The Mirrored Heavens (20 page)

“Can you project the latest strength estimates for the Commands?” asks Marlowe. Morat sends a screen hurtling into their minds:

SpaceCom (Szilard) 28%

InfoCom (Montrose) 26%

ArmyCom (Secord) 5%

NavCom (Asgard) 22%

CICom (Sinclair) 19%

“The usual caveats apply,” he adds. “The current relative power of the Coms, expressed as infighting capability rather than firepower. ArmyCom alone could blow up the world ten times—but as a contender in the Inner Cabinet, it’s pretty much toast. The last few months have seen to that. And you can see who’s benefited.”

Haskell can. “Info and Space are really getting up there.”

“The hatred between those two runs deep,” says Morat. “Maybe too deep. One’s tempted to speculate that the Throne let Army get eaten a little too
quickly
. Or that he was anticipating it getting shared out more evenly. Usually he’s much more adroit at turning the Coms’ divisions to his advantage. Or perhaps he simply didn’t anticipate that matters would be interrupted by the likes of Autumn Rain.”

Marlowe and Haskell say nothing.

“Good,” says Morat. “Say nothing. Speculating on the Throne is my privilege. Sinclair has supported this president since long before he was president. He won’t stop now. Stay alert for the Rain trying to take advantage of the conflict among the other Commands. All of them save Army maintain units on the Moon. SpaceCom’s control of Agrippa and the fleet at L2 gives it the upper hand. But it’s hardly a settled issue. It’s made even less settled by the fact that at Zurich we gave the East a quarter of the whole damn rock. Which also happens to be item four—keep an eye out for any linkage between Eurasian agents and Autumn Rain. The hardliners in the Coalition appear to be gaining in power.”

A second screen flits into their heads. It shows dossiers of certain members of the Praesidium.

“The core faction of hardliners,” says Morat. “Their support is growing, in spite of the dominance of the moderates these last few years. All the individuals you’re looking at have consistently advocated that the Coalition intensify its confrontation with the United States. All were dead set against Zurich. We have reports that at least one of them advocated a general first strike against us during the ’98 Israeli-Arab nukeout.”

“Well,” says Marlowe, “speed-of-light weaponry favors the one who hits first—”

“I’m not talking about the
theory,
” Morat snaps. “I’m talking about the practice. So what if we switch on twenty thousand directed energy cannon and blow as much of their infrastructure as we can to pieces?

What happens
next
? What about the hacker attacks? What about the secret weapons? What about all the things we
don’t
hit? What about all the things we never thought about? We’ve already de-targeted most cities because we’re going to need every scrap of firepower we can get to penetrate the East’s defenses. They’ve done the same. Amazing that in the twentieth century it would have all ended with nukes knocking out every city on Earth. We should have so many warheads. Only one in a thousand hypersonic missiles gets through a full continental screen; there’s no way we could ever be so profligate during the initial exchange as to fuck with
cities
. Don’t you dare think the Coalition has ceased to be a factor. Whether or not it or its hardliners set in motion Autumn Rain, the East will seek to exploit the situation. For propaganda if nothing else.”

“Are we being sent into Eurasian lunar territory?” asks Haskell.

“We’ll know that by the time you get there. But you might meet Eurasians anywhere. They have a way of getting where they’re not supposed to. Item five. Autumn Rain themselves. They may be somebody’s front or they may be autonomous. They possesses warheads, delivery vehicles, and an ability to strike high-profile targets. The question now is whether they can hit secure targets too. In retrospect, the Elevator was pretty vulnerable. Given that we had to trust the Eurasians and all that. The real targets are more critical: our inner enclaves, our fortresses, our fleets. And, as I mentioned, the Throne itself. Press any of us hard enough, and we’ll admit we have no idea as to the real extent of the Rain’s capabilities. Only a second strike can shed more light on the matter. And our lunar bases are all prime candidates for such a strike. But if you’re going to stop the Rain, you’re going to have to know the Moon inside and out. Do you know what it is that
I
found most disquieting about that place?”

The question comes out of nowhere, catches Marlowe and Haskell off guard. They aren’t even sure they’re expected to answer. They stare at him, but he’s not looking at them. He’s just gazing out that window.

“The color,” he says. “We imported all of it. It wasn’t there before us. It’s scarcely there now. Glare and black comprise that sky. Endless greys make up that ground. It’s a fraction the size of Earth. It seemed so much vaster. Even with that shoved-up horizon. Perhaps because it was such utter desert. Such endless mountains. Such a way to go, too: you carry that oxygen on your back like it’s some kind of god. The kind that dwindles as you worship. You measure all distances with that air: how far, how long, how much. How many times I wondered if I’d ever make it back. How many times I wished I hadn’t.”

“Seems strange that they’d make such a habit of putting an envoy in such danger,” says Marlowe.

“But I wasn’t an envoy then,” says Morat, turning back to face them. “I was like you. Don’t you see?

I’m not the one that rewards loyalty. I’m what we offer the loyal. Promotion for those who can stick with it. Graduation from the endless runs. I’m real. I’m not just some blurry creature half-remembered from your sleep. I was like you once. I still am.”

“Is that a fact,” says Haskell.

“It is,” says Morat. “And sarcasm never did become you, Claire. I offer you sincerity and you meet it with a cynic’s tongue. How imaginative. We’re not so different, you and I. A decade ago, I rode my prime. I was as perfect as I’ll ever be. I fought our battles on the Moon, in space, on Earth, beneath the waves. I was Sinclair’s go-to man. I know how strange it is to have one of my number stand before you and confess these things. But what you don’t know is how much I envy you.”

“That’s bullshit,” says Haskell.

“Is it now,” says Morat.

“Of course it is,” says Haskell, and it’s as though something in her is finally giving way. Her voice is rising now. “So you made it. So you lived. So fucking what? You sit there and you reminisce, and you expect
me
to be empathetic? I don’t care what you’ve been through. I don’t care what your life’s been like. You’ve just told me that I’ve got no future save becoming you, and now you ask me for my
sympathy
?

Are you insane?”

“Easy,” says Marlowe. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“Let her finish, Jason,” says Morat. “It’s important that she says the things she’s never dared to. It’s one thing to confide it within reach of a microphone or rant it through the canyons of the sleep. It’s quite another to put it to a waking face. Past that anger, and I promise she’ll be as flawless as I once was.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” asks Marlowe.

“I’ll tell you what kind of game he’s playing,” says Haskell. “He’s playing the game that everybody plays when they get a rung above you on the ladder. The game of spitting on those who stand where you once stood. The game of false nostalgia. But don’t get carried away, Morat. You haven’t climbed above the point where you don’t have to deal with the likes of us directly. You’re not so exalted that you can never leave your bunker. Face it, Morat: you’re not a handler. You can’t sit at the old man’s feet just yet.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” says Morat. “Where else could I gaze at the likes of you but out in the shit of the field?”

She extends her middle finger.

“Item six,” says Morat. “The president has made it clear to Sinclair that he’s counting on him to eliminate the Rain. We’re going to hit them before they strike again. If that means this whole thing is over before you reach the Moon, so be it. We’ll just have to take the chance. There may be nothing but mop-up by the time you get there. I hope you can handle such knowledge.”

“I’m sure we can,” says Marlowe.

“Good,” says Morat. “Because I’m not sure
I
could. Think of it—the most dangerous foe we’ve ever faced, and you don’t even get to face it? The critical hour comes and you’re caught in
transit
? History passes you by, leaving you watching it receding? I stand in awe at your detachment.”

“In which case maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a runner after all,” says Haskell. “If you ever were one. We’re not hell-bent on action. We’re just doing what the old man tells us. If you’re to be his mouthpiece, then so be it. I’ll accept that. But adventure’s not something I seek. Still less history. Get with it man—don’t you know what
year
it is? Don’t you know we’ve figured history out? She’s nothing but a whore. She spreads her legs for the strongest. You want to be her backdoor man? Fine. Me, I couldn’t give a fuck.”

“Exactly,” says Morat. He nods approvingly. “Very good. No better attitude upon which to launch a run.”

His head dips slightly. His eyes lose a fraction of their focus—or rather, seem to focus somewhere within him.

Though only for a moment.

“And now I take my leave. This time for good. Let me offer up some final thoughts. Claire: the lunar portion of our zone is different. It moves just as fast. But it was built by those who were much lighter. Who weren’t quite as weighed down. It shows in its design. Remember that. Jason: your bullets move even faster. But hand-to-hand is different. Keep solids close at hand for bracing. Keep your air away from others’ hands. Keep on cutting until you leave the lungs of others nothing upon which to feed.”

He pauses. He looks them up and down. He smiles. He turns toward the door. It opens to receive him. He starts on through.

“We know this,” says Marlowe suddenly.

Morat stops. He stands in the doorway. “Excuse me?”

“What you just said: we know it. We’ve had the training. And I’ve been in space before.”

“Yes,” says Morat, “but never when so much depends on it.”

He leaves them without looking back.

T
wo men conversing within a suit of armor. One man’s physically present. The other’s just dropping by.

“I didn’t say you were going to like it,” says Lynx.

“You knew damn well I’d hate it,” says the Operative.

“Mechs don’t have to be enamored of the plans they execute.”

“Razors don’t have to make that a prerequisite for the plans they configure.”

“The only prerequisite is that it succeed,” says Lynx. “Given that requirement, I’m hoping that now you can see why I’ve planned it out the way I have.”

“Don’t talk to me of
why,
” says the Operative. “It connotes reason. It connotes sanity. Your plan’s neither.”

“Deliberately so,” says Lynx. “You want sanity? You won’t find it in
this
world. I offer you measures precisely tuned to the temper of our times. Look around you, Carson. Look what’s in ascendancy. Everything that’s sane is going under.”

“And you can add me to that list when I initiate this run.”

“Initiate? It’s already
been
initiated. You’re already in it. You’re two days off Earth, man. You’re hanging off the bottom of the Moon. You’re way too late to back out of it now.”

“It was too late long before it started,” snarls the Operative. “Long before I got here. Long before you snuck into those tunnels with the most convoluted stratagem any razor ever devised brewing in your fucking head. It’s as brilliant as it is mad. Jesus Christ, Lynx. All the players and angles up here, and you really think
Sarmax
is the key?”

“Not the key,” says Lynx. “The back door.”

“The back door to what?”

“Our salvation.”

“You’re crazy,” says the Operative.

“I’m an artist,” says Lynx. “There’s a difference.”

“Sure. It’s called the need to proclaim it.”

“I’m long past any need,” hisses Lynx. “Save that which my orders stipulate. You know the rules, Carson. We’re on our own up here. We’re left to make our way as best we can. We have so little time. The Rain’s next strike could come at any hour. Think of us as standing in the floodplain, Carson. The only thing that can save us now is high ground.”

“But are you sure that’s what Sarmax’s domain is going to furnish?”

“We’ve got no choice but to take that chance,” says Lynx.

“Not now we don’t,” says the Operative.

“I’m glad you see that.”

“You’ve got me boxed in.”

“Myself as well, Carson. Don’t forget that.”

“But I’m the one who has to get in there and do this.”

“Yes, Carson. You’re the one. As I’ve been saying all along.”

“Don’t think of this as a victory,” says the Operative. His teeth are gritted. His eyes are closed. “I’m going to live through this. I’m going to defy whatever odds are being spat out by your comps. And then—so help me God—I’m going to have a say in the next phase of this abortion of an operation. You reading me, Lynx?”

“Loud and clear,” says Lynx. “But once you’re inside his world, you’ll get it. You’ll understand. You’ll realize just what it is I’ve bought us.”

“I already know,” says the Operative. His voice is weary. “I’m the coin. I’m the instrument of the demise of one of the great ones.”

“Fuck him,” says Lynx. “He outlived his purpose.”

“You mean his purpose is about to outlive him.”

“Tell me what higher calling a man could have.”

“Ours,” says the Operative.

“Exactly,” says Lynx. “And you should thank your lucky stars for that. As I do every day I survive in here. Agrippa Station eats the weak. It crushes the careless. It can’t touch me. They’re probing everywhere, Carson. They’re searching all around my body. Their eyes are never shut. But they can’t see my flesh. They can’t see my mind. They can’t see me. And they won’t see you either. As long as you do exactly what I say.”

“I understand, Lynx.”