“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?