Mirrored Heavens

“Seems strange that they’d make such a habit of putting an envoy in such danger,” says Marlowe.

“But I wasn’t an envoy then,” says Morat, turning back to face them. “I was like you. Don’t you see? I’m not the one that rewards loyalty. I’m what we offer the loyal. Promotion for those who can stick with it. Graduation from the endless runs. I’m real. I’m not just some blurry creature half-remembered from your sleep. I was like you once. I still am.”

“Is that a fact,” says Haskell.

“It is,” says Morat. “And sarcasm never did become you, Claire. I offer you sincerity and you meet it with a cynic’s tongue. How imaginative. We’re not so different, you and I. A decade ago, I rode my prime. I was as perfect as I’ll ever be. I fought our battles on the Moon, in space, on Earth, beneath the waves. I was Sinclair’s go-to man. I know how strange it is to have one of my number stand before you and confess these things. But what you don’t know is how much I envy you.”

“That’s bullshit,” says Haskell.

“Is it now,” says Morat.

“Of course it is,” says Haskell, and it’s as though something in her is finally giving way. Her voice is rising now. “So you made it. So you lived. So fucking what? You sit there and you reminisce, and you expect me to be empathetic? I don’t care what you’ve been through. I don’t care what your life’s been like. You’ve just told me that I’ve got no future save becoming you, and now you ask me for my sympathy? Are you insane?”

“Easy,” says Marlowe. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“Let her finish, Jason,” says Morat. “It’s important that she says the things she’s never dared to. It’s one thing to confide it within reach of a microphone or rant it through the canyons of the sleep. It’s quite another to put it to a waking face. Past that anger, and I promise she’ll be as flawless as I once was.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” asks Marlowe.

“I’ll tell you what kind of game he’s playing,” says Haskell. “He’s playing the game that everybody plays when they get a rung above you on the ladder. The game of spitting on those who stand where you once stood. The game of false nostalgia. But don’t get carried away, Morat. You haven’t climbed above the point where you don’t have to deal with the likes of us directly. You’re not so exalted that you can never leave your bunker. Face it, Morat: you’re not a handler. You can’t sit at the old man’s feet just yet.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” says Morat. “Where else could I gaze at the likes of you but out in the shit of the field?”

She extends her middle finger.

“Item six,” says Morat. “The president has made it clear to Sinclair that he’s counting on him to eliminate the Rain. We’re going to hit them before they strike again. If that means this whole thing is over before you reach the Moon, so be it. We’ll just have to take the chance. There may be nothing but mop-up by the time you get there. I hope you can handle such knowledge.”

“I’m sure we can,” says Marlowe.

“Good,” says Morat. “Because I’m not sure I could. Think of it—the most dangerous foe we’ve ever faced, and you don’t even get to face it? The critical hour comes and you’re caught in transit? History passes you by, leaving you watching it receding? I stand in awe at your detachment.”

“In which case maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a runner after all,” says Haskell. “If you ever were one. We’re not hell-bent on action. We’re just doing what the old man tells us. If you’re to be his mouthpiece, then so be it. I’ll accept that. But adventure’s not something I seek. Still less history. Get with it man—don’t you know what year it is? Don’t you know we’ve figured history out? She’s nothing but a whore. She spreads her legs for the strongest. You want to be her backdoor man? Fine. Me, I couldn’t give a fuck.”

“Exactly,” says Morat. He nods approvingly. “Very good. No better attitude upon which to launch a run.”

His head dips slightly. His eyes lose a fraction of their focus—or rather, seem to focus somewhere within him.

Though only for a moment.

“And now I take my leave. This time for good. Let me offer up some final thoughts. Claire: the lunar portion of our zone is different. It moves just as fast. But it was built by those who were much lighter. Who weren’t quite as weighed down. It shows in its design. Remember that. Jason: your bullets move even faster. But hand-to-hand is different. Keep solids close at hand for bracing. Keep your air away from others’ hands. Keep on cutting until you leave the lungs of others nothing upon which to feed.”

He pauses. He looks them up and down. He smiles. He turns toward the door. It opens to receive him. He starts on through.

“We know this,” says Marlowe suddenly.

Morat stops. He stands in the doorway. “Excuse me?”

“What you just said: we know it. We’ve had the training. And I’ve been in space before.”

“Yes,” says Morat, “but never when so much depends on it.”

He leaves them without looking back.

Two men conversing within a suit of armor. One man’s physically present.

The other’s just dropping by.

“I didn’t say you were going to like it,” says Lynx.

“You knew damn well I’d hate it,” says the Operative.

“Mechs don’t have to be enamored of the plans they execute.”

“Razors don’t have to make that a prerequisite for the plans they configure.”

“The only prerequisite is that it succeed,” says Lynx. “Given that requirement, I’m hoping that now you can see why I’ve planned it out the way I have.”

“Don’t talk to me of why,” says the Operative. “It connotes reason. It connotes sanity. Your plan’s neither.”

“Deliberately so,” says Lynx. “You want sanity? You won’t find it in this world. I offer you measures precisely tuned to the temper of our times. Look around you, Carson. Look what’s in ascendancy. Everything that’s sane is going under.”

“And you can add me to that list when I initiate this run.”

“Initiate? It’s already been initiated. You’re already in it. You’re two days off Earth, man. You’re hanging off the bottom of the Moon. You’re way too late to back out of it now.”

“It was too late long before it started,” snarls the Operative. “Long before I got here. Long before you snuck into those tunnels with the most convoluted stratagem any razor ever devised brewing in your fucking head. It’s as brilliant as it is mad. Jesus Christ, Lynx. All the players and angles up here, and you really think Sarmax is the key?”

“Not the key,” says Lynx. “The back door.”

“The back door to what?”

“Our salvation.”

“You’re crazy,” says the Operative.

“I’m an artist,” says Lynx. “There’s a difference.”

“Sure. It’s called the need to proclaim it.”

“I’m long past any need,” hisses Lynx. “Save that which my orders stipulate. You know the rules, Carson. We’re on our own up here. We’re left to make our way as best we can. We have so little time. The Rain’s next strike could come at any hour. Think of us as standing in the floodplain, Carson. The only thing that can save us now is high ground.”

“But are you sure that’s what Sarmax’s domain is going to furnish?”

“We’ve got no choice but to take that chance,” says Lynx.

“Not now we don’t,” says the Operative.

“I’m glad you see that.”

“You’ve got me boxed in.”

“Myself as well, Carson. Don’t forget that.”