David Williams - Mirrored Heavens

A screen’s descending from the ceiling of his cell. It unfolds before him.

A face appears upon it.

And now we’re all here,” says Morat.

Ten meters down the corridor from the room in which Haskell awoke: Morat’s just opened the door to another room. Haskell looks inside. Marlowe looks up at her. He smiles weakly.

“Claire,” he says.

She steps within, steps to him. Sits down next to him. Puts her arm around him. Lets her head rest on his shoulder. Tries to talk on wireless.

But can’t.

“As I’m sure you’re figuring out,” says Morat, “we’ve disabled those of your neural links that enable dialogue. Though even if we hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Each of you knows the same as the other.”

Haskell ignores him. She kisses Marlowe on the cheek. “How do you feel?” she asks.

“Like shit,” he says.

“Makes two of us.”

“I remember them all, ” he says. “All of them. Iskander and Indigo and Roz and Nils and Miranda and—”

“I know,” she whispers. “I know.” She looks at Morat. “Which of them are still alive?”

“They haven’t told me,” replies Morat.

“You’re lying,” says Haskell.

“It’s not like I need to know.”

“Well, who’s in this base besides us?”

“Some very impatient people.”

“Let them wait a few minutes longer,” she says.

“I want to see them,” says Marlowe.

“You’re right,” replies Haskell. She stands up. “We have to face this.”

Spencer’s being dragged up step after step. What looks like jungle’s far beneath. What looks like sky is far overhead. It looks like this is some kind of simulation. Because as far as he knows he’s still deep underground. The walls around him must be screens. Or else this is all virtual reality. Or the drugs. It scarcely matters. It’s the realest thing he’s ever seen. A sliver of Moon’s stretched amidst the clouds. He’s reaching the pyramid’s roof.

Torches burn at all its corners. Men wearing headdresses stand at intervals along its edges. Spencer’s hauled past them to the raised dais at the roof’s center. An altar rests upon that dais.

As does a throne. A man’s seated upon it. Linehan lies prostrate in chains before him. The man who’s been dragging Spencer throws him down.

“Gaze upon the Great Cat,” he says.

Spencer raises his head to look at the man on the throne. He wears a jaguar skin. Its arms drape down his shoulders. A face stares from between its jaws. A smile slowly appears upon that face.

“So now the one who calls himself Lyle Spencer comes before us,” says the man. “His people are about to perish utterly. They need one who can reach the afterlife before them. One who can bear witness.”

“Who are you?” says Spencer. A guard brings a boot down on his back.

“No,” says the man sharply. “Let him converse freely. The sky’s own finger penetrates his brain. We grant him the privilege of discourse.”

“You’re not getting a thing out of me,” says Spencer.

“Nor do I need to,” says the man.

In the bunkers beneath Nansen there’s a room. In that room a man’s gazing at a screen. The man upon that screen wears the insignia of a SpaceCom general. He looks like he’s lived life too long beyond the bounds of gravity. His face is sunken. What’s left of his hair is almost white.

“I’m Anton Matthias,” says the man.

The Operative looks at him. “Yeah?”

“You’re the Praetorian who caused us so much trouble.”

“And you’re the traitor who’s still causing it.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” says Matthias.

“You got another?”

“The real traitor’s the Throne,” says Matthias. “For thinking that he could do a deal with the East. For succumbing to the poison called détente.”

“And for daring to purge the poison within Space Command?”

But Matthias only laughs.

“Why the fuck am I still alive?” asks the Operative.

“What if I said it was because I can still use you?”

“I’d say you’re full of shit. I serve the Throne.”

“Carson: in about ten minutes there’s not going to be a Throne. You’re one of the best agents operational. We’re going to have need of people like you in the days to come.”

“That makes no sense. If you had any sense, you’d kill me now. Seriously—why are you keeping me alive?”

“Why don’t you take me at face value?”

“What happened to the rest of my team?”

“They sold you down the river.”

The control center of SeaMech #58 of the late Indian Republic is a large circular room. The central floor of that room is sunken. The walls of that lowered chamber are lined with darkened screens. Morat walks Haskell and Marlowe to the top of the steps, sits cross-legged there while they walk down toward the bottom.

Two figures stand there. A woman and a man. Haskell remembers both of them. She wants to cry. But instead she just stops at the foot of the steps.

Marlowe doesn’t. He keeps going, embraces them both. Both are weeping. Marlowe turns back toward Haskell. She can see he’s shaking.

So is she.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers.

“Yes,” says the woman. “It’s us.”

“I’ve missed you both so much,” Haskell mumbles. Her knees feel weak beneath her. Her eyes burn as she blinks back tears. She feels the past swinging in upon her—long-ago days of sunlight, nights set adrift upon the wash of time. She feels her heart overflowing: reeling at those memories awoken, seeing that flesh brought back to life before her….

“You never left our hearts,” says the woman.

“But we lost you all the same,” says the man.

“You’re the ones who’re lost,” says Haskell. They gaze at her. They don’t say anything. “You—you killed thousands when you blew that Elevator. You’ve turned this city into a fucking slaughterhouse.”

“Claire,” says Marlowe. “Wait a second.”

She looks at him.

“I think we need to hear their reason why, ” he says.

“Whose side are you on?” she asks.

He looks confused. “Yours,” he replies.

“By definition,” says Morat. “He’s in love with you.”

She whirls then, practically spits up toward Morat’s face: “You prick ! Stop fucking with our heads!”

“Morat answers to us,” says the man. “And as for you and Jason: we’d never tamper with our own. All we’ve done is remind you of what really happened.”

“Yeah?” Haskell looks scornful. “Seems like everybody’s got their own version of that.”

“Meaning what ?” asks Marlowe.

“Meaning how the fuck are we supposed to know the latest thing to hit our heads is real! Jesus fucking Christ, Jason. We’ve been skullfucked again and again and again and now you want to say this is fucking different ?”

“Of course it’s different,” says Marlowe. “It really happened.”

“So let them prove it!”

“Trust your heart,” says the woman. “You’re one of us. We wouldn’t have brought you here if you weren’t.”