Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

The man’s eyes narrowed, and his initial attempt at good humour wasn’t repeated. He poured Petrovitch coffee — his guest’s only response was a growled “Leave the pot” — and retreated to the kitchen to bang some pans around.

Petrovitch was left to brood, but despite being served by a trained killer, the coffee started to do its job.

“Michael, I’ve just thought of something.”

[Which is?]

“If the object managed to decelerate from eight to four k a second between the time it was hit and the time it blew up, maybe it was going even faster before that.”

[That would put it close to, if not above, escape velocity.]

“Who do we know has a Moon mission planned?”

[Sasha, have we been asking the wrong questions?]

“I think we have. Can we get some recent ultra-high-res pictures of the lunar surface?”

[I will search the databases.]

“And convene the Secrets committee. I want to keep this private for a day or two.”

[They will consider your request. Any particular reason?]

“Yeah. Whether I’m right or wrong, we need the Chinese on side for just a little bit longer.” Petrovitch looked up and saw Newcomen appear at the entrance to the restaurant. “It’s all about face, right? And especially about not losing it in front of a global audience.”

Newcomen sat down opposite him, and Petrovitch dribbled a stream of black coffee into the proffered cup.

“You’re looking pointy,” said Newcomen. He wiped his hands on his thighs. Sweat.

“Yeah,” said Petrovitch. “I am, aren’t I?”

The agent noticed the handgun on the table. “Trouble?”

“Pretty much all the time.” He changed the subject even while his mind was racing away down a new track. “Breakfast is on its way.”

“I really don’t know how you can be hungry.” Newcomen shook his head. “Did they… damage you yesterday?”

“I’ve run the diagnostics a couple of times. Nothing burnt out. I’m fine.”

“Seriously? You took it hard, especially the second shot.”

“I didn’t enjoy it, if that’s what you mean.” Petrovitch shrugged. “Next time I see him, I shove his shotgun up his zhopu . Then I pull the trigger: see how he likes it.”

Newcomen added milk to his coffee, and Petrovitch poured himself a second cup.

“Do you dream?” asked Newcomen. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m just asking if you do or not.”

Petrovitch sat back in his chair, wondering whether or not to answer. “Michael does. Or did, at least. When he was trapped in a quantum computer under the Oshicora building, he had nothing to do but dream the days away. So he constructed this world — a universe, really — and dreamed about what it would be like.”

“Doesn’t that need imagination? It’s…”

“Just a smart program? No. No, it’s not. Michael can be creative in ways that are frankly scary. And he’s a citizen of the Freezone, a person in his own right.”

“I’m not comfortable with that.”

“Yeah. Figures. Of course I dream, same as I always did. Being a cyborg doesn’t take away your humanity; just adds to it.”

Newcomen did that thing where he adjusted himself on his seat; the little sideways shuffle to the right, then the left, that showed he was emotionally disturbed.

“I was just interested.” He looked around, up at the ceiling to see if there were any microphones dangling down, then towards the kitchen door, in case there were more obviously human ears listening in. “Does it — does Michael mind me talking about him like this?”

“He has feelings to hurt, if that’s what you mean, even though his feelings are different from ours because they don’t come with the same range of physiological responses. His emotions are very pure; no hormones to cloud his thinking. That has its good side and its bad side.”

“How so?” He had Newcomen’s full attention.

“Because if he’s got a reason to be pissed at you, logic dictates he’s going to stay pissed for ever, until he’s taken his revenge. He can’t calm down and forget about it, because he doesn’t get angry in the same way. His fury is cold and hard, and eminently reasonable. Remember that.” Petrovitch saw the kitchen door bang open, and Reception Guy came through bearing two plates. “Eat up.”

When it had been set in front of him, Newcomen stared ruefully at the plate full of meat and carbs. His expression slowly slipped and he looked despondent for a moment.

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay then.” Petrovitch spun his fork between his fingers. “Get shovelling. Fuel, remember?”

He started to eat in his usual cram-it-in style. Reception Guy came back out of the kitchen to watch, until Petrovitch reached across his plate for his gun and without looking up, aimed it unerringly at the bridge of the man’s nose.

He held it steady until he and Newcomen were again the only people in the dining room.

“I hate that,” he mumbled between mouthfuls. “I’m not a freak show.”

“They’re still watching you. Us.” Newcomen threw his cutlery down. “You. How come it’s all about you?”

“Because I’m the one that’s going to lead them to my daughter.” Petrovitch slurped coffee. “Maybe they figure you’ll have nothing to do with that.”

Newcomen looked around again. “I can be useful,” he said. “I was yesterday.”

“We’ll see,” said Petrovitch.

His plate was empty, and he let out a mighty belch of appreciation. Newcomen started to recoil, then just shook his head.

“You’ve got the manners of a pig.”

“Yeah. Some find it endearing.” He threw his serviette into the centre of his plate and pushed his chair back. “Or at least, they’ve learned to live with it. Anything in your room you need?”

“My outdoor things.” Newcomen looked at the bundle on the floor next to Petrovitch. “I left them there.”

“Okay. I’ll fire up the jet. Don’t be long.”

Petrovitch dressed there in the dining room, quickly and efficiently, his hand never far from the butt of his gun. He put his boots in turn on the chair, tied them tight, then made his way through reception. The man was at his desk.

“You done?”

Petrovitch stopped. “If I was done, I’d have my daughter back.”

“We’re all just doing our jobs, Dr Petrovitch.” The man leaned back and folded his arms.

“Yeah. But at least my job doesn’t suck sweaty donkey balls.” He thought about leaving his axe buried in the man’s sternum, but on reflection, it wouldn’t actually help. He shrugged and kicked the main doors open.

Cold. White ground. Dark sky.

“ Yobany stos , you’d think I’d be used to this.”

[The Moon is a significant area to search, and we have limited access to hi-res dark-side images. Where should we concentrate our efforts?]

“Putting two and two together to make several billion, I’d go for frosty craters around the poles. Somewhere where helium-three is known to be rich. And water. Remember they may have buried any permanent structures under the regolith.”

[It is unlikely that we would be able to spot anything even at half-metre resolution.]

“But we have to try. I’m going to try something equally unlikely.” He puffed out a snowstorm of air. “I’m looking for debris.”

[Sasha, anything that was not consumed in the fireball will have been collected already. We have ascertained the Americans are not stupid. Nor blind.]

“And yet, if I don’t look, I might not find what they missed.” He tripped down the stairs, and nearly slid on the small padded envelope lying on the ground.

There had been snowfall while he’d been inside. There was more forecast for later. He put his bag on the ground so that it covered the white paper, and knelt down to adjust his boots. All perfectly natural.