The Petrovitch Trilogy

by Simon Morden

  Her whole body sagged. “I just don’t like rats,” she said miserably.

  “Neither do I, unless they’re roasted. But I don’t really have a choice here: the tower’s that way and if I have to wade chest-deep in vermin to get to it, so be it.” He held out his hand, the one with all the fingers left. “Remember, what’s chest-deep for you is somewhere level with my forehead. Be grateful for that.”

  She splashed out toward him and, as soon as she could, took his good hand and crushed it in hers. She closed her eyes.

  “Get me through this, Okay?”

  “Probably best we keep our mouths closed from now on. Any of this stuff gets inside us, we’re going to die horribly. Of course, I’ve more holes in me than a sieve. No situation so bad, it can’t get worse.”

  They walked slowly through the water, Petrovitch batting the bigger floating debris out of the way and hoping that, as they crossed the side-junctions, they didn’t find a manhole whose cover had been lifted by the rising tide.

  The tower grew closer, and at the point where they were going to have to start for the other side of the road, there were suddenly more people.

  “Down.” He grabbed a half-submerged box and pulled it in front of them. As he crouched, he could feel the cold creep up to envelop his waist. Madeleine grimaced as she hunkered behind the debris.

  She chanced a look through her lashes. “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t know. Give me the goggles.” He held them to his face and pushed the box ahead of them. A black rat the size of a small dog scrabbled out of the cardboard flap and splashed into the water.

  To her credit, Madeleine didn’t shriek. She looked at Petrovitch.

  “Sorry,” he whispered.

  Two figures were striking out for the tower from the other end of Piccadilly. Their grainy-green images pushed forward through the refuse-strewn sea. They made big bow-waves, almost running where they could, slowing only when their momentum threatened to lift them off their feet and send them floundering below the surface.

  A giant splayed foot stamped into view, sending up a wave that threatened to engulf them. They bobbed like corks for a moment before regaining their stride. They made no pretense at stealth, shouting at each other in wild, high voices.

  The pursuing construct stopped at the water’s edge, the second of its three feet checking its advance. A single arm dangled from the belly of its body; it reached out with it, claws from a wrecker snapping open as it descended.

  It hesitated, then withdrew it.

  “Sonja. It has to be Sonja.” Petrovitch stared again, trying to make sense of what he saw.

  “They’re not shouting in English,” offered Madeleine.

  “No. No, you’re right. Who the huy is that with her, because it’s not Chain.”

  Whoever it was had Sonja by the arm. The taller figure was in front, the shorter behind. There was a hint of a struggle in their body language, in the way that one was pulling forward and the other seemed to be leaning back, resisting. But it could just as easily be explained by exhaustion on the girl’s part.

  He passed the goggles back to Madeleine.

  “We haven’t got another plan, have we?” she asked.

  Petrovitch tutted. “Not anymore. Wait until they’ve reached the lobby, then we move.”

  “They’re not looking at us,” she said. “We can move now.”

  Madeleine used the pipe to steer the box ahead of them as they continued to use it for cover.

  “You can touch it with your hands, you know. I guarantee it’s a hundred percent rat free.”

  “Unlike everything else here.” She peered over the top. “They’ve just gone inside.”

  Petrovitch shoved the box aside, which made a lazy circle and started to sink. “The Jihad is watching us, so look impressive.”

  The tripod-construct turned its body toward them, tracking their movement through the water. When they reached the tower, it turned away, creaking toward Mayfair.

  The water was up to Petrovitch’s navel by the time he peered through the demolished doors. Strip lights guttered overhead, and something was sparking in the ceiling, sending showers of electric rain across the submerged reception desk.

  Bodies like bloated bags rotated slowly, turned by the current. Slick, furry shapes crawled over them and between them, squeaking feverishly. The air was sweet with decay.

  “Blessed Mother. Save us.”

  “The stairs up are on the far side.”

  “They would be.”

  “Give me the pipe.” He clawed his hand around it and started forward, poking the dead things aside. When he’d cleared an area and batted any rats away from the open water, he stepped into it. Madeleine stood on the backs of his heels and shivered, reciting the rosary prayer under her breath.

  The lifts, half submerged, stood dark and empty. Water was welling out of them, making black bulges that oozed like oil.

  “Nearly there.”

  She stared at him, wild-eyed, and started again, “Hail Mary full of grace…”

  The door at the side of the lift shaft was wedged open. The back of a chair peaked from the surface like an iceberg. Petrovitch propped the door wider with his foot and checked that there was no one on the stairs waiting for them.

  “It’s quiet. Go.”

  Madeleine pushed the chair further in and climbed up the first few steps. She had a tidemark of oil and slime around her hips, and her long legs were coated in dark ooze.

  “That was disgusting,” she whispered.

  Petrovitch stepped inside the stairwell and eased the door slowly back so that it wouldn’t bang, then he walked up to join her, water cascading from his coat. “I would say I’ve seen and done worse, but I can’t.”

  “If I’d been on my own, I could never have done it.”

  “Yeah. Know the feeling.” He sat down and lifted his feet above horizontal. Sludge dribbled out of his boots. “We’ve still got fifty floors to go. All the way to the top.”

  Above them they heard the long echo of a closing door.

  “All the way?”

  “Every step.” He looked up, imagining the height of the staircase as it spiraled around the core of the building. “And we have to get to the Jihad before anyone else does.”

  She held out her hand, and Petrovitch slapped the pipe into her palm.

  “Thanks, but that’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He looked at both his hands, and picked the one without the missing digit. She laced her fingers through his, and they started to climb.

  At floor ten—Petrovitch knew because he was counting, not relying on being able to interpret the kanji script—they were confronted by solid fire doors. The springs that held them shut were fierce, and these were what they’d heard banging from the ground floor.

  “We do this quietly,” said Madeleine. She raised the pipe and pushed her shoulder against the crack in the double doors. There was a puff of air, the soft sigh of a seal being broken. She waved Petrovitch on, then let the door slowly ease back.

  He went a little way on and listened intently. He thought he could make out two sets of footsteps. They sounded weary, grudging. He supposed his sounded the same.

  He raised a finger to his lips, and pointed upward. They were on the same section of the stairs. Madeleine nodded slightly, as if vigorous movement might give them away.

  They walked in silence from then on: not quite, though, for while Madeleine’s feet made no noise on the cold steps, Petrovitch’s boots did, no matter how carefully he placed them. He contemplated taking them off and slinging them around his neck, but going barefoot to his death was too much for him to consider. Better to die with his boots on.

  At floor fifteen, they heard more doors closing. Whoever was with Sonja wasn’t being careful, and that was a good sign: they weren’t expecting company. Petrovitch raised an eyebrow heavenwards, and Madeleine leaned in close to his good ear.

  “We’re gaining on them.”

  Pe
trovitch put his hand on his sternum, checking that his heart was still beating. That he hadn’t felt any erratic behavior from it for a while worried him, because he paced life by its various twinges and aches, and let his defibrillator punctuate him when it needed to.

  He could be killing himself by climbing at such speed.

  The doors below them peeled open and snapped shut. Hoarse coughing rattled the air, going on and on until it ended in a ghastly retch.

  “There’s someone else coming,” mouthed Petrovitch.

  “Really?” mimed Madeleine back. She pointed to him, then up the stairs. “You, go.”

  He frowned.

  She tapped herself and held up the pipe.

  Petrovitch shook his head.

  She pressed her mouth to his ear. “Now is not the time to argue. I’m here to make sure you get to where you’re going. I’ll see to whoever it is coming up the stairs, and then I’ll join you. It’s not like you’re going to make it to floor fifty before I catch up to you, is it?”

  He tried to pull back, but she wrapped her arm around his neck and held him still.

  “If you take some stupid stray shot meant for me, I won’t know what to do with the Jihad. You’re the one who’s going to stop it. Not me. So I have to protect you, and you have to accept that. Okay?” She kissed the side of his head and pushed him away, flapping her arms like she was chasing a pigeon.

  He watched her descend, creeping along, back hard against the inside curve of the spiral stairs. Then she was gone. He couldn’t hear her at all, just the coughing and hawking of phlegm from five floors below.

  He turned around and forced his legs to move. Thirty-four more floors.

  35

  He reached the top, with barely enough strength to fall through the door and lie on the gravel path. The door swung shut behind him; disguised by a bamboo screen, it blended into its surroundings so completely that when he next looked up, he couldn’t work out how he’d got there.

  Stones stuck to his face, his hands, and he barely noticed apart from the rattle they made as they fell from him one by one.

  Madeleine hadn’t reappeared, despite her assurance that she would. He’d almost turned back half a dozen times, only to imagine the tongue-lashing he’d get for not keeping his mind on the job.

  So he’d kept on going and, now he was there, he was without her. Failure was written all over the venture. He couldn’t even stand.

  He rolled over onto his back and let the light from the artificial sky shine down on him. The air was as warm as a bright spring day, yet he was cold, cold to the core.

  Feet crunched down the path toward him. He heard a metallic snap, and a shadow covered him.

  “Petrovitch?”

  He squinted into the glare. “Konnichiwa, Hijo-san.”

  “You… what are you doing here?” Hijo pointed his gun at Petrovitch’s heaving chest.

  “I’ve come for Sonja. I just didn’t know it was you who had her. What did you do with Chain?”

  “He will not be bothering us again.” Hijo took a couple of steadying breaths and sighted down his arm. “Neither will you, Petrovitch. You are still that loose thread.”

  “Yeah, not so much anymore. I’m the thread that’s holding everything together. Pull it and the whole sorry garment falls apart, leaving you naked.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that come dawn, there’ll be two suns in the sky.” Petrovitch let the cultural resonance of that phrase sink in, then added. “You killed your boss because you wanted for free everything he’d built up the hard way. You wanted to be the big man, the—what is it?—taishou. And everything you’ve done since then has just made it worse. Now you have nothing and in the morning you’ll have even that taken away.”

  “A filthy Russian street-dog does not have the authority to call down a nuclear strike.” Hijo ground his teeth and his hand shook. “You are bluffing.”

  “But you don’t dismiss the idea completely, do you? You’re wondering what you’d trade if it meant you’d salvage something out of this, whether you can get to keep the tower, the company, the syndicate, the girl… ah. She was right.” Petrovitch smiled and snorted. He noticed for the first time that Hijo wasn’t his usual immaculate self: jacket torn, shirt dirty, trousers ragged. His polished shoes were encrusted with filth. “You thought that when Oshicora-san came to see me, he was giving me his blessing. And you couldn’t take losing her to an unworthy gaijin, so you killed him, but Sonja saw you, and so on and so on. Oshicora-san liked me, but he wanted her to marry some Japanese pureblood. He warned me off. I said I’d stay clear of her. We parted on good terms.”

  Hijo had gone pale. Sweat trickled down his forehead. “So why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to talk to Oshicora-san. What about you?”

  “He is dead,” he hissed. “I killed him myself.”

  “And yet, when Sonja told you he was still alive, you had to come and find out for yourself.”

  “You put these thoughts in her head. You told her she would find him here. Why did you do that?”

  Petrovitch cackled. “You ignorant govnosos. You’ve no idea, have you? Even though she’s tried to explain it to you, over and over again, you wouldn’t believe her. Why should I waste what little time I have left on you?”

  Hijo reached down and filled his fist with Petrovitch’s collar, hauling him half off the ground. He pressed the barrel of his gun at Petrovitch’s throat. “He is not a machine!”

  “Trust you to get it zhopu-backward. The machine thinks it’s Oshicora, not the other way around. It’s not a resurrection—it’s reincarnation. A bit Shinto, in its way, really.” Petrovitch taunted Hijo, even though he knew the man could pull the trigger at any moment.

  Hijo’s face went through several grotesque contortions. “How can this be?”

  “I could tell you, but that’s dependent on you not killing me. In fact, it seems rather a lot depends on you not killing me. You can’t stop the New Machine Jihad, because you killed its creator. Sonja won’t, because she sees it as the last link to her father. Only I can do this. Only I can make sure you have something left by tomorrow morning.”

  Petrovitch was released, and he fell back down to the ground in a crumpled heap. Hijo walked around him, agitated, uncertain, raising and lowering his pistol as he debated with himself as to whether to finish his prisoner off.

  “You,” he finally said. “Get up.”

  “That might be a problem,” said Petrovitch.

  “Get. Up.” He punctuated the order with jabs of his shoes.

  “Since you asked nicely, I’ll have to see what I can do.” He rolled onto his side and dragged his leaden legs up. He levered himself onto his knees and used a nearby maple to get him the rest of the way.

  “Walk.”

  “Yeah. If I could see where you were pointing, that’d be good. I’m waiting for the blood to get back to my brain.” He held onto the smooth-skinned trunk and waited for the grayness to resolve itself.

  “Now.”

  Petrovitch pushed himself away and managed a couple of steps. A bamboo screen banged open and Harry Chain stumbled through as if thrown. Madeleine, with Chain’s police special in her hand, stood in the doorway.

  Hijo moved fast. He wrapped his arm around Petrovitch’s throat and held a gun to his temple.

  “I can take him,” said Madeleine, advancing over Chain’s shuddering and retching form. “Sorry I’m late, by the way. This lard-ass has a concussion as well as being even more unfit than you.”

  “Stop. Stop where you are, woman. Or I kill Petrovitch.” Hijo tightened his grip, and there was nothing Petrovitch could do about it.

  “Head shot. By the time your neurones decide to tell your finger to move, you’ll be dead. And I am that accurate.” But she stayed where she was, on the border between the path and a moss-covered rockery.

  “Put down your gun.”

  “Put down yours.”

  “Yobany stos, one of you give
in. I’m struggling to stay conscious.”

  Hijo started to pull Petrovitch backward, then decided that he could win after all. He aimed at Madeleine and fired in one fluid movement, and she ducked, rolled and came up on her feet; closer, meaner, and unscathed.

  The gun flicked back to Petrovitch’s head.

  “No further.”

  “You’re just going to try and shoot me again.” Madeleine started to move in a wide circle, forcing Hijo to spin with her.

  Then she stopped and sighed, and held up her gun hand. “Okay. We’re done here.” She stooped and placed the special on the ground between her feet.

  Petrovitch felt the muscles constricting his throat to relax and heard a grunt of satisfaction. He was pushed away and, as he turned to look back at Hijo, he saw Sonja lope silently up behind him. She danced lightly on the balls of her feet and swung her father’s katana at Hijo’s exposed neck.

  The blade cut deep, coming to rest part way through his Adam’s apple. She twisted away, a spray of blood leaping from the tip of the sword, droplets spinning darkly in the air.

  Hijo, with a look of immense surprise on his face, folded up onto the path. His half-severed head hung loosely from his body, and a lake of deep red formed under him, soaking away into the pale gravel.

  “So ends the life of Hijo Masazumi,” said Sonja. The bright edge of the sword dripped as she hung it downward. “Always looking for threats, and never seeing the one that would kill him.”

  Madeleine picked Petrovitch up, and held him to her like a rag doll. “Are you all right?”

  “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Chain. I had a mind to kick him all the way down the stairs to the cesspit that’s ground level. He used the wound on his head to appeal to my better nature.”

  “Yeah, Okay. Sonja? Thanks.”

  “I did it for me. I did it for my father. I did it because a world without Hijo is a better place.”

  “Nice as this is,” said Petrovitch, untangling himself from Madeleine’s arms, “we still have something to do, and only a limited time to do it.”