Theories of Flight

by Simon Morden

  “There’ve been developments.”

  “Tell you what, Chain. I’m a physicist. You’re a MEA intelligence officer. I won’t ask you to reshape human destiny, and you can stop trying to get me to do your job for you.”

  “We’ve found a prowler.”

  Petrovitch tucked the phone in the angle between his shoulder and his ear. He poured his coffee dregs into the pot plant and hunted for the jar of freeze-dried granules. “I’m assuming that word means something special.”

  “A sort of robot. It was active, and armed.”

  “A Jihadi leftover?” He shook a tablespoon of coffee into his mug and stood over the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

  “Don’t think so. There are reasons to suspect otherwise.”

  “And you’re going to tell me what those reasons are, or do I have to guess?”

  “The Jihad made things out of what came to hand. This was meant.”

  Finally, steam started to rise from the spout. He flicked the off switch and poured the water out. “This is still not my problem, Chain.”

  “It’s American.”

  “Yeah? It has the stars and stripes painted on the outside?”

  “I think you’re missing the point.”

  Petrovitch cleaned a spoon on his trousers. “Go on, then. Tell me the point.” He took the mug back to his desk and stirred as he listened.

  “Do you know how those things work? Short-range radio control. Doesn’t have to be line of sight, but the operator isn’t normally more than a couple of kilometers away. It killed two of the team that stumbled across it before they managed to frag it with a grenade. The resulting explosion killed another of them. This was in the Outzone, on the southern fringe of Epping Forest.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is that all you’re going to say?” said Chain.

  “Pretty much. I’ll concede that it looks like the Yanks are in the Metrozone, for whatever reason. Have you talked to them about it yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Petrovitch turned sideways to the desk and stretched out. “This, all of this, is stupid. They know you know. They’re waiting to see what you do. You can join in their game and be all sneaky, or you can play it straight. Someone—presumably an American agent—killed three MEA soldiers using this robot. The only guarantee you have is that they’ll think they can do whatever the huy they like if you don’t complain loud and long right now.”

  “If I do anything,” said Chain, “they’ll pull back and have another go with a different team in a month’s time. I need to catch them red-handed.”

  “No, no you don’t, you balvan! This is Oshicora all over again, except this time it’s you versus the United States government.” Petrovitch was on his feet, yelling down the phone. “I learned not to trust you last time. Me, Maddy, Pif, Sonja—if you won’t keep us safe, I will. Tell the Yanks to back off, or I’ll find a way to do it myself.”

  He ended the call, and for good measure, threw the phone across the room.

  He scalded himself on his coffee, forgetting how hot it would be. Pressing his thumb hard against his lips, he felt the heat spread.

  Then Petrovitch picked up the phone again and dialed Chain.

  “If you wanted something, why didn’t you ask?”

  “Because I’m embarrassed,” came the reply. “We employ forensic specialists, we pay them good money to work for MEA, and sometimes, just sometimes, it’d be really great if they actually turned up to do an honest day’s labor. I have the parts we retrieved from the scene before we were chased off by the Outies. They’re laid out in a warehouse, and I can’t get any usable information from it because I don’t know how.”

  There was a blister forming, and there was nothing Petrovich could do about it. Ice would be good, but he knew there was nothing below zero in the building other than cryogenic nitrogen.

  “I ought to tell you to poshol nahuj.”

  “But not today.”

  “No. Not today. Where is this warehouse?”

  “The old train shed at King’s Cross.”

  “And how many people know about this?” Petrovitch picked up his coat and shrugged it on, one arm at a time. “Because if it’s more than you and me, I’d bet my babushka’s life the Yanks know it, too.”

  “Maybe half a dozen people. I have a chain of command I have to inform.”

  “So we’d better get down there before the evidence disappears. Meet me out front in five.”

  Petrovitch sat on the steps, waiting. A huge four-wheel-drive car—more a small lorry than anything a private citizen would think necessary—put two tires up on the curb and the darkened window hummed down.

  “Hey. Good to see you still have the coat.”

  Petrovitch got to his feet and walked across the pavement. “Grigori? Yobany stos! What happened to the Zil?”

  Grigori grinned apologetically. “Comrade Marchenkho managed to get a UN reconstruction contract. We all have these fancy autos now.” He slapped his hand on the outside of the door, leaving his fingerprints in the dirt. “Armored. Very tough.”

  “How is the old goat?”

  “Better for not having Oshicora around. His blood pressure is much lower these days. The Long Night worked out well for us.”

  Petrovitch pressed his fingertips against his chest. No pulse, just the throb of a turbine. The Ukrainian noticed the ring on his finger.

  “That?” said Petrovitch. “I suppose it worked out well for me, too. In a narrowly-avoided-death-repeatedly way.” He looked up and down the street. “Look, is this meeting a happy accident, or has Marchenkho sent you? Only I’m expecting Harry Chain any minute now and if he sees me talking to you, he’ll go kon govno crazy.”

  Grigori beckoned him closer. “Marchenkho sends his congratulations, and an open invitation for a drink.”

  “Yeah. We can swear loudly and point guns at each other in a vodka-fueled frenzy: just like old times.”

  “Also a warning. There are people…”

  “There often are.”

  He shook his head. “No. You must take this seriously. They have been asking questions about the Long Night. They know of the New Machine Jihad, and that the Oshicora Tower was involved. Beyond that?” Grigori shrugged. “We don’t know what went on, only that it involved you.”

  “I’d heard someone was taking an interest.”

  “Who are they? Union investigators? They do not behave like the Union.”

  “No. Not the Union.” Petrovitch’s face twitched.

  “Who, then?”

  “The CIA. Tell Marchenkho to give Chain a call. And speak of the devil.” A battered gray car rattled up behind Grigori’s behemoth.

  Grigori looked at his rear-view mirror. “What do you want us to do?”

  Petrovitch pushed himself away from the open window. He could see Chain’s squashed face behind his steering wheel. “Keep an eye on my back, will you? I don’t trust this lot to do anything but stand round and stare at my rapidly cooling corpse.”

  “Is done,” said Grigori. “Dobre den, tovarisch.”

  The window buzzed upward, and the four-by-four bounced back into the street.

  Chain leaned across his car and threw the passenger door open. Petrovitch sauntered over and clambered in.

  “What,” said Chain, “did he want?”

  “Marchenkho’s invited me around for cocktails one evening. Black tie affair, you wouldn’t be interested.”

  “And really?”

  “I can easily get back out and do something constructive. Or you can just drive.” Petrovitch tugged at the seat belt to strap himself in, but when Chain muttered something under his breath, he changed his mind and made to get out. “Fine. See you later.”

  “Okay, okay.” Chain pulled onto the road without signaling, or even checking it was clear. “Do you have any idea how stressful this job is?”

  “No. Neither do I care.” Petrovitch twisted around in his seat and looked out of the rear window. “I have troubl
es of my own.”

  “You could always leave,” said Chain, echoing Sonja’s remark of earlier. “After yesterday, I imagine you could go pretty much anywhere. Take that wife of yours somewhere she’s not going to get shot at.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Petrovitch. There was no one following them. Not that that didn’t preclude the possibility that they were being watched every moment. He turned back and finished strapping himself in.

  “Meaning?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about. Now, about this prowler.”

  “Five minutes ago, you’d never even heard the word.”

  “Yeah. And now I’m a yebani expert.” He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the rat. “Let’s see. Tracked vehicle, roughly pyramidal, sensor array on a central pylon, gyrojet weapons laterally positioned, each with a two-hundred-degree arc of fire, short-range scattergun. Powered by four rechargeable nanotube batteries, EMP hardened electronics. Any of this sounding familiar?”

  “Worryingly so.”

  “Then you’ve got the genuine article.” He looked up from his screen. They were passing Hyde Park. Empty, now. The last remains of the shanty town were blowing in the wind: torn plastic, loose sheets of cardboard, tatters of cloth flapped against the boards surrounding the park. The bulldozers had moved in, had been moving in for a month now, and the work had stalled. Some Metrozone assemblyman wanted all the bodies that lay on and under the park exhumed and buried elsewhere. “Another thing.”

  “Which is?” asked Chain, when Petrovitch didn’t continue.

  He tore his gaze from the window. “Self-destruct mechanism. These things are mobile thermobaric bombs. My guess is the MEA grenade pre-ignited the fuel–air mix before it reached its critical concentration. That’s why you’ve got bits left to look at. Another second or so, and you’d have lost everyone and everything, turned inside out by the shockwave and incinerated.”

  “Translated?”

  “You got lucky.”

  “I’ll remember to pass that along to the next of kin”; Chain grunted as he hauled the car around Marble Arch.

  “What was it guarding?”

  “I… don’t understand.”

  Petrovitch snapped the rat shut. “Clearly. These things aren’t tourists, Chain—it was keeping the Outies away from something, probably had done for a while, when the MEA patrol just happened to stumble across it and it all went pizdets. Take a look at the satellite images—near infrared if you can get them—or just swamp the area with soldiers until you find whatever it was.”

  The last time he’d been up the Edgware Road, he’d been on his way to rescue Sonja from the Paradise militia. Madeleine’s church had been at the top end of the street, before it had been burned down and a Jihad demolition robot had stirred the rubble.

  It was at the start of an arrow-straight line that cut a swathe all the way to the East End.

  “Petrovitch?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  He tried to blink away the images that were burned onto his retina. “Looks like I’m not listening.”

  The domik pile on Regent’s Park had been kicked over by the same robot, heading northwest. Four months on, the chaos of spilled containers was being taken apart by teams of thieves with gas axes, burning their way through the labyrinth one death-filled space at a time.

  “You lived there, didn’t you?”

  “No. I had a bolt-hole there. Different. One of the high-up domiks.” Regent’s Park slid by and out of sight. “I wonder if they’ve got to it yet?”

  “Leave anything of interest inside?”

  “No.” He tried a smile, and found it didn’t fit. “I was always careful.”

  “That’s a matter for debate.” Chain threaded his way through the drift of rubble either side of the Hampstead Road junction, then picked up speed again. He took the car down a side road and toward a tall chain-link fence.

  He pressed his knees against the underside of the steering wheel and, using both hands, felt in his pockets for his card.

  “Chyort.” Petrovitch reached over and steered them, more or less, toward the gate. “You may as well not bother. There’s no one to show it to.”

  Chain applied the brakes and the car jerked to a halt, front bumper almost touching the fence. He left the engine idling and got out.

  Petrovitch joined him and, together, they peered through the mesh.

  “Hey,” Chain called. “Major Chain, MEA.”

  “Yeah. Your spidey senses not tingling yet?” Petrovitch buried his fists in the grid of metal and heaved. The gate swung open with a tinny rattle. Beyond was a short street of anonymous prefab factory units, dwarfed by the station concourse next door.

  Chain fumbled for his gun. “I don’t suppose you’re carrying?”

  “No. Not at the moment.”

  “Look in the boot.”

  Petrovitch backed away from the gate and popped the lid of the boot. When he closed it again, he was feeding cartridges into an automatic shotgun. “You called for help?” he asked.

  “I’ve done that.” Chain looked up at the buildings either side of the concrete road. “They may be some time.”

  “Well,” said Petrovitch, sitting down on the warm bonnet, “I can wait.”

  “Aren’t you coming?” Chain looked back at him.

  “This is well beyond my pay-grade, Chain. When it’s safe, you can call me.”

  Chain dithered for a moment, grinding his heel against the loose grit. He shrugged his shoulders and started to walk.

  The explosion started small: a white flash of light behind a ground-floor window. The walls flicked off a coat of dust and started to swell, like they were taking in a mighty breath. Then they failed in a roar of black smoke and orange fire. The roof was briefly in the sky, all in one piece, girders and corrugated iron sheets. It peeled apart and started to fall back to earth, one sharp spinning piece after another.

  Petrovitch rolled back, turning. He was crouched on the top of the car. Things were flying toward him, rather quicker than he could run. He jumped, and the blast caught him while he was still in the air.

  He was thrown down like a doll, and the ground was very hard indeed.

  7

  He could taste blood, and he was certain it was his. Dust and smoke swirled all around: his lungs were full of it, and the skin on his face was scrubbed wet by the rough road. His ears were ringing.

  Petrovitch lay there and blinked, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His glasses were awry, and he dragged a hand out from beneath him to straighten them. There was blood on his palms, too.

  He took a breath, coughed hard, and focused on the shotgun lying in front of him. He reached out and dragged it toward him, then used it to push himself upright.

  The bombed building had fallen in on itself, extinguishing the fire beneath, but all around were shattered windows and flames twisting from them. A column of black ash rose thick into the air before being blown ragged in the wind. Behind the noise in his head was the clamor of alarms.

  Chain’s car was between him and what was left of the fence, its paintwork now scarred by more than age and the occasional knock. The open doors had lost all their glass, the front tires their air.

  Petrovitch limped to where the gate lay flattened against the ground.

  “Chain!”

  No sign of him. Popping supports, snapping walls, cracking rafters, but no Chain.

  He slung the gun over his shoulder and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Chain!”

  He could feel the heat from where he stood. Steam was rising from beneath his feet. He whirled around, seeing for the first time a straggling crowd forming back at the roundabout.

  “Chain!”

  He saw him. He saw his feet, his legs as far as his knees, laid out on the bonnet of his own car. The rest of him had been forced through the concave windscreen.

  Petrovitch walked slowly toward him, aware that Chain wasn’t
moving his worn shoes, not even an involuntary twitch.

  “Chain?”

  He knew he had to check. He knew he didn’t want to. He gripped the top of the door, steeling himself, then ducked down.

  For a moment, he couldn’t work out what he was looking at. Chain’s head appeared to be missing, and then he saw it, bent back under his still and shattered body, caught between the two front seats.

  Petrovitch straighted up, breathing hard. Everything seemed to be spinning, the sky, the smoke, the street. People were running toward him, running away from him, shouting incomprehensible things at him. He didn’t understand.

  And someone caught his eye.

  A figure, all in black, was walking away up the Pancras Road. Walking. Reaching a line of bystanders and pushing through them, leaving them to turn and gesture angrily.

  “Hey.” Petrovitch slid the shotgun off his shoulder and into his hands. “Hey. You.”

  He chambered the first shell and started after him. Within a few steps, he was jogging, and so was the man. At least it looked like a man: tall, athletic, dressed like an athlete even, an all-in-one body suit with nothing flapping. A courier would have had a courier bag. This man had nothing.

  Petrovitch speeded up, gauging a loping gait that would close the distance between them. The man responded in kind, and it quickly turned into a chase.

  They were both running as fast as they could. Petrovitch reached the line of people and they scattered before him, taking in the state of his face, the big gun held across his body, the aura of utter blind rage seeping from every pore of his filthy, smoke-scarred skin.

  Suddenly, he had a clear shot. He snapped the stock to his shoulder and his finger spasmed on the trigger. The recoil nearly tore his arm off. He spun and fell, the fresh pain serving only to stoke the fire inside.

  He got up with a growl and started over again. The man was further ahead now, moving in fast, clean strides. Then he just seemed to disappear.

  Petrovitch raced to the place where he’d last seen him. A road to his left went under the railway station—a deep long tunnel made wide by the pillared supports for the structures above.