by Simon Morden
Petrovitch stopped him. “Okay, let’s get this out of the way. Two sorts of people in the world, aren’t there? Those with guns, and those who dig.” He pointed at the shovel, then at the Inuk. “You dig.”
The man bent down for the shovel, and stood up again holding it. Newcomen was at his back, rifle pointing nowhere in particular, and Petrovitch was at his front, the barrel of the pistol not even wavering with a tremulous heartbeat.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” the Inuk said. “Just doing a job.”
Petrovitch waved him over. “What job was that?”
“Two guys told me to point out this crashed RV to another couple of guys who needed to see it. That’s all.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A day. Two. They told me you’d be in some fancy executive plane, and I was to flag you down.”
“What if we’d kept on going?”
“Just to radio back to them that I’d seen you.” The man put the shovel blade in the snow and took out a chunk of the RV’s paintwork. “They said I’d get paid a bonus if you stopped.”
The corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched. “Worth the money?”
“Not really.”
Petrovitch carved himself a seat and sat down while he watched the rear of the vehicle slowly emerge from the drift.
“What’s your name?” he asked, just to see if he’d lie about that, too.
“Josie. George Josie.”
He hadn’t lied. “That’s Newcomen. I’m Petrovitch.”
The man stumbled and paused, then dug with renewed energy.
“If they’d told you, would you have thought twice about taking the job?”
“Maybe more than twice,” said Josie. “The rear windshield’s all busted up. Snow’s inside.”
Petrovitch crawled up the bank made by Josie’s digging. The snow had crusted over what remained of the back window, and the shovel blade had gone straight through into the dark pit beneath.
Ice crystals dribbled into the hole and out of sight.
“I’ll put my gun away if you promise not to hit me with the spade,” said Petrovitch. “It won’t do you any good, and I’ll kill you straight after with my bare hands. Deal?”
“Guess so,” said Josie warily.
“Good decision.” Petrovitch put the safety back on and slipped the gun back into a pocket. “Now, let’s get this hole cleared. Newcomen, over here.”
“What do I do with the rifle?”
“That’s another of those leading questions you ought not to be asking. I don’t really care: George here isn’t going to shoot anyone. Are you?”
Josie moved another handful of snow away from the granulated glass. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“I’m kneeling next to you, digging. That should tell you all you need to know.”
The three of them cleared the rectangle of snow from around the window, and it grew clear that the interior of the RV was charred black. There should have been a smell, but it was cold, so very cold.
“You still got that torch, Newcomen?”
“It’s back on the plane. I can get it if you want.” He made to go, but Petrovitch shook his head.
“We can do without. But there’s little variation in temperature: everything’s yebani freezing.” He knocked away the remaining glass that clung to the rubber seal. It fell away, twinkling in the dark. “Lower me down. I’ll take a look.”
Josie was slowly working things out. “Is there someone still in there? They must be… you know.”
Petrovitch ran his mitten across the scarred interior roof of the vehicle, and showed a black hand to the Inuk. “He was dead long before he came off the road.”
“Soot?”
“I’m guessing an air-to-ground missile or a few depleted uranium rounds. Incinerated the contents in an instant.” He swung his legs around and dangled them through the hole. “And when I say contents, I mean Jason Fyfe.”
There was a fitted cupboard within reach. Petrovitch pressed against it with his toe, and though it creaked, it held. Everything loose had catapulted down to the front, and there was a jumble of soft furnishings and equipment piled around where the driver should have been.
It didn’t smell burnt. But he could taste it, a catch in the back of his throat. He slid inside and crouched. He could climb down using the wall of what was probably the toilet, and then to the bench seats in the kitchen area. That would put him just above the mess of debris.
It wasn’t like he didn’t know what he was going to find. He just needed to be certain.
He looked up at the impossibly bright sky. “I won’t be long.”
Petrovitch turned and lowered himself to his next perch. The wood bent under his weight, and the door popped open with a click. It waved at an angle for a moment, then one of the hinges gave, leaving it dangling.
“Everything okay?” asked Newcomen.
“It’s fine.” He looked down. “I hope.”
He shuffled so that he was standing on the part of the wall that was fixed to the floor, then eased himself across to the back of the first row of seats. Then again to the ones facing them: the table that should have been between them had fallen forward.
He was above the driver’s seat. The seat belt still seemed to be attached to the door pillar, the webbing strained forward and locked into position. The seat itself, seared and burnt, was lost under some singed cushions, which he scooped out of the way.
Kneeling down, Petrovitch reached forward to shift the table, which he’d just exposed. He heaved with his left hand, and it moved enough to see under it.
It was the back of a head, cracked with deep red lines between the black. No hair — the mass of brown curls had burnt off. The arms were clenched around the steering wheel, and the elbows locked in place.
“Is it him?”
“Unless you’ve got his gene sequence and a portable DNA tester, I’m going to have to do this old-school. I can pull his dental records, but yeah…” He adjusted himself on his perch. “No rings, no jewellery that I know of. Even his mother’d have trouble recognising him.”
Petrovitch looked to see if he could get any closer. Snow had forced its way through the shattered glass of the windscreen and side doors. He stamped some of it down and moved on to it.
He looked up into the rictus grin. He had Fyfe’s picture in his databanks, and used some software to overlay it on the tootight skin.
“Yes, no? What do you reckon?”
[The low light levels and the damage to the gross facial features introduce error, but we can confirm with a high degree of confidence that this was Jason Fyfe.]
“I remember once before being shown a body and I leapt to all sorts of conclusions that weren’t helpful. Or even right.”
[Then a full investigation must be carried out by the relevant authorities before the identity of the body can be established for certain. However, as a working hypothesis, it would be reasonable to assume that it is Fyfe.]
“Yeah.” He huffed. Moisture from his breath collected on the frost-rimed burns. “If things had worked out differently, this poor bastard could have been my son-in-law.”
He straightened and judged his journey back.
“I’m coming up.”
25
Petrovitch held his arms up: his weight proved difficult for the wiry Josie and the athletic Newcomen to manage, but they struggled on and got enough of his torso through the window that he was able to drag himself clear.
“How heavy are you?” asked Josie.
“Couple of hundred kilos. Titanium’s dense compared with bone.” Petrovitch sat down on the snow and used handfuls of it to scrub as much of the soot off his parka as he could. “So, George. Any idea what you’ve got yourself mixed up in?”
“No one said anything about dead guys. Just the RV.”
“This was Jason Fyfe, a Canadian citizen. He worked with my daughter. He was going to rescue her, because she’s missing up on the North Slope. Seems s
he saw something she shouldn’t, and some people are desperate that she doesn’t pass that on. Desperate enough to kill this good man.”
Josie hunched over and looked sourly at the black hole of the RV’s back window.
Newcomen cleared his throat, and pulled his collar away from his mouth. “Did you, uh, see anything? In the sky, on the ground?”
“Might have done. Depends how much more trouble it gets me into.”
“We know a lot about it,” said Petrovitch, “except we don’t know what it actually looked like. So we’d appreciate it if you just said what you saw.”
The Inuk carried on thinking about it, so Petrovitch tried again.
“Yeah, we’re trying to stop World War Three here, amongst other things. No pressure, though.”
“War?” Josie looked up sharply. “Who said anything about war?”
“We’re not the only ones interested in what happened that night. The Chinese, for one.”
“The Chinese?” Josie looked down again. “This is crazy.”
“You Yanks and the Chinese knocking the crap out of each other might be amusing to watch, but I’m very aware that fallout doesn’t respect national boundaries.”
Josie glanced at Newcomen, almost as if he were asking permission. Newcomen shrugged in his dense coat.
“It doesn’t look good,” he said. “Anything you can tell us might help.”
“It was after midnight. Bright light in the sky, going from east to west. Brighter than any shooting star, sharp enough to make shadows, almost like you couldn’t look at it. It seemed to flicker, then there was one big burst of light before it went out. We lost our TV signal, some of our computers stopped working. Radio still isn’t fixed.” Josie jerked his head towards his sled. “They gave me a new one.”
“And you saw this yourself?” said Newcomen.
“The dogs started barking, so I went to the window: couldn’t see it from there, but I could see something. I went out, and there it was. Lasted maybe twenty, thirty seconds.” Josie shrugged. “Could have been less, but it seemed that way. I was standing out in the street with some of the others, and we were talking after the flash. There was this sound, like thunder. That went on and on. Bouncing off the mountains, I guess. It must have been a real big bang.”
Petrovitch looked away to the north. “You were this side of the Brooks, right?”
Josie nodded. “Something fell from space, didn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Something Chinese?”
“We’re trying to work that out.” Petrovitch straightened up and patted away the snow still clinging to him. “Looks likely, though.”
“So why is it just you two out looking? Why isn’t everyone working on it?”
“I’m sure they are, but not only is no one telling me anything, they seem determined to make it as difficult they can. Like this.” Petrovitch pointed at the RV. “What was the point in killing Fyfe? They could have slashed his tyres in the night and had done with it. There was no need. No need at all.” He reached down for Josie’s arm, and pulled him upright with seemingly no effort at all. “That’s the sort of person you’re working for, George. I’m not impressed.”
“They never said anything about dead Canadians. Just stopped me in the middle of nowhere, up where Bettles used to be, told me where to wait during the day.” Josie looked grim. “I don’t get what I’m supposed to do now, though.”
“You do what you’ve been told to do. Tell your handler that we were here, and we’ve seen Fyfe’s body — you might want to add that you didn’t enjoy that little surprise — then forget you ever saw us.”
“Hold on,” said Newcomen. “You want to give our position away?”
“If George doesn’t tell Ben and Jerry we were here, how can we go on to report the location of Fyfe to the Canadians?”
“Why do we have to tell them? Can’t we just…?”
“No. I’m thinking about Fyfe’s parents. Not about us.” Petrovitch realised he was still holding on to Josie’s arm. He let go with a murmured apology.
“I’m sorry too,” said Josie. He nodded at Newcomen. “He’s right: this isn’t good.”
“There’s still a chance to redeem yourself,” said Petrovitch. “You could tell your friends — your real friends, not the ones that give you expensive toys and lie to you — that we’re on our way. We need help finding Lucy, and they’ve been on the ground throughout: ask them to let me know what they’ve seen and heard.”
“Will they get into trouble if they do?”
“I can’t promise that they won’t. But I can promise it won’t be me giving them grief. I’m not a bad man, George, no matter what you’ve heard.”
Josie didn’t say what he’d heard. Up in Alaska, Reconstruction hadn’t bitten quite as deep, and for men like him, the border with Canada didn’t have the same iconic status as it did for most Americans.
Petrovitch was counting on swaying the man, turning him to his cause.
“Bear in mind what I’ve said, George. It’s just me and Newcomen searching for my girl, and frankly, he’s not much use. Some say she’s dead already, but I’m certain she’s not. The faster we find her, the better, and the more eyes and ears we have, the happier I’ll be.”
“I can’t promise you anything useful will happen, but,” Josie nodded slowly, “I’ll do what I can.”
“Give him his rifle back,” Petrovitch said to Newcomen.
“Are you…?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
Newcomen wasn’t, but he lifted the strap over his head and passed the gun into Josie’s waiting hands. He kept hold of the breech. “Do you know how lucky you are?”
“What d’you mean?” Josie jerked his head at Petrovitch. “Him?”
“Him. He’s supposed to put a bullet in your head about now, or one through your engine block so you’ll freeze to death, slowly.” Newcomen frowned. “Instead, he’s being nice to you.”
Petrovitch looked on, amused. “I shoot everybody in the head, apparently. That’s what it says in the bumper book of Petrovitch, right?”
“Something like that,” said Newcomen.
“I just want to be left alone. You wouldn’t think it’d be too difficult to manage, but no: govno like this happens, and suddenly we’re in a whole world of pizdets.” He took one last look around. “Just let go of the rifle and get back on the plane. We’ve been shown what they wanted us to see, and now it’s time to leave.”
Newcomen released his grip, and Josie drew the gun close to him.
Petrovitch started away from the RV, ploughing through the loose snow to the road, where it was more compact. He could hear Newcomen dragging after him, then catching him up.
“He could still kill us,” said the agent.
“In your binary world, people are either full-square behind you and can be trusted completely, or they’re criminals who’d sooner slit your throat than look at you. The truth, as ever, lies somewhere in between.” Petrovitch shifted his shoulders. “He won’t shoot. Well, he won’t shoot me, at least.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The plane’s door popped open, and Petrovitch scaled the ladder. He glanced around at the top: Josie was still standing there by the pile of snow he’d dug, wondering what had just happened.
He’d call his handlers for certain. Whether he’d pass on the message to his North Slope friends and family remained to be seen.
Petrovitch climbed inside and threw his furry hat on to one of the seats. He started to take his parka off, and remembered to grab the gun perched uncertainly inside. He laid that on the seat next to his hat.
Newcomen stamped snow off on the top step and stood at the door, looking out.
“He’s just watching us.”
“That was his job. It probably still is.”
“So they know we’re coming. Or will do before we get there.”
“They always knew that.” The frost that had collected at his c
ollar had turned to beads of moisture that was starting to soak in. Petrovitch gave the parka a shake, and tossed it aside to dry. He picked up the gun, and headed for the cockpit, starting the turbines spinning as he slid into the pilot’s chair. “The only variable was when we got there.”
“They could always have stopped you,” said Newcomen from behind him, still trying to squeeze the toggles of his coat through the loops with cold-heavy fingers.
“That was never going to happen.” Petrovitch engaged the antigravity, and the plane pulled itself free of the road in a shower of ice crystals that tumbled away in white streamers. He let the direction change freely, the nose taking in a full circle of Alaskan vista before he applied any throttle.
“They could have.” Newcomen finished wrestling with his coat fastenings and sat in the seat next to him. “Stopped you, I mean.”
“Of course they could. Killing someone is easy. As they proved with Fyfe. If they’d really, really wanted me dead, they’d have put a bomb on the plane from the Metrozone, and you, me, and a couple of hundred other people would be propping up the Mid-Atlantic Ridge by now. Problem solved.”
“Then… hang on. What are you saying?” Newcomen blinked, staring out through the windscreen. They were starting to climb over the mountain range ahead, the peaks shrouded in low cloud that wasn’t low at all. The pipeline was a grey snake off to the left, and the road a white line underneath.
“I’ve been — we’ve all been — working on the assumption that the US government doesn’t want me sticking my nose into this, that they want to keep me as far away as possible from the North Slope, and absolutely, definitely don’t want me to find Lucy.” The corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched. “What if I’m wrong?”
Newcomen shifted uneasily in his seat. “I thought you were never wrong.”
“Let’s pretend for a moment, then, that we live in a universe where such things are possible. The first people to look for Lucy were the university, who had to rely on the military to get to the research station. They didn’t find Lucy because she wasn’t there any more. They didn’t have the resources to search for her themselves, so they called in the FBI. You started slowly, stupidly slowly, like you weren’t that bothered — an act guaranteed to enrage me. You put a couple of field agents into Fairbanks when we complained, but you were warned off: the agents were recalled and Buchannan was told to look the other way.