David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

“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.

* * *

Twilight’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.

Fuck,” 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.”

What 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.