Mirrored Heavens ar-1

by David J. Williams

  “This is getting tight.”

  “Militia hotbeds,” says Marlowe.

  “So why are we going through them?”

  “Because they’ve got to peter out eventually.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because we’ve almost reached the Citadel.”

  From whose confines the U.S. props up one part of the fiction that’s called Brazil. Toward whose shelter Marlowe and his passenger are now racing. But now Marlowe’s picking up something on his screens. Something that he’s less than happy to see.

  To put it mildly.

  “Pursuit,” he says.

  “How far back?”

  “Couple klicks.”

  And closing. Suited Jaguars: there are several of them. Rising from the depths of city. Spread out in a wide formation. He can see their suits’ jets flaring. He can see rocket-propelled grenades streaking from their arms. He veers off at an angle, starts to weave in amidst the buildings.

  “Full-strength strike squad,” he says.

  “They must have tracked me,” says the razor.

  “They must have tracked me,” says Marlowe.

  “Sounds like we’ve both given them reasons to hate us.”

  “God I hope so.”

  “We need more speed.”

  Marlowe’s trying. He’s pouring it on. But he has to keep taking evasive action to avoid getting hit by the warring militias. He has to keep dodging. Which means he can’t go hell for leather on the straight. Which means they’re being overhauled.

  Quickly too.

  “Feed me your data,” says the razor.

  “Why?”

  “So I can help you help us.”

  “Fine.”

  If there’s something she can pull, he’s all for it. He sends her his armor’s signals. He senses her somehow reversing those signals. Suddenly she’s tapping into his comps. She’s right inside his head.

  “What the fuck!” He almost loses control, finds his gyros steadied by a mind that’s not his own.

  “I feel so close to you,” she replies. Her voice is emanating from in between his ears. It sounds amused.

  “Who asked you?” he says.

  “You,” she replies.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Using your brains,” she replies. “Or rather, your suit’s.”

  And she is. She’s commanding that processing power while Marlowe sends them flying ever farther upward. Her mind is meshed with his. And both minds can see that now the Jaguars are getting out on their flanks. Classic pincer movement. In a few more moments they’re going to close the noose.

  “One chance,” says Marlowe.

  “Agreed,” she says.

  They move together in the moment.

  Three men in a room that’s no ordinary room. Lights of controls play upon their faces. Lights of space play upon their minds. These three men know they should never have met. They know they shouldn’t be here. They know they should be well past the edifice that lurks outside.

  But there it is in the window anyway.

  “What do you think we should do?” asks Riley.

  “Who says we have to do anything?” replies the Operative.

  “Because that’s a military operation going on out there,” says Maschler. “Because we’re right in its vicinity.”

  “Precisely why we’re doing nothing that’ll call attention to ourselves,” says the Operative.

  “But it’s not like they can’t see us,” protests Maschler.

  “Exactly. We’re just one more piece of freight.”

  “If we wait ten more minutes, we’ll leave the window,” says Riley.

  “We’ll have to make our way around the planet again,” adds Maschler.

  “I don’t think you understand,” says the Operative. “Break for the Moon now, and those ships will break you into pieces.”

  “Are you sure?” says Riley.

  “How do you know?” says Maschler.

  “It’s what I’d do,” says the Operative simply.

  “But we have to do something,” says Maschler.

  There’s a flash in the window. All three men shift, pivot—do whatever they have to do to turn in the zero-G toward it. They see the problem immediately. Something’s just exploded nearby. The screens show beams of light stabbing forth from the Elevator. Another ship detonates even as they watch. The telescoping cameras take it all in—take in ships maneuvering across space, taking evasive action, doing whatever they have to do to render themselves more difficult to hit. From points elsewhere, directed energy lashes back at the Elevator. The cannonade stops.

  The maneuvering continues.

  “Yeah,” says the Operative. “I guess staying here’s a little problematic.”

  “That’s what we’ve been telling you,” says Riley.

  “Current orbit’s not going to get us out of here quick enough,” says the Operative, as though Riley hadn’t spoken.

  “Who the fuck is on that thing?” says Maschler.

  “Shall I hit the gas?” asks Riley.

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” says the Operative.

  “What do you mean?” says Riley.

  “What the hell are you on?” asks Maschler.

  “All sorts of things,” says the Operative evenly. “But what I said a moment ago still applies. Start this bitch up, and our boys will finish you forever.”

  “Then what the fuck are you suggesting we do?”

  “We’re going to do nothing,” says the Operative. They look at him. Maschler starts to splutter protest. The Operative holds up a hand to silence him.

  “But as for me,” he adds, “I’m going to make a call.”

  The mech changes course while Haskell starts raising hell with the suits of the strike squad. She slots herself in along now-familiar code-routes. She starts running interference on the pursuers’ comlinks. And while she does, she and the mech are veering toward a building that’s been subjected to heavy shelling. They streak through a hole in the building’s side and into shattered halls. They burn through corridors, take down doors. They brake, turn, charge on up into elevator shafts, climbing as fast as his motors will let them. Haskell clings tight. She feels minds out there writhing, feels walls surging past her. They brake to a halt in front of more doors, smash them down, break out of the shaft—hurtle down more corridors, find another opening, race back out into the city.

  Catching the flank of the strike squad unprepared. Two suits, both within a quarter-klick: the mech’s firing out along a broad front. He blasts one with armor-piercing rounds from his wrist-guns. He shreds the other’s helmet with his minigun. He flies on past the tumbling bodies, pours on the speed. And while he does so, Haskell’s putting pressure on the rest.

  “How’s it looking?”

  “Fucked two more of their suits,” she says. “The rest have disabled their links.”

  “But they’re still intact.”

  “That would be a safe assumption.”

  Or at least the working one. They keep on burning upward. They figure they’ve bought themselves a few more seconds. And they’re pretty much within the Citadel’s outer perimeter now, moving in between the lesser hedgehogs. They should be safe.

  Only they clearly aren’t. There are still militia all around. And disconcertingly little combat. In fact, most of the militia don’t even really seem to be fighting. They just seem to be moving. In the exact same direction that Haskell and the mech are going. They’re driving their vehicles along the ramped skyways. They’re flying their ’copters at full tilt. Haskell and the mech are weaving in and out of the really dense areas, using the smoke to provide all the cover it’s worth.

  But now the space around them is beginning to broaden and the smoke up ahead’s clearing. The sky itself is coming into view.

  So is the Citadel.

  “Oh Jesus,” says Haskell.

  “Doesn’t matter,” replies the mech. “We’re not stopping.”

&nb
sp; They streak in toward it.

  The Elevator’s center is more than two thousand klicks above the Earth. Which means it orbits at a slower rate than do ships at the level of the Antares. Now that it’s got all its brakes on maximum, that delta’s increased even further. It’s moving out of the cockpit window, falling behind.

  But as far as the Operative is concerned, it’s still way too close for comfort.

  “Don’t bother calling,” says Maschler. “Communications are fucked.”

  “When did you lose them?” asks the Operative.

  “We never did,” says Riley.

  “Stop talking riddles,” snaps the Operative.

  Maschler shrugs. “All we’ve got is mission control on automatic feed. It’s not like we’re in touch with anything that’s up for conversation. All we’ve got is just updates every minute confirming our position.”

  “And the order to stand by for translunar injection,” says Riley.

  “But no order to initiate the burn,” says Maschler.

  “We’ve tried to raise the emergency channels,” adds Riley. “They’re not responding. No one is. We’ve asked for clarification of the situation. We’ve received nothing.”

  “Let me try,” says the Operative. “Key in whatever codes you need to give me access.”

  He couldn’t pick up shit earlier. But that was when he was back in the bowels of the ship. Now he can pipe directly into the ship’s own lines. He can commandeer the main comlinks. He can raise Earth directly.

  So he does. Wireless signals dart out from within his skull, words wrapped within codes that vector through the ship’s mainframe before streaking out into vacuum. The Operative plays with the frequencies, fine-tunes the direction of the dishes on the hull.

  Somewhere on the planet something hears him.

  “Get off this line,” says a voice. It echoes in the Operative’s head: a growl shot through with static. The weight of atmosphere hangs heavy on the words.

  “I’m using the channel I’ve been instructed to use in case of contingency,” replies the Operative. He chooses his words carefully. His lips aren’t moving. Neural implants are doing all the work. “I’m following my orders. You can see my position.”

  “I can,” says the voice. “What do you want?”

  “I want confirmation of this ship’s original flight plan to be relayed to its pilots.”

  “We can’t do that,” says the voice.

  “Why not?” says the Operative.

  “Because it’s out of our hands. You’ve got a real knack for timing, Carson. The place is in lockdown up there. You’re smack-dab in the middle of the largest joint U.S.-Eurasian operation ever conducted.”

  “So the East really is involved.”

  “What did you expect? The Elevator’s joint property, isn’t it?”

  “What’s happened to it?” asks the Operative.

  “Hostiles have seized it,” says the voice.

  “No kidding,” says the Operative dryly. He pauses. Then: “Who are we talking about here?”

  “That,” says the voice, “is the question that I’m going to have to cut you off to get back to.”

  “So it’s not the Jaguars,” says the Operative.

  “Whoever it is is coordinating with them,” says the voice. “That’s the operating assumption. But we’re having a hard time believing they’re the ones who’ve managed to get aboard that thing. We recommend you hold tight for now. If the situation deteriorates, take whatever measures you have to in order to preserve the mission. But as long as the situation’s stable, stay put.”

  “You’ve got a funny definition of the word stable,” says the Operative.

  But the presence in his head has disappeared. The voice is gone. The Operative’s eyes refocus on the cockpit. He takes in the faces of Maschler and Riley.

  “You okay?” says Maschler.

  “Sure,” says the Operative.

  “Did you get through?”

  “Sure,” says the Operative.

  “And?”

  “And nothing.”

  “Nothing,” says Maschler.

  “Nothing?” asks Riley.

  “You get used to it,” says the Operative.

  But what you don’t get used to is what these third-world cities are like in their rafters. It’s all dilapidated towers. It’s all smog all the time. But get high enough, and you might shake that smog yet. You might see the clouds burn red with the light of the dying sun. You might see them burn still redder with the flames from the dying Citadel.

  “Fuck,” says Marlowe.

  Half of the Citadel’s towers are no longer visible. Its ramps hang askew in air. All too many of its platforms are shattered.

  “So much for refuge,” says the razor.

  Yet as they rise past it, long sticks of light stab down from somewhere far overhead, shoot past them, and strike the complex below. Explosions flash out into the gathering dark. Towers topple into the murk that laps around them.

  “Those are our guns.”

  “Yes,” says Marlowe.

  “We’re killing our own side.”

  “Our own side’s already been killed. That place has been taken.”

  “So keep on climbing.”

  He accelerates. They leave the Citadel behind, rush upward toward sky and sanctuary.

  * * *

  The Elevator’s barely visible from the window anymore. But the cameras make up for everything the window lacks. The Elevator’s lowermost point is starting to glow. It’s hitting atmosphere. Far above, swarms of ships are closing.

  “How long before we leave the launch window?” asks the Operative.

  “Eleven minutes,” says Riley.

  The first ship touches. The telescoping lenses show power-suits clustering along that ship’s sides, pulling open doors, entering the Elevator. The cameras indicate that this is happening at fifty-klick intervals all along the structure. Half the ships involved show the Stars and Stripes. The others show different sets of stars. Marines from both superpowers: they’re going in.

  “They’ve done it,” says Riley.

  “They’re there,” says Maschler.

  “Prime the engines,” says the Operative.

  “I thought you said we weren’t going anywhere,” says Riley.

  “Never say never,” replies the Operative.

  Besides: priming isn’t the same as firing. The one enables the other. It doesn’t compel it. So now Maschler and Riley are swinging into action. They’re cycling fuel through the tanks, readying the trajectory, prepping everything they can. It gets their minds off the waiting.

  But not for long.

  “Who are they facing in there?” says Riley.

  “Have they issued demands?” says Maschler.

  “Now what would make you think I’d know a thing like that,” replies the Operative.

  “Well,” says Riley, “do you?”

  “I’d be guessing,” says the Operative.

  “Well,” says Maschler, “what’s your guess?”

  “My guess,” says the Operative, “is that there’s only one demand.”

  Maschler and Riley look at him.

  “Eat shit,” he says.

  Suddenly the cockpit lights up as though someone’s stuck a blowtorch right outside it. The cameras show nothing save flash. The screens go haywire. Half of them show critical malfunctions. The other half are blank.

  “We’ve got a problem,” says Riley calmly.

  “The Elevator’s gone,” says the Operative. “Give me heavy blast.”

  “Got it,” says Maschler. He’s back in his seat, wrestling with the controls. So is Riley. Who looks up with consternation on his face.

  “Circuitry’s been fried,” he says.

  “EMP,” says the Operative.

  “EMP,” confirms Riley. “We’ve been swamped with fission.”

  “Fission,” mutters Maschler.

  “Shut up,” snarls the Operative. “Switch to redundant syste
ms.”

  “They’d be burned too,” says Maschler.

  “Better pray that’s not so,” says the Operative.

  “Surely it’s safer if we just hold course,” says Maschler. “The blast’s already hit us.”

  “He’s right,” says Riley. “The radiation’s already soaked us. It’s already done whatever damage it can. So what the fuck does it matter if we move now?”

  “You’re failing to take into account one thing,” says the Operative.

  He gestures at the window, at the space where the Elevator was. At the space where more explosions are appearing. Explosions of ships out there: ships getting struck by something that’s getting nearer.

  “Debris,” he whispers.

  * * *

  Twilight’s shredded by an overwhelming light. It blossoms through the eastern heavens. It’s turning what’s overhead into nothing save red. It’s turning the mech’s screens into nothing save static.

  “Fuck,” he says.

  “What are we in?” yells Haskell.

  What they’re in is armor that just got fucked. It’s sliding back down toward the city. The mech is fighting with the controls. So’s Haskell.

  “Allow me,” she says.

  “Have it your way,” he replies.

  Her way’s tough. The EMP penetrated the damaged armor in several places. Nine-tenths of its circuits have been knocked out. Haskell’s throwing together a network out of what’s left. She’s improvising. She’s firing thrusters. She’s clinging to the suit. She’s not stopping its fall.

  Just altering its direction.

  “The Citadel,” says the mech.

  “Only chance,” says Haskell.

  “It’s swarming with militia,” he says.

  “Who were being shelled by our space-to-grounders.”

  Meaning that maybe that militia isn’t crowding the topmost floors. Though what the story is with those space-to-grounders now is anybody’s guess. Because the sky itself is burning.

  “Keep your eyes on the ground,” yells Haskell. “I’m going to give this suit back to you in a second.”

  She’s not kidding. Though when she says ground she’s taking licenses. She’s swooping in toward one of the Citadel’s topmost ramps. She veers at it, hits the brakes—smacks straight into its surface. The suit skids, sprawls. Haskell reaches for her boot knife, slices through the tether that’s holding her in place. She pulls herself to her feet.