Theories of Flight

by Simon Morden

  14

  He slung his coat on Pif’s empty chair and decided he needed to make some calls. He dug the rat out of the coat’s pocket and propped it up on his desk while he refilled the kettle and rinsed out the least crusty of his mugs.

  A fresh brew in front of him, he ignored the several hundred messages queued up for him and called Daniels.

  “Doctor Petrovitch. What can I do for you?”

  Daniels was sitting in his office—no sense of urgency, no frantic shredding or packing of documents in boxes—with the light slanting in through the vertical blinds behind him.

  “You’re an intelligence officer, right?”

  Daniels frowned. “Yes.”

  “So I assume you know why the EDF are mining all the bridges across the Thames.”

  “That’s classified information.” His voice remained neutral, urbane.

  “What? The reason why, or that they’re doing it at all?” Petrovitch dragged his coffee closer so he could inhale the fumes. “Look. I find myself in the unusual position of having responsibilities other than keeping my organs inside my skin. If there’s a plan to cut the city in two and abandon everything north of the river to the Outies, I need to know.”

  Daniels steepled his fingers. “Doctor Petrovitch, I won’t try and deny it…”

  “Good,” interrupted Petrovitch, “because otherwise I’d call you all sorts of names, some of which you might understand.”

  “Doctor, it’s simply a precaution. The EDF are just in a supporting role to MEA.”

  “That’ll explain the five main battle tanks with French markings which passed me on the Fulham Road. Yobany stos, Daniels, I have eyes. Just tell me—how bad does it have to get before those bridges go?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to discuss operational matters with you.”

  Petrovitch tried again. “The Outies had twenty years to prepare for this, but even I don’t think a bunch of ill-equipped, uneducated ebanashka, no matter how well led and organized, can take on both MEA and the EDF. So what do you know that the general population doesn’t?”

  Daniels clenched his fists on the rat’s little screen. “Doctor Petrovitch. You can press me for an answer as hard as you like, I cannot give you classified information.”

  “So what do I tell my research students?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My research students,” said Petrovitch. “Do I tell them to go back home, or do I ask them to stay? What can they possibly base their decisions on but hearsay and rumor? Do you want to start a panic?”

  Daniels ground his teeth, then with supreme effort, regained his composure. “There will be no panic. The bridges are assets that have been secured. MEA will regain control of all the Metrozone with logistical assistance from the EDF. The cordon will be closed again.”

  Petrovitch gave him a slow hand clap. “Well done, Daniels. You managed to parrot that without looking at the script once. But you don’t believe it any more than I do.”

  “It’s the official line,” growled Daniels.

  “It’s govno. And you’re a govnosos for going along with it. While I’m on, did you find any other keys, anything else on Chain?”

  It took the militia officer a moment to realize the subject had changed. “No. Why?”

  “Because the keys you gave me didn’t work. Chain was borderline paranoid, and I’m figuring there have to be more keys than the two you gave me. I was going to go back tomorrow with a locksmith and try and get into his flat, but finding a locksmith willing to go that close to the front line isn’t proving easy. That’s assuming that, by tomorrow, the Outies haven’t taken Finsbury Park.” Petrovitch watched and listened very carefully as to what happened next.

  “There was nothing else. You couldn’t gain access at all?”

  “The mechanical lock worked fine, but the electronic lock didn’t turn. It doesn’t matter—we’ve all got more important things to think about now, yeah?”

  Daniels rubbed his chin between thumb and index finger. “I don’t know what to say… I’m surprised, that’s all.”

  “Really? It’s hardly your fault, is it?” Petrovitch looked up over the screen, as if someone else was wanting his attention. “I’ve got stuff to do. Pretty certain you have, too. Good luck, Captain.”

  He tapped the screen and Daniels vanished. Immediately, he dialed again.

  “Valentina. Busy?”

  She was driving. He could see the edge of the steering wheel and her hand wrapped around it. Her face was pinched and tight.

  “We were fortunate that Marchenkho did not kill us both,” she said, glancing down at her phone on the dash.

  “Yeah. That’s us. The fortunate ones. Are you anywhere near Chain’s flat?”

  “Hmm. Fifteen, twenty minutes away. I keep out of Marchenkho’s way, is safer.”

  “I need you to get there and watch the door. Tell me who comes in and out. And don’t get seen. Please don’t get seen.”

  She leaned forward and touched her satnav screen. “Who am I expecting?”

  “I don’t know. But it did occur to me yesterday that if Chain hadn’t set up the sentry gun, someone else might have.”

  “You think CIA?”

  “Yeah. If I’m right, you won’t have long to wait. Video them only, though: don’t think about taking them on.” Petrovitch pushed his glasses up his face. “Valentina? You don’t have to do this. You can say no.”

  “But that would be boring. Will call you when I know something.”

  More calling.

  “Sam?”

  “Sonja. Everything all right?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She was in the park at the top of the Oshicora Tower. There was green behind her, and it was so bright it burned. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “What do you need?”

  She asked as if she had the power to grant wishes.

  “Apart from Charlotte Sorenson kept off my back like you promised?”

  “She found you?”

  “She tried to choke me to death, then kick me through a wall. But she’s not my chief concern. I think the CIA tried to kill me. If they’re looking in my direction, they’ll be looking in yours. Anything unusual today?”

  She shook her head. “No. Sam—what we talked about on Tuesday: did you mean it?”

  Petrovitch squinted back into the past. “Tuesday? Running away together? Yeah, I meant it. You, me and a whole lot of other people. That’s going to have to wait, though. Did you know the EDF have mined the bridges across the Thames?”

  “I heard. What does it mean?”

  “Mean? Tactically, it’s prudent, but only if we think we might lose. I just don’t see how that’s possible, now the EDF is here in force.”

  “If you were commanding the Outies, who would win?” She wore a faint smile.

  Petrovitch leaned back and thought about it. The longer he sat, the more worried he became. Eventually, he hunched back over the rat.

  “Yeah, okay. Maybe not win. But they’re not trying to, are they? What they want—for now—is half the city, and the Union has just offered it to them. Chyort, that’s good.”

  “It also places both of us on the wrong side of the line, Sam. I’m not going to let them do that.”

  “They’ve done it already, and I doubt any representations you make to MEA are going to change it. Get your people together, strip your building and head south.”

  “I will not go.”

  He imagined her stamping her foot. “Sonja, the Outies have been locked out of the Metrozone for two decades. They’re the ones who were too deranged to be let in. All they’ve had to do is breed and wait for the moment to take revenge. Now it’s finally here they’re not going to play nice because you asked.”

  She sprang her arms out wide to encompass the park, the tower, everything that had belonged to her father. “This is mine and I will not give it up!”

  “They’re not going to respect your property rights. They will kill you and everyone around you, and they
won’t even care about making it quick.” Petrovitch put his hand on his forehead and tried to press his incipient headache out. “Seriously, even I have to start thinking about other people. It’s not about us anymore.”

  Sonja was silent for a moment. Then she turned to someone behind her, said something that Petrovitch couldn’t pick up, then faced him again.

  “Nothing is more important than my father’s… legacy. I’m sending Miyamoto to protect you.”

  Petrovitch screwed his face up. His headache wasn’t getting any better. “Yeah. That position is already taken.”

  “So where is she?”

  “In bed with a broken rib,” he admitted.

  Sonja raised her eyebrows. “My point precisely.”

  “Yobany stos! I’m not going to have a ninja walk around on my heels all day.”

  “At least no one’s going to notice he’s there.”

  “Very funny. If he’s coming over anyway, I need him to bring me one of the virtuality head jacks, and any documentation Sorenson might have left. I may as well see if I can make use of this extra hole in my skull.”

  “I’ll see to it,” she said. “Sam?”

  “Yes, Sonja.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “A revolution. A whole new way of doing things. No one has to die, no one has to be overthrown. There’ll be no blood or fire—just light. It’s going to be brilliant.”

  “And you’re going to have to be alive to start it. Miyamoto’s on his way, Sam. Don’t make it difficult for him to do his job.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I need to make some more calls. Think about what I said, though. As soon as the news about the bridges spreads, the roads are going to be full of refugees all going in one direction. It won’t be so easy then.”

  He cut the connection, and punched in Pif’s name. He had no idea where in the world she was, and wasn’t surprised when a sleepy voice eventually answered him.

  “Sam?” There was no video, just the soft hiss of interference and the rustling of sheets.

  “Pif. Where are you?”

  “In bed. I have a plane to catch at stupid o’clock in the morning.”

  “No, where are you? Geographically.”

  “Pasadena.”

  “Yebat’ kopat. Where are you going next?”

  “Seattle. I’m at the University of Washington for a lunchtime presentation.” There were more rustling noises, and a click. She was sitting up with the light on.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “What sort of question is that?” She sounded scandalized, and he didn’t care. “Of course I’m alone. This is Reconstruction America: you can’t book even a twin room without a copy of your marriage certificate.”

  “Sorry, sorry. You have to get out of the U.S.A., and you have to do it as soon as you can. Canada will be fine. When you get to Seattle, hire a car, drive to the border. But you have to go straight there, skip your lecture.”

  “It’s not that crack you made about Stanford, is it?”

  He sighed. “No. Wish to whatever god you believe in it was. It’s the CIA. They killed Harry Chain, and one of Marchenkho’s men: I was with them both when they died, and I’m starting to get belatedly paranoid.”

  “Whoa. Stop, Sam. Chain’s dead? And now the CIA are trying to kill you?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much. Something almost took apart the Metrozone during the Long Night. It’s that something they want to find, and either terminate it or capture it. The only people who know what that was are me, you, Maddy and Sonja.”

  “But you destroyed the Jihad.” She paused. “Oh Sam.”

  “I cut it a deal. Not that the Yankees are going to believe me one way or the other, especially after I fragged one of their agents. It’s all gone pizdets, Pif, and you’re going to have to run.”

  “What have you done, Sam? Where is the Jihad now?” Her voice kept fluctuating, louder and softer.

  “Pif?”

  “I’m trying to get dressed, and one of my shoes is under the bed.” She strained. “Got it.”

  “There’s no more Jihad. That’s gone forever. But I kept the source code.”

  She knew him too well. “You idiot. You genius-level idiot. Now I have to find a way of getting to Mexico, and it’s midnight.” A bag was hurriedly packed and zipped. “You realize that if they haven’t yet figured out it was definitely you, my sudden disappearance might be what tips them off? And you still called me?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a knock on his door. Petrovitch felt his guts tighten.

  “Hang on,” he said to Pif. “In!”

  The door opened. McNeil poked her head around the corner. She saw he was in the middle of a conversation and mimed that she’d wait outside, but Petrovitch waved her in.

  “It’s fine,” he continued. “Give me a call when you get to wherever it is you’re going to next. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He put the rat back in its case and pushed it to one side, trying to recall McNeil’s first name again.

  “Fiona.” He noticed the data card gripped between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Was that Doctor Ekanobi?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Petrovitch took a swig of his coffee, and it had gone cold. He forced the mouthful down, face contorted. “Next stop, Seattle.”

  She perched on the edge of his desk, hooking one jean-clad leg over the other. She slid the data card across toward him. “It’s a day early. Hope that’s all right.”

  He picked it up and rolled it over and under his fingers, from one gap to the next until it reached his pinkie. Then he reversed the movement and span it back. His knuckles ached.

  She stared, transfixed. “Neat.”

  Petrovitch realized what he was doing and waggled his middle digit. “Physiotherapy exercise. I lost this one in… in an accident.” He put the card down. “Do you know where Hugo is?”

  She shook her head. “It’s still early, though.”

  “Yeah. I’m just thinking it might be time for you two to have a holiday. A long way away from here.”

  McNeil bristled at the suggestion. “But we’re doing good work. We can’t stop now, just because of the Outies.”

  “It’s not the right time for heroics. And it’s not the right cause, either.” Petrovitch pushed himself away from the desk, gliding until the chair touched the wall. He got up and walked over to the kettle again. “You need to get out while you can.”

  “I love this post. I love this subject.” She slipped off the desk and onto her feet. She stood there, forlorn, uncertain. “I don’t want to be taught by anyone else. I want to be taught by you.”

  Petrovitch scraped his nails through his hair, moving his hand back until he touched the metal insert at the very top of his spine. He blew out all the air in his lungs, and didn’t take another breath until he felt he absolutely had to.

  “Find Hugo. Drag him out of bed, whatever he’s doing, get him here. We’ll talk then.”

  She turned and left, and Petrovitch rested his forehead against the cool metal of a filing cabinet. The door opened again, and a black-clad figure eased in, closing the door behind him with an imperceptible click.

  Miyamoto bowed once, and took up station in the corner of the room. He had his sword on his back, and a gun at his waist. He uttered not a word, and became perfectly still in a passable attempt to turn invisible.

  Somehow, Petrovitch didn’t feel any safer than before.

  15

  Petrovitch examined the new solution to the equation. He carefully wrote it out longhand on a fresh sheet of paper and spent time hunched over it, absorbing the feel and shape of it, growing in confidence that he could do it justice. By the time he picked up a pencil, he knew which expressions could be simplified, and which ones would become dominant.

  As he worked, Miyamoto looked on impassively. At least, it appeared he was looking on: at some point in the past half hour, he had magicked a pair of info shades over his eyes. For all Petrovit
ch knew, his bodyguard was watching a movie.

  The math was hard going, and he had to keep stopping to consult books and papers, real and virtual, running his finger down lines of dense script until he discovered the symbols he wanted. It was as if the result didn’t want to be found. Or the AI was wrong, of course, and there was no solution there, just another point on an infinitely variable landscape.

  Pif would know, but she’d be busy looking behind her at the lights of the other cars on the freeway, wondering if any of them were following her. There’d be time to talk to her later—the equation was Petrovitch’s job for the moment.

  He carried on plugging away at it, and just when he thought he couldn’t go any further with it, he saw the answer. His final solution looked… dangerously unstable. He frowned at it for a long time, assuming there was a mistake somewhere. But if there wasn’t… He swallowed hard.

  “Yobany stos,” he whispered reverently.

  It might be the last piece of research he’d manage for a while, but he just had to see this one through. He mapped out the solution in three dimensions, just as he’d done before, and sent it to the renderer to be constructed layer on layer until it was whole.

  He’d have to pick the finished sphere up later, though: there was another knock at the door, and McNeil pushed Dominguez into the office ahead of her. Both stared at sword-wearing, gun-toting Miyamoto, who in return, ignored them completely.

  “Doctor?”

  “Don’t sweat it,” said Petrovitch. “You can, quite literally, forget he’s here.” He pulled the cable Miyamoto had brought for his head socket off the desk and into his lap, and from there into an already-overfull drawer. He pushed his glasses up his face and gazed at the pair. Enough of physics: they were his responsibility. He shuddered.

  “You wanted to see me?” said Dominguez. He sounded still tired, as sleepy as Pif had been.

  “Yeah. MEA has unilaterally declared the Thames the best line of defense against the Outies, and everything north of the river is now considered expendable.” Looking at Dominguez’s expression, he realized he had to spell it out. “That means us. The university could be overrun, and no one will come to our aid. I have to look after you two, so I’m telling you both to spend five minutes throwing a few clothes and whatever else you consider important into a bag small enough to be carry-on luggage, and get to Heathrow. I’ve booked you, Hugo, onto a flight to Seville at twelve thirty hours. Fiona, your Axis flight leaves at fourteen twenty. You might think you have time enough to say goodbye to friends, email some people, stuff like that. You don’t. Get to the airport, clear security, wait till your flight is called and make sure you don’t get bumped off it, not even if they promise to make you as rich as Croesus. It’s going to get mad, so don’t relax until you’re in the air. Got that?”