The Curve of The Earth (20 page)

Newcomen hit him. Not hard enough to really hurt, but it was a surprise all the same. He only managed it once. Petrovitch closed his fist around Newcomen’s own and squeezed.

Newcomen gasped and slipped off the chair on to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t ever do that again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Michael, what the
huy
is going on?”

[Joseph Newcomen wished to communicate with Christine Logan. I initiated the call and secured it from the repeated attempts to trace our location. I was even able to provide him with a visual feed from spyware located throughout the Logan residence.]

Petrovitch let go, and left Newcomen clutching his bruised fingers. “When you say throughout, you mean that in your precise, unambiguous way, right?”

[Areas that would normally be considered private for humans such as bedrooms and bathrooms are being actively surveilled. I have discussed the implications of this discovery with Joseph Newcomen.]

“Which is why he’s crying at my feet and demanding I take him back to Seattle.” He looked down. “You know, I could do without this.”

[It is highly likely that Joseph Newcomen will make repeated attempts to return to Christine Logan alone, no matter how forcefully you prevent him. In addition, his psychological state will render him ineffectual.]

“More ineffectual? He’s positively a black hole of effectiveness as it is. So what you’re saying is we have to do something, or I’m going to end up kicking him out of a moving plane flying at five hundred k over the Canadian tundra just to get some peace and quiet.”

[Essentially, yes.]

“It’s not illegal to put surveillance cameras up in your own property, is it?”

[One of the fundamental tenets of Reconstruction is that a family is free to order itself within its own dwelling space, with no government interference.]

“Newcomen? I might be able to turn my ears off so I don’t hear your whining, but I still know you’re doing it. Sit in the chair and shut up. The grown-ups are trying to work out what to do.” Petrovitch scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Could never grow a proper beard. Now, Archie’s? That was serious beardage. Right, Michael: call an ad-hoc. I want to go after the house computer.”

Half a world away, a committee was formed, told of the reason, and asked to come to a decision.

They did. It wasn’t quite what he expected.

“Newcomen. I can make you an offer.”

Newcomen looked up for the first time in a while. He regarded Petrovitch suspiciously. “Go on.”

“Michael can attack Logan’s house computer: wipe its memory, erase its programs. The security system’s such that it’ll go into fail-safe mode, and Christine’s going to have to be
rescued by the fire department cutting through the front door. That’ll get her out of the house for a couple of days.”

“But won’t Logan just load everything back up again?”

“Yeah, course he will. Trashing his computer is conditional on you telling Christine what we’ve done and why.” Petrovitch shrugged. “The ad-hoc says she has a right to know. Difficult to argue with that. And if you don’t do it, I will; I imagine she’s more likely to believe you without me having to get technical on her about where the spy-eyes and mics are hidden.”

“I…”

“Five minutes ago you wanted us to turn around and appear on her doorstep. What, precisely, were you going to say to her then?”

“I hadn’t really thought it through,” admitted Newcomen.

“No. Let’s try the brains before the balls, okay?”

Newcomen nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell her.”

“Good. Michael? Time to go to work.”

The AI bore down on the Logan house computer and inserted itself like a crowbar between its external face and its internal functions. It systematically deleted reams of data, all the while telling the program that was supposed to watch for that sort of thing that everything was just fine.

Once it had erased pretty much everything, it started on the security system itself. Doors locked, shutters fell, alarms sounded. No more than a shell running a few lines of code, the computer turned itself off. Phones, lights, power. Everything gone. Christine and her mother were left with their mobiles to call for help.

“Done,” said Petrovitch. “We need to get back in the air.”

“That’s it?”

“What did you expect? A really big explosion?”

“I don’t know. Can I check on her?” asked Newcomen.

“Michael’s monitoring the police: the dispatcher has just sent a squad car, and Mrs Logan’s called her husband. They’ll be out within the hour, even if they have to use a shaped charge.” Petrovitch rested his hand on the doorknob. “This is just a distraction. Saving your ex-fiancée from her pig of a father is not why I’m here. It’s not why you’re here, either. I’m glad you’re happier, but we did this so you could concentrate on finding Lucy.”

“I’m still grateful.”

“Good. Hold that thought.”

Petrovitch kept on heading north, and again he immersed himself in the being of the plane. He’d turned from a kid who’d die if he ran too far into a man-machine hybrid who believed he could fly. It wouldn’t stop there, either. Not if he had his way.

At some point, Newcomen excused himself and went to sit back in the cabin to talk to Christine: it wouldn’t have made any difference whether he stayed or not. Petrovitch was entirely content to leave the matter to Michael, and was mostly unaware of anything that was happening in the cockpit.

A long time later, Newcomen came back. Petrovitch emerged from his fugue long enough to see that the man was red-eyed and occasionally shuddering with an escaping sob.

It must have been like a funeral, to finally see all your hopes and dreams piled up in one heap, then have someone hand you the match to light the cordwood that would turn them all to ashes.

Petrovitch retreated.

[He has told her.]

“Yeah.”

[The conversation went as expected. Joseph Newcomen will be emotionally fragile for some time: we must factor that into our future treatment of him.]

“A broken heart is the least of his worries.”

[As far as he is concerned, it is his only worry at the moment. He asked for music afterwards: Kenny Rogers, specifically.]

“It’s worse than I thought. All this sitting around is giving him too much time to think: it’ll be different when we get to Fairbanks. Whatever it is they’ve got waiting for us won’t be bread and salt, at any rate.”

[There is further analysis of the events of February third. Do you wish to review it now, or wait until you land?]

“It’s fifteen minutes till Dawson City. It’ll keep.”

He dropped down into the Yukon Valley, the high mountains rising up either side. He turned hard to starboard, then to port, and suddenly there were lights on the ground in an unnatural geometric grid, burning bright against the snow. They illuminated the streets, and beyond: the glow carried out over the river ice. This was where he had to throttle down, and head up the Klondike to the airport. The residents wouldn’t appreciate yet another jet roaring in overhead.

Beyond the strange wormy landscape of mine tailings, he spotted the airport squeezed in between the valley sides. He cut the power further and drifted in over the runway. There was a collection of half a dozen small cargo planes clustered around the main terminal, and he slotted his craft down behind them. Compared with the bulky outlines of the next nearest plane, his own looked fragile.

“Last stop before Fairbanks. Time to stretch your legs, Newcomen.”

“I can stay here. I’ll just get in the way otherwise.”

Petrovitch pursed his lips. “You can mope all you like. But you’re not doing it on my time. Now, out of your seat, and come with me.”

“And how cold is it outside?”

“Why don’t you talk to your link and find out? It’s there: use it.”

When Newcomen discovered it was minus thirty-five, he rebelled. “No way.”

Petrovitch pointed through the windscreen at the next plane. A slit of orange light showed its cargo bay door was ajar. “We’re going as far as there, that’s all.”

“So whose plane is that?”

“This is the way it works: Freezone people don’t ask stupid questions because they’re not lazy and they can find out the answers for themselves. It means that conversations can be direct, to the point, and mercifully short.” He left it there, and made his way to the cabin door.

The ladder dropped its feet into the snow. Petrovitch trotted down and headed straight for the sliver of light. Minus thirtyfive was genuinely awful without the proper gear, enough to turn his skin waxy and freeze the liquid lubricating his eyes. As he approached the other plane, the door opened wider, and more light spilled out. A preternaturally tall figure stood inside, waiting.

Petrovitch turned sideways through the gap, making sure he didn’t touch any of the metal, and found himself enveloped in strong arms and a warm coat.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself,” she replied. “You made good time.”

“It’s fast, even if it does look like it’ll break if you drop it.”

Madeleine squinted through the door. “It will break if you drop it. You haven’t dropped it, have you?”

“Not a scratch on it. We might even be able to return it in one piece.”

“Something tells me that’s not going to happen.” She looked over his head. “Newcomen.”

“Mrs Petrovitch.” He stood in the doorway, looking uncertain.

“If you come in, I can close the door.” She let go of Petrovitch and thumbed the mechanism. The door cranked shut with a bang, and Newcomen shivered.

Madeleine threw another coat at him, and he caught it and put it on quickly. He noticed that beneath her own coat, she had an armoury hanging from her wide belt.

“Those don’t look like they’re for bears.”

“Is that what he told you?” She snorted. “And you believed him?”

Newcomen looked across at Petrovitch, who was sealing his coat at the front and lifting the fur-lined hood over his head.

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t bears, all the same.”

“Of course, if we’d done this my way…”

“And you were voted down.” Petrovitch’s face was framed by the hood. “There’s still plenty of time for this to turn into a hot war.”

It was then that Newcomen realised just what was in the cargo hold with him. Long metal crates, with serial numbers and scripts in different languages. “These boxes. You can’t be serious.”

Petrovitch looked around him. He knew what was inside each one, and it still surprised him. “Maddy figures that turning up to a fight with nothing more than good intentions is a quick
way to get yourself killed. But we’re not looking to start the fight.”

“They are,” said Madeleine. “They’ve been moving assets north for the past week.”

“Assets?” asked Newcomen. “What sort of assets?”

“We can’t see through the tops of the trucks hauling north on the Dalton Highway, but we’ve a pretty good idea of what they’re carrying. We thought we might need something to level the odds.” She rested a foot on top of a steel case that looked like it might contain a surface-to-air missile launcher.

“You can’t start a war. Up here. That’s… ridiculous. There’s two of you.” Newcomen saw that both Petrovitchs wore identical expressions. “All these planes are yours, aren’t they?”

“They might be.” Madeleine jerked her head at her husband. “And he’s never needed any help starting a war. The rest of us are only here to make sure it’s done right.”

“You’re all insane.”

“You think so?” Petrovitch tapped Newcomen’s top pocket. “Get your reader out. Michael has something to show us.”

Newcomen fumbled with his cold fingers for the plastic rectangle. Petrovitch didn’t need one, hadn’t needed one for a decade. He called up his sandbox and sat down beside it with Michael.

“Hey. What’s the news?”

[We believe SkyShield targeted a satellite of currently unknown origin. If our theory, which currently enjoys some seventy per cent confidence, is correct, it has serious implications for global communications in general, and the integrity of the Freezone in particular.]

Ten years on from the lanky Japanese kid who’d guided him though the Outie war, Michael’s preferred form was disturbingly
like a young Hamano Oshicora. He could be literally anything he wanted, but this was his settled identity. It did no harm, and Petrovitch wondered if the AI had done this consciously: he never asked, and Michael never offered an answer of his own.

“No one’s complained about any missing hardware.”

[Which indicates that there are two secrets here: firstly, why the satellite’s owners wish to remain anonymous, and secondly, what reason the Americans had for shooting it down,] said Michael.

“Unless the Yanks are testing out a new anti-satellite system on a bird they’ve put up themselves, in preparation for blanking out the sky for the rest of us.”

[This is a possibility that falls within the thirty per cent uncertainty. Other options include a malfunction of SkyShield, the accidental targeting of a bolide, or indeed the deliberate targeting of a piece of debris that might have posed a threat to people on the ground.]

“But most of the analysts don’t buy any of that.” Petrovitch leaned over his sandbox, which transformed itself into a map of the northern hemisphere, pole uppermost. “Show me.”

Michael started to draw his explanation. Red lines representing the orbits of objects in space, blue to mean the objects themselves.

[The raw data has been extrapolated to a best-fit scenario, but some things we can be certain of: a SkyShield interceptor in Low Earth Orbit fires a kinetic energy weapon at zero nine thirteen, Universal Time. Eight seconds later, a flash is observed one hundred and twenty kilometres away from the interceptor by a Freezone micro-satellite. The images captured are compromised by the low angle at which they were acquired, taken through the outer reaches of the atmosphere.]

“The originals look like
govno
, right?”

[A considerable amount of processing was required to extract useable data, yes. The object re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere and, at zero nine twenty-three Universal Time, caused a seismic event measuring three point seven Richter. This equates to a yield of approximately one half to one third of a megatonne ten kilometres above the epicentre, south of Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.]