The Mirrored Heavens (36 page)

“We should go,” says Haskell to Marlowe on the one-on-one.

“You shouldn’t,” the man says. “I’m Sinclair’s man in HK.”

They stare at him. Haskell’s first to find her voice.

“How’d you find us?”

“Sit down,” the man says.

They sit. He gazes at them. He shakes his head.

“I found you because I’m a handler. I know agents. I brief them. Track them when I have to. Snuff them when I must.”

“Going to try that on us?” asks Marlowe.

“No. All I wanted to do is locate you.”

“But how did you do that?” persists Haskell.

“I’ve got the edge,” says the man. “I’ve got everything on you two. Your psych profiles, for one—which way you move when under pressure. That helped. But it wasn’t as useful as your neutral accounts. Figured you’d go back to those. I mean, what else could you have done?”

“You’re lying,” says Marlowe. “Those weren’t even the accounts you gave us. Those were the ones I set up last time I was in the neutrals.”

“We’re not stupid, Jason. We know how our agents do it when they get out beyond the border. We know you think you live longer if you don’t link to us. We’re not even against insurance policies. Doesn’t mean we don’t like to keep an eye on things.”

“If you have those account numbers, then Morat might have them too,” says Haskell. “He had access to every code you’ve given us as well. So why should we trust you?”

“Trust me,” says the man. “If I were trying to nail you they’d have kicked down your door already. Nailing people’s easy. Saving them’s the hard part. I’m changing up the codes even as I speak. I’m here because you’ve got a new mission. I’m the one who’s going to tell you all about it. Besides: don’t you want to know what’s
really
going on?”

“What happened on that spaceplane?” demands Haskell.

“You know damn well what happened,” replies the man. “Morat betrayed us. He helped the Rain to jack it.”

“Why?” asks Haskell.

“Surely it wasn’t to get at the two of us,” says Marlowe.

“Actually, I’m sure that
was
part of the reason. But it wasn’t the main one.”

“What was the main one?”

The handler smiles mirthlessly. “The main one was the cargo you were carrying.”

“I didn’t know we were carrying anything,” says Marlowe.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“What,” says Haskell slowly, “are you talking about?”

“Like I just said: I’m talking about the fact that you were carrying a cargo.”

“And are you going to tell us what the fuck it was?”

“That’s not an easy question to answer,” says the handler. “In fact, I’m not even sure I
can
answer it. What you have to understand is that Sinclair was intending to take the fight to Autumn Rain. He put all his primary agents into the field. And he emptied out the research labs of anything that even
looked
like it had any promise. Every black-ops project, every R&D prototype—all of it got deployed.”

“Which,” says Marlowe, “was exactly what the Rain wanted.”

“Chalk one up to hindsight,” says the handler. “The plan was to assign an artifact to each team. You were one such squad. When you reached the Moon, your briefing was to encompass that artifact’s activation. We couldn’t transport it out of sight of those we trusted most. But we weren’t going to tell you about it until you absolutely
had
to know.”

“But you were going to tell Morat.”

“We don’t know what happened to Morat. We don’t know how he found out what he did. We don’t know how he broke loose. It calls into question every—”

“Never mind that crap,” says Haskell.
“Tell us what was on that plane.”

“Next-generation AI,” replies the handler. “A comp that combined state-of-the-art battle management capability with the ability to do zone incursions far beyond the level of our best razors.”

“Oh,” says Haskell.

“Oh. What was on that plane was the ultimate machine for waging secret war. And not just secret, either. Situate it in an inner enclave, and you could vector a first strike through the thing. All housed in a highly mobile chassis.”

“It moves?”

“In point of fact, it bailed out.”

They look at him. Look at each other.

“Why so surprised?” asks the handler. “After all, that’s what you did.”

“Sure,” says Marlowe, “but that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“What kind of chassis? Is this thing humanoid?”

“That’s the problem,” says the handler. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t
know
?”

“There’s nothing on file?” asks Marlowe.

“The file’s name is Manilishi. But Morat must have tampered with the documentation because now all we’ve got is the name. And this.” For a moment, the handler’s face is replaced with shots of a crippled, smoking spaceplane hurtling down toward the city—and a close-up on a small object ejecting from its rear. Further magnification reveals a cylinder, spinning end over end on a diagonal slant, disappearing beneath the draped-over canopy of buildings.

“I thought there were no escape pods,” says Haskell.

“That’s not an escape pod,” says the handler. “It’s a fuel tank. It contained the Manilishi. Which somehow got activated in the fighting. Maybe it just woke up. It must have ejected from that pod once it fell into city shadow. We had no cameras on it when it did. All we’ve got are some anomalies in the HK

zone that occurred at the point it landed.”

“What kind of anomalies?”

“Cameras suddenly seeing nothing. Backup routines being activated for no good reason. All the usual signs of something covering its traces. Our men found what was left of the fuel tank. But that was all they found.”

“This is absurd,” says Haskell. But even as she says it, she’s thinking. About hidden compartments and places not yet seen. About covert agendas. About how easy it might have been for something as mobile as it is smart to lie low, let the interlopers go after the more obvious targets, wait for that moment. Maybe it came at Morat’s apogee of gloat. Maybe it came when Marlowe reappeared. One thing’s for sure, though.

What happened next must have been perfect.

“My suggestion is that you assume this thing has all the physical attributes of heavy powered armor,”

says the handler. “Camo, flight, fight—you name it. And that’s on top of its zone prowess.”

“Jesus,” says Haskell.

“Not quite. But close. And the fact that it’s on the loose is a major fucking problem.”

“Why doesn’t it just call home?” asks Marlowe.

“Maybe it doesn’t want to.”

“You’re saying it’s gone rogue?”

“It might have. Under the trauma. Or it might have been captured by the Rain despite its best efforts. All we know is that it hasn’t reported in. And that we absolutely, positively fucking have to have it back.”

“And you want us to go get it?”

“No,” says the handler, “I want you to shove your head through this fucking screen.”

“Fuck your sarcasm,” says Marlowe. “Why us? I would have thought we were marked for arrest.”

“You are.”

Marlowe stands up.

“Sit down,” says the handler. “I’m not arresting anybody.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m on the list too.”

“Sinclair’s sold us all out?”

“He hasn’t sold anyone out. He was top of the list. He’s in custody now.”

Marlowe and Haskell stare at the screen. Any thought of running’s gone now. Sure, they’d been ready to make a break. Sure, if this man really
were
after them, he really would have come in through the door and not the screen. But that kind of logic only carries one so far. It’s all intellectual. It’s not emotional. Try riding death down from sky to ground, then go to ground to no avail: you’ll get your own ideas about what’s logical.

“I guess,” says Haskell, “that really shouldn’t surprise us.”

“It really shouldn’t.” The handler smiles grimly. “He’s held liable for the loss of Manilishi. His head was the least he could offer up.”

“So who’s heading up CounterIntelligence now?” asks Marlowe.

“Like I just said,” says the handler, “Sinclair’s head was the least of it. There
is
no more CI. It’s been annulled.”

“What?”

“Annulled,” says the man. “Nullified. Ended. Torn into little fucking bits.”

“Oh fuck,” says Marlowe.

“Who’s assimilating its personnel?” asks Haskell.

“The cells. And then the furnaces.”

“They’re being killed?”

“I’m having difficulty getting my point across. Maybe it’s this cheap screen of yours. Maybe it’s you. But try to get this through your heads anyway. This isn’t your usual HQ power play. This is a wholesale purge. It’s not even like it was when Space swallowed Air. This is extermination.”

“But only the president could authorize anything that drastic.”

“Well,” says the handler, “exactly. You just answered your own question. Only the president could authorize this. And the Praetorians are carrying out most of the dirty work.”

“They think Sinclair was in league with the Rain,” says Marlowe.

“He was framed,” says the handler. “I guarantee you. Morat may have even planned for it all to play out this way. What better way for Autumn Rain to infiltrate the inner enclaves than for CICom to be erased?

What better news for any conspiracies within the other Coms than to realize that the ultimate watchdog’s just been taken off the board?”

“And what about us?” says Haskell.

“What do you think? As far as the Throne is concerned, the only known alpha targets besides Sinclair and his immediate lieutenants and the Manilishi itself are the two agents who were
on that goddamn
plane
. Although with that kind of data in your head, they wouldn’t kill you. Not for a long while, at any rate.”

“They have to catch us first,” says Marlowe.

“They have to indeed. And rest assured they’re trying. We haven’t much time. You’re going to have to take this deeper. And get on the Manilishi’s trail.”

“But you said you have no idea where this thing is.”

“I said I didn’t know what it was
doing,
” says the handler. “I didn’t say I didn’t know where it was
going
. I have its comp signatures. It’ll change them once it realizes we can use them to track it. But in the meantime, I’ve been triangulating anomalies in this city’s zone.”

“To where?”

“Place called Seleucus Flats. One of the northern sectors. Up the Owen-Stanley Range. As I said, this thing may be in Rain custody by now. Or it may be trying to assess the situation. Or trying to sell its services to a well-heeled bidder.”

“Well,” says Haskell, “there are certainly enough of those.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” replies the handler. “Since the embargo went into effect, all hell has broken loose here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you looked outside? You should ditch this Roman orgy act and put something on the vid. All the gangs and cartels and triads and syndicates—they’ve all turned on each other in the last few hours. Not just because the word’s getting around that something was on that spaceplane that’s going to fetch a pretty high price. But because they can. The embargo’s cut off a lot of big-time bosses from their backup, and a lot of backup from their bosses. No one can call in reinforcements from the Euros or the Aussies now. Which means the shit has hit the fan like you would not believe. The HK authorities are barely keeping it together.”

“No better environment to do some hunting,” says Marlowe.

“Or get hunted,” says Haskell.

“Exactly,” says the handler. “So keep your eyes peeled. And get that thing.”

“And when we get it?”

“We use it to bargain for our reinstatement.”

“Our
reinstatement
? You sure that’s going to work?”

“I’m not sure of anything any longer,” replies the handler. “But I’ll tell you what might help once we get our hands on the Manilishi.”

“Go on.”

“Using it to locate and destroy the Autumn Rain base that’s in this city.”

Marlowe and Haskell look at each other.

“We do that,” says the handler, “and the Throne’s own Hand will pin a medal on us. We can even bring the old man back.”

“If he’s still alive,” says Marlowe.

“Sure,” says the handler. “If he’s still alive. But right now, it’s our turn to stay alive. And you might have to destroy the Rain just to get the Manilishi anyway. Now listen. I’ve created new identities for you. I’ve cauterized them. I’ve got you some prime equipment too. You can pick it up en route. Now go. We’ll stay in touch as we need to.”

“You mean as
you
need to,” says Marlowe.

“Listen, Marlowe,” says the handler. “Both of you listen. We’ve come a long way from the days when my kind walked your dreams while you beat your fist against the pillows. I know that. I know you’ve no love for me. But I know you’ve loyalty. Loyalty for Sinclair and what he stood for. What he stands for even now. You can’t deny that. You’re sworn, and you know it. And what’s going on out there renders our own personal dilemmas immaterial. Regardless of what happens to any of us, what’s going on now will decide the fate of our people. You hold that fate within your hands. Both of you. If the Rain acquire Manilishi, nothing will be beyond them. Nothing. Now get out there. And be even better than you were on that plane.”

“We’ll try,” says Marlowe.

But the handler isn’t waiting. He’s already disappearing. Static washes over him as though it were a tide coming in on fast-forward. He sinks beneath those waves.

And then he’s gone.

B
ut Control’s here. Control: who’s been doing time in the Mountain since time began. Control: who’s come out of hiding tonight—emerging from those pipes and tunnels to expose its voice direct to air, deal directly with the ones who by all rights should have either made it or been made. They did neither. All they did was stumble to that southern shore. Now they’re calling from the shattered remnants of the Amazon delta in the hopes of seeing one more tomorrow. They’re looking for a backup plan. They’re looking to Control once more.

Only to find themselves stared down by sight beyond all seeing.