Mirrored Heavens

“He calls himself Linehan.”

“And does that name link to an identity?”

“I don’t think it’s his real name, no.”

“I didn’t ask what his real name was,” snaps Control. “Of course it’s not his real name. Not unless he’s as unhinged as you seem to be on the verge of becoming. What I asked you is whether the name he’s told you is the name he’s using to get around.”

“He’s bought all his tickets in that name, yes.”

“Is he a razor?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then who configured his identity?”

“He claims his razor did that.”

“And what happened to his razor?”

“It’s in the data I’ve given you. Died fleeing the country. In that expresser crash two days back.”

“Does he have any other identities?”

“I assume he doesn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t need us.”

“Leave the assuming to me, Spencer. Let me do some digging. I’ll need his chips. His retinas. And his skin. Not to mention a heads-up on anything he’s got that might trip the wires at customs.”

“What should I tell him when I ask him for all that?”

“Tell him the truth. Tell him I’m looking at options. Pass it all on to me without compromising your own software.”

“Can you get us out tonight?”

“If I can get you out at all,” says Control, “then I can get you out tonight.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll be met at landfall.”

“It could really be that simple?”

“It would be nothing of the sort. But I need more information, Spencer. We don’t know who he is. We don’t know who’s after him. We don’t know what they believe about him. They may think he’s gone to ground. They may think he’s six feet under. They may be outside your room right now. We don’t know.”

“Nor do we know who they are.”

“That’s not the real question,” says Control. “Who’s after him is a lot less important than why. Even though the reason might not be interesting. Monumental as I’m sure all this seems to you, it could be rather mundane. It could just be someone who’s made the wrong enemies.”

“But it’s someone with power.”

“Used to have power, maybe. Not now. Now he’s got just enough to move around. To kick down your door.”

“And then haul me out that door for good.”

“Exactly. He’s a live wire. That’s why he’s still living. So watch him. If we furnish him with the road out, he’ll try to run as soon as he springs the border.”

“You think so?”

“I suspect so. But in truth it depends.”

“On what?”

“On what makes a man try to run.”

“Not sure I’m the best person to answer that one,” says Spencer.

 T wo people in a room. The woman’s standing. The man is sitting. Outside, ships wheel past. Inside, lips weave patterns that distract from the real conversation that’s going on between the sentences:

“How well do you remember him?”

“Well enough,” says Haskell.

“Which doesn’t mean you ever really met him.”

“True enough,” says Haskell. “But who cares? May as well say that this is memory right now.”

“It may well be,” says Marlowe.

It’s an art that every agent learns: how to have two conversations at once. How to transmit signals while still listening to what’s said audibly. How to talk out loud while still monitoring what’s reaching the neural implants. In such circumstances what’s projected by voice is usually centered on banalities. What’s projected on wireless is usually less so.

Especially when it involves questions with no safe answers.

“There’s no end to that line of thinking.”

“You started it.”

“No,” she says, “I didn’t. I just found out about it. I never did it. I never fucked anyone’s head in half and stitched the pieces together with software and illusion. I never killed anybody’s past.”

“You think killing someone’s future’s any better?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You take less of their life that way.”

“Sophistry,” says Marlowe.

“Reality,” says Haskell. “And you should hope so. Having done enough of it.”

“Done enough of what?”

“Kill people.”

“I never killed anybody who wasn’t trying to return the favor. What’s up here? Do you want me to feel guilty?”

“How can I answer that?”

“Oh,” says Marlowe slowly. “You’re the one who feels the guilt.”

“Of course,” she says softly. “At least you see your victims. At least you give them a chance to fight.”

“Not if I can help it,” he replies. He arches an eyebrow. “Didn’t that file tell you I have no remorse?”

“Look,” she says, “I’m sorry I told you I’d read that.”

“But were you sorry to have read it in the first place?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And why did you tell me you’d read it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re sure about so much else. Why not this?”

“Because I’m sure about nothing that concerns Jason Marlowe.”

“Probably because you’re sure about nothing that concerns Claire Haskell.”

“I understand myself fine,” she says.

“Of course.”

“It’s my feelings that are the problem.”

“Same here. But then again, you already know that.”

“I do?”

“You read my file,” he says.

“I thought we’d gotten past that.”

“You know my memories, Claire. You were part of them.”

“But you don’t even know if those memories were real!”

“They’re real enough to count.” This last is said out loud. He stands up. She steps back to that window. Turns away. Turns back. Her eyes are wet with tears.

“I know,” she says, and now she’s talking out loud too. “Same here. You left. You came back. I feel like they’re fucking with me. They’re fucking with me by putting you here.”

“Maybe some good will come of it.”

“Good,” she says. “Come here.”