Simon Morden - Theories of Flight

He used the shotgun as a lever to get himself upright. He was so close to the yard where the coaches were stored. He could see the wall, and the shattered acrylic sign of the firm in red and white.

He dared not bend his legs. He could not turn or twist his torso. Every time he tried, he was overwhelmed. So he dragged each foot in turn across the road, leaning on the butt of the shotgun as a crutch. He had to hurry, but could not. He had hurt himself before, but even when he’d been shot in the head and had his middle finger ripped off, it hadn’t been this bad.

He hadn’t been on his own. Madeleine had been there, and so had battlefield-strength painkillers.

Another salvo of tank shells screamed in. He covered his head as best he could, and when the air was still again, he staggered on. The Outies were coming. They were coming for him.

There was a small door in the wall: it led directly into the yard where they kept the coaches. It was locked: of course it was. Nothing was going to be easy.

Petrovitch raised the shotgun and held it unsteadily. The crosshairs in his vision wandered across the face of the peeling paint until he dragged them back by concentrating his whole being on the gap of wood between the lock and the frame.

It was at point-blank range, and the recoil threw him backward. When he landed, it felt like teeth tearing at his thighs and that the skin on his torso was being flayed. It felt like he was being eaten alive.

The door flapped as he writhed, and he knew he had to get through it, wedge it closed.

He rolled over. That was enough to make him gag and pant for breath. He screwed his eyes up and dug his nails into the palms of his hands. He crawled like a dog, like a worm, and crossed the threshold. He used his leg to kick the door shut behind him. It banged against the jamb, and creaked back, slightly ajar.

He pushed the sole of his boot against the bottom of the door to hold it closed, and rested his cheek against the cold, gritty ground.

Voices, speaking loudly in stripped-down, staccato sentences, were right outside. Petrovitch forced his knee to lock, and waited, not breathing.

The AI’s avatar appeared beside him and folded its arms. It said nothing, but the Outies suddenly shouted and ran. A moment later, a car scraped its way along the wall and stalled, blocking the entrance completely.

Petrovitch looked up at the avatar, and the avatar looked down at him.

“Spaciba,” muttered Petrovitch.

T he avatar had swapped its oversized sweatshirt for an urban camouflage combat jacket, all pockets and tabs. It had a Velcro patch over its breast pocket, and Petrovitch noticed that it had named itself.

[Your body is injured,] it said. [And your colleague is dead.]

“No, really? I hadn’t noticed.” The urge to just lie there and close his eyes, only for a moment, was overwhelming. If he was going to prove Miyamoto wrong, he really had to get up.

[He betrayed you. He left you to die and let the Outies kill him. Why did he do that?]

“Because… I don’t know. Mudak! Balvan! ” Each screamed expletive tensed his muscles and made the pain brighter. “I will not go quietly!”

[Apparently not… ]

“I’m doing this for you! You want a place which recognizes you as a citizen? I’m the only one who can get that for you, you mozgoyob. I can save Maddy, save Sonja, save you, save the whole yebani Metrozone.” He took a deep breath to restore his graying vision. “If I can only save myself.”

Petrovitch roared as he staggered to his feet. He swayed and reeled. He swallowed hard on his desert-dry throat. It was only pain. Pain wasn’t going to kill him. He shook his head violently to clear it, and looked around for the first time.

Behind the high wall that ran around the perimeter was a brick warehouse, faced with full-height sliding doors. With the power off, he would never have the strength to open them, and fortunately, he didn’t need to. One of the coaches was in the yard in front of the building, visible from space, and precisely why he’d come here.

The main gates still needed shifting, though. They were steel, taller than twice his height with thick bars running top to bottom. Ramming them would be futile, because they would have been designed with that in mind.

He started to limp toward them.

[You realize,] said the AI, [that this is just theater. You are demonstrating your power and authority: to show you can walk into enemy territory and drive out in a luxury coach.]

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

The control box for the opening mechanism was screwed to the wall at head height. It was padlocked shut, but only briefly; the hand-gun made short work of the hasp. Once inside, his hands felt their way across the machinery.

[You are building a legend about yourself. You think it will serve you later.]

“If there is a later.” He dug in his pocket for the kitchen knife and sawed through the thick hydraulic hoses that kept the left-handmost gate closed. Oily liquid squirted out: over him, over the yard, then it died to a trickle.

[Why? Fiscal competence, honest administration and creating a fair legal framework are the leadership qualities most sought after by the populace.]

Petrovitch walked slowly to the middle of the gates, and in full view of the road outside, he braced his hands against one of the metal bars and pushed. The pain was exquisite.

“No one ever fought at the barricades for a balanced budget. I want to set the world alight. I want to speak to their souls.”

[Do I have a soul?]

“Not… not now. This is not the time to be asking such questions.”

The gate, once moving, kept on going. Wheels at the base ran smoothly in the concrete channel cut for them. One last shove, and the gap was wide enough. The Outies outside, another family group of six or seven, watched him incredulously for a moment.

The shotgun would have been useful, but he’d lost it in his pain-filled delirium. He drew the pistol again and let it dangle by his side.

“I know I look like govno, but I’ll still kill you if you step closer.” None of them had guns, or a ranged weapon of any kind: no bows, javelins, slings.

They hesitated, not realizing that Petrovitch couldn’t keep his arm straight if he tried. A car, close enough to be called, screeched around the corner on two wheels and charged toward them.

As they scattered, he ran as fast as he could for the coach, stiff-legged, exhausted. One last effort required, that was all.

The AI had already commandeered it. The door hissed open, and steps folded down to meet his rising foot. He fell up the stairwell into the passenger deck, and the door closed behind him. A fist met the glass in the door, and a moment later, the haft of an axe.

Petrovitch raised his artificial middle finger at the figure outside, and the coach pulled cleanly away. Something thudded dully off the massive flat front of the vehicle, and the wheels bumped over an obstruction.

The coach was at the gates, gliding through, turning toward the main road.

His flailing hand connected with the tubular metal banister. As he stood, he could see out of the huge, tinted windscreen. Burning buildings, bundles of plump rags, crashed and gutted cars in the foreground, and behind that, behind the smoke that drifted in sheets across the road, was the Metrozone.

It didn’t look good.

The avatar appeared in the seat behind him, hunched forward, hands clasped in its lap. [The Americans are attempting to isolate their network. Their NSA has declared that the country is under attack from “cyber terrorists and enemies of freedom.”] It paused. [I am beginning to run short on resources.]