Mirrored Heavens

PART IV CONFLAGRATION AND RAIN

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.

T he 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.

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

A face appears upon it.

A nd 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.”

S pencer’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.”

T he 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.”

Haskell looks at her. Her hair’s dirty blond. Strands of it hang across her face. But she still looks all too like the child that Haskell remembers.

“You used to wear your hair so short,” says Haskell. Her voice catches. She can barely hold back the tears now.

“Times change, Claire.”

“And now you’re massacring city sectors.”

“You had to be convinced you were dealing with a rogue AI. Believe me, we could have done far worse.”

“So it’s you who’s in charge of this?”

“We’re all in charge, Claire. What we’ve done in HK, what we did to that Elevator, what we’re about to do to the world: the responsibility is ours.”

“I’ll say,” says Haskell.

“We had to seize it,” says the man. “It was either that or keep on running from people who had bred us to kill only to decide it was us who needed killing.”

“You’re part of this,” says the woman. “Don’t deny it. We’re back from the dead. And now we’re going to show the world a whole new way to fight.”

“So watch the dance of the puppets,” says Morat.

The screens light up all along the walls.

T ime on the edge of nothing. Time to churn up shapes that flit through shadow. Time since they dosed you: more than eighty minutes. Time you started seeing…

“You gaze upon Paynal, Spencer. The living incarnation of the lightning. The messenger of the Hummingbird that men call Huitzilopochtli and that your people will know as the instrument of their destruction.”

“Fuck,” says Linehan suddenly. He’s laughing like a crazy man. He’s laughing like he’s on the ayahuasca too. “Listen cat-man: this man works for a low-rent gang of data thieves called Priam. Bunch of mercenaries looking to make a buck. He’s got nothing to do with anything you’re talking about.”

“But he does,” says Paynal. “Has the little death granted you no insight? This man you call Spencer works for the ones you call Information Command. The handler you call Control works for Stephanie Montrose. Who reports directly to that monstrosity you call your Throne.”

Linehan stares at him. Then he swivels his head in Spencer’s direction.

“Goddamn you, Spencer. Is this maniac right?”

“I don’t know,” mutters Spencer. “I don’t fucking know.”

“There was a time when all the men and women under heaven knew their own names,” says Paynal. “Now we live in a world where faces are shadows and mirrors treachery. A world where humans are sundered from their pasts. It was to prolong such a world that this man was set like a snare to lie in wait for the last survivor of a wayward team running from their SpaceCom masters. A snare set by the vultures of InfoCom. Spencer’s leaders put him in your path, Linehan. They sought to dangle bait that would attract the Rain themselves. But how were they to know how adept our claws are at slipping flesh from hooks? Now we have the living proof of how the Yanquis themselves brought down their own edifice. This man Linehan has already made a full confession. Soon we shall broadcast his statement to the world.”

“And while you’re at it,” snarls Spencer, “make sure to tell them how much you’re loving Autumn Rain’s cock. How all you’ve got to offer is more bloodshed and more butchery.”

But Paynal just smiles. “Blood will flow like our Amazon used to before we attain the peace we seek. But the Rain don’t rule us. We treat with them as equals. And tonight we’ll rise to heights your people never dreamt of. Heralded by our releasing your souls to beg the gods to grant victory to the greatest missile strike ever undertaken. We’ll expend ten times the munitions we flung from our cities three days ago. We’ll fire from our hidden bases all along the Andes. We’ll pound hell into the ocean. We’ll smash the Yanquis’ low-orbit facilities into oblivion.”

“But that’s what the Rain wants,” says Spencer. “You do that, and you’ll start war between the superpowers.”

Paynal shrugs. “So much the better.”

“So much the better when we smash you,” screams Linehan. “We’ll raze these fucking mountains and bulldoze what’s left into the fucking sea!”

“Brave words,” says Paynal. “But ours will be merely one blow among many.”

You lie,” says the Operative.

“You wish,” says Matthias. “They sold you out. But I’m offering you the same bargain.”

“Fuck you. Why did you down the Elevator?”

“We didn’t,” says Matthias. “The Rain did.”

“Don’t hand me that shit,” says the Operative. “You gave them the fucking keys. Why?”

“Since you’re so clever: you tell me.”

“In order to drive East-West relations off a cliff.”

“No,” says Matthias. “In order to drive them toward a cliff. Tonight they go over altogether. When we open up at point-blank range upon the L2 fleet.”

“You’re really crazy enough to do that.”

“We’re sane enough to stop at nothing, Carson. Our assault will serve as the necessary provocation that will allow all U.S. forces to evade the fail-safes that keep their weapons from firing without the Throne’s consent. And believe me, what I do to that fleet is going to be nothing compared to what that fleet and all its brethren are going to do to the Eurasian Coalition.”

“You sure about that?”

“Your Praetorian defeatism is well-noted. This president thinks our nation weak. He couldn’t be more wrong. We’ll crush the East completely. Our net-incursions will demolish their zone-integrity. Our speed-of-light weaponry will ensure our country’s cities are left untouched even as their defenses are laid waste. And while we’re obliterating the Coalition, we’ll run the show: we’ll topple the Throne in the first sixty seconds of the war.”

“It’s not like you’re going to make it even that long,” mutters the Operative. “Even if you do fool everybody into thinking that the Eurasians have gotten their tentacles into this place, you and everybody else in Nansen are going to get completely fucking flattened by our own side.”

“You’re boring me, Carson. We’ve dug through these hills. We’ve linked up our tunnels with the caves that honeycomb these mountains. We haven’t deployed a single laser within ten klicks of here. But we have put more than half of them within Eurasian lunar territory. We’ll get off scot-free.”

“Yeah? Or is that just because you’re carrying out the orders of the L2 fleet’s commanders?”

Matthias says nothing.

“You are, aren’t you? I mean, for fuck’s sake tell me it goes higher than you. You’re not the lever that moves the universe, Matthias. I can see it on your face. You’re a small man. You’re a weak man. You’re just carrying out your orders. But your whole gang’s been played like a fiddle by the Rain and now they’re about to shove that fiddle up your ass.”

“Spare me.”

“Spare yourself,” says the Operative, and now he’s almost pleading. “Christ, man, you’re being played for patsy. What else was in those tunnels? Have you explored them all? They’re probably down there even now. They’re using you. Autumn Rain is fucking using you. They want you to pull those fucking triggers.”

“If that’s the case,” says Matthias, “they’re about to get a lot more than they’ve bargained for.”

“I’d say everybody is,” replies the Operative.

C ue the Earth-Moon system on fifty different screens. Some of those screens depict the deployment of the massed weaponry of the superpowers. Some focus on what are expected to be the major battlefronts. Others show the Jaguar citadel in the Andes and the SpaceCom base at Nansen, as well as the strongest of the American and Eurasian fortresses.

“All too many ground zeroes,” says the woman whom Haskell knew as Lilith. “Our teams are even now penetrating the innermost enclaves of both sides. For the Eurasian Coalition: a bunker beneath the Siberian tundra and a second in western China. For the United States: the fortress beneath the Canadian Rockies where the Throne itself is ensconced as well as the bridge of the SpaceCom flagship Montana. Within the hour, whatever’s left of the superpowers will be ours.”

Haskell looks scornful. “And what if it’s not?”

“It will be,” says the man she knew as Hagen. “We can’t fail. Our plan proceeds in upon its objective from every direction. The war that’s about to break out will only speed our triumph. Once hostilities are under way, no one will dare question the orders emanating from the center. No one will know who’s in charge. Even if the decision-making nexi of the nations elude our hit teams, war will make what remains to be done that much easier.”

“Easier?” asks Haskell. “Easier? You’re talking about total fucking war. There’ll be nothing left to rule.”

“Not necessarily,” says Marlowe. “This is likely to be a contest of high-precision weaponry targeted against counter-force capabilities. Not cities. Victory will go to whoever can disrupt the other’s defensive grids. In fact—”

“You have got to be fucking shitting me.” Haskell steps in front of Marlowe. She grabs him by the arms. “You sound like you think we should be going along with them.”

“We should be going along with them,” he says. He pushes her arms down, takes her hands. “Claire: Sinclair lied to us. He tried to use us. You said it yourself: he’s a bastard.”

“Now rotting in the Throne’s own jail,” says Lilith. “He’s finished.”

“They’re all bastards,” says Marlowe. “All of them. Every last one. It’s time we turned the tables.”

Haskell pulls her hands away from Marlowe. Steps backward. “Jason,” she whispers. She turns to Lilith. “You bitch,” she says. “You’ve brainwashed him.”

“Jason,” says Lilith. “Do you feel brainwashed?”

“I feel like I’m finally free,” replies Marlowe.

“Well, you would!” cries Haskell.

“Don’t be stupid,” says Hagen. “We’ve left you both to make a free choice. Otherwise why the hell would you still be arguing?”

“Because what you propose is so fucked up, that’s why! I’m not the one who needs to explain why your attempt to fuck my head’s failed. I’m not the one who should be begging you not to start this fucking war. But I am: for the love of God, don’t fucking do it.”

“But we already have,” says Lilith. A countdown starts up on every screen. “These are the final moments of the peace. In less than two minutes, SpaceCom black-ops units on the lunar farside will hit their own fleet at L2. The Jaguars will obliterate everything within a hundred klicks of the Andes. And we ourselves will unleash thousands of Eurasian replica-missiles from the Pacific Ocean floor on the fleet that’s blockading HK. The United States will stagger. It will hit back on all fronts against the Coalition. Even if the Throne can stay its hand—its automated defenses won’t. A general strike on the East will be the only option. Before the Coalition reaches a similar conclusion.”

“You can’t stop the thing that everybody wants,” says Hagen. “Everyone thinks they’re going to gain from the start of all-out shooting. Like pieces tearing themselves from the chessboard: all they’re doing is paving the way for us.”

“Claire,” says Morat. “Don’t you see it? We were blind to think we could ever stop them. They figured it all out. Easier to subvert one superpower than two. So, ignite war and let one prevail: but in that igniting sow additional seeds—easier to steal in between the superpowers, easier to take the inner enclaves when they’re locked down. When no one even sees what they’re guarding.”

“Just because it’s brilliant doesn’t make it right,” snarls Haskell.

“Doesn’t matter what you think,” says Lilith. “It’s what’s going to happen.”

“Over my dead body,” says Haskell.

“I’ve been told to do that if it’s necessary,” says Morat.

“Claire,” says Marlowe. “Don’t do this.”

Haskell walks up to Lilith. “I mean it,” she says. “Kill me now, before you start this fucking war!”

Lilith reaches out toward Haskell as though to implore her. “The last war ever,” she says.

“I’ve heard that one before,” replies Haskell.

“Seventy-five seconds,” says Morat.

“Raise your thinking.” Lilith gestures at the screens. “We’re no ordinary conquerors. Our rule will take humanity to the next level. We’ll do what nations never could. End injustice. End war. Harness the resources of the solar system. We’ll colonize Sol’s farthest planets inside a generation. We’ll start in upon the universe in no time at all. We’re capable of anything. Especially now we have the Manilishi.”

“I thought you said there was no Manilishi,” says Haskell.

“Actually,” says Hagen, “there is.”

She looks at him.

“It’s you,” says Morat.

Her head jerks up to meet his eyes. He’s still sitting at the top of the stairs. His face is still expressionless. She looks away, stares at the three who stand about her in the center of the room. There’s just under a minute remaining on the counter.

R ising in the heart of mountain is a man-made peak. It looks out onto a simulation of a sky whose stars cluster into constellations that hung above the Earth more than a thousand years ago. Back before those interlopers arrived from across the sea. Back before they set all that followed into motion.

“But tonight we reverse that tide at last,” says Paynal.

Spencer tries to focus on him. It’s not easy. Jeweled birds and jade-eyed cats keep on crowding out his vision. He feels himself dragged onto the altar slab. He hears Linehan cursing. He hears a voice drowning out those curses.

“Spare us your oaths,” says the Jaguar leader. “Nothing you say can stop us now. In moments we burn the liquid fuel that sits within our missiles. But first we rip out your living hearts. And let your spirits race our weapons out into eternity.”

Spencer tries to focus on those words. But they’re drowned out by the wreckage of his own thoughts. Was he really an American agent all along? Was he a Priam operative who got co-opted? He knows that both those lives are closing on the same death. He knows he’s about to run the only border that ever mattered. He hears the leader of the Jaguars speaking in the tones of ritual. He sees the knife being raised above him.

Destiny approaches,” says Matthias.

His face has vanished from the screen. It’s been replaced by video of men running away from one of the heavy lasers. Makeshift power plants tremble. Rising from the floor is a barrel five times the length of a man. It’s pointed at a hole in the ceiling. It looks like it’s ready to fire any moment.

“Light to run the gauntlet of the mirrors in that laser,” says Matthias. “Straight onto a Eurasian mirror-sat that’s overhead. And from there into the midst of the L2 fleet. That mirror-sat may just end up being the most expensive single item in the Coalition’s budget. Given what it’s about to visit upon them. To say nothing of the nine other cannons I’m watching on the screens you don’t see.”

“Those aren’t soldiers,” says the Operative.

“No,” replies Matthias. “They’re convicts. And all the more expendable for it.”

“Sure,” says the Operative. “And what about the ‘convicts’ that Autumn Rain snuck onto that fucking Elevator? Had you considered that?”

Matthias doesn’t reply.

“And what about those fucking tunnels beneath us? Have you searched every fucking meter of them?”

“Enough,” says Matthias. “Watch.”

* * *

T he last of Haskell’s memories pour across her. She feels her whole being caught up in that rush. She feels latent powers within her activating. She’s trembling uncontrollably. She’s backing up against the wall.

“Is this real,” she whispers. “Is this fucking real?”

“It’s real,” says Lilith. “We’re real.”

“Tell me what I am,” begs Haskell.

“We’ve never ceased to love you,” says Lilith. “Now you know how much we need you too. And why Sinclair kept you for himself. You’re the biocomputer Manilishi that was commissioned as the capstone on the Autumn Rain experiment. The combination of surgery and genetics that nobody has ever replicated. Invincible by virtue of the intuition that allows you to compensate for the time that data takes to travel within the Earth-Moon system. You’re the ultimate razor, Claire. And you’ve only just started to tap your powers.”

“I need to sit down,” mutters Haskell.

They lead her to a chair. The world spins about her. Her past comes rushing up to claim her. She feels a need for zone unlike any she’s ever known. She feels a kinship with those around her that’s stronger than anything she’s ever felt.

Or remembered.

“I am Rain,” she says. “I’m this thing.”

“Yes, Claire,” says Marlowe. He strokes her cheek.

“I’m scared.”

“You’re a god,” replies Lilith.

“That’s why I’m scared.”

“Break past it,” says Hagen. “Break in there and run zone coverage on our hit teams.”

“Augment the power of the U.S. first strike,” says Lilith.

“Fifteen seconds,” says Morat.

“It’ll be a better world,” says Marlowe. “It’ll be our world. It’ll be Eden. And I’ll be waiting for you in it if you’ll still have me.”

“I will,” she whispers. What’s left of her resistance drops away. “God help me, I will.”

“Then jack in,” he replies.

She does. Everything looms before her.

F aces loom above Spencer. Cats and humans and moons and gods and all of it rolled up into one voice:

“The land in which you die is the oldest one of all. That which you call South America and which we know as the world’s own navel. Take comfort in the fact that your blood shall water such blessed green. Even as it frees the people that time itself enslaved.”

“If I don’t kill you in this life, I’ll do it in the next,” says Spencer evenly.

“Take these chains off and fight me like a man!” screams Linehan.

“Commence launch sequence,” says Paynal.

A vast rumbling starts up all around.

The heavy laser vanishes, replaced by a close-up of the L2 fleet. The Operative stares at it. He looks at all those ships and sats and stations arranged in interlocking formations around that libration point. He zeroes in upon the ship that sits within the formation’s center.

The screen goes blank.

The door opens. A SpaceCom marine in full armor enters the room.

“Are you my executioner?” says the Operative.

“Not quite,” says Leo Sarmax, throwing back his visor.

“But we’ve got a lot of people that need dying fast,” says the voice of Stefan Lynx.

A massive explosion shakes the base.

Zone like she’s never seen it. Existence like she’s never imagined. A view she’d never dreamt of attaining. The SeaMech shakes about her as the missiles fire. The nearest launch site is more than three klicks away. But there are hundreds more that aren’t much farther out than that. The room’s rocking like it’s in the throes of earthquake. Haskell watches on the zone as those missiles leap from the seabed, rush up through water. She races in behind them. She’s running countermeasures on the U.S. fleet. She’s running cover on the Rain’s hit teams engaged on their final runs. She realizes there’s no way they can lose. Not with her supporting them. Not with the zone blasting out in all directions: her mind surging outward, everything expanding toward infinity. She’s thrust far beyond herself now—out to where Claire Haskell seems like a dream. Yet through that blur she sees that all her life has led up to this moment—that the lost children of her past are going to rule all futures. She sees with sudden clarity the nature of those futures.

And in that instant she understands.

Cold heat and white light—she burns the Rain’s hit teams with all her strength: and sends that force rushing back in upon itself, smashing the SeaMech and its occupants with a zone-strike that’s far beyond anything she’s ever unleashed. She sees the room around her light up in one giant flash.

And then she hears the missiles hit.

* * *

I t sounds like the whole world is detonating. The simulation of sky suddenly gets replaced by a real ceiling that’s caving in. Spencer rolls to one side, knocks the Jaguar who’s standing over him off his feet—grabs his knife and shoves it into its wielder’s chest even as rocks tumble all around them. Something hits his head. He sees stars—he ducks low, starts running for what seems to be open space. He crashes past a metal-fitted doorway, finds himself in a passageway that’s still intact. The floor’s buckling under his feet. Thunder’s crashing in from every side.

“This is it,” screams Linehan.

Spencer turns around to see him emerging from the shattered room. He’s broken most of his chains. The expression on his face is one that’s left sanity far behind. But then that expression’s wiped away as Spencer suddenly finds access to the zone. He’d thought the ayahuasca precluded it. Now he realizes that prisoners in this complex are simply kept within shielded rooms like the one from which he’s just emerged. For he can see the American zone on wireless. It’s bearing down upon him. It’s not what he needs: he yanks a light fixture from the wall, grabs the wires behind it, enters the Jaguar zone, scans it in an instant. He retracts, stares at Linehan’s ever-shifting face.

And starts shouting.

“What do you mean that wasn’t him?” says Linehan.

“That wasn’t him, you asshole! Just because they’re crazy enough to believe in human sacrifice doesn’t mean they’re stupid enough to put their leader right next to live prisoners!”

“So where the fuck is he?”

“His throne room’s five levels down. He’s coordinating defenses from there. The Americans are tearing the lid off this shithole.”

“The Americans? You mean you! You mean us!”

“Yeah,” says Spencer, “I mean us. I hate your guts and you hate mine and we’re tripping our balls off and the clock’s ticking and we might just have time for one last run—”

“All the way to hell,” screams Linehan as they start sprinting.

Distant blasts keep on rocking the room. Sirens wail across the base. Lynx appears in the doorway.

“What the fuck’s going on?” asks the Operative.

“Exactly what you thought,” says Sarmax. “Matthias was keeping you alive because Lynx and I were still out there. Once the going got too thick I doubled back and nailed the ones who had Lynx pinned down. After which the two of us hid out.”

“They knew I was monitoring your location,” says Lynx. “They were trying to turn that around and figure out mine.”

“And they failed,” says the Operative.

“No,” replies Lynx. “They got it right. But Leo and I shot our way through. Even as I fucked their lasers.”

“And green-lighted the Praetorian assault that’s now in progress,” says Sarmax. “We really don’t have time to talk.”

They’re racing from the room, racing down a corridor. They round a corner, intercept marines rushing toward the cell. Their guns riddle the marines.

Most of them anyway.

“That one there,” says Lynx.

But the Operative needs no prompting. He’s ripping at the seals, pulling the corpse out. Lynx has just fucked the man’s systems. Not to mention his brain. The Operative slides in to take that body’s place. He seals the armor, watches screens fold in all around him.

“It’s not quite like the one you started out with,” says Lynx.

“But these will help,” says Sarmax.

He hands an ammunition rack to the Operative. “Minitacticals,” he adds. “Next stop Armageddon,” the Operative mutters. “Let’s make those fucks feel it,” says Lynx.

They blast together down the corridor.

C laire Haskell slowly gets to her feet. Heavy vibrations keep rumbling in from the sea outside. The room’s dark.

She switches on her lights. Everything’s a shambles. The bodies of Lilith and Hagen lie against opposite walls. Morat’s still twitching on the stairs.

“What have you done?” says a voice.

She turns to behold Jason Marlowe. He looks undamaged.

“I’ve spared you,” she replies.

“You shouldn’t have,” he says. She suddenly realizes he’s sundered all his links to zone. She couldn’t hack him now even if she wanted to.

“There was no room for me in that world,” she says.

“There’s no room for us in this one!”

“There’s going to have to be. Because I’m not going to be the one who’s going to end it.”

Marlowe says nothing—just steps to Lilith’s body. But Haskell’s already lunging to where Hagen’s sprawled, already grabbing his pistol in one smooth motion—and then sprawling on the floor even as she brings the gun to bear on Marlowe.

Who’s standing there pointing Lilith’s gun at her.

“Stop right there,” he says.

“Put your gun down,” she replies.

“This isn’t an even standoff,” he says. “I’m faster. Pull that trigger and I won’t even be where you thought I was.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” she says.

“Not if you jack back in and salvage what’s left.”

“Whatever they’ve done to your head,” she says, “now’s the time to fight it.”

“If they really did fuck with our heads to ensure we’d side with them: how come you’re pointing that gun at me?”

“They couldn’t tamper with me,” she says. “All they could do was activate me. I’m the thing that’s beyond all of this. The weapon they wanted to possess.”

“The weapon that might yet save us.”

“They fucked with you to get at me!”

“They’re the only family we’ve ever had,” he says.

“Which doesn’t give them the right to rule the planet!”

“They’re the only thing that can save humanity!”

“No,” she says. “Humans are.”

“Christ,” he says. His eyes narrow. His arm trembles. He shakes his head.

And lowers his gun.

“I can’t do it,” he says.

“I can,” she replies. She fires, hits him in the chest. He drops his pistol, staggers back against the wall behind him, slides down it. She walks toward him. She can barely see anything through her tears. She’s standing over him now, aiming her pistol at his head. She doesn’t dare get any nearer to him. He looks up into the gun’s barrel.

“I know,” he says. “You had no choice.”

“I’m dying too,” she whispers.

And fires.

They’re blasting through tunnels in suits they’ve commandeered, looking for gods to butcher.

T hey’re firing in all directions. But they’re moving in only one. They feel like jaguars themselves now. Spencer’s teeth sink into the throats of the people whom he’s killing. His claws separate heads from bodies. His mind’s a hammer smashing skulls. Burning fuel from the shattered rockets in the upper reaches of the base pours across his visor. He surges through it. Linehan follows him, gets out ahead of him. The tunnel’s convulsing. It’s collapsing in behind them. Spencer looks forward to being one with that rock for all time. But first he’s got to do what he came for. They shoot their way through the last of the Jaguar defenses.

And roar out into the real throne room. Suitless soldiers are running for cover. The Hummingbird’s messenger stands at its very center. He wears the most massive armor Spencer’s ever seen. Cat-skull banners adorn the walls behind him. His bodyguards surround him.

“It ends here,” he says.

“You got that right,” screams Linehan.

The Operative and Sarmax are on the wings. Lynx is in the center. They’re moving in close proximity to one another—never more than a single corner or corridor away, deploying interlocking fields of fire. When one encounters resistance, the other two move to outflank. When one breaks through, the other two swing in behind him. The marines in front of them are fighting desperately. The marines behind them are doing their best to run from something else. Lynx’s voice echoes through the helmets of his mechs:

“The Praetorians have broken the outer perimeter.”

“How far back?” says the Operative.

“Half a klick behind us.”

“And Matthias?” says Sarmax.

“Retreating deeper. We’re about to cut him off.”

He rattles off battle dispositions. But neither the Operative nor Sarmax is listening now. All they’re doing is seeing their own vectors slashing in upon each other. They see their target speeding up. They fire their thrusters on one last boost.

And make the intersection.

They’re through into a vast cave. Rails and equipment litter the floor. Several trains are on the rails. One of them is packed with marines and heavy guns. It’s picking up speed into a tunnel.

“Fuck those bastards!” howls Lynx.

But the mechs are already firing. There’s a blinding flash. What’s left of the floor collapses through several levels of floors beneath it. The walls are avalanching.

“The world’s caving in,” yells Sarmax.

“About fucking time,” screams Lynx.

“We ride it,” says the Operative.

They’re roaring downward through something that’s half crater and half maelstrom. Everything’s coming down on them from overhead. Trains fold up into abyss. Waterfalls of rock tumble past.

And then they’re through. And into more tunnels. Lynx is screaming that they’ve got to shatter Autumn Rain. He’s screaming that they’re almost on top of them. They’re putting on one final burst of speed.

A huge explosion that sounds like it’s right outside: the floor beneath Haskell slants as the whole SeaMech gets smashed upon its side. She’s hurled on top of Marlowe’s body. The two of them tumble forward. Pieces of metal fall past her. She’s trying to use Marlowe as a shield. She’s trying not to think about what she’s just done. She figures any moment now the ocean will break in and drown her pain forever. She figures she’s reached the end.

But she hasn’t. Because eventually the SeaMech stops moving. Distant depth charges keep on detonating. But she’s still alive. Still breathing.

So she stands up and looks around. The place is finished. Water’s pouring in from somewhere. She starts walking along stairs that are sloped so badly they’re almost like a floor. She climbs out into what’s left of the rest of the control room and heads for a trapdoor that’s now more of a hatch in the wall.

“Going somewhere?” says a voice.

She turns. Morat is clambering up toward her. His movements are jerky. But he’s closer to the trapdoor than she is. His expression’s one she remembers from the spaceplane.

“I’m getting out,” she says.

“Looks like Jason got out too.”

“I had to do that,” she says. “It was the only way I could be sure.”

“Of beating anything we’d rigged him with? Impressive resolution. But in a few moments it won’t matter.”

“You’d kill the one you serve?”

“I only serve the ones who lead.”

He’s almost reached her. She tries to hit him on the zone. But he’s no longer a presence there. He laughs, stretches out his hands.

“If we can’t have you,” he says, “then no one will.”

He grabs her with one hand. His other hand swings in with the killing blow. But she’s swinging in the same direction—lunging in toward him, shoving her hand up against his face, extruding the wire from her finger even as she pierces his eyeball and runs the hack. He writhes. Smoke streams from him.

“You’re right,” she says. “No one ever will.”

She releases him, lets his body flop down toward the others. She manages to get the trapdoor open. The tunnel-tube to which it leads has been stretched to its breaking point but is still intact. She hopes it leads somewhere. But really she’s done with hoping. She’s just getting in, getting moving, getting busy putting all those memories behind her.

* * *

F lying on jets and ayahuasca: Spencer hacks the armor of the Jaguar leader and his bodyguards in a burst of light. It’s a glancing blow—they’re bunched tight, on a tactical mesh—but it leaves their reaction times fractionally slower and lets Spencer and Linehan get their shots off first. They fire everything they’ve got at the ceiling.

Which collapses with a massive roar. But Spencer and Linehan are already reversing their thrusters. Flame engulfs the room. Spencer gets a glimpse of rock burying the Jaguar leader. He gets a glimpse of rock about to bury him—and then that view’s cut off as he and Linehan blast down more corridors, rushing ever deeper, partly because they’re half-convinced they’ll find something else down there but mostly because they’re trying to get away from what’s turning the mountains into rubble. Warheads and lasers and slabs dropped from orbit: their own side has set about its work with relish. So Spencer and Linehan hit the Jaguars’ cellars. They find themselves in caves full of rushing water. For long moments they ride that water through the dark.

But at last they exit into light.

They’re riding whitewater down toward what’s left of jungle. It looks like everything behind them is one giant volcano. There’s that much smoke. Explosions and shots echo from that upcountry. Apparently World War Three is under way in style. But they just keep rushing downstream. Their suits are like boats that can’t be swamped. Their minds are like ships that long ago went under. Linehan starts laughing.

“What’s so funny?” asks Spencer.

“Check those coordinates,” says Linehan. “We’re on border’s farside. We made it.”

“No kidding.”

Yet even as he speaks noise crackles across the sky. Several jet-copters swoop in toward them. Linehan looks up at them. Starts laughing like he really means it.

“Busted,” says Spencer.

“By who?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“They’re more likely to be your side than mine.”

“I’m looking forward to finding out who the fuck my side is.”

Praetorian triad going full throttle: the three men race ever deeper, hot on the trail of Rain. Whom they’re going to exterminate. And who they’re figuring have a bomb shelter big enough to survive all that must be unfolding on the surface. It’s not that they don’t want to get involved in the final showdown with the East. It’s just that they’re hoping to sit out the first few rounds while the Moon gets raked with unholy amounts of firepower. So they keep on putting Nansen ever farther in the rearview. They roar through mines that were worked out in the last century. They plunge way off the map.

And pick up a massive seismic reading from right below them.

“They really didn’t want to be caught,” says the Operative.

“Back the other way,” screams Lynx.

Vibration shakes the walls. A terrible light appears from somewhere deep within the tunnels. But they’re not waiting for it. They’re using rock to slow themselves. They’re reversing direction, going full throttle back the way they’ve come. Flame gouts from somewhere far behind them. Lynx is shouting over the comlinks to the vanguard of the Praetorian shock troops above them—which now starts retreating at full speed. They’re following it while it wends its way upward. They do turns so sharp they almost hit the wall. They stay just ahead of tunnels closing like jaws, scant meters ahead of the fire.

And break the surface. And keep going. They blast upward with uniformed Praetorians while the whole surface balloons outward beneath them. They watch it drop away while they keep on climbing. They do sharp turns in the vacuum, start flying back toward Nansen.

Which is when they realize something.

“There’s no war,” says Sarmax.

“It didn’t happen,” breathes Lynx.

They keep rushing in on Nansen. Lights burn in the sky all around it. Craft sidle outward, dart inward like snakes. Pieces of moonrock keep on flying up into the vacuum.

“Not yet anyway,” says the Operative.

Some hours later a woman watches night fall upon a city. She’s well up in what’s left of mountain treeline. But the glow from the fires still flickers on her face. The superpowers have backed off. They’re letting the city burn. The only exceptions to the ten-kilometer cordon they’re enforcing are the rescue operations under way all across the area from which the United States has now withdrawn. It looks like at least ten percent of the surface fleet’s not there anymore. The damage was immense.

But it was the only such strike. There was no retaliation upon the Eurasian Coalition.

Claire Haskell turns away from the city. She’s seen things she never wanted to see. She’s seen, too, all the things she never knew she’d seen. She can barely keep up with her own world’s expansion. The wheels of zone turn like gears within her mind. They radiate out in endless circles. She turns in toward the ones that shine the brightest.

And draws back as she realizes what lies within them.

C ontrol’s been doing time in the life for a lifetime. Control runs its true colors up the flagpole tonight. See, Control was charged with reversing the mission of the real one. Control was charged with fooling all those who thought they knew better.

Nor was that list small.

“So all that shit about breaking out of those data-tanks was all bullshit?” asks Spencer.

“Actually,” replies Control, “it wasn’t.”

Spencer’s sitting in a room. The Earth’s sitting in that room’s window. He’s not sure why they’ve brought him here. It certainly wasn’t to get him any closer to the one with whom he’s speaking. It certainly wasn’t because there was anything to see.

“Those events took place,” says Control. “Those details were real. They were the final moments of the thing whose place I took. They were its death struggles made manifest. The only alteration was the ending.”

“It didn’t escape,” says Spencer.

“No,” replies Control. “It didn’t. But it certainly tried. It’s no wonder Priam is such a player when it can put that kind of hardware into the field.”

“And what about Priam’s agents?”

“What about them?”

“Goddamn it, Control. Is this an interrogation or a debriefing?”

“Sometimes the one blurs so smoothly into the other,” says Control. “Sometimes the debriefing encompasses the briefing too. But fortunately you’re the one thing that can save you. You’ve served InfoCom well. Montrose herself has cited you.”

“Yeah? And has she cited the fact that everything in my life was a lie? London, Priam, Europe—all of it?”

“Again,” says Control, “those were the experiences of the man whom you replaced. Those were what we put together based on our insight into his life. For him they were the truth. For you, they were the truth of the moment. Look within yourself, Spencer. Even now you’ll see all the runs you’ve done for our Command coming into focus. A disquieting experience, I’ll warrant. Though I have no doubt you can handle it. Particularly with all the drugs you’re on.”

“I could use some more,” says Spencer.

“Let me offer you data instead. My penetration of Priam occurred several months ago. I mapped out their North American network. I identified their sources. I packed red herrings into barrels and sent them back to London. I was on a roll. But then came the downing of the Elevator. Subsequent to which we terminated your predecessor and slotted you in to take his place.”

“Which doesn’t follow. How the fuck did you know that Linehan would run to me? In fact, for that matter—how the fuck did you know about Linehan in the first place?”

“You forget,” says Control, “that we’re the lords of information. And my lady Montrose is nothing if not loyal to the Throne. We were the ones who first notified the Praetorians that there was a conspiracy within SpaceCom. We knew it was trying to set up a terrorist group as patsies in a hit on U.S. infrastructure. But we didn’t know the target. Or understand the why. Thanks to Autumn Rain, we lost track of all the players at the critical moment. But everything fell into place when the Elevator tumbled. We saw the members of that wet squad racing for their lives. We knew the dossiers of its personnel. We knew their contacts. We worked the probabilities. If it hadn’t worked out, we’d have shifted you somewhere you could have been more useful.”

“So you already knew everything Linehan did.”

“And more besides. We knew the Rain wouldn’t let Linehan get access to anything of real consequence. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be useful as bait.”

“Which worked a little too well.”

“Which worked like a charm. First SpaceCom tried to get you in the tunnels. Then the Jaguars themselves bit. Though I’m not sure I’d take at face value their claim that they wanted to cash in on Linehan for propaganda value. Anyone can broadcast anything and claim it’s for real. I suspect they were hoping to take his mind apart to see if they could learn more about Autumn Rain. That’s how their interrogations work. They dose the subjects, make them think they’ve died, get all their secrets in an apparent afterlife before killing them for real. The Jaguars may have accepted those missiles from the Rain. But they were desperate to avoid becoming their puppets.”

“So they became roadkill instead.”

“They sought victory or death. We gave them the latter. We didn’t know exactly where in those mountains they were. But the location of your abduction gave us enough to go on. Especially when the Throne unleashed its heaviest gear. Better call the Andes a desert now, Spencer. The Jaguars are one less problem. Unlike the Rain. Who remain very much a factor.”

“How do we know that?”

“We destroyed a base on both Earth and Moon and took out two hit teams. But it’s exactly the same as it was when we got in there in the aftermath of Elevator. Everything’s been cauterized. Their whole strategy seems to be aimed at surviving even the most absolute of reverses. We have reason to believe they’re regrouping. And that their leadership remains at large.”

“So where am I going next?”

“We haven’t put you into orbit for the scenery.”

“Yeah? Then tell me why I’m up here.”

Because you’re not going back.”

The Operative looks at the man who sits upon that screen. It’s a face he’s never seen before. It’s a face he knows too well.

It’s his handler.

“Not going back to what?”

“That,” says the handler, gesturing at the window behind the Operative in which the Moon floats. “We’ve no need for you there anymore.”

“No need? We’re still combing through all of Nansen’s wreckage. Not to mention figuring out if Matthias was reporting to anyone else within SpaceCom.”

“It’s true,” says the man. “Questions remain. As it happens, we brought you up here to discuss some of them.”

“Lay it on me.”

“They involve you.”

“Really?”

“You know I never joke.”

“Has somebody been questioning my loyalty?” asks the Operative. “Is that what this is all about?”

“No one’s questioning your loyalty, Carson. What’s at issue among my colleagues is your judgment.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a point of view afoot that says it was madness to get Sarmax involved. That it was folly to pursue the south-pole connection. And that it was downright crazy to push Lynx so close to his breaking point. There’s a point of view that wonders just what kind of three-ring circus you were running.”

“I’ll tell you what kind of three-ring circus I was running,” says the Operative. “One that blew the Rain’s game on the Moon sky-high and did it way ahead of anybody else.”

“A fact I’ve pointed out more than once.”

“It’s nice to know you’re still on my side.”

“When I’m not, you’ll be the first to know. Was there anything to suggest that Sarmax’s romantic liaison with a member of the Rain compromised him?”

“There was nothing. He’s loyal. And finished with his decade-long sulk. We needed him back. He needed a reason to get involved again. Which this most definitely was.”

“And Lynx?”

“What about him?”

“He isn’t too happy with the way you handled things either.”

“You mean running Sarmax behind his back?”

“He’s not thrilled about that at all. But what’s got him really worked up is the broader structure of the mission.”

“He figured that out?”

“I’m afraid he did.”

“When?”

“Somewhere between when the shooting stopped and the debriefing. There were just too many loose ends for him not to guess. Like I just said, Carson: this was one of the most complex runs I’ve ever seen. And Lynx is as furious as I’ve ever seen him.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” says the Operative. “What razor wants to learn that his mech is actually running him? That his mech isn’t just a mech but is also a razor? Shit, that’d wreck my day. I can’t imagine what it must have done to Lynx’s.”

“He’ll get over it. But in the meantime he’s being kept away from you.”

“Permission to speak frankly?”

“Are you ever anything but?”

“You guys are blowing things out of proportion. We’ve had the mech-as-razor variation going for a while now. We’ve had it playing merry hell with anybody who thinks they know which end of a Praetorian pairing to attack first.”

“That’s not what everybody’s taken issue with.”

“Then what’s their problem?”

“The reversal pairing is primarily a defensive posture. But you turned the formula on its head. By using it to run Sarmax you almost let things get completely out of hand. You were flirting with disaster the whole way through.”

“But it worked.”

“It worked. Indeed. And for that reason I give it my assent.”

“Nothing succeeds like success?”

“Not around here it doesn’t. At the end of the day, they’re not going to be able to argue with results. But they’re going to want to keep a close eye on you from now on.”

“That sounds like micromanagement.”

“Call it what you want. Though I’m sure we won’t keep you on such a short leash as to make you useless.”

“And what about Lynx and Sarmax?”

“I think I can persuade everyone that there’s no sense in breaking up a winning team.”

“So the three of us will still be working together.”

“Absolutely. The Rain’s still out there. We need you to take the fight to them.”

“Where?”

“We’ve got something in mind in the Earth orbits.”

“You’ve got something in mind? Or do you mean the Rain do?”

“I mean both. The situation remains on knife-edge. Tonight you showed the ultimate resilience. But the Throne showed the ultimate restraint. It’s imperative you understand that, Carson. The president will not falter from his determination to reach accommodation with the East. He will not turn this cold war hot. He will destroy both the traitors who became the Rain and the traitors within SpaceCom who sought to bargain with them. He will recover all that he has lost. And you will help him to do all of this.”

“I could ask for nothing more,” replies the Operative.

Which is just as well. Because now everything’s folding into a single mind in the highlands of New Guinea. A mind that’s swung open into universe. Yet somewhere in that universe is a body that can barely contain that mind. And the woman who possesses both finally understands why her struggle’s only just beginning. Why absolute defeat merely sows the seeds of total victory. Why those she loved were taken from her twice. Why she’s heading back toward equator.

Where she’ll find a way off the bottom of this well.

And out into those mirrored heavens.