David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

And comes face-to-face with Sarmax.

And almost shoots him. Almost gets shot himself. Sarmax waves his hands frantically. They establish the one-on-one.

“Lynx is down,” says Sarmax. “Matthias is here. Let’s take him.”

The Operative nods. Both men ignite their thrusters. They keep on fighting their way forward. They keep on carrying all before them. Lynx’s real-time adjustments have affected thrusts into the inner enclave in two places, followed by a linkup. Only problem is that Lynx himself has been cut out of the picture. And the base’s defenses are starting to come back online. Doors start to shut in their face. Guns start to pop out of the walls. Floors open up beneath their feet.

But the two men keep on moving toward the enclave. Not the false one that the place shows on its schematics. The real one that Lynx’s hacking has found. They cut their way through the adjacent chambers—through a room in which they catch marines frantically setting up heavy weapons, through a door so thick that the charge they use almost brings down the roof: through obstacle after obstacle until the Operative’s mind is a blur of noise and flame and reflex and there’s nothing in the universe save him and Sarmax and the ones they’re killing. They’re splitting up now for the final assault. The Operative is coming in the front door while Sarmax moves in from a side corridor. It’s going like clockwork.

And then an explosion tosses the Operative like a doll into the air. Another follows—so powerful it rips through several adjacent corridors. Walls tear like tissue paper even as the Operative strikes what’s left of them. He smells his own flesh burning. He can’t see Sarmax anywhere. All he can see is marines swarming in toward him from every direction. He opens fire on them. Something sears in toward him.

His world goes dark.

Light’s everywhere. Wavelengths bombard them from all directions on all spectrums. Their suits are being scrambled. Their systems are going haywire. They can’t see a thing.

“Show yourself,” screams Haskell.

“We’re right here,” replies a woman’s voice.

Haskell feels something slam against her. She totters. Something stabs her through her suit. She topples. She feels her body going numb. She’s being lifted off her feet. She’s murmuring curses. Her helmet’s being pulled off. Someone’s hands touch her forehead. Someone’s lips kiss her on the cheek.

“Christ we’ve missed you,” says that voice.

Memory crashes down upon her.

Of course,” says a voice, “you couldn’t win.”

Claire Haskell opens her eyes. She’s sitting in the corner of a small room. It’s empty except for her.

And Morat.

He’s sitting cross-legged against the room’s only door. He looks totally undamaged. His new head’s smiling.

“You couldn’t win,” he repeats. “Then again: you couldn’t lose. You were fighting your own kind. You were fighting your own nature. But don’t be too hard on yourself. You weren’t to know. And now the time for fighting’s over.”

Haskell exhales slowly. “So the Manilishi was bullshit?”

“Not bullshit,” replies Morat. “A useful fiction.”

“And the Rain?”

“Conceived by Matthew Sinclair shortly after he was appointed by President Andrew Harrison to head up CounterIntelligence Command. Shortly after Harrison took power as the first president under the Reformed Constitution. The first and last, Claire. Because tonight he’s going down. And his Throne is going under.”

She stares at him.

“Autumn Rain,” he repeats. “Conceived by Sinclair and green-lighted by Harrison as the ultimate hit team. Engineered assassins who would be unstoppable. Who would decapitate the Eurasian high command in the first minutes of the next war. Who were bred in the same vat and trained together from birth. Who included among their members a woman called Claire Haskell. And a man called Jason Marlowe.”

“You bastard.”

“I won’t deny that.”

“Where is he?”

“You mean Jason?”

“Yes, damn you!”

“He’s fine.”

“ Where is he?”

Morat smiles. A screen appears to the side of the door. It shows a room identical to this one. Marlowe’s sitting in one corner. His eyes are open. His expression’s blank.

“What the fuck have you done with him?” says Haskell.

“The same thing we’ve done with you,” replies Morat. “Restored his memories.”

“He looks like he’s lost his fucking mind.”

“Don’t you feel the same way?”

“Fuck you,” she says. “Tell me about the others.” The ones she didn’t even know she’d forgotten. The ones who are making her realize just how much she’s lost…

“They were marked for death by the president himself. Written off as too great a risk. They got wind of it, chose the path of Lucifer. But the Throne beat them to the punch. And the Praetorians slaughtered them.”

“But failed to finish the job.”

“Indeed. Those who escaped went underground. Where they devised a second coming. A whole new plan.”

“That plan being?”

“You already know it.”

“Oh Christ,” she says. “Oh no. Fuck you.”

“You shouldn’t hate me, Claire. Once I was the envoy who called himself Morat. Now all I am is your humble servant.”

“You mean the Rain’s.”

“They’ve waited for you for so long,” says Morat. “It’s time you went to join them.”

“I can’t,” she whispers.

“You must,” he replies. “Find in yourself that strength.”

He stands up even as the door behind him slides open.

The door of Spencer’s mind has been ripped from its hinges. They administered the drug they call ayahuasca about an hour ago. They’ve cut him off from zone. Now he’s locked in a room beneath the Andes even as all other locks are withering.

“Fuck,” he says.

Nothing happens. Everything convulses. He feels like he’s being thrust straight through the center of the Earth and clean out the other side. He feels himself catapult out into the universe. The pressure on his chest is growing unbearable. His eyes are like crystals frozen in some everlasting ice.

“Ah fuck, ” he says.

The walls of his cell are shimmering. His chains are disappearing. That pressure’s vanishing. Suddenly there’s nothing holding him in place. He can get up. He can stand up. He can flee.

So he does. He moves toward the wall. It seems solid. But he’s not fooled. He can trace a route straight through it. He starts to move out into the living rock.

“Going somewhere?” says a voice.

He doesn’t even need to turn. He can see everything. The door to his cell has opened to the corridor beyond. Two Jaguar soldiers stand there. Neither wears armor. Both are heavily armed.

“Maybe,” he replies.

“We’ve got something for you far better than that wall,” says one of them. The man speaks neither English nor Spanish. But somehow Spencer understands every word anyway. He turns around.

“What are you talking about?”

“A gateway.”

He lets them lead him down that corridor.

The Operative sits in a room. Darkness sits within him. He can’t believe he’s been taken prisoner twice in the same mission. By the same outfit too. Now he’s somewhere in the heart of Nansen. In a loose-fitting grey outfit. There’s no sign of his armor. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He’s not even sure he cares.