The Mirrored Heavens (16 page)

“Plus or minus a few key details, of course.”

“And what about what happened between us?”

“What about it?”

“Does the document say anything about it? About—that kind of memory?”

“No,” she says. “But think about it. With something like this, security of the handlers probably isn’t the only thing in play. It
could
also be a question of mission leverage. Someone with a given set of memories might fight harder than someone without. And emotional ties to other agents—especially to agents locked safely in the past—might be the kind of thing that engenders a broader esprit de corps.”

“But putting two agents with a history together is the kind of thing that could backfire.”

“It may already have.”

“Which doesn’t help in figuring out what went on between us,” says Marlowe. “Doesn’t help in figuring out if anything ever did.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“And I’m sure our memories correspond with total precision,” he says acidly.

“That’s a thought. Try me.”

“How about the time we took that ’copter to Stanley Park.”

“What was I wearing?”

“Blue shirt,” he replies. “Grey cap. We looked out upon Vancouver. We looked out upon the ocean—watched the sunset and the cold came on all sudden. I gave you my jacket and you said—”

“Stop it.”

“No. That’s not what you said.”

“You’re right. That line of verification’s a red herring. The real question is
when
our memories got tampered with.”

“Assuming they were.”

“Right,” she says. “Right: assuming they were, when would they have done it. Because they
could
have done it anytime from academy onward.”

“I’d say the last few days is your best bet,” says Marlowe.

That one makes her look out the window, shake her head.

“Think about it,” says Marlowe. “We know they’ve assigned us to work together. We know they’re changing up their rules. What better time to prime us than right before we meet?”

“But I recognized you in that city!”

“Did you really?”

“Fuck,” she says.

“And it may not stop there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means maybe you never did find a file in the Citadel.”

“Fuck,”
she says. “That bastard.”

“As you say.”

“And you’d better listen. Sinclair’s not leveling with us, Jason. On any level. Even within the briefing itself. All that bullshit he was on about running that data through all those comps and coming up with all those probability vectors…that’s all it is: bullshit. He’s got specific intelligence about something, or he wouldn’t be committing key operatives off-planet. He’s not coming clean.”

“Probably.”

“Definitely.”

“Does that scare you? Or just excite you?”

“I’m not sure I know the difference,” she replies evenly.

“Did you once?”

“Can’t we figure that out as we go?”

“I guess we’ll have to,” he replies.

The ’copter descends toward Houston.

T
en klicks south of Agrippa, the train emerges. Though you could be forgiven for not spotting the tunnel mouth, because to say that this terrain is rough is to put it mildly. But the vehicle now shooting out of the black just doesn’t care. It’s like hot mercury, that train, distended across a quarter-klick of rail as it dives through tunnels and sails across bridges, hurling itself along terrain that would have been deemed impassable a scant twenty years ago. The mountains cluster ever thicker; again and again, they seem to have the train completely boxed in. But—again and again—the train’s a mechanical Houdini extricating itself from apparent confinement, doing everything save pass through solid rock as it bores relentlessly onward en route for Shackleton, at the lunar south pole.

But the view isn’t keeping the Operative’s attention. He’s saving that for the interior of this car. The seats are three to a row on either side of a wide central aisle, with more cleared space up in front. The Operative’s got a row to himself. The tops of the seats are low enough to allow some line of sight to one’s fellow passengers. Though some are military, most of them seem to be corporate—and just technicians at that: grease deep in their faces, tools hung at their belts. The Operative doesn’t like the look of them.

There are two in particular he likes even less. His sixth sense is crawling: up near the front—one with red hair withering into premature grey, the other with grey hair dyed half-red. They haven’t tried anything. They haven’t given any sign they even know each other. The Operative keeps an eye in front of him, strays one eye sideways a little, stays attuned to what’s behind him—and all the while he thinks. And listens too. To the man inside his head. Because uncertainties within the car can’t compete with the voice that suddenly comes dropping down into the middle of the Operative’s skull as the download kicks in, clothed in an image that sits in the very center of the mind’s eye. Ebony skin. Silver hair. Opticals. Oversized ears.

And grinning mouth.

“Carson, Carson, Carson,” it says. “Did you miss me?”

The Operative stares out the window. Stares at his fellow passengers. Stares at the image’s teeth. Doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“That’s good,” says the mouth. “Real good, Carson. Had to ask, you understand. Even though you can’t answer. Let me assume, though, that the answer’s the same as it was before: no and yes.”

The Operative just stares. Red going grey has risen to his feet, has joined a few other technicians lounging and leaning around at the front of the car—and in their center is grey going red, dealing out a game of Shuk. Or at least the Operative guesses it to be Shuk. There are five persons in all, and Shuk’s a five-person game. But he can’t see the many-shaped cards that are probably now lying on the floor of the car or on some makeshift tabletop made out of someone’s equipment. So he’s left to make his guesses. For minutes. For hours. Then:

“Yes and no,” continues Lynx, “no and yes. Can’t say I blame you. It was bad enough when I got here. It’s much worse now.”

The Operative keeps staring. Red going grey has thrown his right hand back in triumph, laughing. Grey going red’s getting even redder. Now others are separating the two, the Operative half-expecting all the while that they’re going to turn together and come for him. He’s starting to feel quite underdressed.

“But we’ll get you suited for it,” says the mouth. “We’ll get you sorted. Though I wish we didn’t have to. I wish they’d sent me someone else.” Tongue licks out, white teeth flashing behind its curve. “You think I’m pleased to see
you
? You must be kidding.”

The Operative feels himself tipped back. Ever so slightly: but unmistakably. The train is ascending. The bridges on which it’s riding are rising. More blackness is encroaching. Pulsings in that blackness are satellites sweeping low, catching the sun.

“Because the truth,” says Lynx, “it’s that this whole game is going up for grabs. This whole scene is getting out of hand. And we, my friend, are right in the middle of it.”

Now the bridge has risen so far into the peaks that they’re starting to constitute a bona fide horizon. The light of the stars is dribbling onto moonscape. And Lynx’s smile is vanishing.

“So we got to change it up, Carson,” he says. “We have to draw first
blood
.”

So now grey going red is whipping out a knife and trying to cut himself some red streaks. But his target’s not the Operative: red going grey leaps backward, his left arm swinging around in front of him as he pulls his torso out of the path of the serration, his left hand flicking out with one of the many-shaped cards—this one’s a triangle and one of its tips is actually hard-edged sharpness to pluck the jugular, play the red like a firehose out of control. But the hell of it is that grey that’s going red forever is still on the attack. He grabs the wrist that holds the fatal card, tries to turn his assailant’s own limb against him while he stabs in with his other one. The frantic nature of his thrusts parallels the jets of blood flying everywhere. It sends shadows sprawling, bystanders ducking, scarlet splashing, and all the while that smiling mouth just keeps on talking.

“I think you see the way this is going to go,” says Lynx. Data blasts from behind him to grid the whole of zone. “You’re going to die unless you listen to me. This is our nightmare scenario come to life. This is the moment you and I have always dreamt of. So wake the hell up, Carson. Because that’s the fucking
Moon
out that window. That’s our fucking
planet
in the sky.”

Grey going red is nothing but red now, and a lot of that red’s rubbed off on red going grey, who’s also now getting stuck straight through the belly to add to the royal crimson. As if to keep from falling, each man grabs the other, twists his blade in deeper, one practically decapitating, the other impaling almost up to the heart.

“And you know what our biggest problem is?” asks Lynx. “It’s you. You’ve got to loosen up. This place is far colder than you could ever hope to be. I don’t need the man who thinks he can outchill the next ice age. I need someone who acts like a normal human being. Ever tried smiling, Carson? It’s not that bad when you get used to it. When all is said and done: it’s not such a contortion after all.”

The mountains writhe. The sky reels. The two flopping bodies are lost to sight up front. Unless they were a diversion of some kind, they had absolutely nothing to do with the Operative. No one in the car is standing now.

“You stand out,” says Lynx. “But no matter. With the Elevator down, all bets are off anyway. The prospect of Armageddon is growing. The other side seems to think we did it, we seem to think the other side was behind it, and no one but no one thinks that this outfit that calls itself the Rain is anything but a front for players hot on the trail of the main chance.”

Sudden rearview: the Operative glances backward as the doors behind him open and suits swarm at speed into the room. SpaceCom military police. They check the bodies. They eye the technicians. The technicians return the favor.

“So,” says Lynx, “try this on for size. Agrippa: don’t come back to it unless you have to. Sarmax: weighed in the balance and found wanting. You: dancing to the tune I call. And whatever you do, don’t sit still. Because there are no guarantees. At all.”

Medics enter. God knows where they were hanging out. They unzip some body bags, stuff ’n’ load, zip

’em up, head on out. The cops exit with them.

“As to contingencies,” says Lynx. “If they try to take you, let them. Play dumb. Buy time. Maybe you can fox your way out. And if they vector onto your identity, I’ll switch your ass, buy you a little margin.”

Information washes around the Operative, information shot through with moonscape. And what, he thinks, if they vector onto yours…

“But first they have to find me,” says Lynx. “First they have to see me. But see: I’m invisible, Carson. I’m the fungus that grows on the walls of the disused shafts. I’m the ghost in the final machine. It’s all around me, man. It’s like being in somebody’s skull. It’s almost as fun. Are you ready for the run to end all runs?”

Long bridge becomes long tunnel. Long chute torpedoes past. Then:

“So steel your heart,” says Lynx. “Prep those weapons. This’ll put us both on the map, Carson, on the map for keeps for sure. They’ll never forget this one. Not like we’re going to give them the chance. Not when we’re fishing for pearls of wisdom, Carson, pearls of wisdom. Data you can
feel
.”

Train emerges from tunnel: chute gets torn away, shell shorn off by a darkness abandoned by the sun. It’s all black. It’s all mountains. It’s all stars.

“And this is how you’ll work it, Carson. You want the formula, here it is: by keeping the Earth overhead and the zone at your back. By keeping your own counsel and playing all the ends against the middle. By making this Moon yours.”

Through the last peaks, and lights become visible in the depths toward which the train’s now racing.

“And we’ll start,” says Lynx, “with the place that’s south of every south.”

S
omewhere back on Earth another train is rushing east. Somewhere in that train’s a private compartment. Two men sit within. The door’s shut. It’s sealed.

So now their mouths aren’t.

“Okay,” says Spencer. “I’ve got this place rigged. It’s time to continue our conversation.”

“Yeah? What’s to continue?”

“A lot, actually. We need to know a little bit more about one another if we’re going to pull this off.”

“Nah, Spencer. You’ve got it wrong. Less we know, the better.”

“I disagree. In fact, it’s about time you stopped lying to me.”

“What?”

“I mean it’s not like you’re some kind of zone god.”

“Did I ever say I was?”

“You damn well implied it. You think that just doing a hack on my apartment block is somehow going to convince me that you can tap into the lines at will? That you’re off the cameras altogether?”

“Never claimed either.”

“But having me believe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it? I’d be less likely to bolt that way, wouldn’t I?”

Linehan says nothing. Just looks out the window.

“I’m talking to you, Linehan. Look at me.” Linehan’s head turns as though it’s mounted on a swivel.

“What are you using? You’re not a razor yourself.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact that
I
am.”

“Of course you are. I knew that already.”

“Of course you knew that already,” says Spencer. “That’s why you came knocking on my door in the first place. But I can see straight through your parlor tricks. Straight through you too. You don’t talk like a razor, you don’t act like one, and you certainly aren’t thinking like one.”

“Alright, Spencer. How
does
a razor think?”

“In endless circles.”

“Meaning?”

“Got ten years?”

“Your point being?”

“My point’s made. What were you using for that conapt trick? A local node?”

“Something like that.”

“So why haven’t they picked you up yet?”

“What do you mean?”