Theories of Flight

27

The Oshicora medic was just about done patching up Petrovitch’s body when a pair of heavy booted feet stepped up close to him and stopped. He could hear the scuffling of dirt and the man’s tired breathing. He stopped concentrating on the ongoing battles a few streets away and looked down at them from the sky, all the while rooted to the orange plastic chair he’d been made to sit in.

Olive-green uniform, combat helmet swinging from one hand, EU-issue carbine slung over his shoulder. He wore a star on each shoulder.

“Do svedanya, Major. What can I do for you?”

Petrovitch had a bandage over his eyes: there should have been no way he could have known what rank the soldier held. So the man reached out and waved his hand in the space between them.

Petrovitch caught his wrist, which brought a murmur of admonishment from the medic. “Still, Petrovitch-san.”

“Don’t do that,” said Petrovitch to the major, and let go. “I’m not a freak show.”

“You’re Doctor Petrovitch?”

“Is this supposed to be an example of military intelligence?” He raised both his arms while soft bandages unrolled around his cold, white, scarred torso. “My face was plastered over the global news networks for twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, but you had eyes then.”

“They never worked properly. I can always get new ones.” The wrapping went on. It must have been how the pharaohs had felt.

“But you.” The major leaned forward. “You can still see.”

“Well enough. You didn’t come over to discuss my supernatural vision, so what is it?”

“It’s like this: part way through the morning, my orders started to change. My tank squadron went from protecting the evacuation to shelling random parts of London, to forming a defensive position on Primrose Hill, to rescuing you, and now we’re attacking alongside all these Japanese refugees who appeared out of nowhere. And yet when I query this series of orders, what I get back from HQ is ‘do what you’re told.’ ”

“That is a little insensitive, considering it’s your zhopa on the line.” The blood had run from his fingers. They were starting to tingle.

“The only time this whole action has made any sense was just now. Everything suddenly converged on this street. We were here because of you.”

“Go on.” Petrovitch started to smile. He liked smart people.

“Let me put it another way,” said the major. “We’ve got all the old folk off your bus. We couldn’t find the driver who, judging from the damage, should be dead five times over. When I asked about the driver, all I got was silence.”

Petrovitch lowered one hand as the roll of bandage circled him once more, and he hooked his thumb in the cable that dangled from his skull. He let the wire slip through his grasp until he had hold of the rat’s battered silver case. He held it up as the bandage passed around again.

“There was no driver, was there?” said the major.

“Technically speaking, yes. If the Long Night showed us anything, it was that we’d loaded far too much processing power in our vehicles. All they were waiting for was for someone to use it.”

“You controlled the coach through that?” The major moved closer so he could see the point where the cable went in.

“Again, not exactly. It mostly drove itself, but toward the end it got a bit unpredictable. I was a bit busy, so I got some help.” Petrovitch felt the bandage being tied off, and he let his arms fall back to his sides, his hands in his lap. A spare set of Oshicora overalls were brought to him, still sealed inside their plastic wrap.

He tore the film away and shook them out, angling them to present them to the satellite. The average nikkeijin was about his size. They’d fit.

“Thanks,” he said to the medic, who started to pack up his kit into a big green box. “Could you leave me some tape?”

The major was still standing there, still poised. “What do you know about the New Machine Jihad?”

Petrovitch leaned forward and started unlacing his boots. “Pretty much everything. Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t think I’ve been following EDF orders for hours.”

“And you’d be absolutely right.” He shucked one boot and stood it next to him. “You’ve been following mine.”

The major dropped his helmet and snatched at his gun. Petrovitch carried on heaving at his other boot.

“You’re the Jihad.” The gun cocked, the safety clicked off.

“That’s one logical step too far, though I can see why you took it. No, I’m not the New Machine Jihad. But I am the Jihad’s employer. It’s more complicated than that, in that it’s not really the New Machine Jihad and I’m not paying it, but any analogy breaks when you stretch it far enough.”

Petrovitch put a foot each into the legs of the overalls and dragged them up to his thighs.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you dead right now.”

Rising slightly to get the clothing up to his waist, Petrovitch thought of several, all of them excellent. But only one in particular would appeal to this man.

“Because without me and the Jihad, you’re going to lose this battle and the Metrozone. With us, you’ll be part of the most epic victory since the defense of Stalingrad, and you’ll be a hero. Brussels has done nothing but plan for failure from the start. Mining the bridges told me they’d given up before they fired a shot, whereas I intend to win.” He shrugged the overall sleeves on and pressed the Velcro tabs together. He paused when he got level with the knife wound over his heart. “All the EDF have told you to do is retreat. I’m the only person who’s told you to advance.”

The major adjusted his grip on the carbine. “What are you?”

“I am the future, Major, and I am not destined to fail. I know you have misgivings—but you can’t communicate them to HQ because you’ve been cut off from them since about eleven o’clock. All the other EDF soldiers will think you’re mad. I’ve taken over the MEA, and Sonja Oshicora has lent me the nikkeijin for the duration. Sure, you can kill me, but then what?”

Petrovitch stood, slipping the rat into his top pocket. He reached up to push his glasses up his nose. No glasses, no eyes. It was going to take some getting used to.

Lucy was running up the street toward him, a plastic carrier bag swinging in her hand. He deliberately turned his back on the major and his gun to greet her.

“Hey. What did you get me?”

Flushed with success, too absorbed with explaining her finds to Petrovitch, she completely missed the angry, scared, confused tank commander. She opened the bag and rummaged inside.

“This. It comes with its own head mount—says you can use it for extreme sports, shock proof, waterproof. If this isn’t extreme, I don’t know what is.” She tore at the packaging and squinted at the wide-angled lens. “Doesn’t need its own power supply or software. Just plug it in and go.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“I’ve got a couple of others if you don’t think…”

“Put it on me.” When she hesitated, he added, “Don’t worry. You can’t hurt me.”

She reached up and slid the harness over Petrovitch’s blood-stained pale hair. The slim tube of the camera poked forward alongside his left temple. “I should have brought some of those cable-tidy things. They had baskets of them.”

“I’ve thought of that.” The roll of tape he’d commandeered was small and hard to spot. He patted his hands around until he found it on the chair. “In fact, I’ve an even better idea.”

He ripped open the Velcro again and held the rat against his bandaged left flank, just about where his kidney ought to be. That would work. He found the snaking end of the camera cable and tried to plug it in by touch.

Lucy’s fingers brushed his away and slotted it in.

“Tape it up. It mustn’t come out. Then stick the whole thing to me.”

The pair had rotated as they’d worked. The major was now over Lucy’s shoulder, and Petrovitch had a perfect view of him. There were beads of sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes. He was blinking them away.

“So,” said Petrovitch, “what’s it going to be?”

Lucy looked up, a long piece of tape stuck to her bottom lip. “Um?”

He nodded in the major’s direction, and she glanced around. She went, briefly, back to her task, then spun on her heel.

“What’s going on? I thought—I thought we were all on the same side?”

“Step away from him,” said the major.

She started to obey, then caught herself. “No,” she said.

“He’s the New Machine Jihad.”

Lucy shook her head. “No. He’s not. He’s a scientist. A famous one. His name’s Sam.” She was between Petrovitch and the barrel of a gun.

“I don’t mind if you step to one side,” said Petrovitch. He took her shoulders and moved her gently.

Even though she could see what he could see, that a number of Oshicora personnel were folding their phones back into their pockets and were walking silently up behind the major, she put herself in front of Petrovitch again.

“You must mean Michael,” she said. “He explained all that. The New Machine Jihad was his evil twin. Michael just wants to help us.”

[You are risking a lot on human nature here. Yours and his.]

“You’ve been quiet.”

[I am busy, but not so busy that I cannot intervene. Do you want him dead?]

“No. We’ve got it covered.”

[That is not the evidence before me.]

“Grown men don’t normally kill schoolgirls.”

[Some of them do.]

“Good point, well made.” He turned his attention back to the street. “Lucy, why don’t you show me what else you’ve got in the bag?”

The major found himself being ignored, despite his drawn weapon. Petrovitch peered inside Lucy’s carrier and saw a package he was interested in.

“A hand-cranked power supply.”

“I’m always letting my phone run down. I just thought, you know…”

“Your education has not been wasted.” He checked the selection of leads the device came with, and found a compatible one. Raising his arm again, he felt for the socket, and again, Lucy had to do it for him.

“What do we do about him?” She jerked her head behind to indicate the major.

“I—we—could really use the tanks he commands. But I can’t force him to do anything. I could have him dragged away and shot.”

“No!”

“Well, then. I guess it’s up to him to decide what he does.” Petrovitch checked his internal clock. It wasn’t getting any earlier. He glanced at the cameras overlooking Blackfriars Bridge: it was about to be overrun. “You on that?” he asked.

[It will be destroyed, the same as the others.]

“Is everything in place?”

[Your plan will either work or it will not. It should not, yet you believe it will. Faith is not a facet of my personality.]

“Michael?” asked Lucy.

“Yeah. The second Battle of Waterloo is about to start without us.”

“Waterloo? Where Napoleon did surrender?” She started to hum the tune.

“What do you want to do?”

“Stay with you,” she said, suddenly serious.

“You’re fourteen.”

“Yes. Today I’ve run for my life, helped save a dozen old people, stabbed a man in the back and stood in front of a loaded gun.”

“And still are.”

She whirled around and stamped up to the major. “He needs you. We need you. Does it matter to you so much who’s giving the orders?”

He was a head taller than her, and he looked down at her. “Yes.”

She bent down and picked up his discarded helmet. She thrust it in his chest, hard against his body armor. He had no choice but to hold his gun one-handed.

“Enough that you’d rather see us all die?”

“You don’t understand,” he started, and she cut him off.

“I understand enough! You won’t help us. Fine. Go. If you can find somewhere to go to.”

[It’s starting,] said the AI. The distant thunder of demolition charges detonating echoed off the high buildings. The roar of slowly falling masonry grumbled afterward.

The major looked up at the sound, startled. He was in an unfamiliar landscape, and he had no map, no compass, no guide. Lucy stamped away, back toward Petrovitch. She winked at him and turned to cast one last accusation.

“You’re supposed to protect us! People like me, from people like them!”

The officer was utterly defeated. He hung his head, and wiped his face with the sleeve of his battlesmock.

“I was going to be Juliet in the school play,” she said when she could whisper into Petrovitch’s ear, “but I guess school’s out for a while.”

“I pity Romeo.” Petrovitch looked around for Fox’s slim-bladed knife. It was by the chair he’d been sitting on, and he picked it up, his fingers curling around the leather-strapped handle. “I can’t take you with me. You have to realize that.”

“I’m not strong, and I’m not smart,” she protested, “but I can still do stuff.”

“No. You are strong, and you are smart. But I’m not going to tell your parents I saved you from one war zone only to lead you into another.” He flashed her a smile. “All these other people: I don’t have to care about who they leave behind, just whether they’ve done what I needed them to do. They can die and my conscience is entirely untroubled. You, I care about, so I’m going to make you sit this one out.”

The major was right behind him. Petrovitch tilted his head so he could see the man’s face.

The major saluted him. “Sir.” He sounded as bewildered as a lost child.

“Don’t worry,” said Petrovitch. “It does get easier. How many tanks have you got?”

“Seven. Lost one to mechanical failure.”

“I need to borrow them. Is that okay?”

“Yes sir.”

“And stop calling me sir. Get back to your men. Your orders will come from Brussels, and you’ll believe that completely.”

“But what about me?” Lucy twisted her hands together. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Petrovitch stopped a nikkeijin, and found enough words in an online dictionary to communicate with the man: “keitaidenwa, nanitozo.”

The phone was duly passed over, and after Petrovitch had scanned its number for later use, he pressed it on Lucy.

“Take this. It has a map and instructions.” Time was tight. He had to go. “I will see you later.”

He laid his hand lightly on her head: a blessing, a dismissal, a solemn charge. She went without argument, running off in one direction as he started in another.

The huge diesel engines that powered the tanks rumbled to life in a side street, and groups of nikkeijin crossed his path, heading east, each led by an Oshicora employee.

“Valentina?”

He could barely make out her reply. He filtered out the extraneous noise and heard: “If you want me to hold bridge, you must do something extraordinary.”

“Then I will,” he said to her, and to the AI, one more word. “Now.”