Mirrored Heavens ar-1

by David J. Williams

  Lot brighter, too. Turns out these guys are light hogs—they crank the illumination in compensation for their lack of sun. Technicians everywhere. Some suited. Some not. There are a fair number of soldiers. Ladders carve upward along the walls, lead to rows of shopfronts and businesses. Main drag, they call it—one lane for people walking and another for flitcars. Yet another for bona fide crawlers. And still another for thrusters.

  But the Operative’s just walking. He leaves the central grid behind, leads his conveyor down a side street. The walls and ceiling close in. The passage zigzags through the rock. The lights grow more sporadic. Graffiti covers at least half the doors. What’s left of the overhead lighting stutters fitfully. The low-rent sector: and hopefully someone’s been paying the rent on one room in particular…

  Someone has. The Operative triggers the lock, goes on in. It’s not much. Even less than what he had in Agrippa, in fact: just a cot and a wall-screen on one wall and a toilet on the other. Plus an incandescent coil overhead. The Operative flicks on the light. He unloads the conveyor and scrambles its memory before sending it on its way. He shuts the door, goes to work, starts opening containers.

  Five minutes later he’s standing in the suit. Its material clasps in around his legs, arms, torso. He hears his breath echoing hollowly. This suit looks like a typical miner’s outfit, though in truth it’s anything but. The Operative lets his weapons range upon his screens. He checks over all his systems.

  Suddenly he hears a voice between his ears.

  Not his either.

  T he twenty-first century wasn’t long in the coming before New York started to grow again. Refugees from the strife down south, immigrants fleeing the chaos abroad, fugitives from the rural as the combines took over, escapees from the shutdown of towns—and all such infusions intensified by a proliferation of birthrates across all demographics as the world grew more desperate and the mass of population grew poorer and the peasant mentality took over on the streets. Wasn’t just New York by that point, either. It was Newark and Boston and Philly all rolled into one thing that encompassed them all and piled on upward toward the heavens. Same story for so many other megacities. The Mountain isn’t even the biggest of them. But at the dawn of the twenty-second century, it’s the largest in the States by far. For five hundred klicks, it’s the Eastern Seaboard. For two hundred klicks inland, it’s the land itself.

  For those within, it’s the whole world.

  The two men exit the intercity at Grand Central, take a local from there. It blasts through the tube, sweeping recycled air before it. It stops three times, disgorging humans, taking them on. It stops a fourth time—and that’s their destination. Spencer and Linehan get out, rise on escalators that give way to a larger space—rivers of glass and steel, and all around: translucent tubes with people pouring through them, no ceiling in evidence save blur. The two men step off at the appointed platform. They pass along a ramp. They walk through a wide doorway.

  Suddenly they’re inside in a way they weren’t before. The hubbub of conversation has shifted from the fragmented roar of the streets to the more subdued burbling into which voices conscious of each other recede. They’re standing in a foyer. Plush carpeting, chandeliers hung overhead. Clerks and bellhops looking bored. Savoy Metropole. Second-rate hotel. First choice for them right now.

  Five minutes later they’re in a suite. Two bedrooms and a lounge: they sweep the whole place. They find nothing. They set up the surveillance inhibitors and repair to the lounge. They sort through the minibar, helping themselves to water and coffee. They put their feet back and look at each other.

  “Now what?” asks Linehan.

  “Now I make a call,” says Spencer.

  * * *

  Y ou’re alive,” says Haskell.

  “An astute observation,” says Morat. He remains seated in his chair. His hands perch lightly on the armrests. The merest outline of a smile hovers on his face.

  “How did you get out?” says Haskell.

  “I used the stairs.”

  “All eighty stories of them?”

  “Hardly,” says Morat. “Eight was about all I could take. And then I broke through a window.”

  “And flew?”

  “Why not? That’s how you got up the shaft, right? Like an angel speeding off to heaven, so they told me. You were lucky, Claire. Your mission failed. You fell. So did the sky. But you survived.”

  “Just barely,” says Haskell.

  “I’m not sure we’ve been introduced,” says Marlowe.

  “We haven’t,” replies Morat. He gazes at Marlowe without expression.

  “This is Morat,” mutters Haskell.

  “And who,” asks Marlowe, “is Morat?”

  “He’s an envoy,” says Morat.

  “And how do you know him?”

  “She knows me,” says Morat, “because I was almost the last thing she ever saw.”

  “And here I was thinking I’d seen you for the last time,” says Haskell.

  “Almost. But now I’m back.”

  “Why?”

  “Same reason anyone comes back. Because the job isn’t done.”

  “And that job would be?”

  “Handling you.”

  “Again?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we weren’t exactly a winning team?”

  “Ah,” says Morat, “but this time you have a real-live mech at your disposal.” He gestures at Marlowe.

  “Are you trying to bait me?” asks Marlowe.

  “Perhaps. Is it working?”

  “I think it just might be.”

  “So control it. You’re a mechanic. This lady is a razor. When you’re on the Moon, she’ll pull your strings. There’s no shame in that. There’s nothing wrong with compulsion. Particularly not when it’s mutual.”

  “What,” says Marlowe softly, “is it that you want?”

  “Reassurance,” says Morat. “Nothing more than that.” He stands up, steps to the window. “Look at that. Nothing like a genuine view to clarify one’s thinking. See those ships? Picture them falling back to Earth. The runways? Imagine them chopped to dust. That’s what Cabo Norte was like when the missiles hit her. The rockets toppled. The hangars collapsed. The fuel burned. It was inferno. Yet it was nothing—just the precursor to that which the Rain would visit upon us.”

  “We’ve heard this speech,” says Haskell.

  “It’s no speech,” says Morat. “Get that through your head. Tonight we’re on full alert. We’ve been that way for two days now. And there we’ll stay until we defeat the Rain or unleash upon the East or both. Think of a vehicle half driven off a cliff. It totters on that edge. Those within know that moving to save themselves could send them over. Yet they have to chance it anyway. Such is our dilemma. The difference being that we don’t even know in which direction the edge lies. We don’t even know whether we’re past the point of no return already.”

  “I think we steered over it about fifty years ago,” says Haskell.

  “Our planet might have,” says Morat. “We didn’t. We’ll live on. Even if we have to dwell in bunkers beneath the crust. Even if we have to lift the whole game into space.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what the Rain accuses us of doing?” asks Marlowe.

  “And there’s a certain justice in their charge,” replies Morat. “After all, we send up two more of our number tonight.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as your transport gets here.”

  “Hold on a second,” says Marlowe. “Sinclair told us the ship was already at Houston.”

  “He said it was fueling,” says Haskell.

  “It was,” says Morat. “And then it launched.”

  They look at him. He grins.

  “We needed it elsewhere at short notice,” he says. “We couldn’t wait. We improvised. We’re moving a B-130 up from Monterrey. You know this game—circumstances change too fast to count on them.”

  “But the destination
remains the same?”

  “It does. When the time to go comes, I’ll return to brief you. But for now, don’t leave this room.” He moves past them. The door opens as he approaches.

  “You’re talking like we’re in a war zone,” says Marlowe.

  “Exactly,” replies Morat.

  The door slides shut behind him.

  It’s just a voice. It’s no vid. Somehow the lack of visual makes that voice sound different. There’s no grin to underscore sardonic menace, no silver hair, no opticals to hint at all the lenses behind the eyes.

  There’s just Lynx.

  “Carson,” says the voice. “You’ve got it.”

  “You’re damn right I’ve got it,” says the Operative. “I’m in it right now.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  “So I noticed. Is this another download?”

  “No,” says Lynx, “it’s just the same old me.”

  “You’re talking to me live,” says the Operative. He watches the codes crystallize in front of him. They check out. Which is good.

  Or disastrous.

  “No,” says Lynx. “I’m guessing what you’re going to say. I’ve worked it all out in advance. I’m jacking off while I let this proxy do the talking.”

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

  “No,” says Lynx. “But I really am live, Carson. I really am here.”

  “Then you’re putting us both at risk. What are you playing at, Lynx?”

  “I haven’t been playing, Carson. I’ve been working. Hard. And yes, I’m taking a risk. I’m taking precautions too. I’m routing it through five different satellites. I’m running it through more end-arounds than I can count. It’s still a risk. But believe me, it’s worth it. I had to reach you.”

  “Why,” says the Operative.

  “There’s been a change of plan. Sarmax isn’t here after all.”

  “Say again?”

  “I think you heard me just fine.”

  “You’re saying I came down here for nothing?”

  “Not at all,” says Lynx. “He’s here. Just not here.”

  “You’re going to have to clarify that.”

  “Four hours ago, I was in possession of reliable intel to indicate that Sarmax was holed up at his company’s downtown HQ.”

  “Right,” says the Operative. “That was in the data you gave me.”

  “Exactly,” says Lynx.

  “Yeah,” says the Operative. “That was a pretty good rant you got on. I was eating it up. You must be wired higher than the L2 fleet.”

  “Sure,” says Lynx. “I’m wired higher than the L2 fleet. I’m wired to the point where I’m starting to shit metal. None of which changes the fact that Sarmax split this morning. You just missed him, Carson. But cheer up: he didn’t go very far.”

  “How far?”

  “Eighty klicks north.”

  “Which north?” says the Operative.

  “Farside north,” says Lynx. He supplies the coordinates.

  “What in shit’s name is there?”

  “One of his bases. Totally isolated. Totally fortified. Take a look at this.”

  The image flashes through the Operative’s head: “So when’s he coming back?”

  “He’s not.”

  “He’s staying there permanently?”

  “His soul’s not,” says Lynx.

  “Oh?”

  “His soul’s going to hit heaven without passing go.”

  “Say what?”

  “You know exactly what,” says Lynx. “You’re going to get in there and kill him.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I assure you I’m not.”

  “How the fuck am I going to get in there?”

  “Calm down,” says Lynx.

  “I am calm,” says the Operative.

  “Good,” says Lynx. “Because I’m not. I’ve been too far gone in the dark for too long to be in the mood to listen to your bitching. So now you listen to me, Carson. I’ve got the location of the target. The mission says you take out that target. And that’s the end of the discussion.”

  “End of the discussion? End of the discussion? Jesus Christ, Lynx. It’s the beginning of the fucking discussion, that’s what it is.”

  “Is that a fact,” says Lynx.

  “It’s not just a fact,” says the Operative, “it’s a fundamental fucking truth. Listen to me, Lynx. I’ve already had a goddamn nuke go off next to my head. I’ve already had to stay busy staying out of the bullseye of whole racks of strategic weaponry. Last thing I want to do now is to get my ass turned into cannon fodder just because you don’t have the balls to tell anyone above us that the plan has been rendered absurd by events on the ground.”

  “You’re right,” says Lynx. “For once you’re right, Carson. I don’t have the balls to tell them that. And I definitely don’t have the balls to tell them that my mech doesn’t have the balls to do what he’s told. That’s going to reflect badly on me. It’s going to make them question my abilities. Even after they’ve crucified you for insubordination.”

  “Nobody’s talking about insubordination,” says the Operative.

  “Really,” says Lynx. “Because that’s what it’s sounding like to me.”

  “That’s because you’re not listening,” says the Operative. “Mech to razor: calling a plan crazy isn’t insubordination. Insubordination is disobeying orders. Which I haven’t done. Not yet, anyway. Though I have to admit I’m awfully tempted when I find that the razor holding my leash is my old pal Lynx, who’s apparently still just as fucking nuts as he was half a decade back, and apparently still lacing himself with every chemical he can lay his mitts on. Come on, man. There’s too much history here. This is vendetta road. It leads nowhere.”

  “No,” says Lynx. “It’s the only way that I can see.”

  “The only way that you can see.”

  “Sure, me. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it sounds like you’re the one who thought this whole thing up.”

  “I am the one who thought this whole thing up, Carson. Christ, I thought you knew that. Razor’s prerogative—razor’s burden. Sarmax is just the means I’ve selected to reach the ends I’ve been given. They gave me the overall objective. They gave me a map to this whole goddamn rock. They told me to get in there and think up a plan.”

  “Which just happens to involve the elimination of the only guy crazy enough to call you crazy to your face.”

  “You don’t have the big picture, Carson.”

  “The picture that whatever’s in your veins gives you?”

  “The picture you can’t hope to touch. Millions of light-years, Carson. Chains of logic so far out they’ve done the red-shift. Don’t even think about trying to follow me.”

  “Then don’t make me. Just give me a sense as to how this whole thing fits together. Fuck, man. So far you’ve given me fuck-all. You’ve spent all that time in your own mind’s tunnels, maybe I can notice a thing or two you haven’t.”

  “We haven’t got a choice,” rejoins Lynx. But for the first time the confidence in his voice is waning. “We’ve got to nail him now. He might go anywhere next.”

  “Never mind that,” says the Operative. “If it’s not because you hate him—if it’s not because the boys downstairs never forgave him—then why the fuck are we even after him in the first place? Is it just because we suspect him?”

  “No,” says Lynx. “It’s because we can put his corpse to good use.”

  “Come again?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Then you’d better talk quickly.”

  “Well,” says Lynx, “it’s like this.”

  * * *

  C ontrol’s not human. But Control’s been rigged to talk like one to keep agents on their toes.

  “Spencer? Where are you?” The voice in Spencer’s skull is a hiss against static.

  “Closer than you think,” Spencer replies in words that aren’t spoken aloud.r />
  “Closer than you should be.”

  “So you know.”

  “So I can see. Took me a moment. What are you doing here?”

  Control’s been doing time in the Mountain for a while now. Spencer doesn’t know precisely where. Maybe Control doesn’t either. Control’s physical location is a lot less important than the real one. And Control lurks in that reality, shifting beneath endless shades of camouflage, creeping through the branches of a jungle whose ground is something called detection, whose most feared denizens are the things we may as well call eyes.

  “I need your help, Control.”

  “Sounds like you’re beyond help, Spencer.”

  “Not yours.”

  “What makes you think I’m prepared to give it?”

  “Control. I’m a dead man otherwise.”

  “You say otherwise like it’s some kind of alternative, Spencer. It’s not. It’s the default option. What in God’s name possessed you to come to Mountain?”

  “I got flushed from cover.”

  “And you ran straight to me.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “You just did.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It’s even simpler than that,” replies Control. “You know the rules, Spencer. If you’re flushed from cover, you’re on your own. You don’t compromise the network. You don’t contact other agents. And you never even think about getting on the line with me.”

  “So cut me off.” It’s more curse than statement.

  “But I already have,” says Control. “Do you think I’ve lost my reason? I’m speaking to you through more proxies than you’ve lived seconds in your life. I’m hanging by a thread. I’m still enough to get to the bottom of this. You shouldn’t be here. You came anyway. We may as well make the most of it.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Then follow this. You’re beyond salvation. You’ve placed yourself in my hands. Try to disconnect and I’ll make you writhe for eons. Make it easy for me, Spencer. I’ll end you far more quickly.”

  “What about letting me live?”

  “How can I do that when you’re so intent on condemning yourself? Who am I to stand in your way? Now tell me why you came here.”