David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

“We’ve got nothing else to go on,” shoots back Marlowe. “If we can get up to the Flats, we may yet find the trail. How much control do you have in the immediate zone?”

“Enough to keep us guarded. We’ll be like ghosts. Theoretically anyway.”

“Real problem’s the local wildlife,” says Marlowe.

“No,” says Haskell. “Real problem’s whatever the Rain’s preparing behind anarchy’s screen.”

“You still got the car?”

“Yeah.”

“And the suits?”

“In the back.”

“Hey,” says Marlowe out loud. “Thanks for the drink.” He stands up.

“You kids be safe,” says the bartender. “It’s all shades of shit out there.”

“It’s just getting started,” says Haskell.

The door swings shut behind them.

Several hours up the Amazon amidst several lanes of traffic. The ones nearest to the shore are reserved for local boats—mostly local fishermen running out of things to fish. Civilian freight’s a little farther out. Military craft take up the rest. The center’s reserved for heavy cargo—mostly rocket sections and rocket engines conveyed on massive barges. And all the while lines of fire stitch their way from horizon into sky….

“They’re really picking up the pace,” says Linehan on the one-on-one.

He and Spencer are standing on a platform adjacent to the bridge of a tramp steamer that looks like it should have been scrapped long ago. Canvas stretches above them, though both men know that all it’s shielding is the sun. The two men look quite different from the two who boarded the train back in the Mountain—new faces, new skin. New IDs, too. Turns out there’s still enough of an economy left in Belem-Macapa to get the basics done. Especially with Priam burning money like it’s going out of style.

“No reason they shouldn’t,” says Spencer. “There may be no tomorrow.”

“If the U.S. puts up too much hardware too quickly, they may provoke the East to strike before they reinforce their orbital positions.”

“A delicate balancing act,” mutters Spencer.

“The nature of the game.”

Then over the roar of ships launching they hear motors close by. They look up. Two jet-copters have swept in over some kind of ramshackle settlement stretched out along the shore. People are running from the shacks, diving into the river. Flame pours in over them. All that’s left of that village is a pier jutting out into the water—and smoke billowing out over the jungle. The jet-copters streak off downstream. The craft nearest shore turn toward the deeper river. Spencer shakes his head. But Linehan just laughs.

“Local public relations,” he says.

“No wonder these people hate you.”

“These people hate anybody who’s stronger. Anyone who’s not, they’ll stamp bootprints on their throat.”

“Sort of like the Rain did to you?”

And for a moment Spencer thinks he’s gone too far—thinks that Linehan is about to throttle him or hurl him into the river or both. Spencer desperately winds up for a zone-blast at Linehan’s skull. But then the larger man steps back.

“Just you wait till we get on the farside of border,” he spits out. “Not only am I going to break out of whatever backstab Control’s got cooked up for me—but I’ll make sure to gut you while I’m doing it.”

“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself? We haven’t even turned south yet.”

“Well,” says Linehan, “how about you wake me up when we do.”

He stalks back inside the ship.

The Operative sits in a room, data flitting across the screens. He’s already well into several thousand deals. He’s putting into motion several thousand more. He eyes the door to the room while he keeps an eye out for any hidden entrances. And when he sees Lynx swim into view before him he’s not in the least surprised.

“They say that a man doesn’t know the true meaning of fear until he enters Congreve’s speakeasies,” says Lynx. The smile on his face is as warm as the Operative has ever seen it. “They say this is the labyrinth in which even the bravest start praying. Do you think they’re right, Carson?”

The Operative doesn’t reply. He’s just working the data—European currencies, Martian underwrites, zero-G real estate, precious metals, drug offloads, information uploads—all of it filtered through hedge after hedge as his portfolio diversifies. The transactions he’s setting in motion are fanning out in every direction. His holdings are getting ever more complex. And all the while the voice of Stefan Lynx keeps furnishing the soundtrack.

“I should have dug beneath the cellars of this place,” it says. “I should have secreted myself behind these walls. I swear to you that sometimes I think that history itself comes to culmination within each room. I think that’s what the ones who founded Congreve realized. They looked out upon the nothing. They broke beyond the limitations of the Earth. They saw how no sphere of activity could be excluded. Especially the ones we’d most like to forget.”

The markets into which the Operative’s delving are starting to move beyond the grey. Now he’s setting up negotiations with several of Sarmax’s more dubious contacts. A SpaceCom quartermaster eager to move a little excess inventory. An asteroid harvester looking to evade a tax or two. A Martian speculator in possession of inside information on the latest terraforming schemes…these and so many others with whom he’s now engaging in all manner of business across markets both public and private and all the interstices in between.

“They labored as you labor,” muses Lynx. “Free of inhibitions. Free of what the fools call morality and what the wise don’t even bother to name. I’ve watched you, Carson. I’ve seen just how sleek you can be. But in the speakeasies, a man takes on new lives to the extent that he takes lives from the ones like him—the ones who try to hold the world at a distance. The ultimate rush—never knowing when one of those with whom you’re dealing will get the key to the chamber in which you’re sitting. The ultimate penalty: to be paid by those who would dare to commit the sin of establishing a private connection with someone who sits beyond these speakeasies. Someone who might be working for Christ knows what outfit. Someone who could advise you in real time. Who might have agendas of his own. Now on my mark, execute the following transactions—”

And it’s all the Operative can do to keep up with them. Especially when those of Sarmax are coming in over another line. Lynx has hacked into the middle of the speakeasies. But Sarmax maintains a dedicated proprietary line between the room and his own residence. And the Operative’s guessing that’s not the only one that leads into this complex from the world that lies beyond….

“But that’s the beauty of this wilderness of mirrors,” says Lynx. “No one’s what they seem. No one’s showing all their cards. Though I confess to having looked at a few hands since we got here. That one there—Copernicus insurgents. Strictly bush-league, but still, good enough to get in here. And over there—one of the more virulent strains of Imbrium mafia. They’re trying to divert a couple items from a convoy or something tedious like that—but who can admit to anything save admiration for the way in which institutions adapt to the times? The ones who built this place did so when it looked like the last cold war would be the only. A time when rugged individualism was king. When the one thing that everyone could agree on was that the only real off-world crime was putting the brakes on commerce. Such a quaint notion. Yet those who now rule the farside of this rock found the whole setup to be the very height of convenience. How else could they co-opt the black market in a single stroke? Where else could they keep an eye upon so many? Though of course there are always those who seek to turn the tables….”