David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

“You’ve got it wrong,” says Marlowe. “It’s the reverse.”

The man stares at him.

“We need you out,” adds Marlowe.

“Don’t take it personally,” says Haskell.

The man stares for another moment, comes to a quick decision. He snaps orders to the rest of the soldiers. They stop what they’re doing, exit the room in haste. Haskell and Marlowe hear them muttering among themselves. The words razor and mech feature prominently in the conversation. The door shuts behind them.

“As direct as ever,” says Haskell.

“Some things never change,” replies Marlowe.

“We’ve got maybe five minutes before they send someone down.”

“They can send away,” says Marlowe. “I doubt anyone on this ship outranks us. And I’m willing to bet none of the handlers are anywhere near this .”

He gestures at the window. She gazes at the colors rippling across the heavens, at the fires burning down below. Powered craft are starting to move through the skies once more, their lights flickering here and there amidst the dark. She takes it all in, glances back at him.

“So what is it you wanted to say?” she asks.

“I’m still trying to figure that out.”

She looks at him. There’s a long pause.

“Look,” he says, “I just wanted to be able to say something . I hadn’t expected this.”

“Well,” she says, “sorry to surprise you.”

“I’m rolling with it.”

“Are you?”

“Trying to.”

“You and me both.”

“They’ll bring the wall back down between us,” he says. “We’ll be debriefed, tossed back into the mix. We didn’t see each other in ten years of runs—”

“Which was deliberate.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s what I’m saying. We’re only here right now because of pure chance.”

“They’re going to think we’re trying to sneak away like we used to.” She tries for a mischievous smile but just ends up looking as tired as she feels.

“We should get you to the medbay.”

“Me?” She laughs. “You’re the one wiping blood off your face.”

“Small price,” he says. He smiles sadly. “You know, I’d like to see you before another ten years have passed.”

“You will,” she says, though she’s not sure if she believes that. “They owe me after this. I’ll see you again. Or at least be in contact.”

“In contact,” he says.

“In contact,” she repeats. “At least. It’s the least the old man can do. He almost got me killed tonight.” She looks at Marlowe. “Thank you, by the way.”

He waves that aside. “You shouldn’t be so hard on Sinclair. I hear he hears of nothing but your exploits. You’re CI’s rising star.”

She forces herself to smile: nods, mumbles something.

“What was that?” he asks.

“I said, I’m feeling faint. Let’s get to that medbay. See that?” She gestures at a light approaching out the window. “Probably a ’copter to offload us.”

“And then they’ll send us on our separate ways.”

“They already did. Here we are again. It’s just a matter of waiting.”

He stares at her.

“ Everything is, Jason.”

“Not for them.” He points past the approaching ship at a night that continues to flare colors. The city’s conflagration continues apace. Faint dots are aircraft swarming over it in renewed fury. Explosions and tracers are flying into the air. They’re kilometers below, barely visible. But it’s clear enough that the fighting’s still going on. That the dying’s continuing.

“They’re already there,” he says.

The Operative and Riley arrive back in the cockpit to find Maschler still sitting in his chair. He’s staring out the window, holding what looks to be a small telescope up to his eye. He glances around.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“He’s deaf,” says Riley.

“But he can read lips,” says the Operative.

“You didn’t tell me that,” says Riley.

“You didn’t ask,” says the Operative. “And I wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. Besides, I don’t need to read shit to know that the first thing you’re going to say when I emerge from a live rocket engine with blood dripping from my ears is jesus man are you okay . Maschler: any sense as to how far off the ramp we are?”

“Hard to say with this kind of crap at my disposal,” says Maschler, setting aside his instrument to float in front of him. “But it doesn’t look so bad right now. We’re only off by a few degrees.”

“That’ll grow,” says Riley.

“So what?” says the Operative. “The point is that we’re a hell of a lot less likely to get impaled by anything now. We launched within the window, brothers. That’ll be enough until we get rescued.”

“Rescued,” repeats Riley.

“Rescued?” asks Maschler.

“What the hell else are we going to do?” says the Operative testily. “I’ll admit I find the thought distasteful. But I’m fresh out of ideas. It’s not like we can land. It’s not like we can dock with anything. In fact, it’s not like we can do shit except cruise through space until we either hit something or the engine conks out for good. We’re flying deadweight, gentlemen. Besides, a med scan wouldn’t be such a bad idea right now anyway. I’m sure we all could use it.”

“He’s right,” says Riley.

“Of course I’m right,” says the Operative. “It’s over.”

“Good,” says Maschler.

“But what was it,” asks Riley.

“How about if we agree to call it the end of the beginning?” asks the Operative.

“You mean there’s more?” Maschler asks.

“I would assume so,” replies the Operative.

“So what happens next?” says Riley.

“If I knew that, I’d be giving orders instead of carrying them out,” says the Operative. “But with any luck, yours won’t be more than a bit part. Just keep your head down and keep on hauling freight, okay? That should suffice to see you through. Doesn’t matter what’s going down or who comes out on top: they’re going to have a need for people like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” says Riley.

“You should,” says the Operative. “That’s how I intended it. Survivability’s the ultimate praise. You guys should be fine from here.”

“And what about you?” says Maschler.

“What about me,” says the Operative.

“What’s this all mean for you?” asks Riley.

“I’m still figuring that one out,” says the Operative. “But for now, the same as you. We get picked up, we get checked out, we get a new rig, we head on toward our destination.”

Riley starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” says the Operative.

“What’s not?” he replies. “I’d forgotten all about that fucking rock. Strange, eh?”

“Strange indeed,” agrees the Operative. “How about we get some brakes before we get there?”

But Riley just keeps laughing.

Of course,” says Matthew Sinclair, “the whole thing’s a joke.”

He looks at Marlowe and Haskell. They look at the face upon that screen: the face of the man who heads up CounterIntelligence Command. They wonder what the hell he means. It’s been two days since the Elevator was blown from its orbit. Two days since the greatest man-made object became the greatest piece of wreckage. Tens of thousands are dead. Fission has ruptured the atmosphere so badly that the sky’s still glowing.