Kew. Petrovitch could see it on the aerial map. It was inviting him to follow it.
He turned to face the east, down the line of the freight cars, taking in the burning sky as he span. Miyamoto had crouched down against a wheel, hands resting on the weed-strewn ballast, head bowed, hauling air. He sensed he was being watched.
“What?”
“There’s a problem.”
“Which is?” Miyamoto bared his clenched teeth.
“My associate reckons on a couple of hundred thousand Outies between us and where we want to go.”
Miyamoto looked sharply up.
“Yeah,” said Petrovich. “If you want to bug out, I’ll understand. In fact, I think I’d prefer you to go. You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.”
“What do you mean? What is wrong with what I am wearing?”
“You look like a
“Whereas you, with your coat in ruins and your clothes unwashed for weeks…”
“Am a dead ringer for an Outie.” Petrovitch flashed a feral grin. “Who would have guessed that poor dress sense and appalling personal hygiene could be a survival trait?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“At a rough guess. It could be more.”
Miyamoto dragged himself upright and stalked over to Petrovitch until they were almost nose to nose.
“I should kill you myself and save them the trouble.”
“What would Miss Sonja say then?”
“I would kill myself after dispatching you, so no explanation would be necessary. At least,” he said, “I could go to my grave knowing that I have saved her from wasting her life fawning over an idiot like you.”
Petrovitch pointed over Miyamoto’s shoulder. “The south is that way.”
Miyamoto balled his fists in frustration. “Two hundred thousand enemies. How can you possibly believe you can avoid them all—and then find your wife?”
“Clearly I do, because otherwise I’d be giving up and going home.”
“That is not what I meant. What reason could you have for this level of self-delusion?”
Petrovitch swung away. “The Outies are on the move again, and we’re too exposed here. I’m not responsible for you, or what you do: stay, go, follow, leave. Up to you. You need to choose now, though.” He shrugged, and added; “I’m still going to find Madeleine.”
[Even though you don’t love her.]
The corner of Petrovitch’s mouth twitched, and the avatar acknowledged its line-crossing with an apologetic bow, followed by its sudden vanishing.
“I swore to protect you,” said Miyamoto. His close-cropped hair bristled with undisguised fury.
“Not to me, you didn’t. You have no obligations to me whatsoever.”
Miyamoto’s jaw clenched tight. “This is not about you.”
“No, apparently not.” Petrovitch watched the red dots slowly crawl like grains of falling sand through the narrow streets of Cricklewood. He turned once to orient himself, and started to jog down to the end of the row of wagons.
He reached the last car, checked his map, and made for the particular branch line he needed. He didn’t turn around: he could hear the clatter of shifting ballast close behind him and, more telling, the hiss of whispered Japanese curses.
He didn’t know whether he was glad of the company or not. Part of him, the ruthless, dispassionate side, was already thinking that since Miyamoto would sacrifice himself to save him, how best to use this one-shot weapon. The other part, the part that he would readily acknowledge as embarrassingly small, was merely grateful for the presence of another human being not psychologically conditioned to kill him on sight.
Then there was the question of his own motivation. He knew why Miyamoto was sticking with him. He knew why the Outies wanted to gut the city and hang it out to dry. Why was he doing what he was doing?
“Any sign of Madeleine?”
[There has been radio traffic on the MilNet. Several MEA units are currently engaged with Outie fighters, and more are fortifying positions in front of the advance. I have plotted these forward units, and it is likely that your wife is with one of them. Evacuated casualties are logged, and her name does not appear.]
“How about the CIA?”
[Rendering detailed, real-time satellite data across several wavelengths and tracking all the Outies places serious demands on my resources.]
“It’s important.”
[I can appropriate more processing power if you ask me to. It will degrade the bandwidth available to other users.]
“I imagine anyone in the Metrozone is going to be too busy worrying about the Outies to notice a slow- down.”
[I meant globally. Someone, somewhere will investigate, and if they are smart enough, they will find me.]
“Yeah. Okay. Do what you can.” He was hemmed in either side by banks of greened earth. He looked up at the backs of the houses. At least when the time came, there wouldn’t be a shortage of places to hide from the Outies.
Petrovitch turned his attention to the tunnel ahead, a dead space where the AI couldn’t look. The nearest known Outies were three k to the north—Fox’s group—but there could be others ahead of the front line, untagged, invisible.
Three hundred meters in the dark. At least it was straight, and the bright circle at the far end wouldn’t be an oncoming train. He did look behind him now, and watched as the black-clad figure ran toward him, the man’s motion a lot less loose and lithe than it had been.
“We have to go through here.”
Miyamoto nodded, and he moved to the side of the tunnel, to better see if there was anyone silhouetted against the distant patch of sky. Petrovitch dodged to the other side, and kept his eyes on the shadow in front.
The line between light and dark got closer.
[The Outies are moving. Your paths will cross at Kilburn High Road, two kilometers ahead.]
“Show me.”
A semi-transparent map flicked over his view of reality. Petrovitch frowned.
“That’ll take them straight through the Paradise housing complex.”
[Yes.]
“As much as I’d like to see the Outies and the Paradise militia fight to the death, having a front line right across our route sucks.”
[There is another railway track, just to the north. It will put you behind the Outie advance.]
“Yeah. We’ll take it.” Petrovitch slowed as he reached the tunnel exit, and called to Miyamoto. “Diversion.”
He ran across the tracks to the far side, and down along the uneven line of high wooden fencing that separated railway from garden. He shoved at random panels, and one proved more rickety than the others.
He put his shoulder to it. Something gave, and he tried again. Wood splintered and nails creaked. Miyamoto lent his strength to the enterprise, and the panel cracked, coming free from one of its supporting posts.
Petrovitch braced his back against it, holding it aside, then twisted around the end once Miyamoto had slipped through. His coat caught on the protruding nails: the points pierced the leather and dug into his shoulder.
He hissed and tugged free, running his hand up under his T-shirt and coming away with a smear of dark blood.
Miyamoto was already making his way along the concrete path to the back door, trying to look stealthy.
