Fox was still an unbeliever when Petrovitch crouched down and threw his arm up under the swinging knife. His punch drove his metal finger deep into Fox’s chest. He could feel his fingertip force through skin and muscle. He could feel the wet slickness spread over his hand and wrist. He jerked his arm hard, once, twice, then thrust Fox away with one last shove.

The man tried to keep his feet. He kept on stepping back to maintain balance, each footfall marked with a bloody stain. The front of his dusty clothing turned dark and glistening. He finally stopped and tried to raise his knife. It made it halfway, but it slowly sank back down. Then he fell, metal clattering by his side, and he didn’t get up again.

Petrovitch was surrounded by uniforms. They’d forced their way forward. The coach was secure, the battle-front now shifting back toward Regent’s Park.

[A medical team is on its way. Lie down on the ground. Elevate your feet. Slow your breathing to one breath every ten seconds and lower your heart rate to half.]

Petrovitch didn’t agree. He was managing to block the pain by disconnecting the feed. If he’d known he could do that, if he’d known he could have done half of what he’d just achieved, he would have plugged in the silver jack so much sooner. He felt such joy. He had transformed himself in the way that he wanted to transform the world. He had so much energy, he felt so vital, that he almost picked up a fallen Outie spear and plunged back into battle.

Lucy ran from the emergency exit on the bus, screaming and weeping. She didn’t want to touch him out of fear, her own and that she would hurt him.

“Ohgodohgodohgod.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s more than okay.”

“How can you say that? Your face…” She held her hand over her mouth, though all Petrovitch could see was the impression of her nose and chin under her pixelated hair.

“Will you do something for me?”

She looked at him, looked away, then forced herself to look back. “I don’t think there’s much I can do. Not now.”

“There’s a computer shop at the far end of this road. If it’s shuttered, find someone who’ll break it open for you. I need a camera, one of the clip-on computer ones. Small as you can find. Bring me a choice.” He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand where the drying blood was tickling him as it dried. “Can you do that?”

He saw her chest heave as she struggled to draw breath. “Yes.”

“Go. I’ll be here.”

[Petrovitch. You must lie down.]

“Just tell me one thing: have we pushed them back?”

[Yes.]

“Then keep pushing. Lay down a series of ambushes on the route. When we’ve gone as far as we can go, pull back and suck them in. Then do it again somewhere else. Keep hitting them until they run.” Fox’s knife had fallen out of his grip, and lay close by Petrovitch’s booted foot. He bent low and picked it up. “This is where we build ourselves a new beginning.”

27

The Oshicora medic was just about done patching up Petrovitch’s body when a pair of heavy booted feet stepped up close to him and stopped. He could hear the scuffling of dirt and the man’s tired breathing. He stopped concentrating on the ongoing battles a few streets away and looked down at them from the sky, all the while rooted to the orange plastic chair he’d been made to sit in.

Olive-green uniform, combat helmet swinging from one hand, EU-issue carbine slung over his shoulder. He wore a star on each shoulder.

“Do svedanya, Major. What can I do for you?”

Petrovitch had a bandage over his eyes: there should have been no way he could have known what rank the soldier held. So the man reached out and waved his hand in the space between them.

Petrovitch caught his wrist, which brought a murmur of admonishment from the medic. “Still, Petrovitch-san.”

“Don’t do that,” said Petrovitch to the major, and let go. “I’m not a freak show.”

“You’re Doctor Petrovitch?”

“Is this supposed to be an example of military intelligence?” He raised both his arms while soft bandages unrolled around his cold, white, scarred torso. “My face was plastered over the global news networks for twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, but you had eyes then.”

“They never worked properly. I can always get new ones.” The wrapping went on. It must have been how the pharaohs had felt.

“But you.” The major leaned forward. “You can still see.”

“Well enough. You didn’t come over to discuss my supernatural vision, so what is it?”

“It’s like this: part way through the morning, my orders started to change. My tank squadron went from protecting the evacuation to shelling random parts of London, to forming a defensive position on Primrose Hill, to rescuing you, and now we’re attacking alongside all these Japanese refugees who appeared out of nowhere. And yet when I query this series of orders, what I get back from HQ is ‘do what you’re told.’ ”

“That is a little insensitive, considering it’s your zhopa on the line.” The blood had run from his fingers. They were starting to tingle.

“The only time this whole action has made any sense was just now. Everything suddenly converged on this street. We were here because of you.”

“Go on.” Petrovitch started to smile. He liked smart people.

“Let me put it another way,” said the major. “We’ve got all the old folk off your bus. We couldn’t find the driver who, judging from the damage, should be dead five times over. When I asked about the driver, all I got was silence.”

Petrovitch lowered one hand as the roll of bandage circled him once more, and he hooked his thumb in the cable that dangled from his skull. He let the wire slip through his grasp until he had hold of the rat’s battered silver case. He held it up as the bandage passed around again.

“There was no driver, was there?” said the major.

“Technically speaking, yes. If the Long Night showed us anything, it was that we’d loaded far too much processing power in our vehicles. All they were waiting for was for someone to use it.”

“You controlled the coach through that?” The major moved closer so he could see the point where the cable went in.

“Again, not exactly. It mostly drove itself, but toward the end it got a bit unpredictable. I was a bit busy, so I got some help.” Petrovitch felt the bandage being tied off, and he let his arms fall back to his sides, his hands in his lap. A spare set of Oshicora overalls were brought to him, still sealed inside their plastic wrap.

He tore the film away and shook them out, angling them to present them to the satellite. The average nikkeijin was about his size. They’d fit.

“Thanks,” he said to the medic, who started to pack up his kit into a big green box. “Could you leave me some tape?”

The major was still standing there, still poised. “What do you know about the New Machine Jihad?”

Petrovitch leaned forward and started unlacing his boots. “Pretty much everything. Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t think I’ve been following EDF orders for hours.”

“And you’d be absolutely right.” He shucked one boot and stood it next to him. “You’ve been following mine.”

The major dropped his helmet and snatched at his gun. Petrovitch carried on heaving at his other boot.

“You’re the Jihad.” The gun cocked, the safety clicked off.

“That’s one logical step too far, though I can see why you took it. No, I’m not the New Machine Jihad. But I am the Jihad’s employer. It’s more complicated than that, in that it’s not really the New Machine Jihad and I’m not paying it, but any analogy breaks when you stretch it far enough.”

Petrovitch put a foot each into the legs of the overalls and dragged them up to his thighs.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you dead right now.”