David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

But eventually they get out of the bars and into the back rooms. Which is where they pick up steam. Because now they’re dealing with people for whom Swiss bank accounts are simply standard procedure. People for whom this transaction is just one among so many others. Terms are reached in relatively short order.

Spencer’s not taking them at face value, however. One more reason they’ve gotten so far so quick: he’s been riding shotgun on the Latin zone the whole while. About three-quarters of that zone is under lock and key. A lot of those barriers are pretty recent too. He catches virtual glimpses overhead anyway—U.S. ships on the ascent, and he knows better than to put them to a close inspection. He reserves that treatment for the networks of this underworld—and in particular with the particular outfit with whom he’s dealing. He can’t see everything. He’d be worried if he could. But he can see the data they’ve got on him and Linehan—can see that it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere besides the folder that they’ve marked revenue . He can see the plan they’ve got for shipping south one particular cargo.

And all the while he’s making other plans. Because he knows all about the intangibles that confront those who close in upon a border. He knows, too, that his reliance upon multiple suppliers isn’t just a matter of contingency. It’s also a question of portfolio management.

“Meaning what?” asks Linehan.

They’re in another ship, hauling out of Manaus in a fast river skimmer. This time they’re well below deck. They’re cloistered in a cargo container. The soybeans that fill all of that container’s neighbors are lined along the side of theirs in layers held in place with plastic. The resultant space contains water, food, pistols, a portable waste holder, and a conduit for oxygen. Spencer’s made a couple side deals, arranged for a wire to be slotted through that conduit as well—and from there into the ship’s comps. The presence of that wire makes it all the more likely that the container wouldn’t survive a close inspection.

But that’s just one more calculation in this numbers game.

“Let me put it this way,” says Spencer. “We’re not going to sit in this box and get predictable.”

“So what’s the next stop?”

“I’m still figuring that out.”

“You’re still what ?”

“Actually, to be more precise—I haven’t started.”

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

“Proximity,” replies Spencer.

And closes his eyes.

Open your eyes,” says a voice.

The Operative does. And closes them immediately.

“Turn off that fucking light, ” he says.

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

The Operative opens his eyes fractionally, gazes out through narrow slits. The lights are so full in his face that he can see almost nothing of the room beyond them. “Keep them open,” says the voice. And the Operative doesn’t need to be told why. Retinas are just one more opportunity for the body to yield up its secrets. And as for all those others: he can feel needles buried in his flesh. His arms and legs are strapped to the chair in which he’s sitting. He can’t remember how he got here.

But he can guess what’s going to happen next.

“Strom Carson,” says the voice.

“Who’s he,” says the Operative.

“A traitor,” replies the voice.

“Where’d you learn such a big wor— fuck! ”

Fire’s pouring through the Operative’s veins. He contorts against his straps, cuts off all sound from his mouth as flame becomes freeze and burns him through with cold. Ice thrusts up through his skin. Half-melted blood dribbles from a hundred phantom wounds.

But then it all subsides.

“Strom Carson,” says the voice. “Praetorian agent assigned to the Moon. Active at Agrippa, Shackleton, and now Congreve. What have you been up to, Carson?”

“That’s classified.”

“We’re SpaceCom intelligence, Carson. Don’t talk to us about what’s classified.”

“Then how about telling me why I’m here.”

“Treason.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Participation in the conspiracy called Autumn Rain.”

“What?”

“Where’s their fucking base, Carson?”

“Give me a fucking break,” says the Operative. “How high up are you guys? You’ve apprehended a fucking Praetorian . We’ll take you apart for this.”

“The only thing that’s about to get taken apart is what I’m looking at. The Throne’s been getting so careless lately. So delinquent it makes me sick. No wonder all its investigations managed to get themselves rat-fucked.”

“Only rat who’s getting fucked is you. We know the Rain’s inside you. I’m probably speaking to them even now.”

“That’d be every time you look in a mirror, Carson. Who was giving you your orders?”

The Operative says nothing.

“Who’s your fucking razor ?”

The Operative’s waiting for the knives to burn back to life inside him. He wonders if this is all some virtual construct. Or one of Lynx’s tricks. But now a face appears before him. It’s a hologram floating in the air. Oversized ears. Antique opticals. Silver hair.

And grinning mouth.

“Ever seen this man before?”

The Operative tries to look unsurprised. He tries to blank his mind.

“That’s what we thought,” says the voice. “We know this is the man who was feeding you orders in the speakeasies. A real piece of work.” Data starts to swirl around the Operative’s head. Data speeds up. Six lines of symbols freeze amidst the myriad rush, spring in toward the Operative.

“I could explain the significance of each of those transactions to you, but we both know you already know what they mean. And if you don’t, then you just won the patsy of the fucking year award. So let’s just talk about the sum total of those moves. The detonation of a fission device in downtown Congreve would have wrecked everybody’s day. Except, apparently, yours.”

“Listen,” says the Operative, “this is a setup. It’s bullshit.”

“Oh, it’s bullshit alright. What the fuck is your problem, Carson? What in Christ’s name possessed you to lift your blade against the common cause? What did the Rain offer you that was worth your turning your back on everything?”

“You may as well get back to what you were doing with my nerve endings.”

“It’s not going to be that simple, Carson. I’m just the warm-up act.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re taking you upstairs.”

“To L2?”

“I said upstairs . I didn’t say all the way to heaven. Do you think we’re stupid? You’re not getting near that fleet. One of the LunaMechs will suffice. Put you in orbit around the Moon, let you spend your last days staring down at rock while we reduce you to nothing, a brain cell at a time.”

“Bringing me right down to your level,” says the Operative. “I can’t wait.”

But the voice says nothing. The lights diminish. They leave the Operative in darkness. The seconds tick by. They start to make inroads on the minutes.

“Hello?”

But there’s no answer. The Operative sits there. He wonders if they’ve bagged Sarmax. He wonders if they’ve bagged Lynx. He wonders if either of them set him up. He wonders if he really was helping to bring about Congreve’s melting. But mostly he just wonders when the hell something’s going to happen.

The needles slide from his body. The straps around him unfold. He’s unimpressed.

“You know what, guys? You’re fucking boring me.”