David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

“It’s almost on us,” says Linehan.

Spencer doesn’t reply. He’s maneuvering along a road so narrow it can barely contain his wheels. He’s starting to wonder if he made a wrong turn—if he’s going to have to go through this in reverse too. He rounds another corner.

Only to find that the road forks. One route continues along the mountainside. The other follows an outcropping that juts into the valley below—and continues across that valley in the form of a very unstable-looking bridge that ends in a tunnel. Spencer starts heading for it.

“You sure about this?” says Linehan.

“Not even vaguely.”

“That thing is made of fucking rope .”

“If you want to get out and lighten the load, feel free.”

The truck dips alarmingly as it trundles down the bridge—shifts gears as it powers its way up the other side and into the tunnel. Spencer switches on the headlights while they traverse its length—and then they emerge onto the other side and onto another bridge. Only this one’s a little more stable. It ends in another tunnel. As they emerge from that tunnel and onto yet another bridge snow flurries start to swirl around them.

Two bridges later and the flurries are trending toward near-total white. They creep along another mountainside.

“Glad we found that fork before this hit,” says Spencer.

“We’ve almost reached the unoccupied territories,” says Linehan. “The border’s ten klicks away. Shouldn’t we be talking strategy?”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“I’m figuring we’re not just going to show passports and get waved across.”

“We don’t have passports, Linehan. Hate to break it to you, but all we are now is Andean peasants. One of the few forms of life remaining that’s not keyed to IDs in some database.”

“Database be damned,” snarls Linehan. “They don’t need databases when they have all of space to watch you. Every road that leads south is scanned, and you know it. So how are we going to get across that border?”

“We’re going to start,” says Spencer, “by not falling off a fucking cliff. Get out and walk ahead of me.”

“What?”

“At least that way I’ll be able to see something .”

Linehan opens the door, practically disappears into the white—and then his bulk reappears in front of the truck. He trudges forward. Spencer trundles after him, lets the map of this section of the mountains unfold in his head. The map’s the aggregation of more payoffs than he ever thought he’d have to make. And knowing what map he’d need was the aggregation of even more.

They enter another tunnel. This one’s a little wider than the ones to which they’ve become accustomed. Spencer’s watching the odometer, marking distance. He starts up the one-on-one again.

“Get back in here.”

Linehan stops, sidesteps the truck as it rolls past him, opens the door, swings inside. Spencer drives for another twenty seconds, then swings the truck in toward the tunnel wall, brakes to a halt. Linehan looks at him.

“What now?”

“Now we walk.”

“And leave the truck?”

“Unless you feel like dragging it. Someone will be along to collect it. It’ll look like we just took shelter in here.” He gets out and Linehan follows him. They trudge along the tunnel.

“None of this makes any sense,” says Linehan.

“So much the better,” replies Spencer. He’s been counting off steps. Now he stops at a certain point and starts tapping on the wall. He presses a particular ledge in a certain way and a section of the wall slides away.

“Those look like stairs,” says Linehan.

“They do more than just look.”

They start to descend into the root of the mountain.

The mountains passing beneath the shuttle are as remote as any in this part of the solar system. The Operative watches from the window as they reel by. It’s been an hour since they left Congreve. It’s been half an hour since they got into the thick of these mountains. They’re starting their final approach into Nansen. The Operative sees lights scattered on adjacent hills. He catches a quick glimpse of gun-studded domes. He watches a rail yard spread out beneath them, then disappear as they sail past it. The shuttle turns sharply: all the Operative can see is a rocky slope that looks to be the final resting place for shuttles whose pilots get a little too careless as they make their landing. The slope gives way to a massive platform. The shuttle settles down upon it.

“Check seals,” says a voice.

But everybody already has. And even as the shuttle powers down, its doors are opening and suited SpaceCom marines are piling through them. The Operative gets in on that crush. The platform onto which they’re all emerging juts out of a larger hangar that’s cut into the mountainside. The lights atop the mountain’s summit are dimly visible far above. And yet even this platform’s far higher than most of the mountain-tops around it. It makes for quite a view.

“Don’t just stand there,” says the voice.

The squad forms up behind the sergeant, moves in casual formation into the hangar. Small craft are everywhere—on the floors, hanging from the ceiling, along the walls. Mechanics are working many of them over. Adorning the entirety of the far wall are the moon and eagle that comprise the SpaceCom insignia.

“Move it,” says the voice.

They’re making their way into the cages of freight elevators set beneath that insignia. Grilled doors slide shut. The Operative counts levels as they descend. He sees in his mind’s eye his position within the mountain.

The elevator stops and the marines head out the open doors, transition through an airlock. But no sooner has he stepped past that airlock than the Operative finds the squad’s sergeant standing in his way.

“You,” he says.

“Sir,” says the Operative.

“You’re wanted in level control.”

“At once, sir.”

The Operative proceeds through several barracks, moves through the corridors beyond them. Marines challenge him on more than one occasion but he somehow finds that he’s always got the requisite IDs. Finally he arrives at a door that’s at the end of one of the farther corridors. Guns mounted in the wall around it triangulate on him. A voice challenges him.

But then the door opens.

And shuts behind the Operative as he goes through into a room that’s lined along three walls by consoles. A fourth wall is sliced through by a window that seems to look down upon the level below. Three persons are in that room. None wear suits. All are officers. They regard the suited Operative. They look puzzled.

“How the fuck did you get in?” asks one.

“Orders, sir,” replies the Operative. “Here’s my clearance.”

A gas bereft of color and smell sprays from valves set along his shoulders. The men convulse. The Operative puts a bullet in the back of each of their heads for good measure. He goes to work on the comps. He enters the codes.

“Proceed to Elevator H3,” says the voice of Stefan Lynx.

The Operative says nothing. For a moment he looks out the window—the room is set almost at the ceiling of a massive cavern whose floor is a chaos of rails, digging equipment, and tunnels. He turns back to the consoles, types more keystrokes. He hits execute. The door slides open. He goes through, proceeds from there to what’s designated as H3 on the map in his head. A suited marine stands before the elevator door. The Operative flashes clearance.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” says the soldier.

“It means I get to use this elevator,” replies the Operative.