Mirrored Heavens

“Where the hell are you going?” he says.

“Where the hell do you think I’m going?” she says. “I can’t get back into the zone. It’s like there is none. I’ve got to try a wire connection into the control node. We’ve got to get inside the cockpit.” She starts to pull herself up the inclined floor toward it.

“Claire,” says Marlowe. “You’re losing it.”

“If I’m losing it, then who the fuck turned out the lights?”

But Marlowe’s not responding. He’s just pulling himself out of his seat, pulling his own pants up, pulling himself after her. The corridor to which the forward door of their takeoff room leads is about six meters long. The only other door in that corridor leads to the cockpit. Marlowe fights the acceleration, catches up with Haskell when she’s halfway to that door. He tries to grab her arm. She backhands him across the face.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!”

“Easy, Claire,” says Marlowe. “Easy.”

“It’s not like you think,” she says, and now she’s weeping. “I don’t know what’s happening between you and me. All I know is what we’re heading for.” She keeps on hauling herself toward the cockpit. “Morat’s on this fucking plane. His hack threw me straight from zone. I swear it. I swear I’m not going crazy.”

“Then who turned out the lights?”

“I told you already! Morat’s fucking with the plane!”

“I thought Morat was on our side!”

She stares at him. “Are you in league with him?” she asks.

“Who are you in league with? What did you do when you were in there? Why did you choose that particular moment to distract me? You know my file. You know my memories. You know me too well, Claire.”

She stares at him, mouth open. She turns, reaches the cockpit door. She tries to open it. It won’t budge. She works the manuals, slides it open.

The two bodies of the pilots are still in their chairs. Agony’s frozen on their faces. No wounds are evident. The lights of the controls wink around them. The windows show blue that’s almost black.

“Oh Jesus,” says Haskell.

Marlowe’s drawn his gun. He’s pointing it at her with one hand while he holds on to the doorway with the other.

“I’ve got to try to get back in the zone,” she says.

“Sure, Claire,” he replies. “Whatever you say.”

“I didn’t do this!”

“God, I hope that’s true.”

“Put your gun away!”

“Not until we figure out what’s going on.”

She’s tempted to rage at him. She’s tempted to scream. She’s tempted to lunge for his weapon. But she realizes that such actions would compound the problem. So she just talks quickly while she holds on to the back of the chair in front of her.

“Jason. Look at me. I’m on your side. But if I wasn’t, I’d have taken you by surprise. I wouldn’t have let it come to this—your gun against my head, two dead to get you totally alert. Think about it, Jason. Something’s wrong and it’s far bigger than the two of us. And besides: if you’re wrong about the person whom you’re pointing that gun at, things are about to go from bad to downright awful unless we start working together, for fuck’s sake.”

He looks at her. He looks at the controls. He looks at the dead pilots. He looks back at her.

“Okay,” he says. “Fine.” He doesn’t put the gun away. But he’s no longer pointing it at her. “Do what you have to. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” says a voice.

They both whirl toward it. A dashboard-encased screen has sprung to life. It casts dull glow across their faces. The face of Morat sits upon it.

“We’ve got a problem,” he says.

“You’re damn right we’ve got a problem.” Haskell levels her finger at the screen. “You’re on this fucking plane.”

“You’re right,” says Morat, betraying no surprise. “I’m here to protect you. You’re in grave danger. The upper plane is infected.”

“With what?”

“With the Rain,” says Morat. “They’ve infiltrated.”

Haskell flings herself across the cockpit, smashes into that screen with both fists. Morat’s face disintegrates. Shards of plastic fly. But even as they hit the ground, that face is flickering back into existence.

On every remaining screen.

“You can’t destroy them all,” he says.

“You were trying to lure us to the lower plane,” says Haskell slowly. “You’re Autumn Rain.”

“No,” he says. “I’m not. But I’m going to take you to them.”

They stare at him.

“Right now,” he adds.

“Going to tell us why?” asks Haskell softly.

“There’d be no point,” he replies. “Save to say that I swore to deliver them live runners.”

“You’re not Morat,” says Marlowe.

“Oh yes he is,” says Haskell.

“And what the fuck do you think you’re getting out of it?” asks Marlowe.

“Everything that matters,” says Morat. “When they hurl the rulers of this planet down in pieces finer than those into which that Elevator burned: I’ll be at their side. When they hold sway over all flesh, I’ll take my place among the anointed. All I have to do is convey you to their sanctuary.”

“You’ve gone insane,” says Marlowe.

“You’re a traitor,” says Haskell.

“Words,” says Morat. “Outmoded concepts. Distracting talents like you. But they don’t have to. Come of your own free will, and I promise you’ll receive privileges similar to my own. They granted me the authority to make such offers. We don’t have to resort to anything unseemly. We can be envoy and runners once more.”

“Never in hell,” says Haskell.

“But Claire,” says Morat, “you’ve got to serve someone. And it can’t be Sinclair. I know he seems so sleek in those dreams of yours. But in truth he’s so tired. So old. He doesn’t even know how we fooled him. How we’ve turned CICom against those it would protect. How even now we move into the second stage.”

“I hate you,” says Haskell.

“But that’s what binds us,” replies Morat. He laughs but it’s not really laughter. “The cornerstone of the race’s future. You can’t stop it. Believe me, you’ve no idea. All this talk of halting the Rain in their tracks, and that’s all it is: just talk. You plan, you scheme, and yet they thought of all contingencies so long ago. They’re invincible.”

“Morat,” says Marlowe slowly, “what is it that you want us to do?”

“He wants us to keep talking,” shouts Haskell. She straps in, leans into the controls.

“Jacking in, Claire?” asks Morat. “It won’t be as easy this time. Do yourself a favor and don’t even try. And don’t think about bailing out either. Unless you want to provide me with a little target practice.”

“Shut up,” she says. She fumbles with the switches. She extrudes wires from her fingers.

“Don’t be so hasty,” he replies. “You’re diving straight to your death. What’s waiting for you in the zone will see to that.”

“We’ll see about that,” hisses Haskell as she jacks in. She knows that haste is the whole point. If she’s going to beat whatever’s in there, she’s going to have to do it before it consolidates its position.

But it’s ready for her nonetheless. It’s trying to finish her straight from the start. It’s raining fire and brimstone right down upon her head. She dodges the missiles, steps in under them—breaks from open ground to where the