Simon Morden - Theories of Flight

“What about you? Why don’t you do it?”

Petrovitch stopped abruptly, his foot hovering over a step. He looked at her, leaning in toward her until she didn’t know whether to stare into the blank lens of the camera or at the stained bandages that covered his eyes.

“You don’t want me making decisions for you right now, vrubatsa? ”

She nodded mutely.

“Good.” He resumed walking, and told her many other things: how the AI was going to lose its map shortly, how she was to secure the power stations and repair the grid as a priority, how leaving the Outies a means of escape from the Metrozone was really important because she needed victory, not a blood-bath.

“You’re talking like you’re not intending to come back,” she said.

It was true, although he hadn’t meant it that way at all. “Something might go wrong,” he said. He kicked out at the door to the corridor. If he’d been Sorenson, he’d have been lying in wait just there, just beside the hinges, crouched down so no one could see him. He’d count the people through, then sight between his retreating shoulder blades.

She wasn’t that smart. She was going to want to humiliate him first, make him feel fear. She’d lost sight of her objective, whereas Petrovitch was so focused he believed he could almost storyboard out the next few minutes.

He let the door swing back toward him, then he pushed it open to its fullest extent, peering through the wire-strung glass. No, she definitely wasn’t that smart.

“Okay,” he said to Valentina. “The lab where they are has two rows of benches, four each. Heavy wood, good cover. A couple of desks on the right-hand side, also good. Loads of govno against the walls, windows down the left. Far end is a blackboard, facing the door. I’m guessing that’s where they’ll be. You go left, I’ll go right. Keep low, and listen carefully.”

“Da,” said Valentina. She checked her magazine, counting the shiny bullets with her thumbnail, then slammed it home.

The lab had double doors, and they took up positions either side. Sonja hovered. “Sam?”

“You have your work,” he said. “I have mine.”

He dipped his chin, and both he and Valentina rolled around the door frame, heading for the furniture they knew would be there. Again, if Sorenson had been smart, she would have used her time profitably in moving everything to her end of the room, giving her the cover and denying him.

Petrovitch caught the briefest of glimpses of her as he spun and rolled for the desk. She was standing, pistol against Lucy’s head, who sat taped to a wheelie chair in front of her.

He put his back against the column of desk drawers and glanced across at Valentina. She sat poised like he was, spine to the woodwork, knees slightly bent and feet planted on the floor. Her rifle, like his gun, pointed up at the ceiling lights that burned with unforgiving fluorescence.

To work: he rewound the last clip of video and examined it frame by frame. Lucy was still alive, because her eyes went from screwed tight shut to wide open as he crashed in. Sorenson looked even more crazy than she had been when she’d half-destroyed Wong’s.

Maybe she thought she was genuinely going to get revenge this time.

“Lucy?”

She had a thick strip of silver tape over her mouth, but she made a noise.

“Sit really still.” Petrovitch slipped his camera out of its cradle and checked he had a long enough lead. He pushed the front end very slightly around the edge of the desk so that he had a clear view. “We’ll get you out of this.”

Sorenson ground the barrel of her gun into Lucy’s scalp. “Come out where I can see you, Petrovitch. Your friend, too.”

“Why would we want to do something so stupid?”

“Because I’ll kill the girl if you don’t.”

“You see, Sorenson, you haven’t thought this through at all.” As he spoke, cross hairs formed on the center of Sorenson’s forehead. He could take her pretty much from any angle now, but he’d only get the one chance. “It’s not Lucy you want. It’s me.”

“And I’m using her to get to you. It’s working pretty swell so far.”

“Swell? Swell? Should have stayed in Nebraska, Charlie.”

“You don’t get to call me Charlie.”

“I can call you what I like, considering you’ve got a gun to a fourteen-year-old kid’s head. Suka, blad, bliatz : there’s three to start with. So, Charlie, let me tell you what’s going to happen next.”

“I get to say what goes down here.”

“ Yebat moi lisiy cherep. You’re going to start counting, probably from ten, because you haven’t the wit to think of another number. You’re going to get to about five before you realize that if you kill Lucy, you’ll die yourself in the next nanosecond because there’s two of us, one of you, and you can’t point your gun at both of us at the same time. By the time you reach three, you’ll have figured out that because you’re so desperate to kill me, you’re going to have to ignore Valentina and try and shoot me before she shoots you. Somewhere between two and one, you’ll work out that even if Valentina stands up first, you can’t fire either at her or at Lucy, because the moment you do, I’ll put a round through the govno you use for brains. At zero, you’ll know with the conviction of a true believer that you’ve fucked up so badly, you may as well have died in the car crash that took your legs.” Petrovitch readied himself and held up three fingers where only Valentina could see them. “So start counting, Sorenson.”

He folded his fingers down one by one as Sorenson froze inside the spell he’d woven. He clenched his fist, and Valentina sprang up, her AK aiming straight and true.

Sorenson’s gun snapped around toward her, then inevitably started to drag back. Petrovitch slapped the butt of his automatic on the desktop to steady his shot. He found he had all the time in the world, more than enough time to see that the expression on the American’s face was one of complete and utter despair.

The front of Sorenson’s skull shattered like a dropped snow globe. Her gun hand wavered, directionless, then she fell, sprawling, knocking Lucy’s chair aside until it rolled to a halt. The blood kept pumping for a few seconds, then simply welled out across the floor.

Petrovitch’s finger was still hovering over the trigger.

“Did you…?” he asked.

“No.”

“Neither did I.”

They both dropped behind their respective cover. Petrovitch pulled on the lead to his camera to reel it in.

“Lucy. Just stay there. There’s someone else in here with us.”

Something moved toward the back of the laboratory: a scrape of metal, the rattle of wires. Petrovitch held up the pencil-thin camera and pointed it behind him, over the desk. A figure, all in black, unfolded itself from the wall and walked slowly across the floor. It was advancing toward Lucy, pistol in hand.

“Valentina? One target, coming from the right.” He clipped the camera back onto his head. “Now.”

He rose and aimed. Valentina did the same.

She wore a stealth suit; tight-fitting black fabric, lots of built-in smarts, and covered in little pockets. No mistaking that a woman wore this one, but her face was covered by the suit’s hood and the eyes by a mirrored band.

Her gloved hand came up and tugged the hem of the hood where it fitted across the browline. As it was eased back, blonde hair caught in a ponytail bobbed free.

Just as slowly, she bent down and laid the pistol on the floor.

“Hello, Doctor Petrovitch.” She scooped off her info shades and held them lightly, swinging them between thumb and forefinger as she straightened.