Mirrored Heavens

“Sit down,” says the handler. “I’m not arresting anybody.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m on the list too.”

“Sinclair’s sold us all out?”

“He hasn’t sold anyone out. He was top of the list. He’s in custody now.”

Marlowe and Haskell stare at the screen. Any thought of running’s gone now. Sure, they’d been ready to make a break. Sure, if this man really were after them, he really would have come in through the door and not the screen. But that kind of logic only carries one so far. It’s all intellectual. It’s not emotional. Try riding death down from sky to ground, then go to ground to no avail: you’ll get your own ideas about what’s logical.

“I guess,” says Haskell, “that really shouldn’t surprise us.”

“It really shouldn’t.” The handler smiles grimly. “He’s held liable for the loss of Manilishi. His head was the least he could offer up.”

“So who’s heading up CounterIntelligence now?” asks Marlowe.

“Like I just said,” says the handler, “Sinclair’s head was the least of it. There is no more CI. It’s been annulled.”

“What?”

“Annulled,” says the man. “Nullified. Ended. Torn into little fucking bits.”

“Oh fuck,” says Marlowe.

“Who’s assimilating its personnel?” asks Haskell.

“The cells. And then the furnaces.”

“They’re being killed?”

“I’m having difficulty getting my point across. Maybe it’s this cheap screen of yours. Maybe it’s you. But try to get this through your heads anyway. This isn’t your usual HQ power play. This is a wholesale purge. It’s not even like it was when Space swallowed Air. This is extermination.”

“But only the president could authorize anything that drastic.”

“Well,” says the handler, “exactly. You just answered your own question. Only the president could authorize this. And the Praetorians are carrying out most of the dirty work.”

“They think Sinclair was in league with the Rain,” says Marlowe.

“He was framed,” says the handler. “I guarantee you. Morat may have even planned for it all to play out this way. What better way for Autumn Rain to infiltrate the inner enclaves than for CICom to be erased? What better news for any conspiracies within the other Coms than to realize that the ultimate watchdog’s just been taken off the board?”

“And what about us?” says Haskell.

“What do you think? As far as the Throne is concerned, the only known alpha targets besides Sinclair and his immediate lieutenants and the Manilishi itself are the two agents who were on that goddamn plane. Although with that kind of data in your head, they wouldn’t kill you. Not for a long while, at any rate.”

“They have to catch us first,” says Marlowe.

“They have to indeed. And rest assured they’re trying. We haven’t much time. You’re going to have to take this deeper. And get on the Manilishi’s trail.”

“But you said you have no idea where this thing is.”

“I said I didn’t know what it was doing,” says the handler. “I didn’t say I didn’t know where it was going. I have its comp signatures. It’ll change them once it realizes we can use them to track it. But in the meantime, I’ve been triangulating anomalies in this city’s zone.”

“To where?”

“Place called Seleucus Flats. One of the northern sectors. Up the Owen-Stanley Range. As I said, this thing may be in Rain custody by now. Or it may be trying to assess the situation. Or trying to sell its services to a well- heeled bidder.”

“Well,” says Haskell, “there are certainly enough of those.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” replies the handler. “Since the embargo went into effect, all hell has broken loose here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you looked outside? You should ditch this Roman orgy act and put something on the vid. All the gangs and cartels and triads and syndicates—they’ve all turned on each other in the last few hours. Not just because the word’s getting around that something was on that spaceplane that’s going to fetch a pretty high price. But because they can. The embargo’s cut off a lot of big-time bosses from their backup, and a lot of backup from their bosses. No one can call in reinforcements from the Euros or the Aussies now. Which means the shit has hit the fan like you would not believe. The HK authorities are barely keeping it together.”

“No better environment to do some hunting,” says Marlowe.

“Or get hunted,” says Haskell.

“Exactly,” says the handler. “So keep your eyes peeled. And get that thing.”

“And when we get it?”

“We use it to bargain for our reinstatement.”

“Our reinstatement? You sure that’s going to work?”

“I’m not sure of anything any longer,” replies the handler. “But I’ll tell you what might help once we get our hands on the Manilishi.”

“Go on.”

“Using it to locate and destroy the Autumn Rain base that’s in this city.”

Marlowe and Haskell look at each other.

“We do that,” says the handler, “and the Throne’s own Hand will pin a medal on us. We can even bring the old man back.”

“If he’s still alive,” says Marlowe.

“Sure,” says the handler. “If he’s still alive. But right now, it’s our turn to stay alive. And you might have to destroy the Rain just to get the Manilishi anyway. Now listen. I’ve created new identities for you. I’ve cauterized them. I’ve got you some prime equipment too. You can pick it up en route. Now go. We’ll stay in touch as we need to.”

“You mean as you need to,” says Marlowe.

“Listen, Marlowe,” says the handler. “Both of you listen. We’ve come a long way from the days when my kind walked your dreams while you beat your fist against the pillows. I know that. I know you’ve no love for me. But I know you’ve loyalty. Loyalty for Sinclair and what he stood for. What he stands for even now. You can’t deny that. You’re sworn, and you know it. And what’s going on out there renders our own personal dilemmas immaterial. Regardless of what happens to any of us, what’s going on now will decide the fate of our people. You hold that fate within your hands. Both of you. If the Rain acquire Manilishi, nothing will be beyond them. Nothing. Now get out there. And be even better than you were on that plane.”

“We’ll try,” says Marlowe.

But the handler isn’t waiting. He’s already disappearing. Static washes over him as though it were a tide coming in on fast-forward. He sinks beneath those waves.

And then he’s gone.

 B ut Control’s here. Control: who’s been doing time in the Mountain since time began. Control: who’s come out of hiding tonight—emerging from those pipes and tunnels to expose its voice direct to air, deal directly with the ones who by all rights should have either made it or been made. They did neither. All they did was stumble to that southern shore. Now they’re calling from the shattered remnants of the Amazon delta in the hopes of seeing one more tomorrow. They’re looking for a backup plan. They’re looking to Control once more.

Only to find themselves stared down by sight beyond all seeing.

“I’m talking to the one who calls himself Linehan,” says the voice that echoes from a speaker on Spencer’s belt—as dry as the dust the room contains, as harsh as the bombed-out cityscape that lies outside the window of