by Simon Morden
He realized that it wouldn’t stay that way forever. The center could not hold.
Dreaming wouldn’t solve any of his current problems. He turned his back on the view, and climbed down to the metal floor of the domik. He wondered if there was anyone beneath him, suddenly aware of new light footsteps over their heads. Maybe.
He opened the trunk. It wasn’t locked, had no need to be locked, and the catches sprang aside easily. Inside were things of use, like a couple of blankets and bubble-wrapped electronics, and things of no use at all, just pieces of heavy paper bearing pictures of people who he’d never see again and thought him dead.
It was to those he went first, though. A pair of children playing in the low, red light of the midday sun, a girl called Irena and a boy called Alexander. A woman, the children’s mother, face lined by hard work and exhaustion. A man, lying in a hospital bed, bald, emaciated, drips in his arms and tubes up his nose, grinning and waving to the camera.
Fifteen years of life that amounted to a thin stack of photographs, and they weren’t even his own memories anymore. They belonged to someone else, even if he could remember them in ice-sharp clarity.
He shook himself free of the reverie. He gathered up the items in bubble-wrap and laid them out on the floor: a laptop computer whose case was pre-Armageddon and components most definitely not; a solar panel, rolled up; a silvered umbrella, folded; a fat cube of nanotube battery; a bundle of wires to connect them all together. This whole collection of electronics was dusty, unused, untested. Ripe for replacement, in fact. He’d been thwarted in that: now all he could do was hope that everything would work as promised.
He took a methodical approach, getting power from the panel to the battery first, plugging in the computer, extending the antenna and aiming it through the window at one of the relay stations visible on a rooftop down below.
There was a signal. He could get online. He realized that he’d been holding his breath, and he let it all out with a moan.
He typed furiously, scripting and executing program after program. One to hide his access point, one to lock down his Clapham hab, one to copy and encrypt the contents of his hard drive, and another to send it in little packages to a hundred dormant mailboxes. One more to erase itself and then fall into dormancy.
He continued with his housekeeping, ripping up history. It took a little while. Some of the computers he was targeting were well defended.
He’d dealt with the past. Now for the future. He timed his death for just after midday tomorrow. He’d kill himself, swiftly, painlessly, and arrive dead at a hospital in Greenwich: cause of death, heart failure. The body would be shipped to the crematorium, his ashes claimed, and his sad demise would be registered with the Metrozone Authority.
He bought airline tickets to Wellington under another identity. In the morning, he’d tuck the little bundle of photographs in his bag, and Samuil Petrovitch would die. No one would mourn his passing.
15
It was still night when he woke up, but it could never be called dark. Swaddled in blankets, he climbed up onto the trunk to look out of the window, to see the brilliant lights of the city: from the fiery orange of sodium glare that burned at street level to the three-colored laser banks that scrawled logos and messages on the underside of the clouds. In between was the white glow and moving pictures of the towers, pointing the way to salvation. Points of light slid across the umber sky and along the roads, red above and red below.
It was bright to the edge of pain, sharp enough to cast his shadow on the blank wall behind him.
His computer was blinking at him. Even with a new name, he was still an infovore. He had time to look at the news before he started for the airport. He climbed down from his perch and sat cross-legged in front of the keyboard. He flexed his fingers, cracking each joint in turn, and went to see what today had brought.
It had brought chaos. His Tuvalu-based server had been hit by a massive surge in traffic: an old-school Denial of Service attack so huge that he couldn’t get through to change the settings, reset it, or even put it to sleep. He pulled the plug on his connection and worried at his thumb.
He used a commercially available proxy, hiding his identity in amongst a mass of other anonymous browsers, and sniffed around his old local Clapham node. It was down, swamped by a tsunami of data.
He tried to connect with the university as a guest user: the host was unreachable. Several online forums he used to frequent had been rendered unreadable. Yet for the rest of the globe, it was business as usual.
Everywhere that he might have been found had been ruthlessly trashed: no finesse or subtlety, just terabytes of information thrown at any open port to clog them up completely. He was being targeted, quite deliberately.
He leaned back and wondered who might do such a thing.
Oshicora might, but it didn’t seem his style. Marchenkho definitely, but he doubted that the man could use a computer, let alone coordinate something so complicated.
Sorenson: he had no cause to get at Petrovitch, no matter how bat-shit crazy he might be under his veneer of good-ol’-boy charm. And Chain was more careful, more likely to get others to do his work for him. But this was a blocking move, not an attempt to gain intelligence. Whoever it was was trying to prevent him from communicating, from seeing electronically.
So it came down to what they were trying to hide. Even though he would be dead soon, he needed to know. If it was a feint to flush him into the real world…
He knew the number for his hardwired phone extension in the lab. He bought a virtual phone online and called it. It rang for several minutes, but he knew to wait. Eventually Pif answered.
“What? Sorry. Didn’t hear it, then couldn’t find it.” There were sounds of paper sliding to the floor, and muffled cursing. “Who is this?”
“It’s Sam.”
“You have to come in. Now.”
“Is anything wrong? You’re okay?” Petrovitch felt his pulse quicken.
“I’m okay. This note you left me…”
“Believe it or not, there’s something more important than that. Don’t go outside. In fact, call security and have them post a couple of guards at each end of the corridor. Tell them they need guns.”
“What have you done?”
“Pif: Tuesday was even worse than Monday. I have ruined my life so completely, so thoroughly, I can’t come back in. Ever. This is goodbye. But I had to warn you.”
There was almost silence: nothing but the crackles on the line and the sound of her breathing. “Sam, what about the science?”
“Sam will be dead shortly. Before he goes, he wants to say it was brilliant working with you and that he’ll miss you very much.”
“I can’t see any errors in your equation.”
“His equation. Petrovitch’s equation. And unless he’s invented a time machine, he won’t be coming back.”
There was more silence.
“Tell me,” he said, “I haven’t invented a time machine.”
“Not invented, as such. More described how it might be done. It’s the difference between Einstein and the Manhattan Project.” She even giggled.
“Pif, I can’t wait forty years. And this isn’t even why I phoned. Someone is trying to blindside me, presumably before coming after me with a pushka. Promise you’ll stay safe.”
She gave in. The whole tone of her voice changed. “Why, Sam? Why are they doing this to you?”
“Because I’m a bad man. You don’t need to know any more than that. There is one last thing you can do for me, though. Is the university network up or down? It’s isolated itself from the shit-storm that’s being kicked up my side of the node.”
“Up, last time I looked.”
“If I give you my password, can you copy some files to my supervisor?”
“You know I’m not supposed to do that, right?”
“Yeah. Pif: I’m going to be technically dead in a few hours. Violating my terms and conditions of usage isn’t going to
bother me.”
“Hang on.” She dropped the phone to the desk and opened several drawers, trying to find her handheld computer. Petrovitch heard it chime as it was turned on, then the phone was scraped up again. “Okay.”
“Log on screen?”
“I’m there.”
“s-a-m-u-i-l-dot-p-e-t-r-o-v-i-c-h.”
“Done.”
“d-four-d-five-c-four-d-x-c-four.”
“I’m in.”
“See the folder called Simulations? Click that and tell me what you see.”
“You’ve got mail, by the way,” said Pif. “Two thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven messages. Since when were you so popular?”
“I’ve been mail-bombed. Everywhere. I don’t know who’s doing it.”
“I’ll take a look.”
“Don’t open the reader! Everything will be loaded with viruses, worms, the works.”
“I opened the reader, Sam.”
“Close it! Close it!”
“It’s all marked up as spam, except the first two. Know anyone called Sonja? She sent you a couple of seriously fat files.”
Petrovitch’s fists were white with frustration. “Yobany stos, Pif! Close the reader down.”
“I’ve opened the first file. Video. She’s quite pretty, isn’t she?”
He screeched in frustration, imagining the havoc being unleashed on his precious work. “Close. It. Down.”
“You’ll want to listen to this,” said Pif, and held the earpiece close to the loudspeaker on her computer.
“I don’t want to listen to anything. I want you to stop it.” It was too late. Pif couldn’t hear him anymore. What he got instead was:
“… don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to go, I don’t know anyone who can help me. Except you. You have to save me, Sam, because there’s no one else.”
In the quiet that followed, there was nothing but static on the line.
“Pif?”
“Sam?”
“Play it again.”
“I thought you said…”
“Just play it. And get the phone in position before you do.”
A series of clunks, followed by a click. A prelude to: “I hope this is you, Sam. I really hope it’s you. They’ve killed my father. They dragged him away and they shot him. I heard it even though I wasn’t supposed to. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to go, I don’t know anyone who can help me. Except you. You have to save me, Sam, because there’s no one else.”
“Sic sukam sim. Pif, is this for real?”
“I can check the header for the xref and routing, but she looks scared, Sam. Who is she?”
He peeled his glasses off his face and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He was thirsty, hungry, and getting a headache. “Remember that yakuza kid I mentioned? That’s her.”
“Why does she think you can help her?”
“Because, by night, I dress up in skin-tight spandex and fight crime as the Slavic Avenger.” Petrovitch squeezed his temples between thumb and forefinger. “It’s because she’s desperate.”
“Do you want me to play the second message?”
“Only if it says something like ‘Oops, my mistake, everything’s fine and my very-much-alive father’s not coming to kill you.’ ” He stopped abruptly, almost choking on his words. “Raspizdyai! How stupid can I get? Play the other one. Do it, Pif. Play it.”
He could hear a rhythmic, hollow banging. He knew what that was: someone trying to beat down a door. Over the top of the cacophony was “Get me out of here, I’m begging you, get me out” followed by a series of gunshots and a shriek that was so loud it made the phone howl with feedback.
“And that’s it,” said Pif. “Someone pulls her to the ground, out of camera, and the last thing you see is a guy with a gun, pointing it straight at the screen.”
Petrovitch wriggled his finger in his ear. “Can you do something for me? Save those two files onto a card and put it somewhere safe. Wipe the rest of the incoming mail. Then sit tight.”
“Is it going to be okay?”
“No. No, it’s not. But what that means is anyone’s guess. I’ll call you.”
He hung up, then dialed the Oshicora Tower.
“Moshi moshi,” said the operator.
“Good morning,” said Petrovitch, “my name’s Samuil Petrovitch; you might remember me from such incidents as ‘hunted like a dog through the streets’ and ‘kissed by the boss’s daughter.’ I’d very much like to speak to Oshicora-san—he assured me that he’d take my call if I had an emergency, and if this isn’t one, I don’t know what is.”
He could feel the fear like a cold wind. It was true. His heart gave a little trip, and he shuddered.
“I am afraid,” said the female voice, “Mister Oshicora is unavailable at the moment.”
“I am afraid,” countered Petrovitch, “that you’re lying through your teeth. Find me someone in authority. Now, please, or I’ll cut the connection.”
Seamlessly, another voice spoke up. They were listening already. They were waiting for him.
“Moshi moshi, Petrovitch-san.”
“Hijo-san? Is that you?” Petrovitch put his finger over the cancel key. Press it too early and he wouldn’t learn what he needed. Too late and they might work out where he was.
“Hai, Petrovitch-san. What service can I do for you?”
“You can tell me if you’ve murdered Oshicora, shot your way into Sonja’s room, and crudely attempted to keep me off the net, and like that was ever going to work. A simple yes or no will do.”
Hijo laughed. It started as a chuckle and ended in a full-throated roar.
Petrovitch’s finger rested lightly on the keyboard. “Listen to me,” he said, “I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of all this nonsense, of the whole shot-at, stabbed, bugged, threatened, hacked business. I don’t particularly care what you do in your peesku-shaped tower. It doesn’t bother me which psychopath is in control of whose private army. I’m not even—though it shames me to say so—going to lose much sleep over what happens to Sonja Oshicora. I’ve already decided to disappear: I won’t trouble you again. You need to call off your cyber attacks, though. You’re actually hurting people who aren’t me.”
“Sumimasen, Petrovitch-san,” said Hijo. “You are a loose thread. We have to be tidy.”
Petrovitch put his glasses back on his face and pushed them up with an extended finger. “Yeah. I’m offering you an honorable draw; you do your thing, I’ll do mine. No tidying required.”
“I must speak plainly,” said Hijo. “It has been decided you must die. It is regretful, but necessary.”
The injustice of it flushed his cheeks and filled his belly with fire. He was full to the brim with fury. Something snapped inside, and he suddenly found himself saying: “I am the one who decides when I’m going to die, you little shit. You want this done the hard way? Fine. I will take you down. I will cause you so much grief and pain that you’ll wish you’d never been born. And you can tell Sonja this: I’m coming. One way or another, I’ll save her. Have you got that?”
Hijo started to laugh again. “You? You?” He couldn’t manage anything else, he’d become so incapable of speech.
“I’m glad you find it funny,” said Petrovitch. “Zhopu porvu margala vikoliu.” He stabbed down with his finger. Hijo had gone from the inside of the domik. But not from inside his head.
He dialed again.
“Chain,” said Chain.
“It’s Petrovitch. I’ve something to show you. Meet me outside the south entrance to Regent’s Park in half an hour.”
“Very nice to hear from you again, Petrovitch. As much as I like you, I can’t drop everything just because you call.”
“It’s about the Oshicoras.”
“Half an hour, you say?”
“Yeah. Thought that might get your interest. I’m not walking, so bring your car. And body armor and a kalash. Better still, bring two sets. We’re going to need them.”
/> “We? What is this, Petrovitch? You planning on starting a war?”
“For a dubiina, you catch on quick. Be on time.”
16
An old, stooped woman, head wrapped in a blanket, knocked on the side of Chain’s car. Chain raised his eyebrows and waved her away. Her tapping became more insistent.
“It’s me, you blind old kozel. Open up.” Petrovitch moved the blanket aside far enough to reveal his ice-blue eyes.
Chain sighed and sprung the locks. Petrovitch heaved the car door open and slipped inside, bundling the blanket into the backseat. He pulled the door shut again, and looked around.
“Guns?”
“I have one. I’m the police, remember: we don’t go handing out weapons to members of the public.”
“Funny how they seem to get hold of them anyway.” He reached behind him and pulled out a pistol from his waistband. It was tiny; Petrovitch could conceal it in the palm of his hand.
“I’m disappointed,” said Chain. He turned the engine over and waited for it to catch.
“Yeah. My yelda’s much bigger.” He made the gun disappear again. “How about the armor?”
“That I can let you have. You will have to sign for it, though, and according to the form, account for any damage it might suffer while in your care.” Chain cocked an ear at the rattle coming from under the bonnet, then decided it was no worse than usual. He pulled out into the traffic without warning.
When the sound of horns had died down, Petrovitch put his feet up on the dash and leaned back against the headrest. “Nice car.”
“You’d better not be wasting my time. I will charge you if you are.”
“Yeah. Course you will. Don’t worry, it’ll be worth it.”