Саймон Морден - Equations of Life

“Your hotel,” said Petrovitch. “What’s it called?”

“The Waldorf Hilton. You know it?”

“Yeah, I go to the tea dances every week. District Line to Temple. Go and get a ticket and meet me on the other side of the screen.”

Sorenson stepped closer as people streamed by, in and out of the station. They were in the lee of one of the pillars, a tiny island of stillness.

“I’m sorry,” he started to say.

“Good. You should be. Thank whichever god you pray to that Marchenkho is a skatina who wouldn’t know the truth if it gave him a minyet .” Petrovitch sighed, and let his shoulders sag. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I really did just want to help her. Do the right thing for once. And now look: I could die any moment, and it’s either an assassin or my heart. I’ve got things to do, things that I can only do alive. The mysteries of creation don’t discover themselves.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said I won’t help you. I won’t help you, or Chain, or Marchenkho, or any combination of you, do anything to the Oshicoras. Got it?”

“I get it.” Sorenson felt in his pocket for his credit chip. “But I don’t buy your story about the Oshicora girl. Where else would someone like you get the money for an implant?”

“Yeah, well. I’m going organic.” Petrovitch assumed his usual shrug.

Sorenson breathed in sharply. “How the hell…?”

“None of your business,” said Petrovitch, and stepped out into the concourse where he let himself be swept away.

They were walking down the street in front of the Oshicora Tower. Sorenson had showered, changed, and set his face hard.

“I’ll find some way to get me out of this.”

“Whatever pizdets you’re in is only going to get worse if you fight against Oshicora. He’ll flay you alive if you cross him.” Petrovitch looked up to the pinnacle of the glass dome; the park was lost behind the reflection of the sky. “If you serve loyally, he’ll be more merciful than if you get antsy about it. You’re nearly done, right?”

“Another day, or two. Debugging the beta version. I’ve never run it on a quantum platform before.”

“What’s it like?”

“The hardware? It’s a box a yard square on each side.” He looked across at Petrovitch. “That’s not what you mean, is it?”

“No,” said Petrovitch. They were at the start of the wide-open concourse, and he deliberately slowed down to stay in the crowd. “How does it feel?”

“Reality is imperfect compared to VirtualJapan. It flows, whatever the loading. I haven’t found an upper limit to its bandwidth yet. I don’t know if it even has a limit.” Sorenson gazed at the tower, and was distracted for a moment. “Now, that’s something I could do.” He left without explanation, and Petrovitch watched him make the long walk to the revolving doors. He disappeared from view.

“Hello.”

He spun around. Sonja Oshicora stood in front of him, slightly away from the edge of the pavement. She was almost alone, but was protected by a loose circle of men that now surrounded him, too. The people who walked by on their way to the towers or along the side of the road moved around the circumference: inside was empty but for the two of them.

Most of the Oshicora guards were looking out, but two of them were watching Petrovitch, and they both had their hands inside their jackets. Petrovitch moved his own hands very slowly, so that they were always in view. He made certain that they went nowhere near his bag.

“Hello,” he replied, uncertain of what else to say. Certainly nothing that would prolong the conversation.

She, however, had other ideas. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

“I… I’m not likely to forget.” He watched her tuck her exquisitely cut hair behind her ears and smile with impossibly white teeth.

“It’s good to see you well again,” she said, as if suffering multiple heart attacks was a minor inconvenience. “You are well, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He wanted to run again; away, as fast as he could.

“Good,” she repeated. She talked like she was fey, otherworldly. Compared to Petrovitch, she was. “I understand my father has already thanked you for your actions.”

Again, actions: fleeing through the Metrozone while Ukrainian gangsters tried to kill him. The word didn’t do it justice at all.

“Everything’s settled. No honor debt, no favors owing, nothing. It’s all fine.”

If she noticed his discomfort, she ignored it. “I wanted to thank you myself,” she said. In one step, she was pressing her lips against his. Her breath was warm, tasting of spice, smelling of flowers.

In return, he was rigid with fear. What lasted only a moment seemed to go on forever. He thought he might have another seizure there on the concourse.

She released him, and looked out from under her fringe. Her brown eyes seemed impossibly, animé large.

“Sam,” she said. “I can call you Sam, can’t I?”

“Yeah,” he squeaked. Someone had stolen all his oxygen, and he had a good idea who the culprit was.

“Thank you, Sam.” She smiled again, and that was it; his audience was over. She walked toward the Oshicora Tower, trailing her scent along with her bodyguards, leaving him pale and trembling in the humid, stinking air that blew across the city.

He stood motionless as the bubble of isolation that had surrounded him pricked. Again, he was shoulder to shoulder with the Metrozone. He wondered what Old Man Oshicora would make of it, and hoped that if he was watching, he’d make nothing of it at all.

It was a short walk to the lab. Time, finally, to do some work.

He opened the door slowly, so as not to disturb Pif. She was precisely where he’d left her, crouched over her desk, staring at sheets of minutely detailed equations. If she knew he was there, she made no sign of it.

He threw his bag on his chair, collected her empty mug and rinsed it out using bottled water and his fingers, pouring the brown-stained contents into a pot plant. Then he busied himself making coffee: spooning the granules, boiling the water, stirring and breathing the steam in.

She still hadn’t moved. Even when he delivered the fresh mug to her desk, setting it down exactly on the sticky ring left by the previous brew.

“Pif? Are you catatonic again?”

One eye twitched.

She got like this sometimes, caught up in a recursive math loop that rendered her higher functions incapable of voluntary action. Petrovitch waved his hand in front of her face; her eye twitched faster.

“Yeah, okay. A drop of the hard stuff should sort you out.” He went behind her desk and opened the drawer that contained the bottle of lemon juice. He spilled some into the palm of his hand and brought it close to her nose.

She blinked, made a face, and recoiled.

“Sam,” she said. “How long?”

“No idea. I just got in.”

She stretched extravagantly, and Petrovitch disposed of the juice the same way he’d gotten rid of the coffee dregs. She gave a cry of pain.

“You okay?”

“Pins and needles. I’ll be fine in a minute. Ow ow ow.”

“How you don’t get pressure sores is a miracle.” He wiped his hand on a suitable leaf and used a wet wipe to clear the stickiness away.

“My neck hurts too.”

“You’re not safe to be left on your own.” He pulled out two cellophane-wrapped pastries from his bag. “They’re a bit squashed, but they’re fresh. Ish. At least, I only just bought them.”

“Give me a minute to boot up.” She dug her knuckles into her left thigh and grimaced. “What’s the time?”