Theories of Flight

by the shockwave and incinerated.”

“Translated?”

“You got lucky.”

“I’ll remember to pass that along to the next of kin”; Chain grunted as he hauled the car around Marble Arch.

“What was it guarding?”

“I… don’t understand.”

Petrovitch snapped the rat shut. “Clearly. These things aren’t tourists, Chain—it was keeping the Outies away from something, probably had done for a while, when the MEA patrol just happened to stumble across it and it all went pizdets. Take a look at the satellite images—near infrared if you can get them—or just swamp the area with soldiers until you find whatever it was.”

The last time he’d been up the Edgware Road, he’d been on his way to rescue Sonja from the Paradise militia. Madeleine’s church had been at the top end of the street, before it had been burned down and a Jihad demolition robot had stirred the rubble.

It was at the start of an arrow-straight line that cut a swathe all the way to the East End.

“Petrovitch?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m talking to you.”

He tried to blink away the images that were burned onto his retina. “Looks like I’m not listening.”

The domik pile on Regent’s Park had been kicked over by the same robot, heading northwest. Four months on, the chaos of spilled containers was being taken apart by teams of thieves with gas axes, burning their way through the labyrinth one death-filled space at a time.

“You lived there, didn’t you?”

“No. I had a bolt-hole there. Different. One of the high-up domiks.” Regent’s Park slid by and out of sight. “I wonder if they’ve got to it yet?”

“Leave anything of interest inside?”

“No.” He tried a smile, and found it didn’t fit. “I was always careful.”

“That’s a matter for debate.” Chain threaded his way through the drift of rubble either side of the Hampstead Road junction, then picked up speed again. He took the car down a side road and toward a tall chain- link fence.

He pressed his knees against the underside of the steering wheel and, using both hands, felt in his pockets for his card.

“Chyort.” Petrovitch reached over and steered them, more or less, toward the gate. “You may as well not bother. There’s no one to show it to.”

Chain applied the brakes and the car jerked to a halt, front bumper almost touching the fence. He left the engine idling and got out.

Petrovitch joined him and, together, they peered through the mesh.

“Hey,” Chain called. “Major Chain, MEA.”

“Yeah. Your spidey senses not tingling yet?” Petrovitch buried his fists in the grid of metal and heaved. The gate swung open with a tinny rattle. Beyond was a short street of anonymous prefab factory units, dwarfed by the station concourse next door.

Chain fumbled for his gun. “I don’t suppose you’re carrying?”

“No. Not at the moment.”

“Look in the boot.”

Petrovitch backed away from the gate and popped the lid of the boot. When he closed it again, he was feeding cartridges into an automatic shotgun. “You called for help?” he asked.

“I’ve done that.” Chain looked up at the buildings either side of the concrete road. “They may be some time.”

“Well,” said Petrovitch, sitting down on the warm bonnet, “I can wait.”

“Aren’t you coming?” Chain looked back at him.

“This is well beyond my pay-grade, Chain. When it’s safe, you can call me.”

Chain dithered for a moment, grinding his heel against the loose grit. He shrugged his shoulders and started to walk.

The explosion started small: a white flash of light behind a ground-floor window. The walls flicked off a coat of dust and started to swell, like they were taking in a mighty breath. Then they failed in a roar of black smoke and orange fire. The roof was briefly in the sky, all in one piece, girders and corrugated iron sheets. It peeled apart and started to fall back to earth, one sharp spinning piece after another.

Petrovitch rolled back, turning. He was crouched on the top of the car. Things were flying toward him, rather quicker than he could run. He jumped, and the blast caught him while he was still in the air.

He was thrown down like a doll, and the ground was very hard indeed.

7

He could taste blood, and he was certain it was his. Dust and smoke swirled all around: his lungs were full of it, and the skin on his face was scrubbed wet by the rough road. His ears were ringing.

Petrovitch lay there and blinked, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His glasses were awry, and he dragged a hand out from beneath him to straighten them. There was blood on his palms, too.

He took a breath, coughed hard, and focused on the shotgun lying in front of him. He reached out and dragged it toward him, then used it to push himself upright.

The bombed building had fallen in on itself, extinguishing the fire beneath, but all around were shattered windows and flames twisting from them. A column of black ash rose thick into the air before being blown ragged in the wind. Behind the noise in his head was the clamor of alarms.

Chain’s car was between him and what was left of the fence, its paintwork now scarred by more than age and the occasional knock. The open doors had lost all their glass, the front tires their air.

Petrovitch limped to where the gate lay flattened against the ground.

“Chain!”

No sign of him. Popping supports, snapping walls, cracking rafters, but no Chain.

He slung the gun over his shoulder and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Chain!”

He could feel the heat from where he stood. Steam was rising from beneath his feet. He whirled around, seeing for the first time a straggling crowd forming back at the roundabout.

“Chain!”

He saw him. He saw his feet, his legs as far as his knees, laid out on the bonnet of his own car. The rest of him had been forced through the concave windscreen.

Petrovitch walked slowly toward him, aware that Chain wasn’t moving his worn shoes, not even an involuntary twitch.

“Chain?”

He knew he had to check. He knew he didn’t want to. He gripped the top of the door, steeling himself, then ducked down.

For a moment, he couldn’t work out what he was looking at. Chain’s head appeared to be missing, and then he saw it, bent back under his still and shattered body, caught between the two front seats.

Petrovitch straighted up, breathing hard. Everything seemed to be spinning, the sky, the smoke, the street. People were running toward him, running away from him, shouting incomprehensible things at him. He didn’t understand.

And someone caught his eye.

A figure, all in black, was walking away up the Pancras Road. Walking. Reaching a line of bystanders and