The Petrovitch Trilogy

by Simon Morden

  “Heavy. Unbalanced.” The straps bit into his pale skin.

  “You’ll feel the difference when I turn it on.”

  Tabletop took up the little hand controller and powered it up. Immediately, the servos whirred and strained, taking the effort out of holding his arm up. He moved his shoulder slowly, and the sensors felt his tentative efforts, translating it into a smooth, steady arc.

  “Yobany stos.” He looked down at his arm. “This might actually work.”

  “I’m just going to loosen the elbow joint. Tell me if it hurts.”

  “Yeah. It’s going to hurt anyway, so just do it.”

  She applied the wrench to the appropriate screws. “Okay. Bend your arm. Just a little.”

  It moved. Almost gracefully. The supporting rings of his cast and the metal spars of the physio machine made it look both ungainly and unlikely, but there was both power and speed hiding behind its appearance.

  “We’re going to need some hard-core battery packs. And lots of them. Rechargables.” Petrovitch turned his wrist one way, then the other. “A very long extension lead’s going to come in handy, too.”

  Valentina drew out her phone. “I will tell Lucy. She will find something appropriate.”

  “Tell her to meet us here, and we’ll go to the art college together.” He tutted. “We still need my tools, and Madeleine has most of them.”

  “We’ll have to get them from her. You are not cutting your arm off just yet, so she should be grateful.” Valentina walked to the far side of the room to carry on her conversation, and Petrovitch looked down at the rest of his body.

  “I’m going to need my trousers. And boots. And I’m not certain I can tie my own laces anymore.” He sighed, and motors whirred in sympathy. “We’re going to have to wreck my greatcoat too. No way I’m getting this thing down the sleeve. Transport. You’ve got transport, right?”

  Tabletop transferred her weight to one hip and handed him the controller. “Just because you hadn’t thought of it until now doesn’t mean it hasn’t been thought of. Everything’s in hand, Sam.”

  “I have issues. So sue me.” He tried to bring his left hand close enough to his face to scratch at the bridge of his nose. Not quite. He growled. “Why are we still here? We need to be doing something.”

  “Then sit back down in the chair and I’ll unplug you. Clothes, tools, car, college. Something will not happen unless we do everything in order. Focus, clarity, purpose.”

  “Is that what they taught you in the CIA?” Petrovitch eased himself into the wheelchair.

  “It’s what I remember, so it must have been. Put your arm across your lap. When I turn off the power, it’ll become so much dead weight again.”

  He did as he was told, and railed against being ordered around at the same time. Tabletop pulled the plug: his arm went stiff and tried to fall across his knees. He hauled it up and balanced it across the sides of the chair.

  Tabletop wheeled him back out into the corridor, Valentina, phone still glued to her ear, following.

  They ran into a crowd of men and women waiting for them just outside the door. The men were all old, some very old; they all wore black cassocks tied at the waist with a red sash, and red skull caps balanced on their mostly hairless heads. The women were younger, vested in habits and wimples; hidden underneath was impact armor and Vatican-approved handguns.

  Petrovitch closed his eyes. There wasn’t enough morphine in the world to give him that sort of hallucination, so he supposed it had to be real.

  “If,” he started, then changed his mind. “No, scratch that: I made it perfectly clear to Father John that I do not want to talk to you. I have no idea how you persuaded the hospital to let you in, or who you bullied into telling you where I was: when I find out, I’ll be kicking those responsible right up the zhopu.”

  He opened his eyes again. They were still there, ten of them, six cardinals and four Joans. They didn’t look like they were going to go away just because he wanted them to.

  “Can I introduce…” said the oldest man, his face lined and dark like a walnut. As he leaned forward, he met the barrel of Valentina’s rifle coming the other way.

  The Joans did their job quickly. The cardinal was dragged back behind them and they presented a solid wall to the threat. One of them thought about reaching for her gun. In the subtle coded way of the order, the decision was made together that it wouldn’t be necessary.

  “No, you cannot. You’re a distraction, all of you. I’m not going to give you a moment of my time. Not now, not ever. Do not ask again. I don’t need to know who you are, what you want, or how you think you can help me. You are simply irrelevant to me.” Petrovitch adjusted his arm pointedly. “I’m guessing we’re not going to have a firefight right here, though a hospital is as good a place as any—better in lots of respects—so if you’ll excuse us, I’m sure you can see yourselves out.”

  The Joans didn’t move, mainly because Valentina was still aiming her kalash at the head of the man she thought might be the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. They didn’t wear name badges, making it difficult to tell.

  “Tina, knock it off and get me out of this freak show.”

  Valentina managed to convey her reluctance by the slowness with which she lowered her gun, and Tabletop coughed politely to open up a way through.

  “Watch your toes, your worships,” she said.

  “It’s Eminences,” grunted Petrovitch as he sailed between the phalanxes of black, white and crimson. “For all I care.”

  The corridor was necessarily long, and the lifts were at one end. All the way down he could feel eyes boring into the back of his head. And then they had to wait: unheard of, because a networked Petrovitch would have summoned the elevator cars beforehand and made certain that one would be ready with its doors open.

  While they waited, one of the Joans came to speak to him—whether she was sent or a free choice, he didn’t know. He did notice that she was the prettiest, even though it was supposed to be impossible to tell beneath the uniform. She wasn’t the youngest, but she had smiling eyes and a French Canadian accent, and not being the youngest meant little as there were few old Joans. The attrition rate was alarming.

  “You married Sister Madeleine, didn’t you?”

  Petrovitch looked up at her looking down. “Yeah.”

  “Is she around?”

  “That depends. Look, your Vatican mind-tricks won’t work on me. The only reason I’m giving you the time of day is because you’re a Joan and I have grudging respect for the order. Say what you want to say and don’t piss me about.”

  She raised a half-smile. “I was your wife’s sponsor.”

  He had to trawl manually through his memory. Everything, even that, was quicker when linked up.

  “Marie. Sister Marie Clemenceau.” He glanced around her to the dark cloud of priests still outside the physio room. “How come you’re with those clowns now?”

  She didn’t rise to the insult. “They needed someone with experience of the Metrozone. They asked me.”

  The elevator arrived with a ping. The doors opened and Valentina scanned the space inside almost at the same time as Sister Marie. They swapped a flicker of mutual recognition.

  Tabletop pushed him forward, and Valentina placed her booted foot against the door jamb. Petrovitch was turned around in the confined space so he could see out, could see the nun framed against the pale green wall behind her.

  “No excuses, then. You knew what you were getting into, Sister.”

  She looked solemnly at him with her laser-corrected eyes. “Yes, but it seems nothing could quite prepare us for the shock of actually meeting you.”

  Despite the broken arm, and the pain, and the worry, and the urgency, the doors slid shut to the sound of Petrovitch laughing like a madman.

  9

  Why can’t I go to bed?” asked Lucy. She hauled on the door handle and kicked her way out into the freezing night air.

  Petrov
itch reached for his seat belt. “Because if we don’t find the bomb before it goes off, you’ll be worrying about more than your yebani beauty sleep.” The belt retracted on its reel, snagging in the metalwork of his right arm. “Pizdets. This whole thing is pizdets.”

  He freed himself and went for the door on his side of the pickup. As he reached for it, motors whirred and pistons breathed. In the corner of his eye, he’d installed a power meter to tell him if he was in danger of overloading his arm, and a little battery icon so he could check if he needed recharging.

  His fingers tangled with the catch and he pulled. The door popped open, and he smelled mud and rust and winter. Valentina and Tabletop were already out, advancing on Container Zero, lit from behind by the vehicle’s headlights. A group of Oshicora guards shivered in the midnight air, but grew more purposeful as the women approached. Politely, and with deep regret, the leader of the squad informed them they could go no further.

  Petrovitch lowered himself stiffly to the ground and stalked over.

  “Hey. There a problem?” He scratched at his nose. He still missed his glasses.

  “Petrovitch-san, we have strict instructions,” pleaded the guard’s leader.

  “I know. Which is why we’re only going to be five minutes. I need to check something.” He studied the man’s face. “Takashi Iguro, isn’t it?”

  “Petrovitch-san, please. Miss Sonja was quite explicit. Only authorized personnel are to be allowed inside Container Zero.” The man looked as if he was in pain at denying his hero, and started backing toward the closed doors of the domik. “Unless you are authorized, I cannot permit you to get closer.”

  Petrovitch nodded. “That’s okay, Iguro. I’m not here to get you into trouble.” He raised his right arm and patted him on the shoulder. His hand stayed there, effectively trapping him. “Sonja said ‘inside the container,’ right?”

  “Yes, Petrovitch-san.”

  “That’s going to be a problem. I lost something when I was here before. I think it was stolen, but I need to check.” Petrovitch appeared to think about a way around the impasse for a moment, and drew the guard irresistibly toward him. “Why don’t you go inside and look for it, and we’ll look outside. We’re not breaking any rules if we just search around the container. And on top of it.”

  “We both know that you are,” whispered the man.

  Their heads were very close together.

  “Do you know what was taken from here?” asked Petrovitch.

  “I have heard… rumors.”

  “We both want what’s best for the Freezone and for Miss Sonja, Takashi Iguro. Right now, that means you’re allowed to enter Container Zero and search for my little computer, and me and my friends can take a look around outside.” He blinked slowly and deliberately. “Right?”

  “I suppose it might be.”

  “Thank you.” Petrovitch released him, and Iguro staggered back. “Five minutes—then we’ll be gone.”

  There could be no more objections, because Valentina was already combing the dirt by the doors to the container, seeing if anything had fallen there, and Tabletop was looking up at the sides of other, nearby domiks.

  “They could have thrown it. Quick, easy.” She reached into invisible pouches at her wrists and pulled out gloves made of the same material as her suit. “I’ll need help.”

  Lucy trailed over. “So what can I do?”

  “Stand there. Face the wall, put your hands against it and straighten your arms and legs.” Tabletop slipped her fingers inside the gloves as she measured her run-up.

  “Like that?” Lucy looked over her shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

  “This.”

  She took three steps, each faster than before. One foot rose up onto the small of Lucy’s back, the other lightly touched the nape of her neck, and abruptly Tabletop was waist-level with the top of the container, supporting herself on her palms.

  Then she rotated her body into a handstand, and backflipped out of sight.

  Lucy was staring upward, mouth open, but Petrovitch was having none of it.

  “Just leave her. She’s only looking for attention.” He switched to infrared and turned slowly in a circle.

  “But did you see…?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. You realize that the CIA trained her to do stuff like that because it made her a better killer, not because they have a cheerleading squad.” Petrovitch tilted his head. “Maybe they do. Finally, there’s something I don’t know.”

  “So what are we looking for?” Lucy peeled her hands off the cold metal wall and rubbed them together until they were pink.

  “My rat. Anything else that doesn’t look like it belongs here.”

  “They had to drive the bomb away, right? Tire tracks?”

  “Only useful if we had a list of which car had which tires. There are hundreds of thousands of abandoned vehicles in the Freezone. They could have used half a dozen of them, one after another, and because they know they’re not being watched, they don’t even have to be careful.”

  “Bummer.”

  “I’m cross-checking everything I can, but there are massive gaps in the data that didn’t used to exist under the Metrozone Authority. It comes down to this; we have to stick our noses in the dirt.”

  They spent the next ten minutes peering uselessly at the ground, squeezing down the narrow gaps between domiks and finding that everything they touched sapped a little more heat from them. Tabletop would appear occasionally, a shadow leaping from one container to the next, making a soft booming sound as she landed that cut through the still night air.

  Then she was behind Petrovitch, breathing hard.

  “I’ve found something.”

  “Significant?”

  “Could be nothing.”

  “But more than likely not.”

  She put her hand on her heaving chest. “Sorry. Spooked.”

  “It’s fine. Take your time.” He straightened up properly and arched his back. Almost his whole torso was strapped with equipment. A sub-standard replacement for his rat. Battery pack after battery pack, wired in parallel to give him the voltage, then in series to give him the power. The back brace and strapping for the exoskeletal arm. It was heavy, and he was tiring fast.

  “Okay,” she said, cycling her breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth. “It’s the roof of Container Zero. We can haul you up on top…”

  “Or I can bluff my way in, which will be a lot less embarrassing.” Petrovitch pulled up a virtual phone and called Lucy and Valentina.

  They walked back together, but Tabletop wasn’t giving anything away. He’d be able to look at whatever it was with fresh eyes, but first he’d have to get past the punctilious Iguro.

  The man himself was still searching the floor of the container, on his hands and knees and using a little flashlight that spread a faint beam no bigger than his fist. Petrovitch eased himself past the waiting guards and pushed his head through the cut in the door he’d made earlier.

  “Hey again.”

  Iguro didn’t look up, in case he missed something as he shuffled over it. “Petrovitch-san? Have you completed your task? Mine is almost finished, too.”

  “Another slight problem. One of my colleagues wants me to take a look at the roof, but I’m not going to be able to get up there, not in my condition.” As he talked, he edged further inside, while Valentina and Tabletop stood behind him and prevented any intervention by the others. Lucy kept up a constant stream of chatter, distracting them.

  “It will not be possible for you to enter, as I have already explained.” Iguro inched forward, and his flashlight illuminated the toes of Petrovitch’s boots. “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” He held down his good hand and helped Iguro up. He pointed to the flashlight. “Mind if I borrow that?”

  Petrovitch held the light high, and swept the roof with it. He frowned, and did it again. When he saw it, it was obvious. So obvious, he wondered how he’d missed it when he’d fir
st entered Container Zero; the Armageddonist’s fault, undoubtedly.

  Someone, at some point in the past, had cut through the roof in a perfect rectangle, freeing a plate two meters by three. Then they’d carefully welded it back into place. There were drill holes at the corners of the rewelded plate, also filled with molten metal.

  “See that?” he said, his breath rising and breaking against the ceiling. “That shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t be there at all.”

  “Petrovitch-san?”

  The welds looked new. Not brand new, but not rusted either. Two weeks, a month maybe. “Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it inevitably does.”

  He turned in the gloom of the container to the figure in the chair.

  “Where is it, you govnosos, you zhopoliz, you sooksin? Tell me what you’ve done with the yebani bomb.”

  The Last Armageddonist grinned back. He’d not give his secrets away so easily.

  Petrovitch leaned down, pressing his hands onto the mummified forearms as they rested on the arms of the chair.

  “Come on, you yebanat,” he growled. “Where is it?”

  He got nothing from the shrunken eyes or the shriveled tongue. No sign that he’d been heard, let alone understood, and it enraged him beyond reason. Petrovitch brought his left arm across his body and let loose with every last watt he could summon.

  He backhanded the Armageddonist with the edge of his exoskeleton. A moment later, Petrovitch was on the floor, and a head, trailing the dust of two decades, lay rattling in a corner.

  “Petrovitch-san. I think you should not have done that.”

  The faces at the container opening seemed to agree, but Petrovitch didn’t care. He awkwardly levered himself upright and glared at the decapitated corpse, its neck of brown flesh surrounding an island of white bone. “I wish you could have suffered more. Suffered as much as we did. But no, you died here, in the quiet and the dark, and you left us all your govno to clear up. Well, listen to me, you huyesos: I’m done with shoveling. I’m going to bury you and your kind forever, and then I’m not looking back. Got that?”