Mirrored Heavens

“Rescued,” repeats Riley.

“Rescued?” asks Maschler.

“What the hell else are we going to do?” says the Operative testily. “I’ll admit I find the thought distasteful. But I’m fresh out of ideas. It’s not like we can land. It’s not like we can dock with anything. In fact, it’s not like we can do shit except cruise through space until we either hit something or the engine conks out for good. We’re flying deadweight, gentlemen. Besides, a med scan wouldn’t be such a bad idea right now anyway. I’m sure we all could use it.”

“He’s right,” says Riley.

“Of course I’m right,” says the Operative. “It’s over.”

“Good,” says Maschler.

“But what was it,” asks Riley.

“How about if we agree to call it the end of the beginning?” asks the Operative.

“You mean there’s more?” Maschler asks.

“I would assume so,” replies the Operative.

“So what happens next?” says Riley.

“If I knew that, I’d be giving orders instead of carrying them out,” says the Operative. “But with any luck, yours won’t be more than a bit part. Just keep your head down and keep on hauling freight, okay? That should suffice to see you through. Doesn’t matter what’s going down or who comes out on top: they’re going to have a need for people like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” says Riley.

“You should,” says the Operative. “That’s how I intended it. Survivability’s the ultimate praise. You guys should be fine from here.”

“And what about you?” says Maschler.

“What about me,” says the Operative.

“What’s this all mean for you?” asks Riley.

“I’m still figuring that one out,” says the Operative. “But for now, the same as you. We get picked up, we get checked out, we get a new rig, we head on toward our destination.”

Riley starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” says the Operative.

“What’s not?” he replies. “I’d forgotten all about that fucking rock. Strange, eh?”

“Strange indeed,” agrees the Operative. “How about we get some brakes before we get there?”

But Riley just keeps laughing.

PART II INCURSION

 O f course,” says Matthew Sinclair, “the whole thing’s a joke.”

He looks at Marlowe and Haskell. They look at the face upon that screen: the face of the man who heads up CounterIntelligence Command. They wonder what the hell he means. It’s been two days since the Elevator was blown from its orbit. Two days since the greatest man-made object became the greatest piece of wreckage. Tens of thousands are dead. Fission has ruptured the atmosphere so badly that the sky’s still glowing.

For the life of them neither Marlowe nor Haskell can see what’s so funny.

“This manifesto,” says Matthew Sinclair. “It’s a joke. They know it. And they know we know it too.”

“Then why did they write it?” asks Marlowe.

“Because,” says Sinclair, “they wanted people to talk about it.”

Looks like they got their wish. People can’t shut up. Information’s traffic flows like light and quenches like water. It’s never the same thing twice. When you think you’ve caught it in your hands, it’s already changed forever. But here’s the thing about information.

It can’t compete with rumor.

“Wiping out the Elevator would have accomplished that,” says Haskell.

“Right,” says Sinclair, “but this way they lay claim to an identity.”

Some identity. Some name. Autumn Rain: do those words contain the keys to the mind that’s set all this in motion? Does this manifesto lay out their real agenda? It hints at utter madness. It suggests the outlines of something all too sane.

“Yet the population of this country hasn’t read it,” says Marlowe.

“Not officially,” says Haskell.

“Exactly,” says Sinclair. “Keep in mind, too, that what’s said is a lot less important than the fact that something’s being said.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this document’s words don’t matter. Not in the slightest.”

“I don’t know,” says Haskell. “Those words might sound pretty inspiring to someone who’s looking for a reason to hate the government.”

“Not inspiring,” says Sinclair, “insipid. Read it again. ‘For too long have those you call leaders mortgaged your future’? ‘All of history has waited for this moment’? It’s one big joke. On us. Claims of nomenclature notwithstanding. It means nothing. Nothing at all. Which isn’t to say there aren’t meanings hidden within it. Invert comedy, you get tragedy. We’ve got both now. So we’re looking at it from every angle. We’re parsing every phrase.”

He goes back and forth, thinks Haskell. She looks at the face projected on that screen and wonders at the contradictions it utters, contains. She looks at that face, struggles to contain herself. She feels her heart overflowing: looking at that man right now, beard sharpened to a fine point, shaved skull extruding metal, metal walls behind him.

Just like she always dreamt him.

“But we haven’t succeeded in finding anything yet,” says Marlowe.

“Ever the practical one, Jason,” says Sinclair. “No. We haven’t. We’ve deployed specialists to calibrate the minds behind these words. They can’t tell us anything. They can’t even tell us if it was written by human or machine. They’re useless.”

Haskell shakes her head. “Then why are we talking about it?”

“Because,” says Sinclair, “it’s not their minds I’m interested in right now. It’s yours. The Rain?—they’re out there somewhere. Assuredly. But you’re right here.”

“And where are you?” says Marlowe.

“Exactly where you see me,” replies Sinclair.

“On that screen,” says Haskell.

“Yes, Claire,” says Sinclair. “On this screen. But right here with you all the same. For the first time among so many times, you’re not recollecting me in the trance. You gaze upon me in the moment. We’ve got no time for anything else.”

“How can we be sure you’re really Matthew Sinclair?” asks Marlowe.

“How can you ever?” says Sinclair. “I like you, Jason. I like your verve and butchery. But I also like Claire. She’s so different from my others. Truth to tell, I can’t decide which of you I like more. That’s why I’ve brought you here.”

“To find out?” asks Haskell.

“If you like,” says Sinclair. He seems amused. “You sit and watch me on this screen. You think I pull your strings. It’s an easy illusion to subscribe to. But what you must understand is that you’re the ones who hold the power. Because you’re the ones who go out into the world.”

“To be tested,” says Marlowe.

“To be sure,” says Sinclair. “And these times test us as never before. Jason: Claire will be your razor. She’ll