Simon Morden - Theories of Flight

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.”

H er name was Lucy. Finding that out took a good five minutes of coaxing. It took another five to get her out of the tub and still she wouldn’t put the knife down.

“We’re not going to hurt you, just don’t do anything that’ll attract the Outies, who,” and Petrovitch consulted his map, “are at the end of the street.”

He sat on the floor by the door, having shooed Miyamoto and his big sword out. The girl cowered in the space between the toilet and the sink.

“What if I scream?” she said.

“Then I imagine me and the Last Samurai will run for it, and you’ll get picked up by the Outies. Now, I have no idea what they do with Inzoners when they catch them, but that mere fact—that no one has yet reported what happens—makes me think it won’t be a Good Thing. How old are you?”

“F-fourteen.”

“Yeah. I don’t know how vivid your imagination is, but you probably wouldn’t want to be in my head right now.”

She shivered uncontrollably, and Petrovitch was as certain as he could be that she wouldn’t make a sound over a squeak. “How come you’re still here? Everyone else has gone south, and you should have been with them.”

“M-my parents. They called me. Told me to stay here. Said they’d come and get me.” Her fingers tightened around the knife hilt, forcing her knuckles white against the black of her uniform. “They’re not, are they? Coming to get me, I mean.”

“No. No, they’re not.” Petrovitch straightened his legs out, forcing his toes to point up. “I don’t know what they were thinking: they should have told you to run. You should have run anyway.”

“But they said.”

“They got it wrong.”

“You got here, didn’t you?” Her chin lifted for the first time.

Petrovitch pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose. “I’m not your mom or dad. I have a gun, a bodyguard, and a very good idea where every single Outie is. Unless your mom is Special Forces or your dad owns a helicopter, I’m the only friendly face you’re going to see in a while.”

“What am I going to do?” she said.

“I don’t know,” said Petrovitch. “You ran out of options about the time we turned up.”

He started to get up, and even that little movement had her one leg in the bath again. He was stiff, especially his calves. He stretched them, one at a time, and shook each foot.