The Mirrored Heavens (10 page)

“So the East really is involved.”

“What did you expect? The Elevator’s joint property, isn’t it?”

“What’s happened to it?” asks the Operative.

“Hostiles have seized it,” says the voice.

“No kidding,” says the Operative dryly. He pauses. Then: “Who are we talking about here?”

“That,” says the voice, “is the question that I’m going to have to cut you off to get back to.”

“So it’s not the Jaguars,” says the Operative.

“Whoever it is is coordinating with them,” says the voice. “That’s the operating assumption. But we’re having a hard time believing they’re the ones who’ve managed to get aboard that thing. We recommend you hold tight for now. If the situation deteriorates, take whatever measures you have to in order to preserve the mission. But as long as the situation’s stable, stay put.”

“You’ve got a funny definition of the word
stable,
” says the Operative. But the presence in his head has disappeared. The voice is gone. The Operative’s eyes refocus on the cockpit. He takes in the faces of Maschler and Riley.

“You okay?” says Maschler.

“Sure,” says the Operative.

“Did you get through?”

“Sure,” says the Operative.

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Nothing,” says Maschler.

“Nothing?” asks Riley.

“You get used to it,” says the Operative.

B
ut what you don’t get used to is what these third-world cities are like in their rafters. It’s all dilapidated towers. It’s all smog all the time. But get high enough, and you might shake that smog yet. You might see the clouds burn red with the light of the dying sun. You might see them burn still redder with the flames from the dying Citadel.

“Fuck,” says Marlowe.

Half of the Citadel’s towers are no longer visible. Its ramps hang askew in air. All too many of its platforms are shattered.

“So much for refuge,” says the razor.

Yet as they rise past it, long sticks of light stab down from somewhere far overhead, shoot past them, and strike the complex below. Explosions flash out into the gathering dark. Towers topple into the murk that laps around them.

“Those are our guns.”

“Yes,” says Marlowe.

“We’re killing our own side.”

“Our own side’s already been killed. That place has been taken.”

“So keep on climbing.”

He accelerates. They leave the Citadel behind, rush upward toward sky and sanctuary.

T
he Elevator’s barely visible from the window anymore. But the cameras make up for everything the window lacks. The Elevator’s lowermost point is starting to glow. It’s hitting atmosphere. Far above, swarms of ships are closing.

“How long before we leave the launch window?” asks the Operative.

“Eleven minutes,” says Riley.

The first ship touches. The telescoping lenses show power-suits clustering along that ship’s sides, pulling open doors, entering the Elevator. The cameras indicate that this is happening at fifty-klick intervals all along the structure. Half the ships involved show the Stars and Stripes. The others show different sets of stars. Marines from both superpowers: they’re going in.

“They’ve done it,” says Riley.

“They’re there,” says Maschler.

“Prime the engines,” says the Operative.

“I thought you said we weren’t going anywhere,” says Riley.

“Never say never,” replies the Operative.

Besides: priming isn’t the same as firing. The one enables the other. It doesn’t compel it. So now Maschler and Riley are swinging into action. They’re cycling fuel through the tanks, readying the trajectory, prepping everything they can. It gets their minds off the waiting. But not for long.

“Who are they facing in there?” says Riley.

“Have they issued demands?” says Maschler.

“Now what would make you think I’d know a thing like that,” replies the Operative.

“Well,” says Riley, “do you?”

“I’d be guessing,” says the Operative.

“Well,” says Maschler, “what’s your guess?”

“My guess,” says the Operative, “is that there’s only one demand.”

Maschler and Riley look at him.

“Eat shit,” he says.

Suddenly the cockpit lights up as though someone’s stuck a blowtorch right outside it. The cameras show nothing save flash. The screens go haywire. Half of them show critical malfunctions. The other half are blank.

“We’ve got a problem,” says Riley calmly.

“The Elevator’s gone,” says the Operative. “Give me heavy blast.”

“Got it,” says Maschler. He’s back in his seat, wrestling with the controls. So is Riley. Who looks up with consternation on his face.

“Circuitry’s been fried,” he says.

“EMP,” says the Operative.

“EMP,” confirms Riley. “We’ve been swamped with fission.”

“Fission,” mutters Maschler.

“Shut up,” snarls the Operative. “Switch to redundant systems.”

“They’d be burned too,” says Maschler.

“Better pray that’s not so,” says the Operative.

“Surely it’s safer if we just hold course,” says Maschler. “The blast’s already hit us.”

“He’s right,” says Riley. “The radiation’s already soaked us. It’s already done whatever damage it can. So what the fuck does it matter if we move now?”

“You’re failing to take into account one thing,” says the Operative. He gestures at the window, at the space where the Elevator was. At the space where more explosions are appearing. Explosions of ships out there: ships getting struck by something that’s getting nearer.

“Debris,”
he whispers.

T
wilight’s shredded by an overwhelming light. It blossoms through the eastern heavens. It’s turning what’s overhead into nothing save red. It’s turning the mech’s screens into nothing save static.

“Fuck,” he says.

“What are we
in
?” yells Haskell.

What they’re in is armor that just got fucked. It’s sliding back down toward the city. The mech is fighting with the controls. So’s Haskell.

“Allow me,” she says.

“Have it your way,” he replies.

Her way’s tough. The EMP penetrated the damaged armor in several places. Nine-tenths of its circuits have been knocked out. Haskell’s throwing together a network out of what’s left. She’s improvising. She’s firing thrusters. She’s clinging to the suit. She’s not stopping its fall. Just altering its direction.

“The Citadel,” says the mech.

“Only chance,” says Haskell.

“It’s swarming with militia,” he says.

“Who were being shelled by our space-to-grounders.”

Meaning that maybe that militia isn’t crowding the topmost floors. Though what the story is with those space-to-grounders now is anybody’s guess. Because the sky itself is burning.

“Keep your eyes on the ground,” yells Haskell. “I’m going to give this suit back to you in a second.”

She’s not kidding. Though when she says
ground
she’s taking licenses. She’s swooping in toward one of the Citadel’s topmost ramps. She veers at it, hits the brakes—smacks straight into its surface. The suit skids, sprawls. Haskell reaches for her boot knife, slices through the tether that’s holding her in place. She pulls herself to her feet.

The mech doesn’t.

“Give me back control,” he says.

“There’s no control to give,” she replies.

“Great,” he says.

He hits the manual release and the armor comes open at the back like corn being shucked. He pulls himself out, pulls a breath-mask from a compartment as he does so, yanks it over his face. He gets to his feet.

And stares upward.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says.

“He’s not here,” says Haskell.

But maybe He’s coming. A line of silver is stitching across the sky. Liquid light running up and down the heavens: it’s making mockery of darkness. It’s breaking into pieces before their eyes.

“The Elevator,” breathes Haskell.

“Must be,” says the mech. “Get down.”

Shots are whizzing above their heads. They’re kissing ramp. They’re crawling along it. They reach the door to the tower that it abuts and scramble inside. Bullets whine around them.

“Don’t stop,” says the mech.

Nor do they. They race up a stairwell. It’s littered with bodies in and out of armor. Some of those bodies are still smoking. The mech gets in front of Haskell. They keep on climbing stairs. They reach the topmost floor. The room’s heaped with consoles and chairs and bodies. The air’s still thick with the fumes from the firefight that went down here scant minutes ago. Through the windows they can see remnants of the Citadel still protruding above the clouds. One window’s missing altogether—along with part of the wall around it. The whole scene shines with unearthly light.

“Stay away from the windows,” says the mech.

“To the roof.”

Haskell pulls open one last door, sprints up one last set of stairs. These are narrower. They end at a trapdoor on the ceiling. She pulls it open. The sky that’s revealed isn’t really sky anymore. It’s just something twisting through all manners of colors.

“Now what?” says the mech. He’s still standing at the bottom of the staircase, trying to cover the control room and trapdoor simultaneously.

“Now we get help,” says Haskell.

“Can you raise anyone?”

“I can’t even signal.”

The EMP pulse fucked her head almost as much as his armor. Half her thoughts have faded into blur. Half her eye-screens are gone. She can still function. But her zone capability is gone.

“So how are you going to get us out of here?”

“Let me get back to you on that,” she replies.

F
uck,” says Maschler.

“No luck on the redundants,” says Riley.

“Reboot,” says the Operative.

“Already tried that,” says Maschler.

“So do it again.”

They shut the whole thing down, slot new batteries in, start it back up again. The batteries work. The screens flare back to life. But there’s no life in them. They’re spewing gibberish.

“Fuck,” says Riley.

“Maybe all that shit’s going to miss,” says Maschler.

“Care to stake your life on it?” asks the Operative.

“What would you have us do?” asks Riley.

“I’d have you start the engines,” says the Operative.

“Thanks,” says Maschler.

“Let me clarify,” says the Operative. “You’ve already lined us up. We don’t need to steer. All we need to do is fire the burners.”

“Huh,” says Riley.

“So?” asks Maschler.

“So how do I get to the motors?”

“Go outside,” says Riley.

“Great,” says the Operative. “Let’s go.”

“All of us?” asks Riley.

“You and I will suffice.”

W
hat the hell are you doing?” asks Marlowe.

“The only thing I can,” the razor yells.

She’s firing tracer rounds through the trapdoor, letting them go at rapid intervals to flare across the sky.

“Morse code,” she says.

“They’re probably a little busy up there,” says Marlowe. He goes from body to body, taking various devices: several grenades and a phosphorus charge that someone apparently was about to detonate to prevent this room from falling into Jaguar hands. Marlowe hooks his newfound possessions onto his belt. He hears a noise outside, looks up.

Just in time to see something roar past the window.

He screams at the razor to stop firing. She does. They hear something land on the roof.

“They must have come up from the basement,” Marlowe shouts.

“We’ve got no armor,” whispers the razor.

Marlowe looks around the control room. The suit he glimpsed outside had light armor: not a match for what he was wearing earlier but far superior to what he’s got now. Marlowe steps back into the jumble of debris and bodies on the floor, kicks a shattered suit aside, grabs the assault-cannon that suit’s still clutching, rushes back up the staircase. He’s shouting at the razor to get out of his way. He rushes out onto the roof, starts firing at the suited Jaguar who’s just alighted upon it: and who now gets drilled through the visor by hi-ex armor-piercing rounds from Marlowe’s weapon. The Jaguar goes down, smoke pouring from his helmet. Marlowe hears suit thrusters below the level of the roof: he hears the razor scream. He races to the edge of the roof, leaps.

For a moment he’s plunging. As he does he catches a glimpse of another suit, hovering in front of a nearby tower that’s been turned into more of an inverted melting icicle through the pounding of the now-silent space-to-grounders. Marlowe fires more hi-ex rounds, blows that suit backward into the tower even as he plunges past the hole in the wall of the control room—and sticks his feet out, finds purchase, twists into the control room itself. His head just misses torn metal. The Jaguar who’s just entered the control room through that hole is advancing on the staircase where the razor’s ensconced. Marlowe opens up: the suit whirls, burning—and then exploding as its motors ignite. Marlowe fires several more rounds for good measure, steps past what’s left of that suit. And hits the floor. Because every window’s being shattered. The room’s filling up with fire. Marlowe crawls along the floor to the staircase, steps into its shelter. The razor’s standing there, her gaze flicking between the sky and a still-intact computer monitor set into the wall.

“Bought us maybe thirty seconds,” he tells her.

But the woman doesn’t answer save to gesture at the sky. Marlowe glances at it—sees some kind of signal light flashing up there. “They’re responding,” the razor says.

“What are they saying?”

“They’re not sending ships.”

“Then we’re fucked.”

“Not quite,” she says. She starts to explain but stops as the room beneath comes under heavy fire. A barrage of explosive shells starts tearing away what’s left of those walls. The stairway they’re in shakes. It keeps on shaking.

And stops. The firing cuts out.

“What the fuck,” mutters Marlowe.

“Beats me.”

But then they hear it from somewhere down below. It’s some kind of distant rumbling. Some kind of far-flung echo. It seems to be coming from within this building rather than outside. It’s not just one thing either. It’s many things. It’s the same thing. It’s many voices.