The Mirrored Heavens (21 page)

“I hope you do, Carson. Believe me, beneath these pointless doubts of yours, I know how eager you are to get out there. To find out if you’ve got what it takes to make that run. To determine if you’ve got the guts to pull that trigger. Out there in those cold hills—it’s all going to blur against your visor. That man: you’ll put him in your crosshairs. You’ll put one through him. You’ll give me access to what he knows. I know you, Carson. I know what makes you tick. Not loyalty. Not faith. Certainly not honor.”

“What then?”

“Being a professional. Obeying orders. Doing your
fucking job
.”

The voice dies out. Static fills the Operative’s suit. The Operative turns it up to the point that it’s deafening. He lets it roar through him. He roars out curses against Lynx—against the fates, against everything.

And then he whispers to his suit.

T
hey sit around. They pace. They sit around some more. It’s not easy to kill time when it’s you who might not survive the seconds’ passing. It’s not easy to ride out the moments when it’s you those moments might soon be rid of. But all you can do is wait. So you do. You resist the booze. You resist the urge to strangle the one you’re with. As for conversation—that’s no temptation. It can only hurt you now. Because there’s nothing left to say. It just comes down to what comes next. Which turns out to be a beeping noise. It’s emanating from the wall. It’s the line. Spencer picks it up, takes it the same way he did before. Pulls the wire out, slots it into his skull. Hears the clicks as the switches run the simulations of nonexistent calls, shutting out any listeners from what’s really being said: the words that Spencer’s forming in his mind, the words he’s letting the software in his head download through those wires, out through the streets of the Mountain. Out to where Control is. Wherever that might be.

“Okay,” says Control. “We’re going to try this. He’s got a new name. So do you.”

“Those names being?”

Control tells him.

“And?” asks Spencer.

“And what?” asks Control.

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you mean, is that all I’ve got?”

“The data I gave you checked out?”

“Of course it checked out, Spencer. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be talking now. Top-quality product, Spencer. I owe you my thanks.”

“Thanks isn’t all you owe me, Control.”

“Actually, to be precise—it’s you who still owe me.”

“For the rest of the quota.”

“Exactly. But I’m going to give you a little
advance,
Spencer. Let’s hope for your sake that whatever’s in this man’s skull turns out to be enough to justify it.”

“Great,” says Spencer. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible. Tonight.”

“On an expresser?”

“I think that’s ill-advised.”

“We’d be there in under an hour.”

“Linehan’s colleagues left two days ago and haven’t made it yet.”

“Any mode of transport carries risk, Control.”

“Why pick one that’s already seen a major incident?”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Slight variation. Go for the Atlantic.”

“Sail it?”

“Hardly. Even the fastest ship available would take you the better part of a day. That’s way too long. Gives them way too much of a chance to vet their cargo.”

“So what’s that leave?”

“The tunnels.”

A pause. Then: “Jesus. You really think that’s safer than a flier?”

“Nothing’s
safe
these days, Spencer. But the eastern part of the Atlantic Tunnels belongs to the Euro Magnates. Which gives me a few more angles to play. I’ve configured your identities around a couple passengers on the ten-fifteen haul out of Kennedy.”

“That’s two and a half hours from now, Control.”

“Sounds like you’d better hurry.”

“And those passengers against which we’re configured—what’s going to happen to them?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to them,” replies Control. “Ever again.”

“Who were they?”

“Not important, Spencer. The point is that now they’re you.”

“So about downloading me the new identities?”

“Already done,” says Control. “And your descriptions are now tied to the ones I’ve taken. You’ll have to pass on the new codes to Linehan. Unless he wants to get on the line with me.”

“He’s not that stupid,” says Spencer.

“I’m sure he isn’t,” says Control. “Particularly given that he’s almost certainly U.S. intelligence gone rogue.”

Another pause. Then: “Say that again.”

“You heard me.”

“You’ve been digging.”

“As I promised. As I thought, Linehan is no ordinary data thief. I traced him backward from Minneapolis to Chicago. I lost him there. He arises from that city’s eastern districts like a man walking out of mist.”

“So?”

“So twenty hours ago, Washington put out an APB on all Midwest priority channels for someone important gone missing in the Chicagoland vicinity. Get high enough on those channels, and it becomes pretty clear we’re talking senior intel.”

“How senior?”

“Very. His name isn’t Linehan, of course. But he’s within plus/minus physically. Nothing a little disguise couldn’t take care of. Nothing a little daring couldn’t hide.”

“Do they say why’s he’s on the lam?”

“They claim he’s trying to defect.”

“Defect? To the East?”

“That would be the presumption. It doesn’t matter. The point is he’s trying to get out. The word is he’s gone south. To try his luck at the Latin run.”

“And you think he hasn’t.”

“I think he’s right beside you.”

“Which Com does he belong to?”

“They don’t say.”

“Surely they would?”

“Usually they would. It may be out there. But—assuming he really
is
federal—there’s also the possibility that the reason they don’t say is because he doesn’t belong to any of the regular Coms at all.”

“How so?”

“He could be Praetorian.”

“Jesus.”

“Oh yes. It would make this positively radioactive.”

“Do these lines you’re tapping into say anything about accomplices?”

“They imply it. They don’t confirm it. Which may not mean much. Official investigations in this country are so compartmentalized that using them to generate the complete picture is always an exercise in extrapolation. Regardless, I’ve got enough. This operation is a go, Spencer. Move out as soon as you can. Watch him like a hawk. As I suggested earlier, it’s a safe bet that as soon as you’re on the farside of border he’ll try to bolt. Maximum vulnerability is when you hit Cornwall Junction.”

“That’s hardly the most immediate problem.”

“Which hardly renders it inconsequential. Back to first principles: if all you’ve got lined up is what’s right in front of you, you’re as good as dead already. I’ve done my best to prep you, Spencer. I’ve done my best to take you to the next level. I’m going to give you one last piece of advice. Get it together, or get taken apart. Your good standing with us—your fulfillment of your quota—depends on your bringing this man
all
the way back. Consider him indispensable luggage. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Perfect. Now, as you yourself just said, you’ll have to leave shortly if you’re going to make Kennedy. We’ll have a team waiting at Cornwall. But you’re going to have to reach them first.”

“And if we get busted at customs or on the train? What then?”

“Probably not much.”

“Great.”

“Relax. I’ve got you covered. I’ve got decoys going. I’ve got you under multiple layers. This is going to happen. You’ll be in London by the dawn.”

“Can’t wait to see her,” mutters Spencer.

But the voice is gone. The line is dead. Now there’s just the room. And the face of Linehan. It stares at Spencer.

“Having fun in there?”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“What did your imaginary friend have to say?”

“That it’s a green.”

“Anything else?”

“That we’re going to take the tunnels.”

“Huh. Where’s the advantage?”

“There may be none.”

“When do we leave?”

“Right now.”

“And how’s your friend gonna get us on that train?”

“He’s going to change us.”

“Change is good. What’s my new name, Spencer?”

And Spencer tells him.

“Do you have the codes to back it up?”

“I do. Are you prepared for download?”

“Meaning am I prepared to take that risk?”

“Interpret my question as you please.”

“No question at all. Gimme the codes.”

Spencer triggers an implant: information whips out from within his eyesocket, leaps the gap between them, alights on Linehan’s own retina. Linehan’s expression doesn’t change. Whatever precautions he’s taking or his razor gave him aren’t visible to Spencer. If Linehan’s to make use of the codes to reconfigure his own ID cards and chips, he’s going to have to brave the possibility of being fucked with. Then again: he probably has his own countermeasures at work. Spencer wonders at those countermeasures, wonders at the possibility that Control’s rigged the codes with trojan, wonders at the potential duel between that unseen creature and the one who stands in front of him. And then Linehan smiles.

“Excellent,” he says. “These should work. Are they real?”

“I was told they were.”

“What happened to the signified?”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t,” says Linehan. “And what about us?”

“What about us?”

“I’m thinking we still don’t know each other well enough.”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been saying all along?”

“No. Who we are doesn’t matter. What happened in the past, why we’re here, what we’d do without constraints—that’s not what matters.”

“Then what does?”

“Tactics.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that we’re speaking out loud right now.”

“So?”

“So that would mean that when we’re on that train, we won’t be able to coordinate. We won’t be able to talk about anything related to the run.”

“You’re talking about the one-on-one.”

“Of course. Will you risk its configuration?”

“I presume you’re talking coded.”

“What’s that word worth?”

“Whatever you want to make yours, Spencer.”

“I’m a razor.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Let’s do it.”

And they do. They connect, and neither feels a thing. If either’s trying to trick the other, neither gives a sign. They connect, and in that moment a new understanding’s born. A new partnership’s afoot. It’s slaked its thirst on names wrenched from the ranks of the recently living. It’s gorged itself on identities furnished by the freshly dead. So now it strikes camp, stalks on out into those sun-starved streets. It catches the scent of sea.

And bears down upon Atlantic.

P
owering out over that ocean is a winged craft that carries another. Atmospheric steed to transport orbital rider to a launching in the rafters. Two within that upper ship to feel it.

“Always a rush,” says Marlowe.

“The real rush,” says Haskell, “hasn’t happened yet.”

But when it comes you’ll know it. That hit to hammer you beyond air: it’s the one thing you can’t escape. That force: you either face it down, or else you stay on Earth forever. See, there were those who died by impact and those who died in the burn and others who perished only to just drift. Everyone who goes up shares their fate. Everyone who makes this climb partakes of what they went through. If only for a moment.

“You okay,” says Marlowe.

“Yes,” she replies.

But she isn’t. She doesn’t know why. She can’t tell how much of it is the man beside her. How much of it is Sinclair. How much is Morat. How much is Moon itself. All she knows is that it’s like all those things are swirling ever faster inside her head. It’s like she can’t tell what’s going to happen when that swirling stops. It’s like she thinks she’s going crazy. It’s like she can hardly wait. Nor does she. She reaches out into the zone, disconnects the cameras looking out into the room: releases her straps, pivots out of her seat—and into Jason Marlowe’s. Her lips meet his even as he undoes his own strap, harnesses it around both of them. They may as well be attacking each other for all the force they’re throwing into it. She moans as he gets a hand inside her shirt. He gasps as she runs her fingers down along his crotch.

And yet somehow she still can’t bring herself to focus. The more he touches her the more afraid she gets. Her mind’s fleeing beyond her burning nerve endings. Zone expands on wireless within her skull, anchors itself against the universe. The Sun: infinite energy, the ultimate source of all she sees, and yet the one thing she doesn’t. The Moon: purple clusters of lunar installations shimmering behind a second’s time delay, reflecting possibilities of the routes they might or might not have described during that eon-long lapse. The Earth: carpeted chaos of stations, greyed-out inner enclaves, blacked-out nexi of things she suspects but can’t ascertain. The cluster of connections sprawls up into the orbits all around, surrounds her with endless grids kaleidoscoped together in endless shifting patterns—and all of it regarded through the prism of the node that constitutes the Janus spaceplane and its B-130 suborbital booster. But somewhere in that node she sees a picture of a room. In that room she can see her body making love to a stranger. She sees her own back arching as he moves on up inside her. She watches as she starts to grind against him. She wonders what it is she’s so terrified of—is she trying to get away from him, or is she looking for something else? She shouldn’t be jacking in during the transit. She shouldn’t be doing anything more than just a little harmless camera-tweaking. But some kind of intuition’s calling to her with an urgency to match her sharpest cries.

So she lets that node blossom around her, closes on that upper cockpit—and jumps from there to the lower. She takes in the two men sitting there—takes in the way they watch the controls, watch the sunset dissolving past them. Red melts across the window, shades off into deeper hues that fall away into something approaching black. She sees her flesh writhing all across that dark. She feels herself pulled back toward it.