responded. "You know

who he said he was?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, he's mumbled it several times to me."

She fumbled and then got out his wallet. "Says so in here, too. London address,

bunch of cards for fancy clubs over half the world, a couple of credit cards on

European banks, and a fair amount of these." She handed him some very large

bills. He took them and frowned.

"Pound notes with King Charles VI on them. Fascinating. Our Charles would only

be the third, I think. That's not him, though. I wonder if the Stuarts still

rule our Mister Bond's England? I wonder what else they rule?"

She shrugged. "I never pay much attention to that kind of thing. The main thing

is that he's not from the here and now and that means he came in through the

substation and he did it without settin' off no alarms in the house here or in

Stan's security office."

"You been down there?"

"Uh uh. Not with Sam in Philadelphia and everybody else checkin' out everything.

Hell, I got a kid I can't leave, Doc. You know that. Stan got down there,

though. The station wasn't active but it was a hot area, and the snow all around

was all crudded up. Looks like he used his coat over the barbed wire. Parts of

it are stall stickin' there."

"Well, the barbed wire was probably the least of his problems. He has several

gashes in him as well, all fairly new and some fairly deep, like he'd been stuck

by all sorts of nasty, sharp knives. He's been through a lot tonight, that's for

certain."

She nodded. "Well, Stan's gonna go in and send a message up the line to Company

Security, and I already called it in to Bill in Philadelphia while you was in

there. It's gonna leave me short-handed, though. They got a pretty mean storm in

the east right now and it's socked in Sam by air or road. With Stan going up

line that leaves only three of us here on the grounds tonight."

Macklinberg sighed. "I wish I could just stay with him but I'm on call tonight

at the hospital. I have three women in labor now and what with the insurance

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thing I'm the only one around at the moment willing to deliver their kids.

Ordinarily I'd send a nurse over or maybe a resident but I can't chance what

this fellow might say if he starts babbling or comes out of it. He's definitely

scared of something, though, and if he's anything at all like his fictional

counterpart he doesn't scare easily. I've given him what I can to help him

along-antibiotics, that sort of thing-but I didn't dare give him a sedative even

though, God knows, that's what he needs. I thought that if he came out of it

you'd want to know what it was all about right away."

She nodded. "Thanks, Doc. I think I can handle it here. But I got to think about

how unusual short we are 'round here tonight and then this guy just comes in on

us like this. I'm gonna put the security system on full tonight, and I'll call

you at the hospital if there's any change. O.K.?"

"Good idea. But if you need me, call the service and they'll beep me. I may or

may not be at the hospital at any given time." He paused, then said, "As soon as

possible he should be moved out of here and to medical facilities better than

anything we can offer him. He's certainly going to lose some toes and both feet

are in some danger. I've shot him full of every antibiotic I have but sooner or

later we'll have to face treating that frostbite, and the only thing I could do

here is amputate. For now, no walking. Keep him in bed. The painkillers should

keep him out a while and I've left some pills just in case, but you never know.

Someone like him . . . You know, I saw Goldfinger sixteen times."

She grinned. "I met this type before, Doc. They don't ever live up to their

billing. He's probably a pencil pusher in MI-5 with a wife and nine kids who'd

be horrified to read the books them writers made up about him here."

She saw him to the door, then sighed and went back and put on a pot of coffee,

then turned on the alarm system and notified Diane in the security shack. It was

gonna be a looong night.

She sat with the man for a while, but that soon became very boring, and while he

was still out he was restless, would occasionally twist or thrash about, and he

kept mumbling things. She went and found a voice-activated tape recorder and set

it up beside him, then threw the intercom on. She then went down the hall to

Dash's room and checked on him-still out, and a good thing, too-and switched off

the intercom in the boy's room so he wouldn't be awakened by ghastly meanings

and strange utterances coming out of the speaker. Then she went downstairs, got

some more coffee and a piece of chocolate cake, and settled in the family room

to watch TV off the satellite dish.

Never once fails, she thought sourly as she looked through the listings and

paged through the satellite channels via the remote control. A hundred damn

channels and when you got to sit and watch somethin' there still ain't nothin'

good on TV!

The fact was, she was often up late, and always had trouble sleeping. The dreams

and the nightmares were just too great, particularly when Sam wasn't here.

Dash helped. He was a beautiful child and he was growing up smart but spoiled

rotten, but she didn't care. She'd been frightened to death that he'd be damaged

somehow, considering what horrors her body had been through and considering that

they'd had to have a special operation just to let her have him. Sam claimed

that his only worry was that all black Jewish kids would look like Sammy Davis,

Jr., and when Dash looked right handsome he'd stopped the worries. But he still

was busy, and that meant he was away a lot. Security consultant to the Company,

they called it. They designed a security system for most anything and then he'd

come in and blow holes in it, sometimes literally. It sounded like fun, but she

couldn't bring herself to go back through the Labyrinth, not unless she had to.

The memories were just too strong, the fears severe, even after years had

passed.

She could still remember seeing part of Sam's head get blown off from raiders up

top in a cube and she didn't feel confident any more. But the worst fear was the

juice, the alien drug from some world so far up the line it didn't even have an

official name that gave exquisite pleasure at the cost of slavery to it. Even

though she'd been hooked by the nastiest bastards ever to attack the Company and

against her will, and even though she'd gone through torture and long treatments

to beat it, the memory still lingered. Once you were on it you'd degrade

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