Саймон Морден - Degrees of Freedom

“Then you are deluding yourself,” said Valentina. “This has always been political. All this getting rid of old order, standing up to capitalist aggression, rights for artificial intelligence, starting own country…”

“My own country?”

“Of course. That is why we all have Irish passport, da ? You will have freedom to do whatever you want.” She climbed up alongside him and reached back down into the pressing crowd for another hastily made flag. “This is revolution. Where is end? I do not know. All I know, this is beginning and we must be brave.”

They had enough people to seal off the streets: down Portland Place and along the Euston Road, covering Tottenham Court Road, and the south side of the square, Mortimer Street and Goodge Street.

It meant that everyone was set back from any immediate confrontation while confining the Oshicora loyalists to a small area. There’d been defections to Petrovitch, but not as many as he would have hoped. He’d have preferred them all to come over, and that would have been that, but no.

And Madeleine wasn’t happy at all.

“There is no good reason for you to do this.”

“There is every good reason for me to do this. She is not going to shoot me.” Petrovitch watched as Madeleine reloaded his gun for him.

“All it takes is one—just one—nervous kid with his finger on the trigger and I’m a widow. I’m not going to let that happen.” She slapped the magazine back home and presented him with the pistol’s butt.

He took it from her and jammed it down the waistband of his trousers.

“I’m calling her and I’m arranging safe passage through the barricades they’ve put up. If we go in mob-handed, it’s going to be carnage.”

She grabbed him by the scaffolding on his arm and pulled him somewhere more private. That meant marching him across to the church that stood on the corner, and under the blackened and dead branches of the trees that flanked it.

“I don’t want to lose you. Not now.”

Petrovitch reached out and slid his finger into one of the holes in her impact armor, scooping out some of the gel and holding it up so she couldn’t help but see it. “You didn’t give me that choice, did you?”

“You’ve got other people.”

“Oh, okay. Which one do you approve of to take your place? Tina? Happy with that? Or Tabletop? Want to imagine me and her together?”

“You know I…”

“Or both together? They could have me on a time-share, and I could hope neither of them got jealous enough to put a blade in the other’s guts.”

“Sam, I don’t mean,” she started, but he interrupted her again.

“What the huy do you mean?” He squared up to her, shaking his arm free and baring his teeth. “You are not a replaceable part. You never were. Yobany stos, I missed you. Every night, every day, no let-up. I have friends, I have a daughter, but you’re my wife.”

“Then listen to me. You’re going to get yourself killed, and I’m going to destroy myself with guilt. I wasn’t there for all that time, and now I face losing you forever. You cannot go out there and expect them not to shoot you. It’s insane.” Her face had gone white, and she was shaking. She was scared, pure and simple. Terrified.

“Sit down,” said Petrovitch. “Come and sit down.”

The steps up to the church porch were close by, and they sat together, side by side, hips pressed against each other even though there was plenty of space.

“Look. I’ve got people queuing up to throw themselves in front of me and take the bullet meant for me. You, Tina, Tabletop, Lucy even in her own cackhanded way, and you’re only just ahead of a couple of thousand Freezone workers who seem determined to follow me, lemming-like, off the precipice. I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone to die because of me.”

“We’re doing it because we love you.”

“You’re doing it because you’re all bat-shit crazy,” he grumbled. “I’ve had enough. I’m taking some decisions for myself, and I don’t have to put them in front of a committee to get them ratified. I’m no one’s shestiorka. If someone’s going down because I’ve screwed up, I want that someone to be me.”

“I don’t. I’d rather it was anyone else but you.”

“Yeah. I’d rather it was like that, too, but I’m going to stick my middle finger up at Fate and tell her to idi v’zhopu. ” He shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“You could stay safe, here with me.”

“And what happens to Sonja? Is there anyone who can do something about her, without people bayoneting each other in the street? Anyone but me?”

Madeleine started to cry soundlessly. Fat tears dropped into her lap. “Don’t do this.”

“There’s no one else. We both know that.” He stood and kissed the top of her head, where her shaved head ended and her mane of plaited hair started.

“At least take my armor.” She pulled at her sleeves until the Velcro fastenings at the back started to part. She was half out of it in seconds, clawing at the straps that held it in place, as if her speed would help protect him.

“Maddy, stop.” He put his hand on one side of the stiff collar, and moved it to cover her shoulder again. Under the armor, she wore a pale skinsuit, and it was hellishly distracting. “Just stop. I can barely stand up as it is, and I’m not going to fight. I’m going to talk. Impact armor isn’t going to help.”

“I have to do something.”

“Be here when I get back? That would be good.” He kissed her again, and made the long walk back across the road.

Valentina’s eyes narrowed as he approached. “Problem?”

“Yeah. We’re doing it anyway. Load me up.”

She had the box of singularity bombs out next to her, and she hooked four onto the exposed metalwork of his arm. Individually, they didn’t weigh that much: together, with their batteries and timers, they dragged all the harder.

“Here,” said Lucy, pressing a bottle of water on him. She’d already cracked the seal on the top. “Anything else you need?”

“Vodka?”

“I don’t know.” She was suddenly flustered. “We can get some.”

“Joke,” he said. “I’m not serious. Well, not that serious. I shouldn’t really be drunk in charge of implosives, but a quick slug of the hard stuff would’ve gone down well. No matter.”

He patted his pockets in case he’d forgotten something, but he didn’t have anything in them anyway. His passport was in his courier bag, in Valentina’s car. Madeleine’s was there too. He hadn’t told her. If things went badly, he never would.

Too late now.

“Okay.” He started out down the street toward the tower, past the two groups of armed men and women clustered at each corner behind their hastily erected barricades. He stopped when he crossed the road markings and looked back. Tabletop, Valentina and Lucy seemed uncertain as to what to do next: one or other of them was with him almost all the time.

“What?” called Tabletop.

“Aren’t you supposed to wish me luck?”

“You don’t believe in luck. You don’t leave anything to chance.”

“Yeah, well.” He turned again. He could see the tower, its strange top-heavy shape and thin waist surrounded by microwave dishes. “First time for everything.”

The street was narrow, with three- and four-story houses. The ground floors had mostly been turned into shops, and steel shutters covered their windows. The Jihad had passed through one way, and the Outies the other, but the damage had been repaired. It was mostly as it had been, except for the line of cars parked across the street further down.