David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

“Stop right there,” says Sarmax. “How the fuck did you finger the Com conspiracy through the fucking speakeasies ?”

“That’s how they’ve been coordinating it. The lion’s share of their data is maintained well outside of the Com databases—on a certain rock that Carson is already well acquainted with. They thought by putting it there they could shove it beyond the reach of anyone rooting through the SpaceCom Dumpsters. Not to mention keep it out of the hands of any of their bosses who might be less than thrilled at the prospect of a showdown with the East breaking out on their watch. Same reason why they’ve been assembling weapons parts outside of the Com’s confines. I’m sure it all bears an uncanny resemblance to Coalition hardware anyway.”

“Yeah,” says the Operative, “but who’s going to believe it? The Praetorians will be all over Nansen once those weapons fire. It’ll become pretty clear pretty quick that the East has nothing to do with any of this.”

“You sure about that? You been keeping up with current events?” Lynx looks amused. “There won’t be time for any investigation worth the name before the final world war gets under way. HK is now in a state of total anarchy. Our raiding parties have clashed with those of the East at least three times in the city itself. Both sides have withdrawn all delegations from Zurich. Both fleets have put to sea. Launching sites all over Africa and South America are working around the clock to get hardware off the well’s floor. All it needs now is a single spark. Which Nansen is winding up to furnish. Those cannons could nail L2. They could nail Congreve. They could take potshots at Earth. It hardly matters.”

“So let me get this straight,” says the Operative. “You’ve both come to the same conclusion for different reasons.”

“Looks that way,” says Lynx. Sarmax nods.

“But I can’t help notice that in both of your play-by-play explanations neither of you mentioned Autumn fucking Rain .”

Both men shrug.

“Doesn’t that bug either of you? Just a little?”

“Why should it?” says Lynx. “They’re clearly pulling the strings. Matthias may or may not know that. But like I just said: it doesn’t really matter.”

“What you’ve got to understand is that you don’t track the Rain, Carson.” Sarmax has picked up his shotgun, is checking it for damage. “You track their proxies. You infer their existence from the shadows they cast. I don’t know if they have an active presence beneath Nansen—but there’s undoubtedly an active conduit. All we need to do is get in there and find it.”

“That’s a bit of a leap,” mutters the Operative.

“At this stage of the game you either make them or you go under,” says Lynx. “Besides, we know something ’s going on there. Something that we’ve got to stop. You got a better plan—feel free to name it. But I say we activate the old team for one more ride.”

“We already have,” says Sarmax. “It was the East when last we met. Now it’s the Rain.”

“And our own side,” says the Operative. “Do we have a plan of operations?”

“I’d like to propose one,” replies Lynx.

“Let’s hear it,” says Sarmax.

“Well,” says Lynx, “it’s like this.”

* * *

They’re closing in on the center of the Flats, fighting their way through all manner of shit to get there. They’ve figured out how to get the edge on everything that moves. And whatever doesn’t no longer matters.

It’s tearing Haskell’s soul to pieces all the same. She doesn’t know how the Manilishi was programmed. She has no idea what was in its file. All she knows is that when AIs go rogue they often decide they’re a damn sight better than the flesh that created them. And when such AIs possess emotional circuits as well, things can get ugly fast.

Things in Seleucus have gotten about as ugly as they can get. The Manilishi has sealed the borders of the sector and turned the infrastructure against the inhabitants. It gained control of those inhabitants who possessed software in abundance, set them up as their neighbors’ executioners.

And the rest of the city could give two shits.

“They’ve all got bigger fish to fry,” says Marlowe.

“What have we unleashed?” says Haskell.

They’re standing on the edge of a market arcade, looking down on more bodies. Some have been run over by out-of-control vehicles. Some have been shot. People lie locked together where they’ve fallen. Some have driven knives into their own hearts.

“I’d have done the same,” she says.

“I wouldn’t,” says Marlowe. “I’d have fought.”

“Against what?”

“Everything.”

“You wouldn’t have stood a chance, Jason. Your own software would have betrayed you. You’d have had no warning before your eyes melted or your chest blew out. That’s what would happen if I weren’t here to shield us.”

“I’d have fought,” he repeats.

They’re halfway though the arcade when more of the damned break cover. One household robot and two people too wired for their own good. One of the latter’s already wounded—she drags behind while the others race in, get shot down. Marlowe and Haskell turn their guns upon the woman.

“Stop,” screams Haskell.

“Save your breath,” says Marlowe.

He fires, smashing the woman off her feet. She falls on her back, legs kicking. They move past her thrashing flesh. They move out of the arcade and cross through more corridors. They shortcut through empty residences, walk past scenes where whole families have tortured each other to death. Haskell tries to tune it all out. She figures she’s more likely to live longer if she can.

“How much farther?” asks Marlowe.

“We’re almost there.”

They’ve come out onto an enclosed street at the end of which is the temple. The roof above it is the epitome of ornate. The gates on either side lie open. No bodies are in evidence now.

“That’s where it is,” says Haskell.

“So now what? We just walk in?”

“It knows we’re here. We know it’s there. Why the hell not?”

They stride between the open gates and into the temple. The corridors within are bereft of light. There’s no electricity. There’s no zone either, though it was there a moment ago. And it’s still live outside the temple. Haskell can see it dimly, like light through some distant prism. Which can only mean they’ve entered the Manilishi’s domain. They’re right on top of what they’re seeking. They turn a corner and find themselves approaching walls lined with candles.

Something suddenly comes alive in the zone all around them. Haskell feels it enveloping them: she feints, buys herself a moment, reconstitutes her and Marlowe’s shields as the vise closes. She gets in under its guard, turns it back. The inner sanctum of the temple lies straight ahead.

“That’s where it is,” she says on the one-to-one.

“Ten meters,” he replies.

They reach the end of the corridor. They reach a doorway. Marlowe hurls a concussion bomb inside. It practically takes out their eardrums.

They rush within.

They’re making all the haste the terrain will allow them. Which isn’t much. Linehan’s gazing down thousands of meters. Spencer’s right up against the side of mountain. The whiteness encloses them on virtually all sides now. They can’t see the top of any of the mountains.