Mirrored Heavens ar-1

by David J. Williams

  “And what about you, Lynx?”

  “What about me?”

  “What are you going to do while I’m out on the run?”

  “The same thing I’ve been doing, Carson. Keep on worming my way through this apple’s core.”

  “Am I coming back here?”

  “If I find something worth running you back in for.”

  “And when do you contact me again?”

  “When you’ve taken out the target. Here’s my one piece of advice, Carson. Don’t make it personal.”

  “You’re really funny,” says the Operative.

  “Go,” says Lynx.

  And the Operative’s gone.

  * * *

  T ake a man. Take what price you can get for him. Get that man to gather data until he’s earned his passage home. See, there are some who crave information for political or military advantage. There are some who want it to further the cause. But you know better. At the end of the day, data dances to the beat of the markets. They’re all that matters.

  Until an interloper comes calling…

  Warbling rips through the dark. It’s the incoming line.

  It wakes Spencer up.

  He looks around. The walls press up around him. The light next to his head is glowing red in time with the signal of the incoming line. Spencer reaches to the switch, flips it.

  “Hello,” he says.

  He hears a series of clicks. Clickclickclick. Then—

  “Lyle Spencer,” says a voice.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “It’s four-thirty right now. You’d—”

  “Exactly,” says Spencer. “It’s four-thirty. Good-bye—”

  “No,” says the voice. And there’s something in it that makes Spencer pause. “You’d better get dressed. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “An hour? Here? Who do you think you are?”

  “More important thing is who you are, Spencer. And what you’re doing in the U.S.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re hilarious. But you might still save yourself by staying exactly where you are.”

  “Who are you?”

  “If you want to find out, all you gotta do is wait. And if you do anything else, you’re nowhere near as smart as I’ve been hoping.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Tell me that in person.” The line goes dead.

  Spencer doesn’t waste time. He’s already seen that the call hasn’t registered. He runs his hand across what’s left of his hairline, feels for a point behind his right ear. He slots wires, jacks in—lets his mind plunge down into the endless architecture of the U.S. zone. He darts back and forth amidst countless conduits. He can’t find a trace of the call. He could opt for more intensive measures. He could kick down doors. But not without increasing the risk of exposing his own position.

  Though clearly that position’s been exposed to someone. He jacks out, watches zone wink out all around him. He retains its frozen image in his head while he plays with strategies and replays the voice recording at about triple the speed. Then at normal. Then at fifty percent. The voiceprints swim on the screens on his walls. The implications cluster on the ones in his head. But they hold nothing concrete.

  He shakes his head as though to clear it. He pads to the kitchenette, throws some switches. He runs some water, starts grinding beans. He could just let the machine take care of it. But right now he feels like doing it himself. So he thinks and lets the coffee percolate.

  When it’s done, he walks to the window. A whisper from him, and the blinds are opening slightly. Red glow suffuses the room. The towers of Minneapolis gleam. He watches the lights, sips the coffee while he sifts through issues. If this were the federals, they’d be kicking in his door. They wouldn’t be bothering with this bullshit. But if not the federals…then who? Spencer’s never met a free agent inside North America before. If that’s who it is. But if it is, they must have some kind of maneuverability.

  But now he hears something.

  It’s coming from the corridor outside his door. He goes motionless. It’s been a lot less than an hour. A light chime wafts through the room as the doorbell sounds.

  Spencer moves to the closet, retrieves his pistol. He cocks it. He creeps to the door, presses himself up against the wall beside it. He triggers the voice-switch.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Lemme in,” says the voice that Spencer’s only heard once in his life before.

  “Sure,” says Spencer. He checks the image on the screen. There’s nothing there. Just empty corridor.

  “Hurry up,” says the voice.

  “Hold on,” says Spencer. “Lights,” he adds. The stretch of corridor outside his conapt is filled with glow. The corridor’s still empty. Spencer flips the manual switch for the conapt’s lights and sets them on low.

  “Stop fucking around,” says the voice.

  “Open,” says Spencer.

  The door opens.

  A man enters the room. He’s Spencer’s height, but he’s got a lot more bulk. None of it looks to be fat. He wears a unistretch jumpsuit. His hair’s cropped close about his head. His face borders on the wizened. The eyes retract deep into the crevasses of the skin that folds about them. They seem to live in a way that the rest of that face does not. Spencer takes all this in in an instant. He keeps the pistol pointed at the man. The door slides shut.

  “Lyle Spencer,” says the man. He grins, but it’s not much of one. “You alone?”

  “I will be when I pull this trigger.”

  “That’s the kind of talk that makes me edgy.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “Look,” says the man. “If I meant you harm, I wouldn’t have given you warning.”

  “I’m really not interested in your assurances, my man,” says Spencer. He extends the arm that’s holding the pistol, raises it up toward the level of the man’s head. “What interests me is what you’re trying to pull. You call me unannounced in the middle of the night. On a line that turns out to be completely stealth. Now you’re standing in my apartment uninvited. In another moment you’ll be bleeding from a head wound unless you tell me exactly what you want.”

  “Name’s Linehan,” says the man. “I’m here to help you.”

  “No you’re not,” says Spencer. “You’re either here to arrest me, or you’re about to get me arrested. It’s one or the other.”

  “Actually,” says the man mildly, “it’s neither.”

  “In that case, I’ll say it one last time, and I promise it’ll be the last thing you ever hear if you don’t start talking sense. What do you want?”

  “To lower the risks to both of us. Look, let me tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want you to alert the authorities. I don’t wanna make you think like I’m gonna let you pull that trigger. And if it so happens that you somehow pull it off—there’s information out there that will live beyond me.”

  “Information about what?”

  “The Priam Combine.”

  “The who?”

  “Spencer, you really don’t want me to answer that question. Because I’d say something like profit-taking Euro vultures who spy on everybody and their fucking dog. And then I’d throw in something about how I would have thought that Priam’s agents were way too smart to try to play dumb with me.”

  “Where’d you find this information?”

  “Never you mind where I found it. But I’ll tell you where I’ve put it. Out in the zone. With orders to grow some legs and start moving unless I keep reminding it not to.”

  “And you think you can use this to control me?”

  “I had in mind a little influence.”

  “Please.”

  “Was lucky you were home, Spencer,” says Linehan, looking around. “You’re often not. I said to myself, probably a fifty-fifty chance he’s here. When I found myself in the Midwest in the middle of it all, I thought, let’s see what Spencer’s up
to. Good old Spencer. But not so good if he’s up north on one of his junkets for some surveying operation. Hell of a cover, Spencer. Does it really get you good information?”

  Spencer doesn’t reply.

  “Pretty far north, Spencer,” says Linehan. “What’s it like up there? Flitcar all the way to Hudson, mining tractors rumbling, fires through the Canadian night, American military bases everywhere—you can see a long way out there, can’t you?”

  “Sure you can,” says Spencer.

  “Well, see—that’s my problem. I can see a long way too. I can see it coming from a long way. I can see it. But I can’t move.” He paces to the window as he’s talking.

  “Stay away from that window,” says Spencer. Linehan turns. “Listen,” says Spencer. “I’ve had about enough of this. You’ve done nothing but threaten me, you’ve told me nothing, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you keep talking without saying a thing. What’s this all about?”

  “A bargain.”

  “This I can’t wait to hear,” says Spencer.

  “A deal, Spencer. You’re gonna get me out of this country. And if you don’t, I’ll turn you in to the authorities. What I hear, they got a real hard-on for limey data thieves rummaging through their Dumpsters.”

  “That’s your bargain?”

  “No, that’s my stick. I also got a carrot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What’s in my head.”

  “What makes you think I care about what’s in your head?”

  “Could be very valuable to your career, Spencer.”

  “My career? What the hell do you take my career to be?”

  Linehan smirks. “Not that that career needs any help. Senior consultant at defense contractor TransNorthern. Make managing director in another couple years if you hurry. You’re one fancy guy, Spencer. Your road’s lined with rose petals. Maybe even ones that have been grown. I’m surprised you’re living in a place as small as this.”

  “I have a larger one up north,” says Spencer.

  “Of course you do,” says Linehan. “Now look. Let’s get some things straight. I don’t give a shit why you’re making like a suit. Why you’ve been worming your way up the TransNorthern hierarchy. I don’t care what kind of cover it serves. I don’t care what Priam’s doing here. None of that interests me in the slightest. What interests me is that you can get me across the border.”

  “I can get myself across the border,” says Spencer. “What am I supposed to do with you, put you in my fucking luggage?”

  “Pack a big enough crate and sure. Listen, Spencer. I don’t care what the plan is, as long as you convince me it’s a good one. It had better be creative, though. It had better be resourceful.”

  “And in return?”

  “Told you that already. Information.”

  “Of what nature?”

  “It’s very difficult to explain that without telling you everything.”

  “So tell.”

  “So no. Your motivation to help me would be at an end.”

  “It may be already.”

  “I doubt it,” says Linehan. “Listen, Spencer, all I can say for now is that it’s worth it. That it’ll pay off your stint in the States and then some.”

  Spencer looks at him. “Does it involve Autumn Rain?”

  “Everything that’s anything involves Autumn Rain right now. I’m hardly gonna claim distinction for what I’ve got on that basis.”

  “You and everybody else,” says Spencer. “Anyone can say they have something if they don’t have to show a thing. This is nothing. And you’re even less.”

  “Easy, Spencer. Easy. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “You’re thinking that if you killed me now, and got inside my head for real, you might be able to keep the feds from learning about you—and learn whatever it is I’ve got cooking. You’re wrong on both counts. First of all, you couldn’t kill me. I’m tougher than I look. Second, even if you beat the odds, you wouldn’t beat the acid that’s gonna nail my brain the moment my blood stops showing up. You wouldn’t salvage a thing. Least of all my codes.”

  “You’re thinking I’m thinking a lot.”

  “So here’s something else to think about. A present. Just to show you I’m serious.”

  “Namely?”

  “Namely this.” Linehan reaches into one of his pockets—“Easy,” he says as Spencer tenses. He takes something out, places it on the table. Spencer can see that it’s a chip.

  “What’s on it?”

  “What’s on it,” says Linehan, “is the production outputs for the United States’ farside mining operations. The real ones, Spencer. Not the ones they publish. Not the ones they claim. The genuine article.”

  “If that’s true, that’s worth—”

  “A fortune on the neutral markets? For you, it’s free. Check it out, Spencer. See for yourself.”

  And Spencer does. He keeps the gun trained on Linehan, picks up the chip as though it will turn hot and burn at any moment. He slots it into a space that suddenly opens in his index finger. He downloads it into secure storage: a part of his software that’s modularized from the rest, thereby allowing him to see the readouts without compromising himself with a download that’s potentially tainted. Numbers stream through his skull. He can’t see if they hold everything that Linehan’s promised.

  But he can see enough.

  “Alright,” he says. The numbers fade out, replaced by Linehan’s mirthless grin. “Looks like you’ve got something here.”

  “More than just something, Spencer. I reckon that little chip will get you most of your remaining distance to the quota Priam’s set for you. Maybe more.”

  “You know about the quotas?”

  “Of course I know about the quotas. I know they’re all your masters care about. I know your quota’s the difference between your being set up for life in Europe and trapped forever in the States. But what you need to know is that if you play ball with me, no one will ever talk to you about quotas again.”

  “Where’d you get this, Linehan?”

  “Looking in places I wasn’t supposed to.”

  “I’m sure. My answer’s still no.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What more do you want?”

  “How about something realistic? Look, you’ve got something going on here. I’m convinced. I’ll do what I can for you. I can get you to the coast. But a border run is something else entirely. It’s hard enough with one. Two would make it suicide.”

  “Not if Priam took it seriously.”

  “It’s not a question of what Priam takes seriously. It’s a question of ten million klicks of sensors. It’s a question of satellites scanning everything that moves. It’s ocean. How are we going to get you past that?”

  “It’s not foolproof. No border is. You know that, Spencer.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “Then shoot me now, you listless fuck. Come on and try it. Or how about if I just call the feds and tell them to swing on by and collect us both. Look, am I saying it’s gonna be easy? Fuck no. I’ve lived the life too, Spencer. I’m living it now. That’s how I beat a trail to your door without leaving any fucking footprints. Zone prowess, right? Something I know you know all about. That’s how I’m staying one step ahead of all those hounds.”

  “Who do you think is after you?”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You don’t count. You’re nobody. No offense.”

  “And what are you?”

  “Already told you what I am. An asset.”

  “An asset to what?”

  “To you. To your life—let’s hope so. To my life—for sure. I aim to keep on living.”

  “And for how long have you been prolonging it?”

  “A few thousand klicks and a few score hours.”

  “How hard are they looking for you?”<
br />
  “Hard enough to damn me,” says Linehan.

  “And now you’ve damned me too.”

  “You gotta admit you’re intrigued, Spencer.”

  “Of course I’m intrigued. I’m also fighting the urge to put one straight between your eyes.”

  “Spencer, look at it this way. I can appreciate that you haven’t got the warm fuzzies for me. But try to put yourself in my position. Don’t think of this as blackmail. Think of it as a business offer.”

  “I’ll think whatever I like.”

  “Sure you will. But while you’re at it—keep in mind that what I’m proposing to give you will let you write your own ticket. It’ll catapult Priam to the top of the data-combines. It’ll vault you straight up into Priam’s rafters. Which surely ought to make up for the fact that you don’t have an alternative.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “But have I sold you?”

  “More like you’ve sold me out. But I’ll play your game. I’ll take you across the fucking border. I’ll try to take you in one piece too. And then, so help me God, whatever you’ve got had better make the thing worth it.”

  “It’s a deal,” says Linehan. “How do you propose we do it?”

  “I propose we start by getting ourselves to the Mountain.”

  “Which sector?”

  “Old Manhattan.”

  “Works for me. When do we leave?”

  “Now.”

  T he ’copter’s been going for a while now. It’s left the Rockies behind. It’s well out over the western desert. Smoke billows far to the northeast. Haskell can’t see it. Marlowe can.

  “The prairie fires.”

  “Still burning?”

  “Still burning.”

  “Eight weeks now,” she says. She doesn’t take her eyes off her window.

  “Every year they flare longer past the summer,” he says.

  “Uh-huh,” she replies. She’s still not looking at him.

  “I think we should start talking,” he says.

  “About.”

  “What’s happening.”

  “What’s there to talk about.”