Саймон Морден - Equations of Life

“By they, I take it you think it was the Paradise militia?”

“Who else?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea who.” There was smoke drifting down the road. “What’s on fire?”

“My church.” Father John flexed his knuckles and dared Petrovitch to smirk. “And you still haven’t answered the question. “What are you doing here? Looting?”

“Don’t be a zhopa . I’m going to find Sonja Oshicora. The New Machine Jihad tell me she’s in Paradise.”

The priest looked puzzled. “The who?”

“No, the New Machine Jihad. I think they’re the ones behind all the weird computer shit.”

“You can’t go to Paradise,” said Sister Madeleine, over the heads of everyone.

“Yeah. I’m going to do it anyway.”

“But they’ll kill you,” she said.

“I’m officially dead already.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and felt the weight of the guns, the bullets, his soul. A fresh outbreak of gunfire clattered down a side street. There was a collective flinch.

“I need to get these people to safety,” said Father John quickly. “What can you tell me about the center?”

“It’s pretty quiet. Where are you heading?”

“A church on Mount Street.”

“Then avoid Hyde Park. Take the long route round.”

The father held his flag up again and waved his ragged column on. They streamed around Petrovitch, scared not just of what they’d left behind, but of what lay ahead of them. He couldn’t blame them.

As the crowd flowed and thinned, he could see Sister Madeleine striding toward him. She came closer, and as she walked past him, she deliberately looked away. A few seconds later, she stopped, clenching her empty fist. The others carried on without her.

“What is it that you want from me, Sam?”

“I don’t want anything from you. I want you to go.”

She still refused to face him. “Why is finding Sonja Oshicora so important?”

“I promised that I would. But that was before the New Machine Jihad crashed every information system in the Metrozone. Now, doing what it wants might be the only way to get it to stop.” He stared at her tall, broad back. “Something else too. I think I might actually be doing the right thing for a change. I’m not the only one looking for her, but I’m not going to put a bullet in her head when I find her.”

Finally, someone noticed the nun’s absence and told Father John.

“Sister Madeleine. With us, please,” he shouted.

“Do you know how difficult you make this for me?” she said.

Petrovitch didn’t, although he was both hoping and fearing that she might show him.

“Sister? Now.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. She was crying. “Tell me honestly: what is it you want?”

“I…” Petrovitch didn’t know how to articulate the feeling he had inside.

Sister Madeleine ground her foot on the tarmac and took a step away from him.

“I want to make a difference,” he blurted, then took several deep breaths. “That sounds stupid. I could have hidden, I could have run. I didn’t. Whatever crappy motive I had to start with, I want to do this. I have to.”

“How very Russian,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “You won’t last five minutes without me. Come on.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“I thought you wanted to go to Paradise.” She moved to a shop doorway, and checked left and right.

Petrovitch jogged after her. He saw Father John usher his flock behind a row of abandoned cars, then start back up the road toward them. His stiff movements and set face showed his mood.

The nun was busy pulling her robes off and bundling them up. When the priest arrived, she thrust them at him.

“You have to come with us, Sister. It’s your duty.”

“Father. I can’t.”

“You are not free to make that decision.” He grabbed her arm. “Madeleine.”

She shrugged him off with such violence that he was thrown backward to the ground. “I have to go with him. That’s it. I have to.” She slipped her fingers under her veil and peeled it off.

Petrovitch stepped forward and helped the priest up. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t understand this either.”

“This… this is all your fault.” He snatched his hand away. “Sister. If you leave now, you might never be able to come back. You’re breaking your vows.”

“So it seems. It’s getting to be a bit of a habit.” She barked out a laugh. “Hah. Habit.” She was down to her impact armor, interlocking sheets of fabric that looked like fish scales. She held up her gun and peered around the corner. “Clear.”

“Looks like we’re not hanging about. Sorry, Father.”

“What did you tell her? What?”

Petrovitch was at a loss. “Just that what I was doing meant something.”

“And what she’s doing doesn’t?”

“It’s her choice! I haven’t asked for anything.”

Sister Madeleine snagged Petrovitch’s collar and pulled him after her as she made a short, darting run to the next piece of hard cover. She pushed him against a set of window shutters and crouched down. She scanned the road ahead, ignoring the plaintive shouting of her name.

“Go again,” she said.

She trusted him not to wander off this time, and let go of his coat as she headed toward a car parked sideways to the curb. Petrovitch ducked beneath the level of the roof and looked through the windows.

Smoke drifted in dirty clouds between the buildings. The occasional shot rang out, but nothing too close.

“I appreciate that I’m only a filthy heathen, and it’s probably not my place to say anything, but are you sure about this?”

“All I’m going to say is that you’d better make this worth my while.” She pulled her plait over her shoulder and looped it around her wrist.

“I’ll try not to disappoint you.” Petrovitch thought he could make out figures in the distance, and he jabbed his finger forward.

“I’ve just left everything I’ve known for the last four years, and you’ll try not to disappoint me? Good start.” She risked another look. “Go right. Doorway on the corner.”

They ran doubled over. He made a much smaller silhouette than she did. Hers was more graceful. This time the space they had to hide in was narrow, and they had to press themselves in, body to body. Their height difference meant that Petrovitch didn’t know quite where to look. Rather than staring at her armored chest, he looked up into her big brown eyes.

“I mean it,” she said. “If you let me down, I’ll kill you.”

“I kind of assumed that.”

“Good: just so we both know where we stand.”

There were footsteps, the sound of broken glass underneath booted feet, voices. Petrovitch and the sister froze and waited. She turned her head to hide her face, and Petrovitch could see the stubble on the side of her partially shaved head.

Someone laughed, kicked a loose plastic bottle across the street, then shot it for target practice. Their effort was greeted with a chorus of jeering, and a fusillade of firing.

When it had finished, they moved on.

“Rabble,” she muttered. “Take away their guns and they’re nothing.”

“It’s not what Father John thought. It’s not what you thought.”

“Forgive me for feeling uncharitable. That stink on the wind is my church.” She checked the road they were going to take was free of militia. “Keep to the right-hand side. There’s a red glass-fronted building at the end of this street. Turn right and go into the car park behind. We can cut through.”

She eased herself out and ran again, darting between cars, leaping over the urban debris of decay. If Petrovitch hadn’t known where to look, it would have been impossible to follow her. She was like a gray ghost, disapparating at will.