Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

The concierge tipped his hat and opened the door for them.

A white stretch limo was idling outside, the driver in a dark blue uniform standing beside it.

“Is that ours?” asked Newcomen.

“ Yobany stos , man. It’s a wonder you can find your way to the office in the morning. It’s ours, for the evening at least. Now, we’re late, and I’m going to have to do some real-time traffic control in order to get us to the Logans’ on time.”

The chauffeur opened the door to the cavernous interior, and Newcomen climbed in. Petrovitch followed, the cold nipping at his ankles. The clothes he was in felt alien, uncomfortable, stiff. His usual stuff was his by right of conquest, but the jacket felt like it was wearing him, and his shoes were hard and unyielding.

He’d had to put up with worse. It was going to be fine.

It seemed to take an age for the chauffeur to walk around the front of the car to the driver’s seat. Finally the engine note changed and the limo pulled away.

“This is all very…” Newcomen huffed. “Kind. But I don’t see how it’s going to get me out of the pickle of having to babysit you all evening when I’m supposed to be alone with Christine. Even if I get her to the restaurant on time, you’re going to have to…” He huffed again.

“What? Sit between you and play gooseberry? Yeah, the ladies love that sort of thing.” Petrovitch watched the lights of Seattle go by as they pulled out on to the interstate. “You can’t go to the restaurant. It’s just impractical. Sorry. I’ve cancelled your reservation, and we’re going with plan B.”

“I’m clutching at straws now anyway.”

“Newcomen, listen. I’d barely turned eighteen when I had to execute a war against two hundred thousand crazed fanatics. And I won. If you think you can come up with something better than I have, then be my guest. As it is, all you’ve done is run around in circles, pulling at your hair. Take what I give you and be grateful.”

“And what is it exactly that you’re giving me?”

“What could be your last ever evening with your fiancee,” said Petrovitch. “Some people don’t get the chance of knowing. You kiss the wife goodbye, you step out of the door, and wham. Someone, something takes you out, and you’ve missed the chance to invest those few moments with meaning.”

“I’m supposed to be grateful?” Newcomen’s voice rose in pitch and volume.

Petrovitch’s reply was matter-of-fact. “Yeah. You were never meant to meet her tonight, if ever. Now you can.”

Newcomen stared and ground his jaw.

“You look like a cow when you do that.” Petrovitch leaned forward, and realised the other bench seat facing him was too far away to reach. “Over there’s a hamper filled with all sorts of goodies. There’s champagne on ice, and I don’t even want to think about how much that’s cost us. There’s two bouquets of flowers: tiger lilies for Mrs Logan and red roses for Christine. You’ve been to Logan’s place: you know the summer house down by the lake. You and her can take the hamper down there and do whatever it is you two want to do, entirely undisturbed. When you’re done, we go back to the hotel. Vrubatsa ?”

“But what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

“I’ll be in the house with Christine’s parents — I’ve checked they’re not going out anywhere — and that should satisfy both you, and the pickiest of tribunals, if it ever comes to it. You’ll be on the same property as me. If I need you, I’ll call for you: barring disasters, I promise I won’t call you.” Petrovitch grimaced. “That’s right. I’m going to spend the whole evening making pleasantries with the man who doesn’t care whether his daughter’s boyfriend lives or dies, and sees me as an aberration before God. I’d rather lie in a bath of broken glass, but there you go.”

Newcomen threw himself back against his seat, and sat upright again as the chair began to massage him. He looked around at it with distaste. “Are you sure about Logan?”

“What? Whether he’s going out or not?”

“No, not that.”

“The other thing? Yeah. There won’t be a paper trail I can follow, he’s far too careful for that: but you know he hates you. You know his wife doesn’t dare say anything to him. The only reason you’ve lasted this long is because Christine genuinely does love you. Then it got serious. You proposed and she accepted. You dared to pick a date and a venue. That was when he started to look for ways to get rid of you.”

“This is still the father of my fiancee you’re talking about.” Newcomen slid across the car to inspect the hamper.

“ Yobany stos , man. He’s trying to have you killed, and you worry about good manners? Chyort , the only reason you’re polite to him is because Christine is his chattel and he can do what he wants with her.” Petrovitch laid a proprietorial hand over his carpet bag. “This sort of situation would never happen in the Freezone. It just couldn’t. If Lucy had ever shown any interest in men, there’d have been no question of me interfering. Or even threatening to cut their yajtza off with a cleaver.”

“She’s your daughter, though.” Newcomen opened the lid of the hamper, and his eyes grew wide. He was disarmed enough that his train of thought derailed and fell down an embankment.

“She doesn’t belong to me. I belong to her. After she lost her parents, I was all she had. I might have been piss-poor as a dad, but even I knew I had to protect her, teach her, and try and turn her into a rounded human being. I pretty much failed on every count, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her. What it does mean is that I don’t own her.”

The lights outside dimmed. They were crossing the Murrow Bridge. In the dark, Newcomen asked quietly: “You’ve not had children of your own?”

“There’s a good chance that both me and Maddy are sterile. She’s a mutant, I’m radiation-damaged.” Petrovitch stared at the glint of his wedding ring. “We’ve not done any tests, not gone for any treatment. Yeah, a gestation tank would be the simple answer, but we’re still young. And you know, we still enjoy trying at every available opportunity.”

Newcomen pulled a face. “Oh, stop. Now.”

“Bearing in mind this could be it,” continued Petrovitch, “you might consider doing the same. Going out in a blaze of glory. Spawn and die.”

“I am not an animal. And Christine…”

“It’s often when faced by imminent death that you feel the biological urge the most.”

“Shut up, Petrovitch.” Newcomen balled his fists, but didn’t do anything with them. “Just, shut up.”

“Okay.”

The limo cruised off the bridge and into a tunnel.

“We’re still being followed,” said Petrovitch. “Wish I could do something about that.”

“Maybe they’re wondering where we’re going.” Newcomen sounded relieved at the change of subject.

“They’re not wondering at all. They made the plates on the car and checked the destination with the hire company. They’re just doing it to piss me off. Did you know they’ve diverted a satellite so that it can track me better? Polar orbit, so it’s only overhead for a short time each day, but they’re bringing in another one tomorrow. All that expense, all that effort, just to see where I’m going.” Petrovitch looked up from his lap at Newcomen. “Do you suppose they have a good reason why they’re doing that, and not using those same resources to find Lucy?”

“If it’s true…”

“Which it is. I don’t think I’ve lied to you yet.”

“Which itself is probably a lie,” said Newcomen. “If it’s true, perhaps they are using it to look for Lucy.”