Mirrored Heavens

hidden entrances. And when he sees Lynx swim into view before him he’s not in the least surprised.

“They say that a man doesn’t know the true meaning of fear until he enters Congreve’s speakeasies,” says Lynx. The smile on his face is as warm as the Operative has ever seen it. “They say this is the labyrinth in which even the bravest start praying. Do you think they’re right, Carson?”

The Operative doesn’t reply. He’s just working the data—European currencies, Martian underwrites, zero-G real estate, precious metals, drug offloads, information uploads—all of it filtered through hedge after hedge as his portfolio diversifies. The transactions he’s setting in motion are fanning out in every direction. His holdings are getting ever more complex. And all the while the voice of Stefan Lynx keeps furnishing the soundtrack.

“I should have dug beneath the cellars of this place,” it says. “I should have secreted myself behind these walls. I swear to you that sometimes I think that history itself comes to culmination within each room. I think that’s what the ones who founded Congreve realized. They looked out upon the nothing. They broke beyond the limitations of the Earth. They saw how no sphere of activity could be excluded. Especially the ones we’d most like to forget.”

The markets into which the Operative’s delving are starting to move beyond the grey. Now he’s setting up negotiations with several of Sarmax’s more dubious contacts. A SpaceCom quartermaster eager to move a little excess inventory. An asteroid harvester looking to evade a tax or two. A Martian speculator in possession of inside information on the latest terraforming schemes…these and so many others with whom he’s now engaging in all manner of business across markets both public and private and all the interstices in between.

“They labored as you labor,” muses Lynx. “Free of inhibitions. Free of what the fools call morality and what the wise don’t even bother to name. I’ve watched you, Carson. I’ve seen just how sleek you can be. But in the speakeasies, a man takes on new lives to the extent that he takes lives from the ones like him—the ones who try to hold the world at a distance. The ultimate rush—never knowing when one of those with whom you’re dealing will get the key to the chamber in which you’re sitting. The ultimate penalty: to be paid by those who would dare to commit the sin of establishing a private connection with someone who sits beyond these speakeasies. Someone who might be working for Christ knows what outfit. Someone who could advise you in real time. Who might have agendas of his own. Now on my mark, execute the following transactions—”

And it’s all the Operative can do to keep up with them. Especially when those of Sarmax are coming in over another line. Lynx has hacked into the middle of the speakeasies. But Sarmax maintains a dedicated proprietary line between the room and his own residence. And the Operative’s guessing that’s not the only one that leads into this complex from the world that lies beyond….

“But that’s the beauty of this wilderness of mirrors,” says Lynx. “No one’s what they seem. No one’s showing all their cards. Though I confess to having looked at a few hands since we got here. That one there—Copernicus insurgents. Strictly bush-league, but still, good enough to get in here. And over there—one of the more virulent strains of Imbrium mafia. They’re trying to divert a couple items from a convoy or something tedious like that—but who can admit to anything save admiration for the way in which institutions adapt to the times? The ones who built this place did so when it looked like the last cold war would be the only. A time when rugged individualism was king. When the one thing that everyone could agree on was that the only real off-world crime was putting the brakes on commerce. Such a quaint notion. Yet those who now rule the farside of this rock found the whole setup to be the very height of convenience. How else could they co-opt the black market in a single stroke? Where else could they keep an eye upon so many? Though of course there are always those who seek to turn the tables….”

The structures atop those tables are stacking ever higher. Their representations are getting ever more abstract. The time horizons with which the Operative’s now playing are moot for all purposes save that of profit. The options he’s hedging stretch out beyond the point where the third planet gets swallowed by expanding sun. But far closer to the present a shadow’s stealing over all those fanciful projections. The markets expect war at any moment. They see the day of judgment lurking around the corner. They don’t know how it’s going to start. They only know that it will place all fortune in the balance. They’re placing their bets accordingly.

“And therein lies the dilemma,” says Lynx. “There’s no scenario out there that lacks an angle. If the Coalition wins…well, someone has to do the collaboration. But if Uncle Sam manages to pull it off once again—you’d better believe the big guy won’t emerge unscathed. Which is why the Moon is looking so good these days, Carson. The smart money says the farside won’t be touched no matter how bad a drubbing the rest of the place gets. But I say the smart money’s forgotten about the very factor that set this whole shit train rolling in the first place. Now, on my mark, execute the following transactions—”

The Operative realizes that all of Lynx’s inquiries are converging. He suddenly discerns the object that Lynx has set his heart upon. He wonders how he could have been so blind. He wonders if he’s ever going to have the strength to see.

“I see you’ve noticed what we’re after,” says Lynx. “I see you’re finally opening up your eyes. Which I take to be a positive sign. The careless won’t survive what’s coming, Carson. And the Rain will get everything they’ve courted. We’ll take them apart, man. We’ll make them wish they’d died back when they should have.”

It’s a rock that almost nailed the planet fifty thousand years ago. It’s Near Earth Object #59789. Now it’s got a relay station that beams communications to the prospectors scattered farther out. And in the middle of that station…

“A little piece of private zone,” says Lynx. “Ingenious, no? This data-cache’s been separated from all networks and shorn of all wireless nodes. Whoever put it there uploads it only by a certain set of orders to the station’s robots—gets them to establish the necessary physical linkage. Talk about out of sight and out of mind. But congratulations, Carson—because one of the hundred million things you’ve just done was to get a ninety-nine-year lease on that dump. And a series of never-before-used loopholes in off-world property law mean that the owners aren’t even aware of a new source of rent. And now, on my mark, you are going to execute the following transactions—”

And the Operative’s getting in there. He’s going to town. His mind’s a blizzard of data and he can scarcely feel his body. He feels like he’s lived all his life to be the instrument of Lynx as that man closes in on what will surely be his greatest triumph. He wonders if what Lynx is after is the Rain or merely the gateway to them. He wonders if the frenzied trades he’s making on behalf of Sarmax will ever amount to anything at all.

But mostly he wonders what’s going on in the unmanned recesses of the station out on the edge of deep. He pictures servants who neither see nor know their master. He pictures silent uploads occurring—pictures signals speeding back into the heart of the Earth-Moon system. He pictures Lynx’s face as the transmission kicks in—

“We’ve done it,” says Lynx.

His voice cuts out. The door to the room in which the Operative sits opens. Two figures stand there in full armor. The weapons they’re pointing at him aren’t small.

“Don’t move,” says one.

“You’re under arrest,” says the other.

 T hey’re wearing light armor. They’re crawling along a bridge. That bridge is meant for trains, but the trains have stopped running. Explosions keep on shaking the rails beneath them. The air’s alive with screams and shots. It’s been a long while since they heard any sirens.

“Picking up radiation again,” says Marlowe. “Another dirty bomb.”

“That makes ten in the last hour.”

The fracturing of the zone has set in motion a fracturing of all else. The city’s government has collapsed completely. Sensing apocalypse, the people have become a mob. Authority’s become a function of what block you’re standing in or who could set themselves up as local warlord. There’s fighting all across the street and net.

“How much can you see in there?” says Marlowe.

“Probably got half a klick of range,” she replies.

She finds it strange to see so much more in real than zone. They’re almost at the top of the Owen-Stanley Range. They’ve almost reached Seleucus. The city stretches out below them. Smoke’s rising from a number of places within it. Flames cover most of the city center.

“Not looking good,” says Marlowe.

Haskell says nothing. They turn from the scene, reach the bridge’s end, enter a tunnel. People are huddled