Theories of Flight

18

[You now have twenty kilometers to go, instead of the ten you started with.]

“You brought us this way.” Petrovitch hawked up phlegm and spat it between his feet. He straightened, pressing his hands into the hollow of his back. He was standing in a shunting yard between two lines of empty, rusting rail-trucks, and was taking the opportunity to rest. “I assume there was a good reason.”

[When you asked me to calculate travel time, this route was genuinely the quickest.] The avatar dug its hands in its pockets, something that it had seen Petrovitch do a hundred times before.

“I’m sensing a but.”

[You are not as fit as you wish to believe. I can identify places—probably several places—for water and food, since you have neglected to bring any with you.]

“Yeah. I didn’t figure on running halfway across the Metrozone when I got out of bed this morning.” He unstuck his T-shirt from his armpits. “That sounded like a subject change: why is this no longer the best way to go?”

Petrovitch’s vision switched from the side of a paint-peeled truck to a real-time map of the immediate area. To the north, near the end of the old M1, was a concentration of red spots like a blood rash, each point an Outie. There were more than he’d expected, and he was about to ask the AI for precise numbers when the map started to contract, revealing what lay beyond its original borders.

There was another clump near Wembley, and three large masses on and around the fringes of Hampstead Heath, bleeding into the surrounding streets. His perspective drew further back, and a ragged line of clots stretched all the way from Ruislip to Stoke Newington. Behind the broad front were arteries of color, fading away into occupied ground.

“Yobany stos.”

[The picture is incomplete. There are more data points in the east of the Metrozone, but the groups there have not yet been in contact with the western Outies. Also, information is passed across the line much quicker than it is passed back.]

“So how many are there?”

[One hundred and sixteen thousand, eight hundred and forty-three. Based on current densities, I estimate the total number of Outies to be in the region of two hundred thousand.] The scrolling text paused, and the avatar had the grace to affect a look of apology. [Does this qualify for the epithet pizdets?]

Petrovitch’s heart span faster. His mouth was dry, and he took his breath in quick, shallow gasps. “Where the huy did they all come from?”

[The Outzone, initially. They may be recruiting as they advance, or they may just be that numerous. Whichever, it presents you with a considerable problem.] The avatar shrugged. It hadn’t been wrong, rather it had had insufficient information. [The probability of you successfully using my original route to get to West Ham has decreased to marginal values. A tactical withdrawal is recommended.]

There was another railway line, close by, that cut south: it even had its own bridge across the Thames at Kew. Petrovitch could see it on the aerial map. It was inviting him to follow it.

He turned to face the east, down the line of the freight cars, taking in the burning sky as he span. Miyamoto had crouched down against a wheel, hands resting on the weed-strewn ballast, head bowed, hauling air. He sensed he was being watched.

“What?”

“There’s a problem.”

“Which is?” Miyamoto bared his clenched teeth.

“My associate reckons on a couple of hundred thousand Outies between us and where we want to go.”

Miyamoto looked sharply up.

“Yeah,” said Petrovich. “If you want to bug out, I’ll understand. In fact, I think I’d prefer you to go. You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.”

“What do you mean? What is wrong with what I am wearing?”

“You look like a yebani ninja! I suppose you could put on a hi-vis jacket to make yourself more obvious, but you’ve got ‘chase me’ written all over you.”

“Whereas you, with your coat in ruins and your clothes unwashed for weeks…”

“Am a dead ringer for an Outie.” Petrovitch flashed a feral grin. “Who would have guessed that poor dress sense and appalling personal hygiene could be a survival trait?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“At a rough guess. It could be more.”

Miyamoto dragged himself upright and stalked over to Petrovitch until they were almost nose to nose.

“I should kill you myself and save them the trouble.”

“What would Miss Sonja say then?”

“I would kill myself after dispatching you, so no explanation would be necessary. At least,” he said, “I could go to my grave knowing that I have saved her from wasting her life fawning over an idiot like you.”

Petrovitch pointed over Miyamoto’s shoulder. “The south is that way.”

Miyamoto balled his fists in frustration. “Two hundred thousand enemies. How can you possibly believe you can avoid them all—and then find your wife?”

“Clearly I do, because otherwise I’d be giving up and going home.”

“That is not what I meant. What reason could you have for this level of self-delusion?”

Petrovitch swung away. “The Outies are on the move again, and we’re too exposed here. I’m not responsible for you, or what you do: stay, go, follow, leave. Up to you. You need to choose now, though.” He shrugged, and added; “I’m still going to find Madeleine.”

[Even though you don’t love her.]

The corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched, and the avatar acknowledged its line-crossing with an apologetic bow, followed by its sudden vanishing.

“I swore to protect you,” said Miyamoto. His close-cropped hair bristled with undisguised fury.

“Not to me, you didn’t. You have no obligations to me whatsoever.”

Miyamoto’s jaw clenched tight. “This is not about you.”

“No, apparently not.” Petrovitch watched the red dots slowly crawl like grains of falling sand through the narrow streets of Cricklewood. He turned once to orient himself, and started to jog down to the end of the row of wagons.

He reached the last car, checked his map, and made for the particular branch line he needed. He didn’t turn around: he could hear the clatter of shifting ballast close behind him and, more telling, the hiss of whispered Japanese curses.

He didn’t know whether he was glad of the company or not. Part of him, the ruthless, dispassionate side, was already thinking that since Miyamoto would sacrifice himself to save him, how best to use this one-shot weapon. The other part, the part that he would readily acknowledge as embarrassingly small, was merely grateful for the presence of another human being not psychologically conditioned to kill him on sight.

Then there was the question of his own motivation. He knew why Miyamoto was sticking with him. He knew why the Outies wanted to gut the city and hang it out to dry. Why was he doing what he was doing?

“Any sign of Madeleine?”

[There has been radio traffic on the MilNet. Several MEA units are currently engaged with Outie fighters, and more are fortifying positions in front of the advance. I have plotted these forward units, and it is likely that your wife is with one of them. Evacuated casualties are logged, and her name does not appear.]

“How about the CIA?”

[Rendering detailed, real-time satellite data across several wavelengths and tracking all the Outies places serious demands on my resources.]

“It’s important.”

[I can appropriate more processing power if you ask me to. It will degrade the bandwidth available to other users.]

“I imagine anyone in the Metrozone is going to be too busy worrying about the Outies to notice a slow-down.”

[I meant globally. Someone, somewhere will investigate, and if they are smart enough, they will find me.]

“Yeah. Okay. Do what you can.” He was hemmed in either side by banks of greened earth. He looked up at the backs of the houses. At least when the time came, there wouldn’t be a shortage of places to hide from the Outies.

Petrovitch turned his attention to the tunnel ahead, a dead space where the AI couldn’t look. The nearest known Outies were three k to the north—Fox’s group—but there could be others ahead of the front line, untagged, invisible.

Three hundred meters in the dark. At least it was straight, and the bright circle at the far end wouldn’t be an oncoming train. He did look behind him now, and watched as the black-clad figure ran toward him, the man’s motion a lot less loose and lithe than it had been.

“We have to go through here.”

Miyamoto nodded, and he moved to the side of the tunnel, to better see if there was anyone silhouetted against the distant patch of sky. Petrovitch dodged to the other side, and kept his eyes on the shadow in front.

The line between light and dark got closer.

[The Outies are moving. Your paths will cross at Kilburn High Road, two kilometers ahead.]

“Show me.”

A semi-transparent map flicked over his view of reality. Petrovitch frowned.

“That’ll take them straight through the Paradise housing complex.”

[Yes.]

“As much as I’d like to see the Outies and the Paradise militia fight to the death, having a front line right across our route sucks.”

[There is another railway track, just to the north. It will put you behind the Outie advance.]

“Yeah. We’ll take it.” Petrovitch slowed as he reached the tunnel exit, and called to Miyamoto. “Diversion.”

He ran across the tracks to the far side, and down along the uneven line of high wooden fencing that separated railway from garden. He shoved at random panels, and one proved more rickety than the others.

He put his shoulder to it. Something gave, and he tried again. Wood splintered and nails creaked. Miyamoto lent his strength to the enterprise, and the panel cracked, coming free from one of its supporting posts.

Petrovitch braced his back against it, holding it aside, then twisted around the end once Miyamoto had slipped through. His coat caught on the protruding nails: the points pierced the leather and dug into his shoulder.

He hissed and tugged free, running his hand up under his T-shirt and coming away with a smear of dark blood.

“Chyort.”

Miyamoto was already making his way along the concrete path to the back door, trying to look stealthy. Petrovitch shrugged his stinging shoulder, and stalked after him.

The door was wooden, with a single square of glass. The keys were on the edge of the sink, next to the stack of used crockery. Miyamoto took a step back to look up for another point of entry. Petrovitch stooped to collect a couple of house bricks from the stack by the shed, and when he was close enough, he threw one at the wide kitchen window.

The glass crashed inward, and shards of what remained fell under their own weight and broke on the sill. Miyamoto stared open-mouthed at him. Petrovitch growled and used the other brick to sweep away the jagged points still sticking out from the frame.

“Keep it simple, raspizdyai.”

He discarded the brick onto the scrubby lawn and shucked off his coat, throwing it across the sea of shattered glass. He hopped up, across the top of the taps and onto the floor. His footsteps crunched as he shook out his coat in a shower of glittering splinters.

Miyamoto was still outside. Petrovitch slid the keys into his hand and twisted the most likely one in the lock. It clicked, and he pushed at the handle.

“What kept you?”

“We are supposed to be tactical.” Miyamoto barged through, banging the door into Petrovitch’s shoulder and making him wince.

“Zhopa.”

The AI interrupted him. There were new contacts, just two streets away, a long, thin line of red markers making their way purposefully toward a road bridge across the railway line.

Petrovitch opened the fridge. The food was still cold, the light still came on. He grabbed the carton of orange juice, the plastic liter of milk and the slab of cheese, setting them on the kitchen table amidst the debris.

“The Outies are too near. Get yourself something, and we’ll move when they’ve passed.”

He twisted the top off the milk and drank straight from the bottle, half of it in one tilt.

“You… you are an animal. A pig.”

Petrovitch wiped the milky mustache away with his sleeve—first checking there was no embedded glass—and looked over the top of his glasses at Miyamoto.

“Mne nasrat’, chto ty dumaesh.”

“Speak English.”

“A rough translation, then: bite me.” Instead, he bit at the cheese, tearing off the wrapper with his teeth and spitting out the plastic on the floor. “You don’t have to watch.”

He chewed, daring the other man to say anything. The cheese tasted much like the wrapping but, tasteless as it was, it had the fats he craved.

A creak came from upstairs. Petrovitch put down the cheese and the milk. The knife block, tucked away in the corner, was already missing the biggest, sharpest blade, and a quick glance at the drainer didn’t find it.

He put his finger to his lips, and pointed at the ceiling. Miyamoto drew his katana with a soft steel ring and held it close across his body. Petrovitch chose the twenty-centimeter knife with the serrated edge from the block. He wrapped his hand with a tea towel before gripping the handle through the cloth.

Miyamoto opened the kitchen door at a rush. There was the front door—closed—and the stairs up next to it. He trod quietly across the thin carpet, keeping his eyes aimed at the staircase. Petrovitch held his knife hand low and tried to emulate the silent footsteps.

The man in black took each step slowly, testing his weight, then moving up. They got halfway, and the tread Petrovitch was on protested. In the quiet, it sounded like a whipcrack.

Miyamoto’s whole body slumped sadly, but only long enough to convey just how disappointed he felt. He swarmed up the rest of the flight and in quick succession kicked the three doors that led off the landing. All three banged back against their stops.

He saw something, and darted into the bathroom toward the back of the house. Petrovitch was right behind him as he raised his sword over his shoulder, about to slash through the drawn shower curtain that obscured the bathtub.

Petrovitch shouldered him out of the way, pushing him over the toilet and clattering against the cistern. The tip of the sword traced a line that started at neck height and finished at waist level, across most of the translucent curtain.

The material sagged and gaped to reveal a girl, as white as the cold tiles she had pressed her back against, kitchen knife clutched in her quivering hands.

Miyamoto leaped up with a shout and started to swing again. This time, Petrovitch stepped in front and blocked the sword arm with his own.

They were face to face, and if he hadn’t been wearing glasses, Petrovitch would have tried a headbutt. “What the huy is the matter with you?” He put his free hand against Miyamoto’s chest and held him away.

When he was certain Miyamoto wasn’t going to attack again, Petrovitch pulled the curtain back. The girl had slipped down, and now crouched in one end of the tub, knifepoint still trembling at them. She was in her school uniform.

“Yeah. Look at the big, bad Outie hiding in the yebani bathroom.” He dropped his knife and unwound the tea towel. “You can come out now.”