Simon Morden - Theories of Flight

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.”

I n the ten minutes it took to navigate the car-choked streets between his starting point and the river, the plan Petrovitch had put in place had its beginning and middle. He arrived late, via Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square, onto the Strand.