The Mirrored Heavens by David J. Williams

that’s getting nearer.
    “Debris,” he whispers.
    T wilight’s shredded by an overwhelming light. It blossoms through the eastern heavens. It’s turning what’s overhead into nothing save red. It’s turning the mech’s screens into nothing save static.
    “Fuck,” he says.
    “What are we in ?” yells Haskell.
    What they’re in is armor that just got fucked. It’s sliding back down toward the city. The mech is fighting with the controls. So’s Haskell.
    “Allow me,” she says.
    “Have it your way,” he replies.
    Her way’s tough. The EMP penetrated the damaged armor in several places. Nine-tenths of its circuits have been knocked out. Haskell’s throwing together a network out of what’s left. She’s improvising. She’s firing thrusters. She’s clinging to the suit. She’s not stopping its fall. Just altering its direction.
    “The Citadel,” says the mech.
    “Only chance,” says Haskell.
    “It’s swarming with militia,” he says.
    “Who were being shelled by our space-to-grounders.”
    Meaning that maybe that militia isn’t crowding the topmost floors. Though what the story is with those space-to-grounders now is anybody’s guess. Because the sky itself is burning.
    “Keep your eyes on the ground,” yells Haskell. “I’m going to give this suit back to you in a second.”
    She’s not kidding. Though when she says ground she’s taking licenses. She’s swooping in toward one of the Citadel’s topmost ramps. She veers at it, hits the brakes—smacks straight into its surface. The suit skids, sprawls. Haskell reaches for her boot knife, slices through the tether that’s holding her in place. She pulls herself to her feet.
    The mech doesn’t.
    “Give me back control,” he says.
    “There’s no control to give,” she replies.
    “Great,” he says.
    He hits the manual release and the armor comes open at the back like corn being shucked. He pulls himself out, pulls a breath-mask from a compartment as he does so, yanks it over his face. He gets to his feet.
    And stares upward.
    “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says.
    “He’s not here,” says Haskell.
    But maybe He’s coming. A line of silver is stitching across the sky. Liquid light running up and down the heavens: it’s making mockery of darkness. It’s breaking into pieces before their eyes.
    “The Elevator,” breathes Haskell.
    “Must be,” says the mech. “Get down.”
    Shots are whizzing above their heads. They’re kissing ramp. They’re crawling along it. They reach the door to the tower that it abuts and scramble inside. Bullets whine around them.
    “Don’t stop,” says the mech.
    Nor do they. They race up a stairwell. It’s littered with bodies in and out of armor. Some of those bodies are still smoking. The mech gets in front of Haskell. They keep on climbing stairs. They reach the topmost floor. The room’s heaped with consoles and chairs and bodies. The air’s still thick with the fumes from the firefight that went down here scant minutes ago. Through the windows they can see remnants of the Citadel still protruding above the clouds. One window’s missing altogether—along with part of the wall around it. The whole scene shines with unearthly light.
    “Stay away from the windows,” says the mech.
    “To the roof.”
    Haskell pulls open one last door, sprints up one last set of stairs. These are narrower. They end at a trapdoor on the ceiling. She pulls it open. The sky that’s revealed isn’t really sky anymore. It’s just something twisting through all manners of colors.
    “Now what?” says the mech. He’s still standing at the bottom of the staircase, trying to cover the control room and trapdoor simultaneously.
    “Now we get help,” says Haskell.
    “Can you raise anyone?”
    “I can’t even signal.”
    The EMP pulse fucked her head almost as much as his armor. Half her thoughts have faded into blur. Half her eye-screens are gone. She can still function. But her zone capability is