Simon Morden - The Curve of The Earth

He hunched over and hobbled towards the next hangar, putting his shoulder to the falling snow. The light from the burning fuel was a bright glow: explosions sent meteors arcing through the air to land hissing in the drifts.

Petrovitch put his back against the metal wall of the hangar, even as it reverberated with a dull clang. “Newcomen?”

“What have you done?” He sounded aghast.

“No more Mr Nice Guy, Newcomen. The gloves are off.” He looked down at his hands. “At least figuratively. Their surveillance network is down, and I’m a free agent. This is what I want you to do: grab a snowmobile and make sure it has enough fuel to get you to the research station.”

[Sasha?]

“I know what I’m doing,” said Petrovitch. “Watch and learn.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Newcomen was saying. His breathing was ragged, panicked.

“Just take one. No one’s going to stop you. If you ever want to see some answers, you’ll do as I tell you.”

“You’ll die here. And that’ll kill me.”

“Look, I’m not holding your hand any longer. Do it now or get caught in the crossfire. Your call.” He was interrupted.

[The teletroopers awaken.]

Petrovitch swallowed hard. “Okay, Michael. Talk to me. Can we do this?”

[One moment.]

“ Chyort , not again.”

[It is not like jihading a commercial car. These are highly sophisticated weapons of war with entirely different protocols and encryption. Different again to the model you encountered at the airport.]

“You’re just building your part up now, aren’t you?”

[Yes. It seems absurd that they have not learnt the lessons of a decade ago, but there is no accounting for the stupidity of humans. They have brought these machines here for some reason or other: I am not inclined to pursue that avenue at the moment.]

“Good. Let’s chase them off the streets, just like we did the Outies.”

[Very well,] said Michael.

Petrovitch watched him do it, brutally ripping control of the teletroopers away from their virtual masters and slaving them to his will. One moment the jocks in Nevada were popping the next stimulant in the blister pack and preparing to hunt his scrawny Russian hide down; the next, every rig had flatlined, limp and unresponsive as a fresh cadaver.

“You did this once before,” said Petrovitch. “You made monsters and marched them across the Metrozone.”

[And now someone else builds the monsters. I merely make them march.]

The crackle of flames and the billows of smoke had started to die down. The creaks and groans of the collapsed hangar had calmed to the occasional settling moan. It was quiet enough to hear shouted instructions and the revving of engines. Quiet enough to hear the pressurised hiss of pistons as the first of the teletroopers unfolded from its resting position and straightened up to its full height.

Its cameras scanned the darkness. Through Petrovitch, Michael knew where the manual door mechanism was. The teletrooper stamped over and a retractable blade extended from the back of its hand, thin enough to be able to spear the on switch.

The chain started to rattle, and the snow flurried in through the widening gap. Petrovitch watched, piggybacking the images Michael was receiving, as the other thirty-one robots pulled themselves upright and levelled their weapons.

“ Yobany stos . No wonder they win wars.”

[Sasha? What of mercy?]

“What of it?”

[Do we show mercy?]

“Did they show us mercy? Did they tell us the truth? Did they help us?” He pulled on his mittens. “Did they look after Lucy for us, or did they try and feed us all to the wolves?”

[Is that your answer then? I should kill them all?]

Petrovitch tested his ankle on the ground. Weak. Unstable. He’d torn something. It didn’t matter for now. “They would have killed us. They still will if they get the chance.”

[Then permit me to deny them the opportunity.]

He started to limp away, further from the pyre. “All yours. I need to see what’s so important about this envelope.”

He dug it out of its hiding place, and gave it a shake. There was definitely something inside, but it was small, flat. He guessed at a data card, and for that, he needed the reader in his bag, and somewhere safe to use it, inside and out of the driving snow that was blinding him every time he looked up.

He trudged on, dragging his foot with every step. There was another hangar coming up: he’d try in there, even if it meant just sitting in a cockpit with the heater turned on.

The teletroopers lined up outside. Even though he’d destroyed their comms centre, Petrovitch assumed that Nevada had some other way of telling Ben or Jerry, or anyone else still on the ground, they’d lost control. It didn’t look like it, though. No one was running for cover, breaking out the heavy weapons or calling for air support.

Michael was right. They’d learned nothing from their first encounter with the New Machine Jihad. Relying on remotely operated weapons? What were they thinking? Didn’t they know who they were up against?

“For old times’ sake, then.” He patched himself through to the lead teletrooper, and activated the speakers. There was a spook not ten metres away, trying to peer through the dark and the snow, his eyes shielded with one hand while he lazily held an automatic in his other.

“Prepare,” said the teletrooper.

The man turned sharply. “Not reading you.” He tapped his hooded ear.

“Prepare.”

“Did you just say… Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” The teletrooper took three quick strides forward, eating up the distance between them, and backhanded the spook with his cannon arm. The snow sprayed red, and he aimed a missile at the nearest car: hot target, engine running white under the red of the bonnet.

[You have more important tasks, Sasha. I have command.]

Petrovitch was eased off the virtual levers gently but firmly, and he was back outside the hangar, frost accumulating in his hood’s fur.

The gunfire was abruptly intense. Michael picked off their vehicles first, then started to divide his forces: some walked off in the direction of town, while others chased the living away, into the blizzard, with no clear idea of where they were heading. A third group, numbering five, went back down the runway towards the control tower, spreading out into a line across the tarmac, illuminated by the bright lights meant for aircraft.

Petrovitch picked up his axe and hacked at the door. The lock gave, and he pushed the door in. The images were dark, confusing, but there seemed to be no one there. The lights were off, and there were no telltale splashes of body heat. He pushed the door back closed, and wedged it shut with a half-filled barrel of waste oil.

Parts. He was surrounded by parts. A repair shed, then. Where there were mechanics, there’d be a kettle, and something to put in a mug.

Aware of the incongruity, he weaved his way around the darkened benches and half-assembled skidoos in search of coffee, while outside, thirty-two robotic killers hunted for prey.

Petrovitch rattled the office door, and it swung open. It was little more than a ropy prefab hut dumped in one corner of the hangar, but it had lights and power, and in amongst the pieces of paper thumbtacked to the notice boards and oily bits brought into the warm were fingerprinted mugs and empty plates.

He dumped his bag on one of the debris-strewn tables and sorted through it. There was a replacement for Lucy’s link: a little curved computer with its earpiece, all wrapped in plastic and ready to pass on. There was a singularity bomb, an antigravity sphere, a pencil-thick hi-def video camera, battery packs, more plastique, remote-control units.