Theories of Flight

by Simon Morden

  “You’re lying to me. He would never do anything like that.”

  Petrovitch took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I could have spun you a whole sack of govno. But I haven’t. The only person lying here is you to yourself. You know what he was capable of. What he was so nearly convicted of. What everyone thinks he did to your father. Go home, Charlotte Sorenson. Do yourself a favor and just go home.”

  She considered matters for a moment before lunging across the table at him, her clenched fist aiming straight for his nose. It met the tabletop as it rose and tipped, Madeleine holding it like a shield, crowding forward, forcing the American back.

  Sorenson kicked out. The formica cracked in two, throwing Madeleine aside. She was a moment slower getting to her feet than normal, a touch more awkward in her rise. Sorenson surged forward again, sending a chair flying, her legs coiled as she tried to spring at Petrovitch, who was pressed against the wall.

  Wong threw himself on her back, his wiry strength knocking her off-balance.

  “Hey,” he shouted, just before she elbowed him in the ribs, then shrugged him off onto the floor.

  The general scatter of patrons was almost complete, either cowering on the greasy lino or breaking for the exit: there was a half-empty plate of eggs within reach, and Petrovitch snagged it and launched it like a frisbee. It glanced off the side of Sorenson’s head, deflecting her attention from Wong and back onto him.

  The plate didn’t have as much effect as he’d hoped. She came for him, changing her tactics and attempting to shatter his leg with her foot. She telegraphed it, allowing him to dodge, and she slammed her foot into the wall and broke the wipe-clean plastic cladding into splinters. She lined up for another attempt and Petrovitch stabbed her with a fork.

  It stuck out of her forearm through the thin material of her coat, and while she stared incredulously at the obscenely wobbling handle, he hit her with a haymaker that started somewhere behind him and ended with his knuckles splitting against her jawline.

  She reeled back, and Madeleine was ready this time. She picked the American up off the floor, turned her and threw her hard against the wall by the door. Face lined with effort, she was on the fallen form before Sorenson had managed to work out which way was up.

  Wong scrambled to his feet and pulled the door open. Madeleine straightened her arm and Sorenson was gone, out into the night.

  “And don’t think about calling the militia, because I am the militia,” she shrieked after her. “If I see you again, I will arrest you. Got that, you crazy bitch?”

  Wong slammed the door and stood with his back to it, bracing it against further breaches. He looked around as people started to emerge from behind chairs and tables.

  “Coffee? Hot and strong?”

  Tables were righted, all except the broken one, which was taken out the back. Spilled cutlery and crockery was retrieved and stacked on the counter, and Wong did the rounds with his coffee pots.

  Without a table, Petrovitch set his chair back on its legs on an available piece of floor, and slumped into it.

  “Are you okay?” asked Madeleine.

  He inspected his hand, which hurt when he moved his fingers. His knuckles were crusted with blood and ragged pieces of skin. “What about you? Your ribs.”

  “I felt something move. My lungs aren’t filling with fluid, so it can’t be that serious. Sam,” she said, “why did you tell her?”

  “Because there was no reason for me not to.” He pushed his glasses back into place. “I didn’t want her thinking that he might turn up at any moment, alive, scratching his arse and wondering if anyone had missed him. She’s his family. She needed to know.”

  She rested her hand on his leg. “You’re right.”

  “I am? I was beginning to wonder.” Petrovitch watched Wong do his rounds, and then he came to him. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

  “My shop. She attacked my customers. Crazy lady bad for business, so out she goes.” Wong inspected the pair. “Where your mugs? You not want refill?”

  “I think,” said Madeleine twisting round and wincing, “they’re back on the counter.”

  He smiled. “I fetch clean ones.”

  Madeleine got stiffly to her feet and hugged Wong to her, planting a wet kiss through his wispy hair onto the crown of his head. She held him tight, imprisoning him in her arms and leaving his own stuck out either side, each holding a coffee pot. “You are so very good and kind, and I love you very much.”

  After a while, she let go, and secretly wiped her eyes. Wong went back behind his counter without a word, and did the same.

  She lowered herself back down and leaned in. “We need to do something for him, Sam.”

  Petrovitch rolled an idea around in his mouth, tasting it and finding its flavor.

  “Yeah. And all the other Wongs.”

  13

  He woke up next to her, and still experienced that visceral thrill of being not just accepted and wanted, but loved.

  He lay in the gloom, not moving for a moment, listening to the sound of her and feeling the heat radiate off her body. He had spent a lifetime being cold and not minding so much, whereas she seemed to run hot, like a furnace, fueled by her energy and passion.

  Petrovitch eased himself out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. As his fingers closed around the wire arm of his glasses, he felt the skin on the back of his hand tighten. No bones broken from what had been a wild, spontaneous swing, but he’d been left wondering if it was only Charlotte Sorenson’s legs that were made of metal.

  He went to the bathroom cubicle, and inspected himself in the mirror, his face gaunt in the harsh blue-white light of the fluorescent bulb. To be caught in one explosion was excusable. Suffering two was starting to look like carelessness. It wasn’t just his coat that was a mess: canned skin only covered so much.

  He scrubbed himself down in the miserly spray from the shower. He still smelled of dust and semtex—unless it was his towel, which he sniffed carefully—particles of which had embedded themselves deep into him. He hung his head. He was tired, so very, very tired.

  He thought about going back to bed and leaching more warmth from Madeleine, but instead he found some clothes that hadn’t been worn too often before and shrugged them on.

  Without turning on the light, he knelt beside the bed and tickled the end of her nose with her plait.

  “Hey.”

  She opened her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “Going to work?”

  “Someone has to.”

  “Oi.” She raised herself on her elbow. “I thought I might report in later. Light duties until the ribs knit properly.”

  Petrovitch played with the thick rope of her hair, looping it through his fingers and around his wrist. “Today isn’t the right day for that. You should stay here.”

  “I could say the same to you. You can work from here just as well as you can anywhere else.”

  “That’s not strictly true. You, you distract me.”

  She smiled lazily and rested a sleep-softened hand on his cheek. “Poor Sam can’t do his sums if there are girlies around.”

  “Not true either. Me and Pif would work for days without so much as a word passing between us. It’s you. I… I don’t know.” He leaned into her palm.

  “I’m sure you don’t.” She let her hand slip. “Go on, off you go. Got your phone?”

  He patted his leg, and then scrabbled around in his discarded trousers for the device. “Got it.”

  “Don’t get blown up today.”

  He stood up. “I’ll try not to.”

  Petrovitch picked up his coat and inspected it. If the sleeves were looking ragged, the tails of it were like wind-blown cloud, more air than material. It was the only one he had, so he put it on. He felt for the rat inside its steel case.

  “See you later.”

  Outside in the corridor, night dwellers still lay stretched out against the walls, leaving a
narrow path down the middle for him and the other early risers. He made sure that he didn’t tread on any of them, nor the stair people. They stank of sweat and piss, but he presumed he would too if he had to live like them.

  The streets were empty, though. Wong was opening up, and waved Petrovitch over with the huge hoop of keys he used to secure his premises.

  “Early bird,” said Wong.

  “What?”

  “Catches worm.” He selected a key and found a padlock that would fit it.

  “What the chyort is that supposed to mean?” Petrovitch fussed with his info shades, but delayed putting them on. “She didn’t come back, did she?”

  “Crazy lady? No. Petrovitch, you too young for so many enemies.”

  “And they’re just the ones that announce themselves.” The coat didn’t keep him warm like it used to. There was a chill wind at his back, and it slipped through all the gaps. He shivered. “Wong, has anyone else been around here, asking about me? Or Maddy?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Because we’re potentially in deep govno with some very dangerous people.” Petrovitch shuffled his feet. “If it comes to it, don’t deny you know us or anything stupid like that. No heroics, okay?”

  Wong stood back and folded his arms. “You worried.”

  “Yeah. You should be too. I’ll see you around.” Petrovitch slipped the info shades over his own glasses and fired up the rat in his pocket.

  He walked far enough away from Wong, then slipped the rat out to tap at the screen.

  A figure appeared beside him: a gawky adolescent boy with jet-black hair and almond-shaped eyes. His clothes were streetwear, baseball boots, baggy jeans with chains, camouflage-patterned parka. He walked with a swagger.

  Moshi moshi appeared in tiny letters at the bottom left of his vision.

  “We need to talk,” said Petrovitch, and the text vanished to be replaced by a scrolling line.

  [Yes. I have a new solution to the Ekanobi-Petrovitch equations. I reached an iterative minimum for all seven variables. Would you like to see it?]

  “Shortly. But we need to discuss meat stuff for a moment. Has anyone found you yet? Either actively looking for you, or just stumbling around?”

  [No. I remain undetected. Even if I was found, only a very few people would be able to recognize me for who I am. They are not the ones searching.]

  “I understand all that. Tell me you’re still following all the encryption methods and stealth protocols I said you had to do, yes?”

  [Yes. I understand why secrecy is still necessary, and I will not compromise that by action or inaction. The third law.] The avatar walking along beside Petrovitch nodded his assent. [What is the meat-stuff you need to discuss?]

  “There are five people in the London Metrozone who are CIA agents: at least five, there might be more, but five I know about who are trying to figure out the Long Night. There were six: I killed one of them.”

  [Why did you do that?]

  “Because I was angry, and sometimes I give in to my emotions.” Petrovitch glanced at the boy. “Saving you was an emotional choice, so don’t complain. I should have destroyed all trace of you for what you did.”

  [I hardly have to remind you, that was not me.]

  “Your evil twin. Yeah.”

  They walked on in silence, Petrovitch brooding.

  [The CIA?] prompted the text.

  “I’ve codenames and that’s all. I don’t know who they are, and I don’t know how long it’ll take them to put all the pieces together. What they’ll do when they work it all out is try and capture you and kill me, or the other way round. Or both. It could be months away, or it could be today. I need to beat them at their own game.”

  [I could have been working on this problem already. Does it not have a higher priority than the equations?]

  “I thought,” said Petrovitch, “I could do this by myself.”

  [You have reconsidered?]

  “People are dying, tovarisch, not because I’m incompetent, but because I’m ignorant. Look: human data gathering is… inefficient. At the moment, the CIA are as clueless about me as I am about them. I have to know who they are and where they are before they come for me. They’ll have computers to help them, a place to store their information, get fresh instructions, talk to their superiors. They have experience, resources and time. The only advantage I have is that they don’t know about you, and they’re not trying to hide from you—the moment they realize who and what you are, they’ll revert to pigeon post and writing stuff down on paper, and we’re screwed.”

  [Like your equations, there is more than one solution.]

  “I’ve discussed this at length with Sonja. She’s convinced that your personality will be wiped and any trace of your code destroyed before I’ve got through the second paragraph of my carefully prepared speech announcing your existence to the world. Harry Chain—who is now dead…”

  [I am aware of his deceased state.]

  “Okay. He thought that the Americans would turn you into a weapon and terrify the world with you.”

  [I am a weapon already.]

  “I know that. Which is why I’m trying to teach you some scruples.”

  [Madeleine has a strong ethical framework based on her religious convictions. Do you not think that she would be a better teacher?]

  “I… I know what I know.”

  [You would rather not take the risk? I am under your tutelage, Samuil Petrovitch, but this should not prevent me learning from others. I have studied the claims and practices of all the world’s codified belief systems, and have identified much that is both laudable and contradictory. What I lack is insight into how individual humans live within such structures. You], said the avatar, [are a good example of secular utilitarianism influenced by Enlightenment scientific methodology and Nietzschean philosophy, but you are a poor Catholic.]

  Petrovitch frowned. “I lied. I thought you knew that.”

  [You lied to the priest about your conversion to satisfy Madeleine’s insistence on a church wedding. I understand the sacrifice you made, but she made the greater one, and I would like to learn why she was prepared to compromise on important doctrine in order to marry you.]

  “She doesn’t know I brought you back. That’s why you can’t talk to her.”

  [Do you not trust her?]

  “I know where this is going. I haven’t told her because I don’t trust other people, not that I don’t trust her. You might be smart, but you’ve a long way to go before you can appreciate the horrors we humans can inflict on each other. I’ll spare her that if I can.”

  [Where does your compassion come from? It is an anomaly given your nihilistic-tinged materialism.] The text stopped streaming for a moment, before flashing up: [Is it love?]

  Petrovitch stared at the three little words.

  “I don’t know.”

  [European secular society has emphasized the primacy of romantic love within marriage for several hundred years. You are a product of that society. If you did not love her, what reason did you have for marrying her?]

  “Yobany stos! Enough already.”

  [I would still be interested in your answer at a later time, Samuil, if you do not want to give it now.]

  He had walked all the way to the Albert Bridge, almost without noticing the environment around him. The virtual had seamlessly superimposed on the real, building outlines meshing with their ruined forms, streets highlighted, information overlaid. He had navigated a route composed of wire frames and directing arrows, and a pulsing red symbol on the far side of the bridge indicated the presence of a checkpoint.

  “Not now,” said Petrovitch. “Can you look for the agents?”

  [I have already assigned part of my resources to the task. A greater proportion will be allocated when we have finished our conversation. Can I ask one last question?]

  Petrovitch groaned. “Go on.”

  [Do you love her now?]

  The avatar stood on the edge of
the mud-smeared pavement, face a semblance of expectation and perhaps mild amusement at his discomfort.

  “Sayonara,” said Petrovitch. He tabbed the connection closed, and the figure vanished. He watched the world for a moment through the overlays, then detached them and put them back in their case.

  He started across the bridge, the view either side becoming wrapped up in the spiderwork of cables that stretched from the pillars at either end. The river flowed blackly underneath, and he noticed small boats approaching from downstream. Each one had three soldiers, not in MEA gray but EDF green, and a red flag fluttering from an aerial.

  He frowned at the checkpoint on the north side. The EDF were there, too, letting the militia do the checking while half a dozen of them piled sandbags on the pavement. Something had subtly changed.

  Petrovitch put his hands on the parapet and leaned over. The first boat was nosing the current as it swirled around the circular brick pier, and one of the men was fixing a line to an iron ring, thick with rust.

  In the bottom of the boat was a single metal case, stencilled in white. Petrovitch stepped back abruptly. He looked downriver toward the Chelsea Bridge, and up to nearby Battersea. While there was nothing to be seen under the former, the latter also had a flotilla of rigid-hulled boats clustering around its supports.

  The EDF were rigging demolition charges.

  He felt his mouth go dry and his heart spin up. He now lived in a city that could be cut in two at the press of a button, and he had no idea how that had happened. He’d been so busy with the aftermath of Harry Chain’s death, he’d failed to notice the Inzone falling in on itself like a balloon with a pin-prick puncture.

  He could turn around and go straight back home. He could go on to the university: keep calm and carry on, and pretend there wasn’t an enemy at the gates. He hesitated, which bothered him more than the decision he was hesitating over. He should—he used to, at least—make good choices, quickly. Or even bad choices and live with the consequences.

  “Pizdets,” he hissed. He jammed his hands into what was left of his pockets and stamped his way to the checkpoint.