Mirrored Heavens

face away. But through that smoke his eyes still gleam.

Nor has his smile wavered.

“You again,” he says mildly.

“Tenacious as ever,” says Marlowe.

“Let’s see if you can say that with your lips ripped off.”

“You’re not so tough without your drones.”

“What the fuck do you think I am?”

He moves forward almost casually. Marlowe fires, catches him in the chest and in the head again. But Morat’s ready this time. The shots don’t break his momentum. He cannons into Marlowe, strips the pistol from his hands, grabs him with his own hands, hurls him up against the ceiling.

“Tenacious,” he says. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Marlowe flops back down onto the floor. Morat aims a vicious kick at his head—easily strong enough to stave it in. But Marlowe somehow pulls himself out of range—keeps on rolling backward as Morat keeps on advancing— and then comes to his feet in a crouch, another pistol in one hand. He holds on to the wall as Haskell turns the ship sharply again. Morat falls back to the cockpit doorway. Marlowe fires a volley, hits his target with several shots. Morat looks at him.

And blinks.

“If you’ve got anything more powerful,” he says, “now’d be a good time to use it.”

But Marlowe just starts firing again. Morat whips his hands forward, lets loose with both knives. One slices through the pistol. The other slices toward Marlowe’s head. But Marlowe ducks away—the knives hit the wall, hang there quivering until Marlowe hammers his fists against their hilts, destroying their gyros, driving them farther into solid. The blades vibrate. Their motors whine. But they’re stuck.

“So quick,” says Morat. “So far from enough.”

Still Marlowe says nothing. Just holds on to the wall with one hand, regards Morat the way a man does when he’s looking for a weakness he has yet to find. The twists and turns that the city’s geography is forcing Haskell to put the ship through are keeping both men close to the walls. She can’t tear her eyes away from what’s outside the window. The two men can’t tear their eyes away from each other. They sidle along the walls, Marlowe trying to increase the distance, Morat trying to close it.

“Look at this state of affairs,” says Morat. “Look how close those buildings are. If I touch Claire, we’ll crash into them. But we’ll be back out from under this canopy in a few more seconds. At which point I’m going to take you both and take us back to that runway.”

“There are more interceptors coming in with every minute,” mutters Haskell. “You can’t land, Morat. What the hell are you going to do when this thing comes to a stop?”

“I’m not going to do a thing,” says Morat. “But the roof that we finally stop on is going to drop like a stone. It’s an elevator. It’ll plunge all the way to undercity.”

“Where the Rain are waiting,” says Haskell.

“Not for much longer,” he replies.

The buildings above them give way to sky. They’re out of the central part of the city. Morat lunges in toward Marlowe. Marlowe backs up, fills his lungs, blows hard: and a dart sails from a tube slotted in the roof of his mouth. It strikes Morat’s head.

Which disintegrates in a blast of shrapnel. Morat’s body flops backward. But there’s no blood within his neck. Only wires. Marlowe rushes forward, his own blade out. He plunges it toward Morat’s chest.

Who promptly parries that blade. And sits up. And smashes his fist at Marlowe’s head. Marlowe ducks, slashes forward, just misses. Morat seizes him. The two men grapple as Haskell lets the ship rush upward among the buildings. Morat’s voice echoes from somewhere in his chest.

“Turn this ship around,” he says.

“What the fuck…are you,” mutters Marlowe. He’s finding Morat’s grip is still easily strong enough to crush him. He feels his own knife being twisted from his grasp.

“The future,” replies Morat. Smoke’s still streaming from his neck. He gets control of the knife, smashes Marlowe back against the instrument panel—scarcely two meters to the left of where Haskell’s frantically taking the ship through another series of maneuvers, trying to prevent it from hitting HK’s towers in its headlong rush. “Nothing more. And it’s not my body that matters. It’s my mind. That’s what’s wriggled beyond the old man’s reach.”

“Sinclair should have killed you,” says Haskell. Morat’s hand snakes out from where he’s grappling with Marlowe. She dodges to her right.

“Should have killed me?” Morat laughs. “He did kill me. He destroyed my illusions. He created fertile ground for a new seed. Germinated by the events of the last decade. Brought to fruition by the Rain themselves.” He pushes the knife down while Marlowe strives desperately to hold the blade at bay.

“You make them sound like God,” says Haskell. She lunges back in toward Morat—who blocks her blow with his right hand, holds her off from where he’s killing Marlowe with his left.

“They’re far more than that,” says Morat. “God’s a parasite that preys on our brains. We’ll burn Him into ashes. We’ll replace all the gods that never existed. Henceforth humanity shall have no limits. Least of all its own humanity. And the last thing it’s going to miss is one less human.”

He presses the blade down against Marlowe’s throat. But now they’re all knocked sprawling as something impacts the ship. The walls are becoming floor. The instrument panels are going crazy. Buildings are whipping past. As the ship drops in among them, Morat leaps to the pilot’s seat, seizing Haskell with one hand, working the controls with the other. But the controls aren’t responding.

“We’ve been hit from the ground,” he says incredulously.

“Your own team,” screams Haskell, struggling against Morat’s grip. Marlowe’s at the back of the cockpit. He’s fighting the forces of acceleration to try to get to them. The fact that such acceleration is practically random is making it difficult. “They’ve figured this ship ain’t landing. They’ve figured right. They’ve written you off, Morat. All this talk and all you are is just a pawn. You’re not worth the spit that’s in my mouth.”

But Morat’s arm holds her like steel while the ship roars out of control. He hauls her against him. His knife hovers at her heart. His voice is as cold as she’s ever heard it. “It’s not like you have the strength to spit, bitch,” he snarls. “Way I see it, I’ve got five seconds to teach you manners. Not to mention reason.”

“Reason,” breathes Haskell. “You don’t know what that fucking is!”

She hits the manual release on the eject. Morat’s chair leaps through the open ceiling. His grip’s nearly strong enough to take her with him. But not quite: he catapults out of the opening, disappears without a sound. She grabs on to the now-useless instruments. The plane keeps plunging downward.

“We’re following him,” says Marlowe.

“I know,” she says.

Nor does she wait. She’s already turned, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. And even as she grabs him, he’s igniting his thrusters. Haskell catches a glimpse of the Janus spacecraft, smoke pouring from its engines, interceptors dying in flame in its wake. She sees cityscape shooting past.

Marlowe cuts out the flame. She feels herself falling. They drop between skyways, fall past levels. Marlowe reignites his motor, sends them roaring in among a thicket of buildings.

Ten seconds later, they alight upon a skyway. They race along it. They see no one. They hear everything. Thunder of gunfire rolls amidst the buildings like the distant roar of ocean. Flashes blot out the neon in the direction from which they’ve come. They keep running—to the edge of that skyway, onto the roof of an adjacent building. They tear a trapdoor away, race down stairs. They find an elevator. They leap into the shaft.

And descend into the city.

So at the end of Moon there’s a labyrinth. At the end of that labyrinth’s a chamber. That chamber wasn’t built by man. It’s been there since this rock cooled. It sits within the heart of mountain. It contains the most valuable thing in this world.

“Water,” says Sarmax.

He steps into the light. His armor looks pretty beat-up. It’s been burned almost black. He walks toward the