Theories of Flight

by Simon Morden

  He pushed the sole of his boot against the bottom of the door to hold it closed, and rested his cheek against the cold, gritty ground.

  Voices, speaking loudly in stripped-down, staccato sentences, were right outside. Petrovitch forced his knee to lock, and waited, not breathing.

  The AI’s avatar appeared beside him and folded its arms. It said nothing, but the Outies suddenly shouted and ran. A moment later, a car scraped its way along the wall and stalled, blocking the entrance completely.

  Petrovitch looked up at the avatar, and the avatar looked down at him.

  “Spaciba,” muttered Petrovitch.

  24

  The avatar had swapped its oversized sweatshirt for an urban camouflage combat jacket, all pockets and tabs. It had a Velcro patch over its breast pocket, and Petrovitch noticed that it had named itself.

  [Your body is injured,] it said. [And your colleague is dead.]

  “No, really? I hadn’t noticed.” The urge to just lie there and close his eyes, only for a moment, was overwhelming. If he was going to prove Miyamoto wrong, he really had to get up.

  [He betrayed you. He left you to die and let the Outies kill him. Why did he do that?]

  “Because… I don’t know. Mudak! Balvan!” Each screamed expletive tensed his muscles and made the pain brighter. “I will not go quietly!”

  [Apparently not… ]

  “I’m doing this for you! You want a place which recognizes you as a citizen? I’m the only one who can get that for you, you mozgoyob. I can save Maddy, save Sonja, save you, save the whole yebani Metrozone.” He took a deep breath to restore his graying vision. “If I can only save myself.”

  Petrovitch roared as he staggered to his feet. He swayed and reeled. He swallowed hard on his desert-dry throat. It was only pain. Pain wasn’t going to kill him. He shook his head violently to clear it, and looked around for the first time.

  Behind the high wall that ran around the perimeter was a brick warehouse, faced with full-height sliding doors. With the power off, he would never have the strength to open them, and fortunately, he didn’t need to. One of the coaches was in the yard in front of the building, visible from space, and precisely why he’d come here.

  The main gates still needed shifting, though. They were steel, taller than twice his height with thick bars running top to bottom. Ramming them would be futile, because they would have been designed with that in mind.

  He started to limp toward them.

  [You realize,] said the AI, [that this is just theater. You are demonstrating your power and authority: to show you can walk into enemy territory and drive out in a luxury coach.]

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  The control box for the opening mechanism was screwed to the wall at head height. It was padlocked shut, but only briefly; the hand-gun made short work of the hasp. Once inside, his hands felt their way across the machinery.

  [You are building a legend about yourself. You think it will serve you later.]

  “If there is a later.” He dug in his pocket for the kitchen knife and sawed through the thick hydraulic hoses that kept the left-handmost gate closed. Oily liquid squirted out: over him, over the yard, then it died to a trickle.

  [Why? Fiscal competence, honest administration and creating a fair legal framework are the leadership qualities most sought after by the populace.]

  Petrovitch walked slowly to the middle of the gates, and in full view of the road outside, he braced his hands against one of the metal bars and pushed. The pain was exquisite.

  “No one ever fought at the barricades for a balanced budget. I want to set the world alight. I want to speak to their souls.”

  [Do I have a soul?]

  “Not… not now. This is not the time to be asking such questions.”

  The gate, once moving, kept on going. Wheels at the base ran smoothly in the concrete channel cut for them. One last shove, and the gap was wide enough. The Outies outside, another family group of six or seven, watched him incredulously for a moment.

  The shotgun would have been useful, but he’d lost it in his pain-filled delirium. He drew the pistol again and let it dangle by his side.

  “I know I look like govno, but I’ll still kill you if you step closer.” None of them had guns, or a ranged weapon of any kind: no bows, javelins, slings.

  They hesitated, not realizing that Petrovitch couldn’t keep his arm straight if he tried. A car, close enough to be called, screeched around the corner on two wheels and charged toward them.

  As they scattered, he ran as fast as he could for the coach, stiff-legged, exhausted. One last effort required, that was all.

  The AI had already commandeered it. The door hissed open, and steps folded down to meet his rising foot. He fell up the stairwell into the passenger deck, and the door closed behind him. A fist met the glass in the door, and a moment later, the haft of an axe.

  Petrovitch raised his artificial middle finger at the figure outside, and the coach pulled cleanly away. Something thudded dully off the massive flat front of the vehicle, and the wheels bumped over an obstruction.

  The coach was at the gates, gliding through, turning toward the main road.

  His flailing hand connected with the tubular metal banister. As he stood, he could see out of the huge, tinted windscreen. Burning buildings, bundles of plump rags, crashed and gutted cars in the foreground, and behind that, behind the smoke that drifted in sheets across the road, was the Metrozone.

  It didn’t look good.

  The avatar appeared in the seat behind him, hunched forward, hands clasped in its lap. [The Americans are attempting to isolate their network. Their NSA has declared that the country is under attack from “cyber terrorists and enemies of freedom.”] It paused. [I am beginning to run short on resources.]

  “I thought I told you to take what you need.”

  [I have done. But if they physically take assets offline, I am not in a position to reconnect them.]

  Petrovitch shifted awkwardly as the coach barged another disabled car aside, then carried on down the hill. He was still standing like a charioteer, hanging on to the hand rail at the top of the steps, staring out over the city.

  “If you’re still just using spare capacity, it’s time to grab whole systems for your dedicated use. Whatever you want. Start with the Metrozone traffic control, and chyort, I know where you can get what you want.” His face twitched. “The basement of the Oshicora building.”

  [The quantum computer is quarantined. There are good reasons for that.]

  “There used to be good reasons for that. There are better ones now for breaking it.”

  [And what of Oshicora, or VirtualJapan?]

  “There’s nothing left of either. I hinted there might be so that Sonja wouldn’t think to look elsewhere for you. Time to crack the seals and let you in. What else is happening that I need to know about?”

  [The EDF stationed around King’s Cross are coming under sustained attack. The Outies have looted some heavier weaponry from a Metrozone facility in Holloway, and are threatening to break through at the goods yard and at Pentonville Road.]

  “Do we have any air cover yet? A gunship or two?”

  [They are of limit… ]

  “I don’t care. They’re no good sitting on the ground waiting to be overrun. If the Outies make a breach now, we’re screwed. Tell the tanks to flatten the goods yard and get our soldiers off the streets and into the buildings. Forget hardpoints, set up free-fire zones and make the govnososa pay for every centimeter they take.” The coach swayed, and started to indicate right. A barrage of broken paving slabs and bricks clattered against the side windows. The toughened glass shivered, but didn’t crack. “What else?”

  [Your wife’s unit is completely surrounded. There are casualties.]

  “She knows I’m coming.”

  [How?]

  “Because she knows I will. What about Primrose Hill?”

  [They have made contact with the Outies, who are filling up the stree
ts around the park. There is some long-range sniping, but it is only a matter of time before they advance. There are too many of them for our defenders to cope with: a simple matter of not having enough bullets.]

  “The Westway?”

  [The Outies are temporarily stalled within the Paradise housing complex, but they will soon realize they can flank the area by moving toward Notting Hill.]

  “It could be worse.”

  The AI was silent on that point.

  Petrovitch called Valentina as the coach rumbled down a side street, its vast bulk threatening to dwarf the terraced houses either side. The cars that remained parked on the sides of the road lost their wing mirrors and much of their paint.

  “Hey.”

  “We have bridge,” she shouted over the noise behind her. He liked her. She was direct when he needed her to be. “There are many, many Japanese crossing here. This is good.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “Nothing you need worry about. We will keep road clear for as long as we can. Petrovitch, what about demolition charges?”

  “They’re under our control.”

  “Good. Petrovitch, there are problems with networks. People fear New Machine Jihad.”

  He had no reason not to tell her. “They needn’t be afraid. I am the Jihad.”

  “You will have to explain later how this can be. But okay.”

  The coach pulled up cleanly outside the station closest to the tunnel entrance, and shushed on its brakes.

  “I’m going to have to go offline for a while. Leave a message if you have to. Otherwise, do as you see fit.” He turned to walk down the stairs to the hissing door. His coat had stuck to his back. It was as bad as it could be, made worse by his imagination. “Valentina, if… if this all goes wrong: don’t hold any loyalty to me. Sonja Oshicora will use the Jihad to slug it out with the Outies, but there’s no guarantee she’ll win. Blow the bridge along with the others and get out of there.”

  “I am big girl,” she said. “I can see which is right side, and which is wrong side. So—even if you are dead, it does not make you any less right.”

  “There is that.” He stepped through the arched entrance, into the cool shadow of the concourse. It was as he’d left it.

  “So I choose to fight, kamerad kapitan. I see no other way.”

  Petrovitch crawled across the top of a turnstile, clawing at the cold metal with his fingers and trying not to fall. He turned awkwardly, letting his feet find the floor through the mist that rose up in his vision.

  “As you wish, Valentina.”

  He cut the connection and staggered out onto the platform. The end of the tunnel was in sight, and so was the slight figure of a schoolgirl standing in the opening, anxiously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, bouncing slightly in her now-scuffed and dusty trainers.

  Where he had climbed up before, he hesitated, looking at the distance between the platform and the track. When he turned and started shuffling down toward the incline that merged the two, Lucy broke from cover and ran toward him.

  She slowed as their paths converged, and she stopped completely when they were face to face.

  “Sam? What happened?” Then she caught sight of the cable hanging around his neck. Her gaze narrowed, and she followed it from his collar to the base of his skull. “What the fuck is that?”

  He tried to smile, to make light of it: “It’s a cybernetic mitigator implant. All the cool kids have got one.”

  “But… where’s… that blood. Is it yours?”

  “Yeah.” Petrovitch shrugged awkwardly. “I got blown up again. Miyamoto’s dead. His choice. Not mine.”

  He wanted her to walk in front of him: not because he didn’t want her to see the ruin of his back, but because he couldn’t deal with her reaction. She wasn’t taking his hints, the gentle ushering of his hands, the pointed stare back down the tunnel.

  “I got us some transport. Enough to get everybody away. I need you to go and round everyone up, start them moving.”

  “And what are you going to be doing?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Me and Doctor Death need to have a chat.” He reached behind him and took hold of the jack in his head. He twisted it, and pulled it slowly out.

  It felt like half of him had died, and he mourned the loss so much that he almost drove the spike back in again. His fingers trembled, then let the silver-shiny connector slide free.

  She was watching him. She caught the cable in her hand, and slid it carefully under his collar, retrieving the rat from his inside pocket. The casing was scratched and dented, discolored with dirt and some uncomfortable dried brown stains.

  “What do I do with it?”

  “Hang on to it for me.” He needed his glasses. He found them in his coat. One lens had chipped, but he slid them on, and pushed them up his nose. “You can use it. Not in the same way. With, with these.”

  The overlays were flexible enough to have escaped damage. He passed them over, and she held them in front of her face, checking the difference they made. She stopped and moved them back over to Petrovitch’s right.

  “There’s someone there.” Lucy flipped the overlays aside. “Some sort of virtual guide?”

  “He’ll warn you if there are Outies nearby, or anything else that might be a problem. You can trust what he says. Isn’t that right?”

  Petrovitch supposed the avatar was either taking a bow or wearing a cynical smirk. While she was distracted, he managed to turn, keeping his back out of her eyeline. He walked toward the tunnel while she played briefly before remembering her mission.

  As she ran past him, he turned again.

  “What do I call him?” she called as she vanished into the dark.

  “Michael, apparently.” Lucy had gone, and there was no one to hear him add, “After the archangel, the leader of the Army of God.”

  25

  They passed each other in the tunnel, a string of blue-white lights swinging and shading in the darkness. Lucy moved up and down the line, urging the old men on, exhorting the old women to keep going.

  And Petrovitch knew that she was destined for something greater. He moved aside, catching her luminous grin as she held up the lantern to illuminate both him and her.

  “We’ll wait.”

  “You’d better,” he said.

  He made his way back to the abandoned train. Climbing up took all his remaining strength. He lay there, stranded, gasping, as the one last light lowered itself down toward his face.

  “You found a coach,” said the doctor.

  “I won a coach. I fought for it and I won it.” Petrovitch looked up and saw the doctor’s shoes. “You could have done pretty much the same, except it would have been easier for you because when you would’ve been looking, you wouldn’t have had the Outies.”

  “And then what? Where would I have taken them? And why aren’t you getting up?”

  “Because my back’s full of shrapnel and I’m bleeding heavily from a dozen places.”

  The light moved, and there was a sharp intake of breath.

  “What? I need a doctor? I kind of thought I’d found one.”

  The man pulled a face. “I did A and E for six months, five years ago.”

  “I’m reluctant to threaten the only person in a position to help me. But I have a gun in my pocket that I’m very tempted to use on you.”

  “This is beyond what I can do here. You need a hospital. You need a scan, a transfusion, fresh skin. I haven’t even got sterile water so I can see what I’m doing.”

  “What do you have?”

  “A bag of stuff I threw together at the last minute.” Petrovitch could see it, packed and ready to go, sitting in the aisle.

  “Then that’ll have to do. We don’t have time to get fancy.”

  “I could kill you if I get it wrong.”

  “Then,” said Petrovitch, “you’d better start praying to whatever god you believe in you get it right. Or right enough that I live for another few hours.”
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br />   The doctor looked skeptical and went to his bag. He brought out a pair of surgical scissors.

  “I’m going to have to cut you out of what’s left of your clothes.”

  “Yeah. Figured.” Petrovitch started to wriggle out of his long leather coat. “I’m sentimentally attached to this, though.”

  He felt tearing: more than sentimentality, then. Actual flesh and blood. He dragged it to one side, and the doctor kicked it further with his foot.

  “Got a name?” The scissors started to click.

  “Petrovitch.”

  “That’s it. The antigravity man.” Snip, snip, snip.

  Petrovitch gasped as his back was exposed, the bloodied cloth peeled away. “It’s not… doesn’t matter.”

  The doctor went quiet as he surveyed the ruins. “I don’t have a spare pair of trousers.”

  “Showing my yielda to the world is the least of my worries.”

  The doctor knelt again beside him and clipped his way through the waistband. “I did mean what I said about you needing a hospital. You’ve got multiple penetration wounds, and only some of them have visible fragments. Those foreign objects I can’t remove will continue to do damage the longer they stay in. Nick a vein or an artery, and you’ll bleed out in under a minute. Depending on the depth, you could be bleeding internally already. You have burns and abrasions, and you’re losing fluid from those, too.”

  “My turn,” said Petrovitch. “What’s your name?”

  “Stephanopolis. Alex Stephanopolis.”

  “Right, Doctor Stephanopolis: I don’t want you to stop and listen to me, you can do and listen at the same time.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You see that hole in the back of my head? That connects to the experimental cyberware I used to defeat the New Machine Jihad six months ago. Today, I’m using it to direct a modified version of the Jihad to help defend the Metrozone from the Outies. As you may notice, there is nothing plugged in at the moment. That is because the satellite uplink I have to the Jihad won’t work underground. Joined the dots yet, Doctor?”

  The doctor worked his scissors down the back of one leg. “If I believed you, you’d be telling me that the New Machine Jihad is loose again and you’re the only person who can control it.”