Theories of Flight

in any way. He carried himself like the samurai he’d always dreamed of becoming—and now his loyalty to the one who had made that possible was absolute. And not a little scary.

The other: Petrovitch still remembered her as a furious, smoke-tainted hostage and as a savage katana-wielding avenger. Here she was as smart businesswoman, wearing a dawn-gray pencil skirt and tailored jacket. It didn’t fit easily with his memories, but maybe he was just uncomfortable around suits.

The man, Miyamoto, tracked his every step across the wide plaza, standing close behind his employer. He withdrew slightly as Petrovitch approached, not because he wanted to or because he trusted the other man at all: he was expected to, and that was all.

“Hey,” said Petrovitch, his breath condensing about him.

Sonja Oshicora smiled. “It’s good to see you.”

Petrovitch pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. And you.”

“It’s been a long time. You only work down the road. Maybe…”

“Or maybe not. You know why.”

“Are you happy, Sam?” she asked. She was wearing lipstick. She never used to.

“I’d be happier if the city wasn’t pizdets. We’re losing her: six months, a year, two. I don’t think it matters how long it takes. You can shovel govno by the barge-load, but it’s…”

“Inevitable? I know.” She stepped closer to him, and Petrovitch forced himself not to retreat. “You can always leave. Lots of people have.”

“You stayed.”

“But you’re not staying because of me, are you?”

“No,” he said. “The world has become a complicated place, and I don’t know where I stand anymore. You heard about yesterday?”

“Of course.” She ran her finger through her fringe, and the hair fell back like it was made of rain. “Who’s the blonde?”

He didn’t know what she meant for a moment. “Oh. Her. McNeil. She’s a—she’s one of my students.”

“Does she have a first name?”

“Yeah. It’s,” and he screwed his face up, “Fiona. That’s it.”

“And what has Madeleine to say about it?”

“She hasn’t said anything. I’ve only just realized it doesn’t look brilliant and I’ve seen it a dozen times.” He shrugged. “I got caught up in the moment. I’m hugging Hugo just as hard.”

“Be careful, Sam.” Sonja looked up at him. “You might not recognize infatuation. But I do.”

Petrovitch wore a pained expression. “Really?”

She nodded.

He scratched at his chin. It rasped. Then he remembered what he’d come for. “Harry Chain.”

“Yes. Him. What does he want?” Her antipathy was clear from her tone.

“The CIA are in town, apparently, and not in an ‘if you have a few moments, I’d like to ask you some questions’ sort of way. Sorenson’s sister is here as well, and Chain thinks the two are connected.” He dug his hands in his coat pockets. “I suggested we just tell them everything rather than try and keep it all secret. Information wants to be free, and all that.”

“But what about my father?” asked Sonja. “The… you know.”

“That’s precisely why I’ve decided to keep quiet for now.” Petrovitch turned his face up to the sky. “It’s not something we can keep up forever, though. We have to start thinking ahead. Where do we want to be in five years? Ten years? We’re going from day to day with no clear vision of what we’ll become, and it’ll be the death of us. This is just survival, but we need more than that.”

“Sam…”

“I’ve spent years hiding. All that left me with is more to hide.” He let his head fall. “I’m tired, Sonja. I’ve got the world’s press waiting for me, and all because I made something the size of a grapefruit fly. That wasn’t even hard. What we did in the Long Night: now that was hard, and we can’t tell anyone about it.”

“You’re right,” she said. “If you want to escape, I have the money and the contacts: we could always run away together.”

Even though she was smiling, he knew she meant it. It cut deeper than Miyamoto’s sword ever could. His heart spun faster and his skin prickled with sweat. Then a thought, tentative and tantalizing, entered his mind.

“You know what?” said Petrovitch. “That’s not such a bad idea.”

She gasped and pressed one immaculately manicured hand to her crisp, white blouse.

“I thought they only did that in movies,” and he continued without a break. “No, really. We could all run away. This needs some serious work.”

She found her breath. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve got some answers. In the meantime, what are we going to do about Charlotte Sorenson?”

“And the CIA,” added Sonja.

“I don’t believe the zadnitza. But Sorenson’s sister will come here, and she didn’t look like the sort of woman who’d take govno from anyone.”

“I’ll deal with her.” She’d recovered from her momentary shock. “No need for her to even know you exist.”

“You don’t know what Sorenson told her.”

“So I’ll deal with her,” she repeated.

“Not that way.” Petrovitch finally got her meaning and he shook his head. “If she wants to see me, don’t block her. That’ll just look suspicious. And when it comes down to it, I killed her brother for lots of very good reasons. If I have to tell her about that, I will.”

“And I will protect my father, Sam. Even from you.”

“Yeah. I know.” He scratched the nape of his neck, touching the ring of cold metal that lay flush with his skin. “Look, I’d better be off. Find a back door to sneak in.”

“You should be happy, Sam. You’ve proved your equations were right.” She touched his arm, briefly, and Petrovitch stepped back from her, balancing on one heel and ready to turn. “Come up and see the park sometime.”

“I don’t know about that. I climbed all those stairs once: I’m not sure I want to do it again.” He bit at his thumb. “I do use lifts, now. Sometimes. But not yours.”

He spun away, raising his hand to the statue-still figure of Miyamoto. Petrovitch’s coat swirled about him, and he headed off toward Hyde Park.

He was in a foul mood by the time he made it to the lab. He threw his coat down on an acid-etched bench and kicked out at a stool.

“Vsyo govno, krome mochee.”

Then he realized he was alone for the first time in two hours, enveloped in a silence that made his ears ring. He sat down at a desk—it looked like Dominguez’s—and flipped his glasses off.

Next to a picture frame that scrolled Spanish views was a half-empty mug of coffee. Which meant it was half-full, and he fell on it gratefully, swilling the lukewarm brew down in gulps. He hadn’t done the eating thing either, and he idly rolled out the drawers, the same ones where he might keep his own stash of food in his own desk.

Nothing. And he wasn’t going to brave the canteen after the ludicrous scrum that had developed in the foyer. The paycops had been worse than useless, holding up their own cameras rather than trying to keep order. Even then, when he’d agreed to answer some questions, sitting on the reception desk to gain some height over the crowd, no one had the wit to ask him anything to do with the experiment itself. There’d been no attempt to understand the physical principles behind the effect or interrogate him on the direction of future investigations.

That had made him as angry as the constant shouts of “How do you feel?”