Simon Morden - Theories of Flight

Chain had taken the picture himself on the steps of the church, then he’d taken the time and trouble to print it out and mount it, and sent the happy couple a copy. It appeared he’d made one for himself, too.

Petrovitch put it in the box. The corridor was clear, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched. He took out a slim black wand and twisted it on. A line of lights rose up the side of the casing, then dropped back down until just one was illuminated.

He ran the wand over the desk, then spread out, holding it up and around until he’d scanned the whole room. Near the door, the lights tripped all the way into the red, and he peered out. There was a camera positioned just above, on the ceiling, a small black dome of surveillance.

He stepped back in and knocked the door half-closed with his foot.

He went straight to the desk and leafed through each file, scanning its contents with a quick, practiced eye. Nothing seemed immediately relevant in the first few, and he guessed they’d been placed there by a subordinate. Further down the pile was the report on the discovery of the prowler. That went into the box, too, as did the one beneath, which was slim, containing only a couple of sheets of typescript, but was labeled CIA suspects.

He looked at the size of the files, then retrieved two more, roughly the same thickness, from random places in the drawers. While he was there, he poked around in the far recesses of the cabinets, seeing what lay hidden.

He didn’t know what to expect. Bottles, perhaps, but he’d never seen Chain so much as sniff at a wine cork. Porn, but the man seemed almost completely disinterested in women. Or men. And he clearly liked his pies, but his roundness was due to poor diet and lack of exercise, rather than bingeing on packets of biscuits.

Nothing but a few empty boxes of nicotine slap-patches. Chain had missed his vocation. He should have become a monk, instead. He might still be alive if he had.

Back to the desk then, and the tier of three drawers. Petrovitch pushed the empty biros and dried-out fibre-tip pens aside to get at the three cash cards at the bottom. He’d pass them through a reader later and find how much was banked on each.

The next drawer down was stuffed with storage media, all the way from ancient three-and-a-half-inch black squares, through silvered discs and plastic sticks, to the modern solid-state cards overprinted with a variety of designs.

They all went into the box. Even if they all ended up in a bulk eraser, it was worth sifting through them for the chance of one nugget of gold.

He opened the bottom drawer and found Chain’s bugging equipment, devices he’d been the wrong end of on several occasions. There were manuals, software, and the bugs themselves, various sizes and shapes, including the sticky ones Chain liked so much. His detector wand, too.

Petrovitch didn’t know if MEA would allow him to take that sort of property home. It was worth a try.

Now for the hard part. He opened the case that held his overlays and slipped them on his glasses, then from another pocket, clicked open the rat. The environment wasn’t info-rich. Not yet, anyway.

He started patting the underside of the desktop, then the drawers, then got down on his hands and knees when he couldn’t feel any pieces of paper. His face twitched. Chain hadn’t pasted his logon details anywhere obvious.

There was nothing on the desk either: used mugs held only dregs, and the hardwired phone only its own number.

Then he cursed himself, and dived back into the half-full box, sliding out his wedding photo and using his thumbnail to open the back of it. Not there, either.

No matter. The job went from hard to really, very hard, but he was prepared. Using the rat, he navigated his way to the MEA computer—not the public face of the authority, but the bare code that covered the access nodes, and simultaneously fired up his secret weapon.

The script on his screen read: moshi moshi.

It was smart enough to know what he wanted. Of course it was. All he had to do was point at the node he wanted hacked, and it ground out the solution with blind repetition. Finesse wasn’t required, but speed was. Two seconds and he was in.

His overlays came alive, a flurry of identity tags blossoming out from the cabinets, unique strings of numbers that were attached to every paper file. The two he’d salted away in the box gave up their names, and rather than delete the records completely, he swapped the tags with the two replacements. It was those he wiped out, and sent his agent through the MEA computer, scrambling any mention of the new numbers.

It wasn’t perfect, but it’d take six months of solid work to find out what had really happened. That was it: retreat back out through the hacked node, making the user session disappear from the memory before closing the door behind him.

All he had to do now was get the physical files out of the building. The radio tags built into the cardboard covers were easy enough to dispose of. He just had to tear them off and soak the squares in a cold cup of black coffee to soften them enough that he could peel them apart and disassemble the tiny printed circuit. As for the rice-grain-sized tags themselves—he placed them on the window sill and crushed them to dust with a glass paperweight.

Chain had a pair of scissors. Petrovitch turned one of his coat pockets inside out and sliced through the seam at the bottom, then pushed the pocket back through. Each file was rolled into a tube and slid inside, then artfully arranged to lie flat within the coat’s lining, against the hem.

He took his overlays off and tucked them into their case, shut the rat, and put both into his other pocket. He put the lid on the box, and sealed it with tape from Chain’s stash of stationery. The solitary and sad pot plant—some sort of yucca forced into dwarfism by the size of the container—went on top, shedding brown leaves.

He’d done what he came to do, and the time he had left was extra. So he put on one last pot of coffee, and cleaned out two mugs the best he could. There was no milk, no sugar, just hot, strong, oil-black brew. The maker coughed and spat until it had done, then Petrovitch poured himself a cup and sat back in Chain’s chair with his feet up on the desk.

He closed his eyes and dreamed: there was the sea, white waves rolling up a narrow beach of dirty yellow sand, the strandline marked with tails of brown seaweed and bleached fragments of wood. There was green grass and pink flowers dancing in the wind, and inland, deep green trees grew. Between sea and forest was a dome of clear crystal that reflected the clouds in the baby blue sky. Inside the dome were structures, buildings within a building, and overhead, a wingless aircraft wheeled and spun with the gulls.

He was there. He was old.

“Doctor Petrovitch?”

He sat up with a sudden intake of breath. The coffee he was holding slopped over the rim of the mug and onto his legs.

“Yobany stos!” he yelled, and just about managed to get the mug down before he danced around the room, batting at his thighs. His actions set off all the aches and pains from the previous day. He screwed up his face in pain, and hobbled back to Chain’s seat.

“Sorry,” said Daniels. He was trying not to grin. “Have you taken everything you wanted?”

Petrovitch took a moment before replying. “Yeah. I made coffee.”

“I can see that.”

“Want one? At least it’s hot.”

“I can see that, too. Go on, then.”

Daniels perched himself on the edge of the desk while Petrovitch poured a dark steaming stream into another chipped mug.

“He didn’t have much,” said Petrovitch. “Nothing to remember him by. No photographs of him, his family, anywhere he’d been, nothing he’d made, nothing of sentimental value. A few bits and pieces, and that’s that.”