Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

[So you must be careful. You know the whole town is a trap designed to capture Lucy. That they have done it well should not surprise you.]

“Then why bring the teletroopers up here? Thirty-two of them? They have to realise that they’re virtually gifting us an army.”

[And yet there they are. Perhaps they have been modified in an unexpected way. Perhaps they want us to think we could take them over, only for us to find we cannot when it is too late. Or-]

“Enough already. Give it to the analysts and tell me what’s happening next door.”

[Newcomen’s vital signs are still running near maximum. His core temperature has increased, and he is becoming hypocapniac.]

“He’s going to faint? Yeah, they’ll want to avoid that. He’s a big man.”

[He is under great psychological stress. His unmitigated physiological responses to that stress are inadequate, as they are in all unmodified humans.]

The note with its hidden message was pressed inside the palm of a closing hand and destroyed in a mouth.

There was nothing for the longest time. Then someone stepped closer to the microphone embedded in the link. The sound of paper and pen was much closer, too. Newcomen was writing a reply.

That part was over quickly. Footsteps: one set out into the corridor, right outside Petrovitch’s door. Then another, moving the other way. The third paused before following them. The light switch clicked clearly off, and the chair used to inexpertly block the doorway clipped the wall with a slight tock.

The third man’s feet brushed against the door jamb, then the door itself was eased back. It closed almost — almost, but not quite — silently, the catch gently released until it engaged.

Another gap, and finally the sound of cloth against cloth as three pairs of trousered legs walked away up the corridor.

Next door, Newcomen let out a ragged gasp.

“They’re more careful than he is.”

[We know this. He is not secret-agent material. His one strength is his closeness to you.]

“So do I get rid of him, or do I keep him? What did he tell them? Who did he decide for? Me or Uncle Sam?”

[There is no way of knowing.]

Newcomen’s gun slithered back into its wrist sheath. Then, with the greatest of care, the American tiptoed back into bed, slowly drawing up the covers as he lay down again.

The mattress sighed with weight.

“I could ask him, I suppose. I could ask him right now.”

[You are disappointed in him.]

“He was good today. He actually cared. He empathised rather than thought about his own skin. It wasn’t an act, he didn’t do it to make himself look good or to win me over. He saved my zhopu from a beating.”

[And, paradoxically, that action may have paved the way to his rejection of your threat to kill him. He is no longer scared of death. He has reached some degree of peace with its inevitability. The only thing he believes he can control is the manner of his going.]

“And you think he’s going to do that in the service of his country.”

[Yes.]

“But you can’t be certain.”

[No. I can, however, recalculate the percentages for your successfully retrieving Lucy and escaping the territory of the United States of America.]

“They’ve all just dropped to zero, haven’t they?”

[Whether or not you keep Joseph Newcomen with you.]

In the darkness, the corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah, well. No one said this was going to be easy.”

It was morning, as measured by the clock. The Sun wasn’t due up for another three hours. Petrovitch sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall opposite, and wondered if this was going to be his last day.

[Good morning, Sasha.]

“Hey.” He worked his mouth, and undid the nerve lock on his trigger finger. The gun slid out of his hand and on to the covers. “Anything new I need to know about?”

[There has been considerable diplomatic traffic overnight between Beijing and Washington. The ambassadors of both the US and the People’s Republic have been required to attend meetings at the respective foreign ministries, for strongly worded messages. The contents of these are as yet unknown, but sources indicate that Space Command on both sides is at high alert.]

“How about the ICBMs? Fuelled or unfuelled?”

[That is also unknown. It would be safe to assume that no one has been standing down their missile teams. Also, the Chinese cyberwarfare division is highly active at the moment. This may be something we can use to our advantage.]

“Yeah, okay. Go carefully. Anything else?”

[Yes,] said Michael.

Petrovitch waited. “Okay. Do go on.”

[I am uncertain what to make of this data, and whether it is a processing artefact. It is certainly anomalous.]

“Are you going to tell me what it is, or are you going to leave me guessing?”

[Sasha, what is the orbital velocity of an object in Low Earth Orbit?]

“You know I know this. I know you know this. Why are you asking me?”

[The object that was shot by the SkyShield satellite was travelling at between seven and a half and eight kilometres a second.]

Petrovitch frowned. “That’s wrong. And didn’t we clock it going slower?”

[Post-encounter. Reanalysis of the admittedly poor images we have of the object suggest that its velocity was up to twice that before it was struck.]

“And you’ve checked everything at least ten times, right?”

[A group of analysts spent most of yesterday arguing about the results.]

Petrovitch pursed his lips. “So let’s get this straight: you’re suggesting that between being hit by SkyShield and entering the atmosphere, it lost half its orbital speed. And that it was going way too fast in the first place.”

[Yes.]

“ Chyort .”

[Indeed.]

“What the huy was it?”

[I still do not know.]

“Is Newcomen up?”

[No. He finally achieved sleep only a few hours ago. I will wake him if you wish.]

“I’ll do it. I want you to keep crunching those numbers. See if you can work out where it might have come from, now we know its vector. Astronomical plates, reports from amateurs, sky-flash cameras: anything that might be useful.” He looked at the door to the tiny en-suite bathroom, and shrugged. He reached for his clothes and patched himself through to the sleeping man in the next room. “Hey.”

He could hear a slight sigh, then the snoring resumed. He ramped the volume up all the way to eleven.

“Hey! Newcomen! Get your fat Yankee zhopu out of bed. Breakfast in ten.”

There was a thud that reverberated through the wall. “What? Who?”

“Me,” said Petrovitch. “We’ve got work to do.”

“I,” said Newcomen, and hesitated. This would be an opportunity to confess. “I didn’t sleep too good again.”

So that was how he wanted to play it. Okay. “Tell Mister Sandman, because I don’t give a shit. Nine minutes.”

Petrovitch finished hitting his socks on the wall, and dragged the now-limp things on to his feet. He slipped his feet in his boots without lacing them, and looked around.

He picked up his gun and posted it in his waistband, laid the axe lengthways along his bag, then scooped up the handles in one hand. In the other went his bundle of outdoor clothes. That was it: everything he needed.

It was a short walk from his room to the dining room. He slumped into the same seat he’d sat in yesterday — in the corner with a good view of all the doors. He dropped his stuff by his feet and laid his gun on his side plate.

Reception Guy, alerted one way or another to his presence, ambled in.

“Good morning, Dr Petrovitch.”

“ Past’ zebej . If you insist on maintaining this yebani charade, the least you can do is bring me some coffee. Or I can just shoot you. I might do it anyway.” Petrovitch looked pointedly at his crockery. “Don’t push it.”