David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

“You strapped in okay?” he says.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m not.”

Buildings tower above them. They rise past more fires. They start to draw fire of their own. Lasers flare past. Bullets hum by. Marlowe starts to take evasive action.

“This is getting tight.”

“Militia hotbeds,” says Marlowe.

“So why are we going through them?”

“Because they’ve got to peter out eventually.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because we’ve almost reached the Citadel.”

From whose confines the U.S. props up one part of the fiction that’s called Brazil. Toward whose shelter Marlowe and his passenger are now racing. But now Marlowe’s picking up something on his screens. Something that he’s less than happy to see.

To put it mildly.

“Pursuit,” he says.

“How far back?”

“Couple klicks.”

And closing. Suited Jaguars: there are several of them. Rising from the depths of city. Spread out in a wide formation. He can see their suits’ jets flaring. He can see rocket-propelled grenades streaking from their arms. He veers off at an angle, starts to weave in amidst the buildings.

“Full-strength strike squad,” he says.

“They must have tracked me,” says the razor.

“They must have tracked me, ” says Marlowe.

“Sounds like we’ve both given them reasons to hate us.”

“God I hope so.”

“We need more speed.”

Marlowe’s trying. He’s pouring it on. But he has to keep taking evasive action to avoid getting hit by the warring militias. He has to keep dodging. Which means he can’t go hell for leather on the straight. Which means they’re being overhauled.

Quickly too.

“Feed me your data,” says the razor.

“Why?”

“So I can help you help us.”

“Fine.”

If there’s something she can pull, he’s all for it. He sends her his armor’s signals. He senses her somehow reversing those signals. Suddenly she’s tapping into his comps. She’s right inside his head.

“What the fuck!” He almost loses control, finds his gyros steadied by a mind that’s not his own.

“I feel so close to you,” she replies. Her voice is emanating from in between his ears. It sounds amused.

“Who asked you?” he says.

“You,” she replies.

“What are you doing?”

“Using your brains,” she replies. “Or rather, your suit’s.”

And she is. She’s commanding that processing power while Marlowe sends them flying ever farther upward. Her mind is meshed with his. And both minds can see that now the Jaguars are getting out on their flanks. Classic pincer movement. In a few more moments they’re going to close the noose.

“One chance,” says Marlowe.

“Agreed,” she says.

They move together in the moment.

Three men in a room that’s no ordinary room. Lights of controls play upon their faces. Lights of space play upon their minds. These three men know they should never have met. They know they shouldn’t be here. They know they should be well past the edifice that lurks outside.

But there it is in the window anyway.

“What do you think we should do?” asks Riley.

“Who says we have to do anything?” replies the Operative.

“Because that’s a military operation going on out there,” says Maschler. “Because we’re right in its vicinity.”

“Precisely why we’re doing nothing that’ll call attention to ourselves,” says the Operative.

“But it’s not like they can’t see us,” protests Maschler.

“Exactly. We’re just one more piece of freight.”

“If we wait ten more minutes, we’ll leave the window,” says Riley.

“We’ll have to make our way around the planet again,” adds Maschler.

“I don’t think you understand,” says the Operative. “Break for the Moon now, and those ships will break you into pieces.”

“Are you sure?” says Riley.

“How do you know?” says Maschler.

“It’s what I’d do,” says the Operative simply.

“But we have to do something, ” says Maschler.

There’s a flash in the window. All three men shift, pivot—do whatever they have to do to turn in the zero-G toward it. They see the problem immediately. Something’s just exploded nearby. The screens show beams of light stabbing forth from the Elevator. Another ship detonates even as they watch. The telescoping cameras take it all in—take in ships maneuvering across space, taking evasive action, doing whatever they have to do to render themselves more difficult to hit. From points elsewhere, directed energy lashes back at the Elevator. The cannonade stops.

The maneuvering continues.

“Yeah,” says the Operative. “I guess staying here’s a little problematic.”

“That’s what we’ve been telling you,” says Riley.

“Current orbit’s not going to get us out of here quick enough,” says the Operative, as though Riley hadn’t spoken.

“Who the fuck is on that thing?” says Maschler.

“Shall I hit the gas?” asks Riley.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” says the Operative.

“What do you mean?” says Riley.

“What the hell are you on?” asks Maschler.

“All sorts of things,” says the Operative evenly. “But what I said a moment ago still applies. Start this bitch up, and our boys will finish you forever.”

“Then what the fuck are you suggesting we do?”

“ We’re going to do nothing,” says the Operative. They look at him. Maschler starts to splutter protest. The Operative holds up a hand to silence him.

“But as for me,” he adds, “I’m going to make a call.”

The mech changes course while Haskell starts raising hell with the suits of the strike squad. She slots herself in along now-familiar code-routes. She starts running interference on the pursuers’ comlinks. And while she does, she and the mech are veering toward a building that’s been subjected to heavy shelling. They streak through a hole in the building’s side and into shattered halls. They burn through corridors, take down doors. They brake, turn, charge on up into elevator shafts, climbing as fast as his motors will let them. Haskell clings tight. She feels minds out there writhing, feels walls surging past her. They brake to a halt in front of more doors, smash them down, break out of the shaft—hurtle down more corridors, find another opening, race back out into the city.

Catching the flank of the strike squad unprepared. Two suits, both within a quarter-klick: the mech’s firing out along a broad front. He blasts one with armor-piercing rounds from his wrist-guns. He shreds the other’s helmet with his minigun. He flies on past the tumbling bodies, pours on the speed. And while he does so, Haskell’s putting pressure on the rest.

“How’s it looking?”

“Fucked two more of their suits,” she says. “The rest have disabled their links.”

“But they’re still intact.”

“That would be a safe assumption.”

Or at least the working one. They keep on burning upward. They figure they’ve bought themselves a few more seconds. And they’re pretty much within the Citadel’s outer perimeter now, moving in between the lesser hedgehogs. They should be safe.

Only they clearly aren’t. There are still militia all around. And disconcertingly little combat. In fact, most of the militia don’t even really seem to be fighting. They just seem to be moving. In the exact same direction that Haskell and the mech are going. They’re driving their vehicles along the ramped skyways. They’re flying their ’copters at full tilt. Haskell and the mech are weaving in and out of the really dense areas, using the smoke to provide all the cover it’s worth.