S Morden - No Way

“There’s enough of the guys I worked with, in and around San Fran, who can do that. And my ex. And my boy.” Frank rubbed the end of his nose. “You want evidence? You’ve been walking over it for weeks. I did a decent job at getting rid of the blood in the ceiling voids, but sure, there’ll be some left. Scrape it out. Bag it. Take it back.”

Everyone cast their eyes downwards at the floor, and were silent for a while.

“So that’s where we are,” said Lucy. “Jim and Leland’s families have been informed. We can do precisely nothing about what’s going on back on Earth. We might be astronauts, but this is so far above our paygrade…”

She trailed off. She kept pacing, but she said nothing further.

Fan cleared his throat. “So far above our paygrade that what?”

Lucy finally stopped, and rested her knuckles on the table. “That we might as well stay.” She waited for a reaction, any reaction. “It has to be unanimous. I’m not going to keep anyone here against their will. We’ve lost two dearly beloved crew members and friends. We’re all still raw about that. I’m worried that none of us are ready to make a decision with such long-term consequences.”

“Stay,” blurted Isla. She took a deep breath. “I mean, I vote to stay.”

“Yun? You’ve talked to your government. But you still get to choose.”

“They have encouraged me to see out the mission, but they are not unsympathetic to the trauma of what has happened to us. I can still perform useful science, even if my original experiments are compromised. I can continue Jim’s surveying and sample collection, if you’ll permit me. I see this as my one opportunity to live and work on another planet. I wish the circumstances were different, but they are what they are. Stay.”

Fan shrugged. “Jim and Leland are still here. I’m closer to them if I stay. So, stay.”

No one said anything for a long time after that. Then Lucy stirred herself and raised her head.

“Frank? What about you?”

“What about me? It’s not up to me. There’s not even enough fuel in the MAV for me.”

“There will be one day. Don’t you want to go home?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. But I still don’t get why you’re even asking me. I don’t have a say in this. I’m not crew.”

“Is it that you’re worried about going back to prison? What if I told you that the FBI have intimated that if you turn State’s evidence, they could do something. Change the terms of your sentence. Maybe even a pardon.”

Yes. That would change things. He’d be tied up with juries and hearings for years, and the Feds would want nothing but his full cooperation. Blowing them out, heading to the east coast? That wouldn’t be part of the plan, would it?

And now when it came to it, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. He’d endured. He’d survived. He’d changed. And really, what was left for him on Earth? His kid had done without him for a decade, and his ex was a good mother. They didn’t need some goddamn hero crashing into their lives after such a long time.

But here? He could do good here.

“You’re crew, Frank,” said Lucy. “Stay or go. It’s your call.”

Deep breath. Say it. Say it.

“Stay.”

[Message file #121985 6/5/2049 0045UT NASA Deep Space Network to MBO Rahe Crater]

Dad? Is that really you?

DR. S. J. MORDEN has won the Philip K. Dick Award and been a judge on the Arthur C. Clarke Award committee. He is a bona fide rocket scientist with degrees in geology and planetary geophysics.

Samuil Petrovitch is a survivor.

He survived the nuclear fallout in Saint Petersburg and hid in the London Metrozone—the last city in England. He’s lived this long because he’s a man of rules and logic.

For example, getting involved = a bad idea.

But when he stumbles into a kidnapping in progress, he acts without even thinking. Before he can stop himself, he’s saved the daughter of the most dangerous man in London.

And clearly saving the girl = getting involved.

Now the equation of Petrovitch’s life is looking increasingly complex.

Russian mobsters + Yakuza + something called the New Machine Jihad = one dead Petrovitch.

But Petrovitch has a plan—he always has a plan—he’s just not sure it’s a good one.

Petrovitch woke up. The room was in the filtered yellow half-light of rain-washed window and thin curtain. He lay perfectly still, listening to the sounds of the city.

For a moment, all he could hear was the all-pervading hum of machines: those that made power, those that used it, pushing, pulling, winding, spinning, sucking, blowing, filtering, pumping, heating and cooling.

In the next moment, he did the city-dweller’s trick of blanking that whole frequency out. In the gap it left, he could discern individual sources of noise: traffic on the street fluxing in phase with the cycle of red-amber-green, the rhythmic metallic grinding of a worn windmill bearing on the roof, helicopter blades cutting the gray dawn air. A door slamming, voices rising—a man’s low bellow and a woman’s shriek, going at it hard. Leaking in through the steel walls, the babel chatter of a hundred different channels all turned up too high.

Another morning in the London Metrozone, and Petrovitch had survived to see it: God, I love this place.

Closer, in the same room as him, was another sound, one that carried meaning and promise. He blinked his pale eyes, flicking his unfocused gaze to search his world, searching…

There. His hand snaked out, his fingers closed around thin wire, and he turned his head slightly to allow the approaching glasses to fit over his ears. There was a thumbprint dead center on his right lens. He looked around it as he sat up.

It was two steps from his bed to the chair where he’d thrown his clothes the night before. It was May, and it wasn’t cold, so he sat down naked, moving his belt buckle from under one ass cheek. He looked at the screen glued to the wall.

His reflection stared back, high-cheeked, white-skinned, pale-haired. Like an angel, or maybe a ghost: he could count the faint shadows cast by his ribs.

Back on the screen, an icon was flashing. Two telephone numbers had appeared in a self-opening box: one was his, albeit temporarily, to be discarded after a single use. In front of him on the desk were two fine black gloves and a small red switch. He slipped the gloves on, and pressed the switch.

“Yeah?” he said into the air.

A woman’s voice, breathless from effort. “I’m looking for Petrovitch.”

His index finger was poised to cut the connection. “You are who?”

“Triple A couriers. I’ve got a package for an S. Petrovitch.” She was panting less now, and her cut-glass accent started to reassert itself. “I’m at the drop-off: the café on the corner of South Side and Rookery Road. The proprietor says he doesn’t know you.”