David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

“So what now?”

“We need to get closer to it.”

“We still don’t know where the fuck it is,” he says.

“That’s why we need to get closer to it.”

He stares at her. She beckons. They leave the woman and what’s left of her family behind, open the apartment’s front door, and walk out into a street that’s both covered and deserted. Closing the door behind them, they edge their way along the street.

It gives way into a broader area, one in which grass slopes away into shadow. It’s a park. Most of the lights stitched across the cavelike ceiling have been broken. Trees line the walls.

“We got movement,” says Marlowe.

“I see it,” says Haskell.

Up amidst those trees, three figures have started moving down the hill toward them.

“You okay?” yells Marlowe.

No answer. The figures are picking up speed. There’s no expression on their faces.

“Stop or we’ll shoot,” screams Haskell.

Marlowe doesn’t wait. He opens up, starts landing shots. But his targets aren’t dropping.

“Hi-ex,” says Marlowe.

“I can’t,” says Haskell.

But as their assailants close to less than ten meters she discovers that she can. She starts firing—adds her fusillade to Marlowe’s as they knock those bodies off their feet, start knocking them to pieces. And keep on shooting. Because even without legs, arms are still crawling forward to get at them. They fire, reload, fire until all’s still once more.

“Can you work with that?” says Marlowe.

“I’ll have to,” says Haskell.

She’s staring down at the head of the man she’s just shot repeatedly at point-blank range. She figures he must have been some kind of mercenary while he was still alive. He’s more metal than flesh. Haskell drops a wire from her finger, slices it into his ear—and from there into his head.

And falls onto her knees, starts kissing dirt. The world tilts about her. The logic of the sector’s last four hours blasts through her mind. The logic of the mind that’s set it all in motion comes blasting into focus. She sees the Manilishi gazing at her. It wears the faces of those it’s slaughtered. It opens empty eyes. It grins through shattered teeth.

“ I’m free now,” it says. “ And so are all these people.”

Haskell pulls back, pulls the wire from her finger, leaves it quivering in the lifeless skull. She remains on her knees, dry-heaving on the dirt while Marlowe stands guard about her, urges her to get to her feet.

Finally she does. She holds on to his shoulder while her strength returns.

“It’s gone completely insane,” she mutters.

“Where is it?”

“The Buddhist temple in the sector’s center. I’m picking up an anomaly in the zone at that location.”

“If you can see that, then so can the Rain.”

“So much the better,” she says, and sets off at a run.

We’ve stopped,” says Linehan.

“Because this is the end of the line,” replies Spencer.

“You mean the border?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Just that the river’s too shallow for us to go any farther upstream.”

“So what now?”

“We wait.”

But not for long. Another twenty minutes and the container in which they’re ensconced is being hauled into the air, placed on another surface. Where it sits for another ten minutes, then goes back into motion once again. Only now there are a lot more bumps.

“We’re on land,” says Linehan. “Going uphill.”

“Fuck, you’re quick.”

“Have you finalized our route?”

“No such thing as final,” says Spencer.

But some things come close. Because twenty minutes later they’re stopping once more. They’re on a slight incline. They’re hearing voices. They’re hearing their container being opened.

Light flows in. Faces peer at them.

“Come out,” a voice says.

They do. To find themselves standing in the back of a large truck. Several men are looking at them.

“You go now,” says one.

“Good,” Spencer replies.

He gestures at Linehan. They take their guns, step out of the truck.

“Shit,” says Linehan.

They’re standing on a road that’s more of a ledge. Mountains tower up above them. Valley drops away below them. The truck in which they’ve been riding is sitting within a grotto that leads back into the rock. Several smaller trucks sit beside it. The man gestures at one of them and tosses Spencer keys.

“Thanks,” says Spencer.

He climbs into the driver’s seat while Linehan gets in on the passenger side. Spencer starts the motor, eases the truck out onto the road—where he accelerates, starts taking turns with abandon.

“Okay,” says Linehan, “time to tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

“Mountain freight,” says Spencer. “That’s all that’s happening. That place is a licensed way station.”

“This is the Andes.”

“Like I said, you’re quick.”

“Meaning this is Jaguar country.”

“Does that scare you?”

“Maybe it should.”

“It shouldn’t. Most of the Jag activity in the mountains is fifty or so klicks west. Right in the heart of Inca country.”

“The Incas? What the fuck do they have to do with it?”

“What don’t they? The Jaguars are what would happen if you put the Incas and Aztecs and Mayas in a blender and gave them modern tech and a bad attitude. If the Old World had kept the fuck away from the New, they’d be fine with that. These guys think big, Linehan. They aim to put the clock back by several hundred years.”

“And the Rain want to put it forward by at least a thousand. Where the fuck do those two find common ground?”

“In hatred of your former colleagues, Linehan. As we’ve discussed. By the way, we’re about twenty klicks north of the border. Take a look at what’s on the left.”

The view goes all the way down to the Amazon plain. There are no trees, only smoke rising from a thousand fires. Then Spencer turns the truck across a bridge and it all disappears from sight.

As does so much else. The tips of the more distant mountains are no longer visible. Whiteness obscures them. As the minutes pass, that whiteness expands. It casts tendrils into sky, starts to blot out the sun.

“Looks like a storm,” says Spencer.

“Right between us and border.”

“Had to catch a break eventually.”

They motor in toward it.

Somewhere overhead there’s a moon that’s getting ever fuller. Somewhere on that moon’s farside there’s a room where two men sit. Time was those two men were almost one. Time drove a long wedge between them.

But now things have come full circle.

“So what the fuck’s going on?” asks the Operative.

“Exactly what I was going to ask you,” replies Sarmax.

“I got busted by SpaceCom. But Lynx busted me out.”

“And you ran straight back here ?”

“Hey, man: he told me to.”

“He being Lynx?”

“Who else?”

“Carson: anybody could be anyone right now. We should hit the exit.”

“I’ve got no problem with that. Where to?”

“How about to where the Rain are about to launch their next strike?”

“You know where that is?”

“All I know is that you’re hell on wheels in those fucking speakeasies, Carson.”

“Yeah? What did I turn up?”

But as Sarmax starts to reply, a single chime cuts through the room. The two men look at each other.

“What the fuck was that?” asks the Operative.