Mirrored Heavens

“They’re what caused this mess,” she says. “They’re the root of the fucking problem.”

“Heads up,” he says.

A shape is looming out of the night above them. It’s hundreds of meters in length. It blots out the stars. It blots out afterglow. It’s hauling in the remainder of the tether.

“We’re here,” he says.

Rough hands grab them, haul them inside a room on one level of a much larger gondola. Haskell and the mech watch while the soldiers who’ve just pulled them in pull in the remainder of the tether. They stare at each other while a burning city floats through the dark several klicks below.

“You’re Jason Marlowe,” says Haskell.

“And you are?”

“Who do you think?”

She removes her mask with one hand, brushes brown hair back with the other. He stares at freckles and sweat—pulls off his own mask to reveal black hair and a bloody nose.

“Hello,” says Haskell.

“Fuck’s sake,” he says—and steps forward to embrace her. But she just steps away, leans back against the window.

“I knew it was you,” she says.

“They didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t tell me either.”

“Guess they’ve got other things on their mind right now.”

There’s a pause. Soldiers continue to move around them, closing the trapdoor through which they’ve just come, storing away the tether. One of them turns to Marlowe and Haskell.

“You’re both wanted in the medbay,” he says.

“In a minute,” says Marlowe.

“Now,” the man replies. “We need you out of this room so we can lock it down.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” says Marlowe. “It’s the reverse.”

The man stares at him.

“We need you out,” adds Marlowe.

“Don’t take it personally,” says Haskell.

The man stares for another moment, comes to a quick decision. He snaps orders to the rest of the soldiers. They stop what they’re doing, exit the room in haste. Haskell and Marlowe hear them muttering among themselves. The words razor and mech feature prominently in the conversation. The door shuts behind them.

“As direct as ever,” says Haskell.

“Some things never change,” replies Marlowe.

“We’ve got maybe five minutes before they send someone down.”

“They can send away,” says Marlowe. “I doubt anyone on this ship outranks us. And I’m willing to bet none of the handlers are anywhere near this.”

He gestures at the window. She gazes at the colors rippling across the heavens, at the fires burning down below. Powered craft are starting to move through the skies once more, their lights flickering here and there amidst the dark. She takes it all in, glances back at him.

“So what is it you wanted to say?” she asks.

“I’m still trying to figure that out.”

She looks at him. There’s a long pause.

“Look,” he says, “I just wanted to be able to say something. I hadn’t expected this.”

“Well,” she says, “sorry to surprise you.”

“I’m rolling with it.”

“Are you?”

“Trying to.”

“You and me both.”

“They’ll bring the wall back down between us,” he says. “We’ll be debriefed, tossed back into the mix. We didn’t see each other in ten years of runs—”

“Which was deliberate.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s what I’m saying. We’re only here right now because of pure chance.”

“They’re going to think we’re trying to sneak away like we used to.” She tries for a mischievous smile but just ends up looking as tired as she feels.

“We should get you to the medbay.”

“Me?” She laughs. “You’re the one wiping blood off your face.”

“Small price,” he says. He smiles sadly. “You know, I’d like to see you before another ten years have passed.”

“You will,” she says, though she’s not sure if she believes that. “They owe me after this. I’ll see you again. Or at least be in contact.”

“In contact,” he says.

“In contact,” she repeats. “At least. It’s the least the old man can do. He almost got me killed tonight.” She looks at Marlowe. “Thank you, by the way.”

He waves that aside. “You shouldn’t be so hard on Sinclair. I hear he hears of nothing but your exploits. You’re CI’s rising star.”

She forces herself to smile: nods, mumbles something.

“What was that?” he asks.

“I said, I’m feeling faint. Let’s get to that medbay. See that?” She gestures at a light approaching out the window. “Probably a ’copter to offload us.”

“And then they’ll send us on our separate ways.”

“They already did. Here we are again. It’s just a matter of waiting.”

He stares at her.

“Everything is, Jason.”

“Not for them.” He points past the approaching ship at a night that continues to flare colors. The city’s conflagration continues apace. Faint dots are aircraft swarming over it in renewed fury. Explosions and tracers are flying into the air. They’re kilometers below, barely visible. But it’s clear enough that the fighting’s still going on. That the dying’s continuing.

“They’re already there,” he says.

The Operative and Riley arrive back in the cockpit to find Maschler still sitting in his chair. He’s staring out the window, holding what looks to be a small telescope up to his eye. He glances around.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“He’s deaf,” says Riley.

“But he can read lips,” says the Operative.

“You didn’t tell me that,” says Riley.

“You didn’t ask,” says the Operative. “And I wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. Besides, I don’t need to read shit to know that the first thing you’re going to say when I emerge from a live rocket engine with blood dripping from my ears is jesus man are you okay. Maschler: any sense as to how far off the ramp we are?”

“Hard to say with this kind of crap at my disposal,” says Maschler, setting aside his instrument to float in front of him. “But it doesn’t look so bad right now. We’re only off by a few degrees.”

“That’ll grow,” says Riley.

“So what?” says the Operative. “The point is that we’re a hell of a lot less likely to get impaled by anything now. We launched within the window, brothers. That’ll be enough until we get rescued.”