Free The Mirrored Heavens by David J. Williams

cargo. He thinks of how easy it would be to hide in there….
    With an effort, he draws himself back from his own mind’s edge. There’s a reason they sent him. It may be the reason he’s in this right now. He can’t make any assumptions. Least of all about the nature of the mission. Missions have a way of changing. They also have a way of only revealing their true nature once they’ve started. Besides—if there really is any trouble on this ship, he knows what to do. He won’t even have to think. However many of them there are: he’ll make them wish they never heard the word airlock
    . In truth he’s starting to feel that way already. He’s starting to wonder why he’s waiting. After all, those bastards in the cockpit have cut him off, deprived him of his data. He’s in dire need of more. He can think of exactly one way to get it.

    H askell becomes aware that something’s wrong. She’s cold. She’s wet. She doesn’t know where she is. All she knows is she’s tilting on her side. There’s a noise coming from somewhere. A voice.
    “Ma’am. Can you hear me, ma’am?”
    “I can,” she mumbles.
    “You’ve got to wake up.”
    “Why?”
    It all comes back in one awful rush. They’ve crashed. This is aftermath. She opens her eyes. She’s still strapped into the cabin of the jet-copter. It’s mostly dark. It’s leaning toward one side at a nasty angle. It’s half-filled with water. The gunner’s lying in that water, body contorted at unnatural angles. The upside-down face of the pilot is peering into her own. He’s leaning down from the hatch that’s now become the ceiling.
    “Where are we?”
    “We’re in the drink,” he says. “And you’ll be in your grave if you don’t take those straps off and climb up here. Can you do it?”
    “I don’t know,” she replies.
    “Try.”
    So she does. She undoes the straps. She hauls herself up them to where the man’s hands are waiting.
    She ignores those hands—instead grasps the edge of the hatch. Everything hurts. But it seems like it’s all still functional. She pulls herself up onto the top of the stricken jet-copter. She crouches there, takes in the river. The water’s lit up by the flames licking from buildings on either side of shore. A mirror image of those flames looms within the water, torn through with ships. Cranes tower over Haskell’s head. Tracers and lasers whip through the smog. It looks like a total free-for-all.
    “This isn’t good,” she says.
    “No,” he says. “It really isn’t.”
    “Is your gunner dead?”
    “He isn’t the only one.”
    She looks at him. He seems very young. He doesn’t seem scared. He crouches there with her.
    “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
    “We’re not going to die,” she replies.
    She pulls on her breath-mask. There’s a whining in the air close at hand. The pilot looks at her in surprise. His eyes cease to focus—he tumbles off the ’copter and into the water. Haskell throws herself back inside the craft as more bullets strike its hull. She hangs from the door’s edge, her feet dangling in the water that’s flooding the craft. She pulls her head up through the doorway. To find herself gazing at figures on the far shore. They’re sweeping her position with fire. They’re cramming themselves into ships that line the docks—ships that now float out into the water, start their motors. Shots smash in around Haskell. Shouts carry across the water. The words that shouting contains aren’t coherent. They don’t need to be. Haskell’s never heard such venom. She’s beaming out the emergency evac codes. She’s praying. She’s getting no response from either. She resolves to do the only logical thing before they get their hands on her. She takes out the pistol Morat gave her, checks it over. She starts counting off the final seconds.

    M arlowe’s picking up steam. He’s out of the worst trouble spots. He’s got his thrusters going. He’s more than halfway through the city.