Mirrored Heavens ar-1

by David J. Williams

  “So it had nothing to do with the fact that back in the day I told them your methods were unsound? Or that you couldn’t keep your snout out of the drug trough?”

  “Once I didn’t have to deal with you every day, forgiveness came easy.”

  “But apparently not easily enough.”

  “My forgiveness isn’t the issue.”

  “Then whose is?”

  “How about the fucking Throne’s? You went and fucking left, Leo. You ran out on us in our hour of need. Just when it looked like the East would prove the stronger.”

  “I retired, Stefan. I didn’t run out on anybody.”

  “You lost your head over a fucking woman.”

  And Sarmax whips his weapon level—only to have it spin from his hands as the Operative fires in a blur of motion. The shotgun hits the wall, slides across the floor. The room’s silent once more.

  “Now why’d you have to go and do a thing like that,” Sarmax says quietly.

  “What Lynx means to say,” says the Operative, “is that Indigo Velasquez was as much a victim of the Rain as anyone who died on that Elevator. Isn’t that what you meant, Lynx?”

  “Sure,” says Lynx. “That’s what I meant.”

  “That’s what I thought. And while we’re on the subject, Lynx, wouldn’t you agree that a good way for Sarmax to recoup anything he might owe the Throne would be for him to hit the Rain and feed their bodies to the vacuum?”

  “Sure. Of course I would. That’s why I’m here.”

  “So why are you so intent on getting him to paint his wall with your organs?”

  “He’s not painting his wall with anything, Carson. I’m just trying to help us all understand where we stand.”

  “And where exactly would that be?”

  “The attempt to screen me from the fact that you hadn’t offed him was well-done. Selling me a doppelganger house-node was brilliant. But I managed to hack the line you and he rigged while I was hacking everything else. After that, it was easy to figure out what was up.”

  “Although by that point you no longer gave a shit.”

  “That’s right,” says Lynx. “Irony of ironies—I no longer gave a shit. Once I’d tracked Leo for long enough to figure out that he really wasn’t taking orders from the Rain—the rest was academic. All that mattered was their location. At—”

  “Nansen Station in the Rook Mountains,” says Sarmax. “Right on the edge of farside Eurasian territory.”

  Lynx stares at him. “How the fuck did you figure that out?”

  “Same way you did. The speakeasies.”

  “But you didn’t—you couldn’t—have followed me through that data. Out to that fucking asteroid and back?”

  “What asteroid?”

  “Right. ‘What asteroid?’ So how the fuck did you crack the SpaceCom conspiracy?”

  “I never did,” replies Sarmax.

  “Then where the hell do you get off on naming Nansen Station?”

  “I had about ten thousand other reasons.”

  “Say what?”

  “Ten thousand different pieces of equipment. All sorts of shit—capacitors, chemicals, lenses, screws, nails, fucking duct tape. I’ll download the entire list for you at some point when we’ve got time for a circle jerk. But the point isn’t any one of those items. It’s what it all spells in aggregation. About ten heavy laser cannons. Any one of which would be capable of lacing into our space-based hardware. Some entity is using about a hundred different front companies to ship in all the ingredients. And they couldn’t have picked a better place than Nansen, given what a fucking zoo it is right now. Crime gangs looking for control, dissident miners jonesing for revolution, low-rent combines after anything as long as it racks up profit—”

  “And all of it orchestrated by the faction within U.S. Space Command that’s hell-bent on overthrowing the Throne and igniting war.”

  “And I have to admit that’s news to me, Lynx.”

  “Well, that makes one of us. The prime mover is Anton Matthias. Third-in-command of SpaceCom intelligence. He’s maintained Nansen as a black base for some time now. Which in itself is just standard procedure: co-opt local dissent by channeling it into particular locales within which elite garrisons can be covertly based and from which they can conduct clandestine sallies that nail the most dangerous players or turn them into double agents. Textbook counterinsurgency. But Matthias has been revving up those insurgents for some kind of major incident that he’s going to stage-manage and pin on Eurasian infiltration. All of which gets put in a whole new light by the presence of strategic weaponry that never got burdened with those troublesome little things called serial numbers.”

  “Stop right there,” says Sarmax. “How the fuck did you finger the Com conspiracy through the fucking speakeasies?”

  “That’s how they’ve been coordinating it. The lion’s share of their data is maintained well outside of the Com databases—on a certain rock that Carson is already well acquainted with. They thought by putting it there they could shove it beyond the reach of anyone rooting through the SpaceCom Dumpsters. Not to mention keep it out of the hands of any of their bosses who might be less than thrilled at the prospect of a showdown with the East breaking out on their watch. Same reason why they’ve been assembling weapons parts outside of the Com’s confines. I’m sure it all bears an uncanny resemblance to Coalition hardware anyway.”

  “Yeah,” says the Operative, “but who’s going to believe it? The Praetorians will be all over Nansen once those weapons fire. It’ll become pretty clear pretty quick that the East has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “You sure about that? You been keeping up with current events?” Lynx looks amused. “There won’t be time for any investigation worth the name before the final world war gets under way. HK is now in a state of total anarchy. Our raiding parties have clashed with those of the East at least three times in the city itself. Both sides have withdrawn all delegations from Zurich. Both fleets have put to sea. Launching sites all over Africa and South America are working around the clock to get hardware off the well’s floor. All it needs now is a single spark. Which Nansen is winding up to furnish. Those cannons could nail L2. They could nail Congreve. They could take potshots at Earth. It hardly matters.”

  “So let me get this straight,” says the Operative. “You’ve both come to the same conclusion for different reasons.”

  “Looks that way,” says Lynx. Sarmax nods.

  “But I can’t help notice that in both of your play-by-play explanations neither of you mentioned Autumn fucking Rain.”

  Both men shrug.

  “Doesn’t that bug either of you? Just a little?”

  “Why should it?” says Lynx. “They’re clearly pulling the strings. Matthias may or may not know that. But like I just said: it doesn’t really matter.”

  “What you’ve got to understand is that you don’t track the Rain, Carson.” Sarmax has picked up his shotgun, is checking it for damage. “You track their proxies. You infer their existence from the shadows they cast. I don’t know if they have an active presence beneath Nansen—but there’s undoubtedly an active conduit. All we need to do is get in there and find it.”

  “That’s a bit of a leap,” mutters the Operative.

  “At this stage of the game you either make them or you go under,” says Lynx. “Besides, we know something’s going on there. Something that we’ve got to stop. You got a better plan—feel free to name it. But I say we activate the old team for one more ride.”

  “We already have,” says Sarmax. “It was the East when last we met. Now it’s the Rain.”

  “And our own side,” says the Operative. “Do we have a plan of operations?”

  “I’d like to propose one,” replies Lynx.

  “Let’s hear it,” says Sarmax.

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

  * * *

  T hey’re closing in on the center of the Flats, fighting their way through all manner of
shit to get there. They’ve figured out how to get the edge on everything that moves. And whatever doesn’t no longer matters.

  It’s tearing Haskell’s soul to pieces all the same. She doesn’t know how the Manilishi was programmed. She has no idea what was in its file. All she knows is that when AIs go rogue they often decide they’re a damn sight better than the flesh that created them. And when such AIs possess emotional circuits as well, things can get ugly fast.

  Things in Seleucus have gotten about as ugly as they can get. The Manilishi has sealed the borders of the sector and turned the infrastructure against the inhabitants. It gained control of those inhabitants who possessed software in abundance, set them up as their neighbors’ executioners.

  And the rest of the city could give two shits.

  “They’ve all got bigger fish to fry,” says Marlowe.

  “What have we unleashed?” says Haskell.

  They’re standing on the edge of a market arcade, looking down on more bodies. Some have been run over by out-of-control vehicles. Some have been shot. People lie locked together where they’ve fallen. Some have driven knives into their own hearts.

  “I’d have done the same,” she says.

  “I wouldn’t,” says Marlowe. “I’d have fought.”

  “Against what?”

  “Everything.”

  “You wouldn’t have stood a chance, Jason. Your own software would have betrayed you. You’d have had no warning before your eyes melted or your chest blew out. That’s what would happen if I weren’t here to shield us.”

  “I’d have fought,” he repeats.

  They’re halfway though the arcade when more of the damned break cover. One household robot and two people too wired for their own good. One of the latter’s already wounded—she drags behind while the others race in, get shot down. Marlowe and Haskell turn their guns upon the woman.

  “Stop,” screams Haskell.

  “Save your breath,” says Marlowe.

  He fires, smashing the woman off her feet. She falls on her back, legs kicking. They move past her thrashing flesh. They move out of the arcade and cross through more corridors. They shortcut through empty residences, walk past scenes where whole families have tortured each other to death. Haskell tries to tune it all out. She figures she’s more likely to live longer if she can.

  “How much farther?” asks Marlowe.

  “We’re almost there.”

  They’ve come out onto an enclosed street at the end of which is the temple. The roof above it is the epitome of ornate. The gates on either side lie open. No bodies are in evidence now.

  “That’s where it is,” says Haskell.

  “So now what? We just walk in?”

  “It knows we’re here. We know it’s there. Why the hell not?”

  They stride between the open gates and into the temple. The corridors within are bereft of light. There’s no electricity. There’s no zone either, though it was there a moment ago. And it’s still live outside the temple. Haskell can see it dimly, like light through some distant prism. Which can only mean they’ve entered the Manilishi’s domain. They’re right on top of what they’re seeking. They turn a corner and find themselves approaching walls lined with candles.

  Something suddenly comes alive in the zone all around them. Haskell feels it enveloping them: she feints, buys herself a moment, reconstitutes her and Marlowe’s shields as the vise closes. She gets in under its guard, turns it back. The inner sanctum of the temple lies straight ahead.

  “That’s where it is,” she says on the one-to-one.

  “Ten meters,” he replies.

  They reach the end of the corridor. They reach a doorway. Marlowe hurls a concussion bomb inside. It practically takes out their eardrums.

  They rush within.

  T hey’re making all the haste the terrain will allow them. Which isn’t much. Linehan’s gazing down thousands of meters. Spencer’s right up against the side of mountain. The whiteness encloses them on virtually all sides now. They can’t see the top of any of the mountains.

  “It’s almost on us,” says Linehan.

  Spencer doesn’t reply. He’s maneuvering along a road so narrow it can barely contain his wheels. He’s starting to wonder if he made a wrong turn—if he’s going to have to go through this in reverse too. He rounds another corner.

  Only to find that the road forks. One route continues along the mountainside. The other follows an outcropping that juts into the valley below—and continues across that valley in the form of a very unstable-looking bridge that ends in a tunnel. Spencer starts heading for it.

  “You sure about this?” says Linehan.

  “Not even vaguely.”

  “That thing is made of fucking rope.”

  “If you want to get out and lighten the load, feel free.”

  The truck dips alarmingly as it trundles down the bridge—shifts gears as it powers its way up the other side and into the tunnel. Spencer switches on the headlights while they traverse its length—and then they emerge onto the other side and onto another bridge. Only this one’s a little more stable. It ends in another tunnel. As they emerge from that tunnel and onto yet another bridge snow flurries start to swirl around them.

  Two bridges later and the flurries are trending toward near-total white. They creep along another mountainside.

  “Glad we found that fork before this hit,” says Spencer.

  “We’ve almost reached the unoccupied territories,” says Linehan. “The border’s ten klicks away. Shouldn’t we be talking strategy?”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “I’m figuring we’re not just going to show passports and get waved across.”

  “We don’t have passports, Linehan. Hate to break it to you, but all we are now is Andean peasants. One of the few forms of life remaining that’s not keyed to IDs in some database.”

  “Database be damned,” snarls Linehan. “They don’t need databases when they have all of space to watch you. Every road that leads south is scanned, and you know it. So how are we going to get across that border?”

  “We’re going to start,” says Spencer, “by not falling off a fucking cliff. Get out and walk ahead of me.”

  “What?”

  “At least that way I’ll be able to see something.”

  Linehan opens the door, practically disappears into the white—and then his bulk reappears in front of the truck. He trudges forward. Spencer trundles after him, lets the map of this section of the mountains unfold in his head. The map’s the aggregation of more payoffs than he ever thought he’d have to make. And knowing what map he’d need was the aggregation of even more.

  They enter another tunnel. This one’s a little wider than the ones to which they’ve become accustomed. Spencer’s watching the odometer, marking distance. He starts up the one-on-one again.

  “Get back in here.”

  Linehan stops, sidesteps the truck as it rolls past him, opens the door, swings inside. Spencer drives for another twenty seconds, then swings the truck in toward the tunnel wall, brakes to a halt. Linehan looks at him.

  “What now?”

  “Now we walk.”

  “And leave the truck?”

  “Unless you feel like dragging it. Someone will be along to collect it. It’ll look like we just took shelter in here.” He gets out and Linehan follows him. They trudge along the tunnel.

  “None of this makes any sense,” says Linehan.

  “So much the better,” replies Spencer. He’s been counting off steps. Now he stops at a certain point and starts tapping on the wall. He presses a particular ledge in a certain way and a section of the wall slides away.

  “Those look like stairs,” says Linehan.

  “They do more than just look.”

  They start to descend into the root of the mountain.

  The mountains passing beneath the shuttle are as remote as any in this part of the solar system. The Operative watches from the window as they reel by.
It’s been an hour since they left Congreve. It’s been half an hour since they got into the thick of these mountains. They’re starting their final approach into Nansen. The Operative sees lights scattered on adjacent hills. He catches a quick glimpse of gun-studded domes. He watches a rail yard spread out beneath them, then disappear as they sail past it. The shuttle turns sharply: all the Operative can see is a rocky slope that looks to be the final resting place for shuttles whose pilots get a little too careless as they make their landing. The slope gives way to a massive platform. The shuttle settles down upon it.

  “Check seals,” says a voice.

  But everybody already has. And even as the shuttle powers down, its doors are opening and suited SpaceCom marines are piling through them. The Operative gets in on that crush. The platform onto which they’re all emerging juts out of a larger hangar that’s cut into the mountainside. The lights atop the mountain’s summit are dimly visible far above. And yet even this platform’s far higher than most of the mountain-tops around it. It makes for quite a view.

  “Don’t just stand there,” says the voice.

  The squad forms up behind the sergeant, moves in casual formation into the hangar. Small craft are everywhere—on the floors, hanging from the ceiling, along the walls. Mechanics are working many of them over. Adorning the entirety of the far wall are the moon and eagle that comprise the SpaceCom insignia.

  “Move it,” says the voice.

  They’re making their way into the cages of freight elevators set beneath that insignia. Grilled doors slide shut. The Operative counts levels as they descend. He sees in his mind’s eye his position within the mountain.

  The elevator stops and the marines head out the open doors, transition through an airlock. But no sooner has he stepped past that airlock than the Operative finds the squad’s sergeant standing in his way.

  “You,” he says.

  “Sir,” says the Operative.

  “You’re wanted in level control.”

  “At once, sir.”

  The Operative proceeds through several barracks, moves through the corridors beyond them. Marines challenge him on more than one occasion but he somehow finds that he’s always got the requisite IDs. Finally he arrives at a door that’s at the end of one of the farther corridors. Guns mounted in the wall around it triangulate on him. A voice challenges him.