by Simon Morden
“Chyort. That’s…”
[Evil? We still do not know their reasons. What looks like evil to us may appear completely different to them. They could reasonably believe they are doing the right thing.]
The paper being shown to Newcomen was screwed up and consumed.
“What’s he doing?”
[He is simply standing there. His breathing and heart rate are peaking, as if he is in a fight-or-flight scenario. I calculate he will decide what to do shortly.]
The pen nib scratched out a third note.
“So: they’re standing in the doorway, scribbling stuff on scraps of paper and holding them up so he can read them.”
[Yes.]
“They’ve actually thought this through.”
[So you must be careful. You know the whole town is a trap designed to capture Lucy. That they have done it well should not surprise you.]
“Then why bring the teletroopers up here? Thirty-two of them? They have to realise that they’re virtually gifting us an army.”
[And yet there they are. Perhaps they have been modified in an unexpected way. Perhaps they want us to think we could take them over, only for us to find we cannot when it is too late. Or-]
“Enough already. Give it to the analysts and tell me what’s happening next door.”
[Newcomen’s vital signs are still running near maximum. His core temperature has increased, and he is becoming hypocapniac.]
“He’s going to faint? Yeah, they’ll want to avoid that. He’s a big man.”
[He is under great psychological stress. His unmitigated physiological responses to that stress are inadequate, as they are in all unmodified humans.]
The note with its hidden message was pressed inside the palm of a closing hand and destroyed in a mouth.
There was nothing for the longest time. Then someone stepped closer to the microphone embedded in the link. The sound of paper and pen was much closer, too. Newcomen was writing a reply.
That part was over quickly. Footsteps: one set out into the corridor, right outside Petrovitch’s door. Then another, moving the other way. The third paused before following them. The light switch clicked clearly off, and the chair used to inexpertly block the doorway clipped the wall with a slight tock.
The third man’s feet brushed against the door jamb, then the door itself was eased back. It closed almost — almost, but not quite — silently, the catch gently released until it engaged.
Another gap, and finally the sound of cloth against cloth as three pairs of trousered legs walked away up the corridor.
Next door, Newcomen let out a ragged gasp.
“They’re more careful than he is.”
[We know this. He is not secret-agent material. His one strength is his closeness to you.]
“So do I get rid of him, or do I keep him? What did he tell them? Who did he decide for? Me or Uncle Sam?”
[There is no way of knowing.]
Newcomen’s gun slithered back into its wrist sheath. Then, with the greatest of care, the American tiptoed back into bed, slowly drawing up the covers as he lay down again.
The mattress sighed with weight.
“I could ask him, I suppose. I could ask him right now.”
[You are disappointed in him.]
“He was good today. He actually cared. He empathised rather than thought about his own skin. It wasn’t an act, he didn’t do it to make himself look good or to win me over. He saved my zhopu from a beating.”
[And, paradoxically, that action may have paved the way to his rejection of your threat to kill him. He is no longer scared of death. He has reached some degree of peace with its inevitability. The only thing he believes he can control is the manner of his going.]
“And you think he’s going to do that in the service of his country.”
[Yes.]
“But you can’t be certain.”
[No. I can, however, recalculate the percentages for your successfully retrieving Lucy and escaping the territory of the United States of America.]
“They’ve all just dropped to zero, haven’t they?”
[Whether or not you keep Joseph Newcomen with you.]
In the darkness, the corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched.
“Yeah, well. No one said this was going to be easy.”
31
It was morning, as measured by the clock. The Sun wasn’t due up for another three hours. Petrovitch sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall opposite, and wondered if this was going to be his last day.
[Good morning, Sasha.]
“Hey.” He worked his mouth, and undid the nerve lock on his trigger finger. The gun slid out of his hand and on to the covers. “Anything new I need to know about?”
[There has been considerable diplomatic traffic overnight between Beijing and Washington. The ambassadors of both the US and the People’s Republic have been required to attend meetings at the respective foreign ministries, for strongly worded messages. The contents of these are as yet unknown, but sources indicate that Space Command on both sides is at high alert.]
“How about the ICBMs? Fuelled or unfuelled?”
[That is also unknown. It would be safe to assume that no one has been standing down their missile teams. Also, the Chinese cyberwarfare division is highly active at the moment. This may be something we can use to our advantage.]
“Yeah, okay. Go carefully. Anything else?”
[Yes,] said Michael.
Petrovitch waited. “Okay. Do go on.”
[I am uncertain what to make of this data, and whether it is a processing artefact. It is certainly anomalous.]
“Are you going to tell me what it is, or are you going to leave me guessing?”
[Sasha, what is the orbital velocity of an object in Low Earth Orbit?]
“You know I know this. I know you know this. Why are you asking me?”
[The object that was shot by the SkyShield satellite was travelling at between seven and a half and eight kilometres a second.]
Petrovitch frowned. “That’s wrong. And didn’t we clock it going slower?”
[Post-encounter. Reanalysis of the admittedly poor images we have of the object suggest that its velocity was up to twice that before it was struck.]
“And you’ve checked everything at least ten times, right?”
[A group of analysts spent most of yesterday arguing about the results.]
Petrovitch pursed his lips. “So let’s get this straight: you’re suggesting that between being hit by SkyShield and entering the atmosphere, it lost half its orbital speed. And that it was going way too fast in the first place.”
[Yes.]
“Chyort.”
[Indeed.]
“What the huy was it?”
[I still do not know.]
“Is Newcomen up?”
[No. He finally achieved sleep only a few hours ago. I will wake him if you wish.]
“I’ll do it. I want you to keep crunching those numbers. See if you can work out where it might have come from, now we know its vector. Astronomical plates, reports from amateurs, sky-flash cameras: anything that might be useful.” He looked at the door to the tiny en-suite bathroom, and shrugged. He reached for his clothes and patched himself through to the sleeping man in the next room. “Hey.”
He could hear a slight sigh, then the snoring resumed. He ramped the volume up all the way to eleven.
“Hey! Newcomen! Get your fat Yankee zhopu out of bed. Breakfast in ten.”
There was a thud that reverberated through the wall. “What? Who?”
“Me,” said Petrovitch. “We’ve got work to do.”
“I,” said Newcomen, and hesitated. This would be an opportunity to confess. “I didn’t sleep too good again.”
So that was how he wanted to play it. Okay. “Tell Mister Sandman, because I don’t give a shit. Nine minutes.”
Petrovitch finished hitting his socks on the wall, and dragged the now-limp things on to his feet. He slipped his feet in h
is boots without lacing them, and looked around.
He picked up his gun and posted it in his waistband, laid the axe lengthways along his bag, then scooped up the handles in one hand. In the other went his bundle of outdoor clothes. That was it: everything he needed.
It was a short walk from his room to the dining room. He slumped into the same seat he’d sat in yesterday — in the corner with a good view of all the doors. He dropped his stuff by his feet and laid his gun on his side plate.
Reception Guy, alerted one way or another to his presence, ambled in.
“Good morning, Dr Petrovitch.”
“Past’ zebej. If you insist on maintaining this yebani charade, the least you can do is bring me some coffee. Or I can just shoot you. I might do it anyway.” Petrovitch looked pointedly at his crockery. “Don’t push it.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and his initial attempt at good humour wasn’t repeated. He poured Petrovitch coffee — his guest’s only response was a growled “Leave the pot” — and retreated to the kitchen to bang some pans around.
Petrovitch was left to brood, but despite being served by a trained killer, the coffee started to do its job.
“Michael, I’ve just thought of something.”
[Which is?]
“If the object managed to decelerate from eight to four k a second between the time it was hit and the time it blew up, maybe it was going even faster before that.”
[That would put it close to, if not above, escape velocity.]
“Who do we know has a Moon mission planned?”
[Sasha, have we been asking the wrong questions?]
“I think we have. Can we get some recent ultra-high-res pictures of the lunar surface?”
[I will search the databases.]
“And convene the Secrets committee. I want to keep this private for a day or two.”
[They will consider your request. Any particular reason?]
“Yeah. Whether I’m right or wrong, we need the Chinese on side for just a little bit longer.” Petrovitch looked up and saw Newcomen appear at the entrance to the restaurant. “It’s all about face, right? And especially about not losing it in front of a global audience.”
Newcomen sat down opposite him, and Petrovitch dribbled a stream of black coffee into the proffered cup.
“You’re looking pointy,” said Newcomen. He wiped his hands on his thighs. Sweat.
“Yeah,” said Petrovitch. “I am, aren’t I?”
The agent noticed the handgun on the table. “Trouble?”
“Pretty much all the time.” He changed the subject even while his mind was racing away down a new track. “Breakfast is on its way.”
“I really don’t know how you can be hungry.” Newcomen shook his head. “Did they… damage you yesterday?”
“I’ve run the diagnostics a couple of times. Nothing burnt out. I’m fine.”
“Seriously? You took it hard, especially the second shot.”
“I didn’t enjoy it, if that’s what you mean.” Petrovitch shrugged. “Next time I see him, I shove his shotgun up his zhopu. Then I pull the trigger: see how he likes it.”
Newcomen added milk to his coffee, and Petrovitch poured himself a second cup.
“Do you dream?” asked Newcomen. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m just asking if you do or not.”
Petrovitch sat back in his chair, wondering whether or not to answer. “Michael does. Or did, at least. When he was trapped in a quantum computer under the Oshicora building, he had nothing to do but dream the days away. So he constructed this world — a universe, really — and dreamed about what it would be like.”
“Doesn’t that need imagination? It’s…”
“Just a smart program? No. No, it’s not. Michael can be creative in ways that are frankly scary. And he’s a citizen of the Freezone, a person in his own right.”
“I’m not comfortable with that.”
“Yeah. Figures. Of course I dream, same as I always did. Being a cyborg doesn’t take away your humanity; just adds to it.”
Newcomen did that thing where he adjusted himself on his seat; the little sideways shuffle to the right, then the left, that showed he was emotionally disturbed.
“I was just interested.” He looked around, up at the ceiling to see if there were any microphones dangling down, then towards the kitchen door, in case there were more obviously human ears listening in. “Does it — does Michael mind me talking about him like this?”
“He has feelings to hurt, if that’s what you mean, even though his feelings are different from ours because they don’t come with the same range of physiological responses. His emotions are very pure; no hormones to cloud his thinking. That has its good side and its bad side.”
“How so?” He had Newcomen’s full attention.
“Because if he’s got a reason to be pissed at you, logic dictates he’s going to stay pissed for ever, until he’s taken his revenge. He can’t calm down and forget about it, because he doesn’t get angry in the same way. His fury is cold and hard, and eminently reasonable. Remember that.” Petrovitch saw the kitchen door bang open, and Reception Guy came through bearing two plates. “Eat up.”
When it had been set in front of him, Newcomen stared ruefully at the plate full of meat and carbs. His expression slowly slipped and he looked despondent for a moment.
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Okay then.” Petrovitch spun his fork between his fingers. “Get shovelling. Fuel, remember?”
He started to eat in his usual cram-it-in style. Reception Guy came back out of the kitchen to watch, until Petrovitch reached across his plate for his gun and without looking up, aimed it unerringly at the bridge of the man’s nose.
He held it steady until he and Newcomen were again the only people in the dining room.
“I hate that,” he mumbled between mouthfuls. “I’m not a freak show.”
“They’re still watching you. Us.” Newcomen threw his cutlery down. “You. How come it’s all about you?”
“Because I’m the one that’s going to lead them to my daughter.” Petrovitch slurped coffee. “Maybe they figure you’ll have nothing to do with that.”
Newcomen looked around again. “I can be useful,” he said. “I was yesterday.”
“We’ll see,” said Petrovitch.
His plate was empty, and he let out a mighty belch of appreciation. Newcomen started to recoil, then just shook his head.
“You’ve got the manners of a pig.”
“Yeah. Some find it endearing.” He threw his serviette into the centre of his plate and pushed his chair back. “Or at least, they’ve learned to live with it. Anything in your room you need?”
“My outdoor things.” Newcomen looked at the bundle on the floor next to Petrovitch. “I left them there.”
“Okay. I’ll fire up the jet. Don’t be long.”
Petrovitch dressed there in the dining room, quickly and efficiently, his hand never far from the butt of his gun. He put his boots in turn on the chair, tied them tight, then made his way through reception. The man was at his desk.
“You done?”
Petrovitch stopped. “If I was done, I’d have my daughter back.”
“We’re all just doing our jobs, Dr Petrovitch.” The man leaned back and folded his arms.
“Yeah. But at least my job doesn’t suck sweaty donkey balls.” He thought about leaving his axe buried in the man’s sternum, but on reflection, it wouldn’t actually help. He shrugged and kicked the main doors open.
Cold. White ground. Dark sky.
“Yobany stos, you’d think I’d be used to this.”
[The Moon is a significant area to search, and we have limited access to hi-res dark-side images. Where should we concentrate our efforts?]
“Putting two and two together to make several billion, I’d go for frosty craters around the poles. Somewhere where helium-three is known to be rich. And water. Remember they may have buried any permanen
t structures under the regolith.”
[It is unlikely that we would be able to spot anything even at half-metre resolution.]
“But we have to try. I’m going to try something equally unlikely.” He puffed out a snowstorm of air. “I’m looking for debris.”
[Sasha, anything that was not consumed in the fireball will have been collected already. We have ascertained the Americans are not stupid. Nor blind.]
“And yet, if I don’t look, I might not find what they missed.” He tripped down the stairs, and nearly slid on the small padded envelope lying on the ground.
There had been snowfall while he’d been inside. There was more forecast for later. He put his bag on the ground so that it covered the white paper, and knelt down to adjust his boots. All perfectly natural.
Two options: either it was insignificant, and there was nothing of importance inside — just discarded rubbish, blowing on the Arctic wind — or it had been deliberately dropped, right outside the hotel where he and Newcomen were the only guests.
The envelope was small enough to tuck in the top of one of his mukluks. He swapped the foot he was supposedly checking and knocked the axe off his bag, so that it fell in the snow. When he picked it up, he had both envelope and haft in his hand.
The axe went back on the bag, and the envelope was in his boot.
He stood up and straightened his clothing, then stooped again to pick up his bag.
There was a man a couple of hundred metres distant, by the corner of a building. He appeared not to be doing anything in particular, just dawdling on his way somewhere else. He was muffled up, and Petrovitch couldn’t tell who it was. The man was short enough not to be genengineered, but he was wearing ARCO gear all the same.
Petrovitch gave him no more than a glance, but on his way to the airfield, he replayed that glance over and over again. The sharp corner of the envelope dug into his ankle with every step.
32
Obviously, he was being watched. That was a given. But he knew he’d been spotted picking up the package as he approached the hangar: maybe it had taken them that long to review the images from outside the hotel, compile a sequence of events from multiple angles, and come to the conclusion that there’d been a drop.