Mirrored Heavens

“They claim he’s trying to defect.”

“Defect? To the East?”

“That would be the presumption. It doesn’t matter. The point is he’s trying to get out. The word is he’s gone south. To try his luck at the Latin run.”

“And you think he hasn’t.”

“I think he’s right beside you.”

“Which Com does he belong to?”

“They don’t say.”

“Surely they would?”

“Usually they would. It may be out there. But—assuming he really is federal—there’s also the possibility that the reason they don’t say is because he doesn’t belong to any of the regular Coms at all.”

“How so?”

“He could be Praetorian.”

“Jesus.”

“Oh yes. It would make this positively radioactive.”

“Do these lines you’re tapping into say anything about accomplices?”

“They imply it. They don’t confirm it. Which may not mean much. Official investigations in this country are so compartmentalized that using them to generate the complete picture is always an exercise in extrapolation. Regardless, I’ve got enough. This operation is a go, Spencer. Move out as soon as you can. Watch him like a hawk. As I suggested earlier, it’s a safe bet that as soon as you’re on the farside of border he’ll try to bolt. Maximum vulnerability is when you hit Cornwall Junction.”

“That’s hardly the most immediate problem.”

“Which hardly renders it inconsequential. Back to first principles: if all you’ve got lined up is what’s right in front of you, you’re as good as dead already. I’ve done my best to prep you, Spencer. I’ve done my best to take you to the next level. I’m going to give you one last piece of advice. Get it together, or get taken apart. Your good standing with us—your fulfillment of your quota—depends on your bringing this man all the way back. Consider him indispensable luggage. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Perfect. Now, as you yourself just said, you’ll have to leave shortly if you’re going to make Kennedy. We’ll have a team waiting at Cornwall. But you’re going to have to reach them first.”

“And if we get busted at customs or on the train? What then?”

“Probably not much.”

“Great.”

“Relax. I’ve got you covered. I’ve got decoys going. I’ve got you under multiple layers. This is going to happen. You’ll be in London by the dawn.”

“Can’t wait to see her,” mutters Spencer.

But the voice is gone. The line is dead. Now there’s just the room. And the face of Linehan. It stares at Spencer.

“Having fun in there?”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“What did your imaginary friend have to say?”

“That it’s a green.”

“Anything else?”

“That we’re going to take the tunnels.”

“Huh. Where’s the advantage?”

“There may be none.”

“When do we leave?”

“Right now.”

“And how’s your friend gonna get us on that train?”

“He’s going to change us.”

“Change is good. What’s my new name, Spencer?”

And Spencer tells him.

“Do you have the codes to back it up?”

“I do. Are you prepared for download?”

“Meaning am I prepared to take that risk?”

“Interpret my question as you please.”

“No question at all. Gimme the codes.”

Spencer triggers an implant: information whips out from within his eyesocket, leaps the gap between them, alights on Linehan’s own retina. Linehan’s expression doesn’t change. Whatever precautions he’s taking or his razor gave him aren’t visible to Spencer. If Linehan’s to make use of the codes to reconfigure his own ID cards and chips, he’s going to have to brave the possibility of being fucked with. Then again: he probably has his own countermeasures at work. Spencer wonders at those countermeasures, wonders at the possibility that Control’s rigged the codes with trojan, wonders at the potential duel between that unseen creature and the one who stands in front of him.

And then Linehan smiles.

“Excellent,” he says. “These should work. Are they real?”

“I was told they were.”

“What happened to the signified?”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t,” says Linehan. “And what about us?”

“What about us?”

“I’m thinking we still don’t know each other well enough.”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been saying all along?”

“No. Who we are doesn’t matter. What happened in the past, why we’re here, what we’d do without constraints—that’s not what matters.”

“Then what does?”

“Tactics.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that we’re speaking out loud right now.”

“So?”

“So that would mean that when we’re on that train, we won’t be able to coordinate. We won’t be able to talk about anything related to the run.”

“You’re talking about the one-on-one.”

“Of course. Will you risk its configuration?”

“I presume you’re talking coded.”

“Anything else wouldn’t be enough. I’ll do this clean, Spencer. I’ll give you my word if you’ll do the same.”

“What’s that word worth?”

“Whatever you want to make yours, Spencer.”

“I’m a razor.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Let’s do it.”

And they do. They connect, and neither feels a thing. If either’s trying to trick the other, neither gives a sign. They connect, and in that moment a new understanding’s born. A new partnership’s afoot. It’s slaked its thirst on names wrenched from the ranks of the recently living. It’s gorged itself on identities furnished by the freshly dead. So now it strikes camp, stalks on out into those sun-starved streets. It catches the scent of sea.

And bears down upon Atlantic.

 P owering out over