Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

One of them lowered his gun and started to edge in.

“Where are you going?”

The masked man didn’t say anything. Perhaps he thought his voiceprint could be taken down and used to identify him, and he’d be right. Instead, he pointed at his fallen colleague.

“No. He’s going to be arrested, processed and charged by the FBI officer in the room opposite, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it, suki .”

They disagreed, and kept on edging forward. Petrovitch calmly unlocked his bag and pulled out a fist-sized sphere. It had a safety guard over its trigger, which he flipped out of the way with his thumb.

The men froze. Petrovitch smiled.

“Yeah, you know what this is, don’t you? You’ve got them yourselves by the planeload, ready to level whole cities at a moment’s notice. Still, it’s not comfortable being in the same room as one, is it? Especially when it’s held by the guy who invented it.” Petrovitch dropped the bag and held up the sphere. It was very black. “How many storeys are we up right now? Reckon they’d find much of you by the time you’re compressed to a point and dropped a hundred metres to the ground in amongst the debris?”

One of the men started to sight down his arm.

“Think you can kill me before I press this button? I don’t. My reaction speed is simply faster than yours. You don’t even know where to aim.” He tapped his chest. “Kevlar under the skin.”

There was a commotion behind them, and Newcomen found himself with the barrel of an automatic pistol jammed under his chin. He was only wearing a towel, and as his hands came up, the knot loosened.

“Yeah, you’re now holding a gun to the head of a naked federal agent. That makes everything better.”

Newcomen reached up and pushed the gun away, then retrieved his towel. “What’s going on?”

“We’re having our very own Watergate. You know about Watergate, right? Just in case that fell into one of the massive black holes that litter your education.”

“I know it.” Newcomen tried to muster as much dignity as he could. “Gentlemen, you’re going to have to leave now. This man is a guest of the United States government. I don’t know who it is you’re working for, and I’d rather not find out. If you go, then we can say the matter’s ended.”

“Not that simple, Newcomen. They’ve got a man down, and I don’t want them to take him with them.”

“Petrovitch. Let them have him. He won’t do you any good at all.”

“I’m not planning on barbecuing him. I’m planning on you throwing the book at him. That’s how it works, right? Due process, Miranda, all that jazz?”

“If these people are who we think they are, that’s not going to happen. Ever.”

“Why not? They’re above the law? How the huy did that happen? You’ve got a constitution, and I don’t remember seeing any amendments that said the Man can do what he wants and the citizens have to suck it up like a shlyuha vokzal’naja .”

“Petrovitch, shut the hell up and let them all go. I’m wearing a towel and someone from the Secret Service has a gun pointing at my junk. You might have won last night, but you’re not going to win this, so just give it up.”

Petrovitch considered matters. “Yeah, okay. Take him and go.” He took his thumb off the red button, and the two men targeting him lowered their guns. When they’d holstered them, he clicked the safety guard back down.

The closest one helped drag the still form from the room, and finally the door closed, with Newcomen on the right side of it.

“You said a rude word,” said Petrovitch. He tossed the bomb back into his bag and resealed the lock. “Twenty bucks in the honesty box.”

“You could have got yourself killed, you, you idiot.”

“I’m not the one with their blood halfway up the wall. Or,” he said, turning, “smeared on what’s left of the window. No, I’m fine. Getting that out of the wallpaper’s going to be tough, though.”

Newcomen clenched his fists to disguise the fact he was shaking like a leaf. “You cannot die.”

“I have no intention of dying, either now or at all. That it might come anyway is an occupational hazard I have to put up with. You’re angry and you’re scared, and so you should be. But this is what it means, Newcomen. This — all this govno — this is what Reconstruction does to those who don’t fit inside its comfortable little shell. And it’s always been like this. I could tell you a thousand stories about ordinary people who’ve been crushed by your holy juggernaut: the only thing that’s different is that it’s happening to you now. You pledged to uphold this system. Regretting it yet?”

“How? How can you live like this?”

“I could say the same to you. I live like this because people like you let people like them get away with stuff like that. Someone has to stand up, give them the finger and tell them no fucking way.” He flashed a grin, on and off. “Remind me to tell you about Lebanon when we have a spare moment.”

Petrovitch looked around the room again. There was nothing he needed to come back for. Newcomen was resting his head against the wall, eyes closed. His world was disintegrating around him just at the moment when it held the most promise.

“I can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t have a choice. Or you do,” amended Petrovitch, “but you won’t take it.”

He almost felt sorry for him. There was Lucy to think about, though, and his reservoir of compassion was never particularly full at the best of times. And the circumstances weren’t exactly ideal right now.

“Shit,” said Newcomen.

“Forty bucks.” Petrovitch jerked his head towards the next room. “They’re still listening. I wonder what would happen if we walked in next door? Would they fight us? Or would they watch while we trashed their equipment? Why are they even there? Who authorised this level of surveillance? What do they hope to get from it?” He scratched at the bridge of his nose. The scar there felt hard and strange today, and he remembered how it felt for the knife to cut him open and ruin his eyes.

Newcomen’s shoulders sagged. “I should get dressed.”

“Yeah. Trust me, the only one who should get to see your junk, as you so quaintly put it, is Christine.”

There was silence between them: nothing to stop the sound of the traffic below, the hum of the aircon, the distant rumble of jets powering up.

“It’s going to be okay, Newcomen.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because you can trust me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Good point, well made.” Petrovitch shrugged. “My daughter’s still missing, and this isn’t finding her. I reckon we can make it back to your room without getting rolled. Go.”

He was right, and while Newcomen put his clothes on, Petrovitch stared out of the window at central Seattle. They were in the area hit by the 2012 tsunami, and all the buildings were less than twenty years old, supposedly built with new technology to resist earthquakes, save power, use natural light as much as possible. He didn’t rate them.

“Did Edward Logan cheat on his taxes?”

“I have absolutely no idea at all,” said Petrovitch. The traffic was building up on University Street, far too early. It was still dark, and the Sun wouldn’t be up for another three quarters of an hour. “I thought it was highly likely, given a quick perusal of his public filings over time and trying to match them to his holdings. So I just went for it.”

“You bluffed him?”

“He could have defended himself. He could have denied it. He did neither. I have such a bad-ass hacker rep. Go me. Yay.” Petrovitch could see Newcomen’s reflection in the glass. It was safe to turn around. “Maybe I will take him down after all.”