The Mirrored Heavens (27 page)

Who continues to close. The man remains motionless. The Operative primes his weapons. The man turns around, regards the Operative. Eyes meet through visors. Nothing happens. But then the Operative hears a voice.

S
traight shot from New York to London, and this train just keeps on eating up these klicks. It streaks supersonic through this hollow. Overhead’s the world’s weight in water. And that seabed suffers from the same thing you do.

Pressure.

Linehan clambers back into the aisle. As he does so, the emergency lighting kicks in, bathes the car in a dim red glow. Linehan looks around. He starts shouting.

“Okay, people. I want everyone on their feet. Hands behind your head. Let’s go. Let’s go.” They’re doing what he tells them. They’re standing up.

“What’s going on?” says one of the nearer ones.

“This,” says Linehan, and fires. The man’s head disintegrates in a burst of gore. Screams are stifled as his body flops. Spencer whirls toward Linehan, sends words skimming on the wireless connection.

“What the fuck are you—”

“Shut up,” says Linehan, cutting Spencer off. “Don’t take your eyes off them.” Then, aloud: “I’ve got a bullet for every fucking question, people. Curiosity’s a shortcut to the grave. As is not doing exactly what I tell you. Oh, what have we here.”

A woman has thrown herself at the dead man’s body. She’s sobbing. Linehan lunges at her. She tries to get away, but he’s too quick. He pushes her up against the nearest seat, starts whispering in her ear. Her struggling intensifies. He pulls her back into the aisle, shoves her away from him. She stumbles toward the front of the car. Her cries fill the cabin.

“Now listen to me,” yells Linehan. “On the count of three, I want everyone to my left to start moving through that door”—he gestures at the one that leads into the train’s rear—“and into the next car. And I want everyone to the right of me to proceed through the other one”—now he points at the door leading forward—“and then keep going. And head for the ends of this train. And don’t stop till you get there. And I
strongly
suggest that you
strongly
encourage everyone you meet along the way to do the same. On the count of one…two…
you
.”

He’s pointing at a man a few meters toward the car’s rear. The man looks normal enough. He’s looking at Linehan with mouth agape.

“Me,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” says Linehan. He advances through the people between him and the man. No one tries anything. No one touches him. He reaches the man, throws him to the floor, tells the man he didn’t like the way he was looking at him. The man’s begging for mercy. Linehan kicks him, tells him that he doesn’t need to worry, that he’s not even worth the bullet. He then moves back to rejoin Spencer. His yelling starts up anew.

“Three, people. Let’s go. Forward, backward.
Move.
”

And people start to move. Spencer recognizes the look of stunned horror most of them are wearing. It’s the look of those who suddenly find themselves in the middle of the kind of events they’ve never encountered outside the safe confines of a screen. Those at the front and rear work the manual controls of the doors. Spencer and Linehan watch as they start to shuffle through into the next car.

“Let’s pick up the pace a little,” says Linehan.

He fires into the backs of two of the nearest rearward-bound passengers. He turns forward, repeats himself. People start to sprint. The screaming starts up again in earnest, spiking as those in the adjacent cars are engulfed in the onrush. As ever, terror’s infectious. But above the rising consternation echoes the voice of Linehan.

“You’ve got ten seconds before I start coming after you,” he shrieks. “So you’d better haul
ass
.” He sounds like a madman. Spencer’s starting to realize that’s probably exactly what he is.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he says.

“Do you want to live or don’t you?” says Linehan evenly. “I just bought us a couple minutes.”

“And just what the fuck are we going to do with those minutes?”

But Linehan says nothing. He places his foot on one of the seats and hitches up a trouser leg. He runs his thumbs together down his shin. He digs deep. Something clicks. Part of his skin folds backward. His knee’s not the only hinge in his leg—and what’s within is mostly solid. And spongy. Linehan roots in there. Grasps something. Holds it up. Adjusts it.

“How the hell did you get that through?” asks Spencer.

“Because it’s the same density as the rest of me,” says Linehan. “Same visual readout too. I didn’t even need your Control’s help for this.”

“Your whole leg’s robotic,” says Spencer.

“Something like that,” says Linehan.

“How much of the rest of you is?” asks Spencer.

“Nowhere near enough to make me not care about my hide.” He pulls out more pieces. He finishes assembling the resultant rifle. He hands it to Spencer.

“Have at it.”

“What are you going to use?”

“This,” says Linehan. He reaches into his leg again. He removes what seems to be an auto-pistol and what seems to be a—

“Looks like a whip,” says Spencer.

“It should,” says Linehan. He seals his leg, puts his foot back on the floor. He strides to the door at the front of the car and works its manuals. It opens. The two men move through into the next car. It’s empty, apart from several bodies strewn in the aisle. From the marks on them they’ve been trampled. The door on the far end of this one is open. Through that door can be seen another empty car—and in the car beyond that, the rearmost elements of the fleeing passengers. A keening wail echoes in their wake.

“Looking good,” says Linehan.

“Yeah,” says Spencer, “it’s looking great.”

“Spare me your sarcasm,” says Linehan. He starts to move forward at a rapid clip. Spencer keeps pace with him. “Here’s an even better view.”

Two images appear in Spencer’s head. They’re A/V feeds from right in the midst of the masses of fleeing passengers, looking out upon their backs. It’s like a rugby scrum gone haywire. Each car into which the panic spreads means there’s that many more people trying to get through the next door. With the inevitable result that there’s as much fighting going on as there is fleeing.

“What the fuck,” says Spencer. Linehan grins.

“Those two I pulled aside? The bitch whose husband I shot? The dickless wonder I singled out for special treatment? The one went toward the front and the other went toward the rear. But I planted cameras on both of them while I was telling them who was boss. I was giving us a little bit of transparency, Spencer.”

“Into what?”

“Into the ones we’re fighting. You said your Control said they were behind
and
in front of us?”

“Right. Though he didn’t say why they didn’t just board at our car directly.”

“Because then we would have known something was up,” says Linehan. “Right? If there’s a disturbance at the place of boarding and we’re not at that place, who are we to be any the wiser? The plan clearly was to have the plainclothes agents arrest us and hustle us to the waiting vehicles. Minimum of fuss, minimum of effort.”

“And it backfired on them,” says Spencer.

“Hardly,” says Linehan. “Far as I can see, their plan’s working fine. The plainclothes were expendable. That was the point. The heavies are undoubtedly the ones based from the vehicles. Who have us trapped between them.”

“And where are they?”

“Delayed a little bit by the human tide, I expect,” says Linehan. “But only a little bit. In fact—hello.”

For now a new turbulence is engulfing the mass of people on the screen that’s showing what’s happening several cars behind them. People are stopping, being trampled by those on either side. People are diving into the seats on either side. The camera bearer almost goes down, gets shoved against a seat, manages to stay on his feet. The people in front of him are parting.

To reveal two suited figures standing in the doorway up ahead.

Each wears light powered armor. The armor looks to be U.S. military, but it features no insignia. Visors shimmer in the half-light.

“Into the seats,” says a voice. “Clear the fucking aisles. Or you all die.”

“They’re right behind us,” someone screams at him.

“We know,” says the second suit.

“But here’s what you don’t,” says Linehan.

They can’t hear him. But everyone on the train hears what Linehan does next. If only for a moment: Spencer watches as he hits a button on his wrist—and the whole scene dissolves in static. Spencer hears a loud boom toward the train’s rear. The whole car shakes—a shaking that intensifies, becomes an agony of reverberations. The emergency lights go out altogether. Spencer grasps his rifle in one hand, grasps the back of the nearest seat in the other. It struggles in his grip like a living thing.

“You’ve killed us all,” he says.

“You’re awfully vocal for a corpse,” says Linehan.

“You fucking
mined
that poor fuck.”

“And here I was thinking he spontaneously combusted. Let’s hit it.”

They’re rushing forward. They’re leaping bodies. They’re watching on their screens as the passengers somewhere in front of them keep on running for their lives. They’re carrying on their conversation all the while.

“How come we’re still alive?” says Spencer.

“Because we’re just too damn quick.”

“I mean how come your bomb didn’t kill us?”

“Because that’s the way they build these things,” says Linehan. “As modular as possible. Most explosives will do no more than depressurize a single train car. The engine blocks—the magnets—are designed to survive most blasts.”

“And that’s what just happened.”

“My bomb was a little more powerful than that,” says Linehan. “Probably knocked that whole rail into the ceiling. Not to mention causing one hell of a pileup behind the lucky car. We just got a hell of a lot shorter, Spencer.”

“You’re a fucking maniac.”

“As long as I live, I can live with that.”

“You just murdered hundreds of people!”

“But not the ones I’m trying to,” says Linehan.

And now they’re catching up with the fleeing passengers in front of them. They’re trailing them at a distance of just under a car, watching as they keep on screaming.

“Look at them go,” says Linehan.

“You’re
enjoying
this,” says Spencer.

“Gotta live for the moment,” replies Linehan.

He raises the auto-pistol, starts firing into the backs of the people in front of him. For a moment, Spencer’s tempted to whirl on him, beg that he stop, shoot him if he doesn’t. But only for a moment. Truth of the matter is that he doesn’t dare. It’s not even that he’s sure Linehan will turn on him if he has to. It’s more that he feels he’s already in too deep, already complicit. He wonders if he still holds out the hope that he can justify these deaths, wonders if thinking along such lines is the worst crime of all. He realizes he still has no idea what Linehan’s plan is anyway.

So he asks.

“What makes you think I’ve got one?” says Linehan. He stops firing. Most of the targets have raced out of range. Those who remain are doing their utmost to get there.

“You’re certainly acting like it,” replies Spencer.

“That’s what improvisation’s all about,” says Linehan. “Better get ready to use that gun of yours.”

For a moment, Spencer thinks that Linehan has read his mind, figures that he’s about to turn on him. But then he realizes that what Linehan is referring to is the forward A/V feed. Flame’s gouting toward the screen. People in front of the woman to whom the camera’s been attached are burning. Through that flame, Spencer catches a glimpse of two more suited figures a car or two ahead, spraying out fire from nozzles atop their helmets.

“They’re killing everybody,” says Spencer.

“They’re not stupid,” says Linehan. “They’ve realized we’re using the passengers. They must know that’s the only way we could have got hi-ex right next to them.”

“Did you mine her too?”

“With something a little less powerful,” says Linehan. “Given that we’re behind her.”

“You’re a real piece of work.”

“Thanks.”

The woman’s been caught in the fires. They’re hot. They consume her quickly. They consume the camera too—Linehan hits the button. Snarls.

“Too late,” he says.

“Too bad,” says Spencer.

“Here they come.”

Running toward them are the rearmost passengers who’ve had the misfortune to be caught between the two sets of antagonists. Now they’re foremost in fleeing in the direction they’ve come.

“We need your bullets too, Spencer,” says Linehan as he opens up once more.

“I can’t do it,” says Spencer.

“Don’t you get it, man? They’re
already dead
.”

The doomed are reversing direction once more—heading forward once again. But a few aren’t turning around. One dies at Linehan’s feet. One lunges toward Spencer—who fends off the lunge, strikes the man with his rifle butt, sends him sprawling. Linehan shoots him through the head, starts moving forward once again.

“I can’t take this anymore,” says Spencer.

“Want me to get it over for you?”

“Fuck you. I’m getting back into the zone.”

“I thought you said there was no zone to speak of.”

“There’s a zone alright. It’s just a mess. Wireless isn’t happening. Wires may be more reliable.”

“So jack in.”

“So I need to stop.”

“We can’t stop.”

“I didn’t say
we
needed to stop. I said
I
needed to.”

He halts, pulls open a door. It leads to the facilities. It’s just a tiny chamber. But Spencer steps inside anyway. He pulls wires from his skull, pulls lights from fixtures. Linehan stares at him.

“We can’t split up,” he says.

“Want to bet?” says Spencer.

“Steel yourself,” says Linehan. “You’re Priam’s man. Do you think that Priam is above all this? That your side never uses innocents as weapons?”

“This isn’t about morality,” says Spencer. “It’s about strategy. We’ve got to get some zone coverage or we’ll never make it.”

“Oh,” says Linehan. “I get it. The quintessential razor—fine with anything as long as you’re doing it in zone. But get you out into the real world and you can’t even pull a goddamn trigger.”