Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

“You make it sound like it’s already been decided. It hasn’t. You have to fight. You have to think of something.” Newcomen grew agitated, desperate even. “You can’t die.”

“I’m not going to sell myself cheap. I’ll make it as messy and uncomfortable as I can. But I know how much firepower you’ve got stacking up on the North Slope. It looks like there’s something out there worth starting a war for, and Lucy knows what it is.”

“No. You have to listen, you, you selfish pig. You’re going to live. And so am I.”

Petrovitch raised his eyebrows. “You make it sound like either of us has another option.”

“I haven’t come this far to fail now. If you die, I die, and you’re not going to throw my life away in your grand gesture. I don’t care how much you hate America. I don’t care how much you love your Lucy. I want to live. I want to live, Dr Samuil bloody Petrovitch of the Freezone collective, and if that means hauling your metal ass across a freaking ice flow, I will do it. We will find your daughter and we will get her to safety and you will take out this bomb in my chest and I will live happily ever after and for God’s sake pull up!”

The cloud that had enveloped them cleared for a moment. In that moment, the ground came rushing towards them. Either side of the cockpit were towering black splinters of rock. The saddle of land between reared upwards like the crest of a breaking wave, intent on smashing them to pieces.

The turbines howled and the plane pitched nose up.

Certain they were going to hit, were hitting, had already hit and had lost the rear half of the fuselage, Newcomen clutched at his head and pulled his feet clear of the floor.

When he opened his eyes again, they were still flying. The ground was receding below the plane, and was losing its solidity in the mountain fog.

“Oh, dear Lord, oh, my sweet Jesus. Oh thank you.”

“The antigravity would have pushed us over,” said Petrovitch, less convincingly than he would have liked. “Perhaps you ought not to distract me, at least until we get on the ground again.”

Newcomen put his head between his knees and prayed so hard the tears squeezed out.

[Sasha?]

“Yeah. I’m paying attention.”

[No mountains?]

“Not at the moment. Not until the Urals at least, and they’re an ocean away.”

[Do you have the time to talk to the First Vice Premier of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China?]

Petrovitch sat bolt upright in his seat. “ Yobany stos .”

[They asked specifically for you.]

“Me? Why me?”

[Most likely they are wedded to outmoded models of governmental organisation, and still have great difficulty believing that the Freezone does not have a vertical power structure where a single individual has ultimate authority.]

“So they pick the guy they’ve actually heard of and pretend?”

[Essentially, yes. They are waiting for you.]

“And are we happy with that? I’m not a good spokesman for anyone but myself, and even then I’m not so sure.” He resisted the urge to flatten his hair and scrub the soot from his cheeks. He swallowed hard. “Okay. We’re secure, right?”

[Secure from our end, yes. Everything you say will be as closely scrutinised by their analysts as it will be by ours.]

“Hang on.” He blinked. “Newcomen?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve got the Chinese on the line. Tell Michael if we lose an engine or the plane cracks in two. He’ll kick me out: otherwise, you won’t get a response from me for a bit.”

Newcomen stopped worrying at his nails. “Are they going to admit it’s one of theirs?”

“They’ll never say it straight. They’ll hint at it obliquely, and expect me to be just as oblique back.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.”

[First Vice Premier Zhao Zhenwang is still waiting, Sasha.]

“Okay, let’s do it.”

Petrovitch saw an office: it could have been anywhere, but the feed was geolocating to Beijing. The only splash of colour to the bland decor was the furled red flag attached to the wall behind the desk. Everything else was monochrome, even the skin of the man in the centre of the screen.

Zhao had short cropped black hair — maybe he dyed it to cover the grey — and wore a black suit. He had his hands clasped on the desk in front of him, and his outsized glasses framed his too-large eyes. Michael helpfully popped his short-form biography up beside the man.

Petrovitch scanned it: a scientist by trade, electronics degree followed by a successful business career and a swift rise through the party ranks. He was an interesting choice of representative for the Chinese to make.

“Dr Petrovitch.” Zhao bowed slightly.

Petrovitch’s image — the one he chose to project — was on a big screen facing the vice premier. He kept it simple: photorealistically him, set against a neutral background. In the labyrinthine government that ruled the People’s Republic, Zhao weighed in somewhere between the seventh and eighth most powerful official in the land, depending on whose analysis could be believed.

Plenty power enough, Petrovitch reckoned. “First Vice Premier Zhao, a pleasure to talk to you.”

“You are too kind, Dr Petrovitch. How are you today?”

“How… I’m surprisingly fine, considering the circumstances.”

[He will expect you to enquire about his health in return.]

Petrovitch gave a little nod. “And First Vice Premier, how are you?”

Zhao took a moment before responding. “I am very well, thank you for asking. My sincerest condolences on your missing daughter. I hope she will be returned to you soon.”

“I appreciate your concern, First Vice Premier. The Freezone collective is anxious to have her back.”

[Zhao Zhenwang is wearing an earpiece. I can attempt to access the datafeed if you wish.]

“Give it a miss for now,” Petrovitch said to Michael. “We don’t want to piss them off.”

Zhao stared at Petrovitch’s feet across the room, across the thousands of kilometres that separated them. Petrovitch stared back.

“You wish to discuss something with me?” he finally asked when his patience ran out. It had only taken a few seconds.

“There is a situation we might examine further.” Zhao indicated his willingness to continue with a tilt of his head. “I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

“And would that situation involve a certain American antiballistic missile system?” Having his teeth pulled without anaesthetic would be kinder.

“It might well do so, Doctor. There have been recent activities that have concerned the People’s Republic, and we are seeking reassurance that these activities are not detrimental to us.”

Petrovitch imagined Michael standing next to him, just off screen. “He’s a wordy bastard and no mistaking. His English is probably better than mine, but he doesn’t have to show it.”

[Expect these circumlocutions to continue for a while, Sasha.]

“Yeah, well. I hate it already. He’d be better off talking to Marcus: he loves this diplomatic kon govno .” Petrovitch forced his image to affect a concerned nod, and made sure his hands were well under control. “First Vice Premier, the Freezone also has much to lose if SkyShield has begun to malfunction.”

Zhao pursed his lips. “Your previous experience with the system would be useful in our deliberations.”

“You mean, when I hijacked it and forced Mackensie to quit over giving me the nuclear launch codes? In which case, yes: I’ve got experience of SkyShield.”

“Indeed, Doctor. In your opinion, is it likely that the government of the United States of America is fully in control of all the SkyShield assets?”