[Like your equations, there is more than one solution.]

“I’ve discussed this at length with Sonja. She’s convinced that your personality will be wiped and any trace of your code destroyed before I’ve got through the second paragraph of my carefully prepared speech announcing your existence to the world. Harry Chain—who is now dead…”

[I am aware of his deceased state.]

“Okay. He thought that the Americans would turn you into a weapon and terrify the world with you.”

[I am a weapon already.]

“I know that. Which is why I’m trying to teach you some scruples.”

[Madeleine has a strong ethical framework based on her religious convictions. Do you not think that she would be a better teacher?]

“I… I know what I know.”

[You would rather not take the risk? I am under your tutelage, Samuil Petrovitch, but this should not prevent me learning from others. I have studied the claims and practices of all the world’s codified belief systems, and have identified much that is both laudable and contradictory. What I lack is insight into how individual humans live within such structures. You], said the avatar, [are a good example of secular utilitarianism influenced by Enlightenment scientific methodology and Nietzschean philosophy, but you are a poor Catholic.]

Petrovitch frowned. “I lied. I thought you knew that.”

[You lied to the priest about your conversion to satisfy Madeleine’s insistence on a church wedding. I understand the sacrifice you made, but she made the greater one, and I would like to learn why she was prepared to compromise on important doctrine in order to marry you.]

“She doesn’t know I brought you back. That’s why you can’t talk to her.”

[Do you not trust her?]

“I know where this is going. I haven’t told her because I don’t trust other people, not that I don’t trust her. You might be smart, but you’ve a long way to go before you can appreciate the horrors we humans can inflict on each other. I’ll spare her that if I can.”

[Where does your compassion come from? It is an anomaly given your nihilistic-tinged materialism.] The text stopped streaming for a moment, before flashing up: [Is it love?]

Petrovitch stared at the three little words.

“I don’t know.”

[European secular society has emphasized the primacy of romantic love within marriage for several hundred years. You are a product of that society. If you did not love her, what reason did you have for marrying her?]

“Yobany stos! Enough already.”

[I would still be interested in your answer at a later time, Samuil, if you do not want to give it now.]

He had walked all the way to the Albert Bridge, almost without noticing the environment around him. The virtual had seamlessly superimposed on the real, building outlines meshing with their ruined forms, streets highlighted, information overlaid. He had navigated a route composed of wire frames and directing arrows, and a pulsing red symbol on the far side of the bridge indicated the presence of a checkpoint.

“Not now,” said Petrovitch. “Can you look for the agents?”

[I have already assigned part of my resources to the task. A greater proportion will be allocated when we have finished our conversation. Can I ask one last question?]

Petrovitch groaned. “Go on.”

[Do you love her now?]

The avatar stood on the edge of the mud-smeared pavement, face a semblance of expectation and perhaps mild amusement at his discomfort.

“Sayonara,” said Petrovitch. He tabbed the connection closed, and the figure vanished. He watched the world for a moment through the overlays, then detached them and put them back in their case.

He started across the bridge, the view either side becoming wrapped up in the spiderwork of cables that stretched from the pillars at either end. The river flowed blackly underneath, and he noticed small boats approaching from downstream. Each one had three soldiers, not in MEA gray but EDF green, and a red flag fluttering from an aerial.

He frowned at the checkpoint on the north side. The EDF were there, too, letting the militia do the checking while half a dozen of them piled sandbags on the pavement. Something had subtly changed.

Petrovitch put his hands on the parapet and leaned over. The first boat was nosing the current as it swirled around the circular brick pier, and one of the men was fixing a line to an iron ring, thick with rust.

In the bottom of the boat was a single metal case, stencilled in white. Petrovitch stepped back abruptly. He looked downriver toward the Chelsea Bridge, and up to nearby Battersea. While there was nothing to be seen under the former, the latter also had a flotilla of rigid-hulled boats clustering around its supports.

The EDF were rigging demolition charges.

He felt his mouth go dry and his heart spin up. He now lived in a city that could be cut in two at the press of a button, and he had no idea how that had happened. He’d been so busy with the aftermath of Harry Chain’s death, he’d failed to notice the Inzone falling in on itself like a balloon with a pin-prick puncture.

He could turn around and go straight back home. He could go on to the university: keep calm and carry on, and pretend there wasn’t an enemy at the gates. He hesitated, which bothered him more than the decision he was hesitating over. He should—he used to, at least—make good choices, quickly. Or even bad choices and live with the consequences.

“Pizdets,” he hissed. He jammed his hands into what was left of his pockets and stamped his way to the checkpoint.

14

He slung his coat on Pif’s empty chair and decided he needed to make some calls. He dug the rat out of the coat’s pocket and propped it up on his desk while he refilled the kettle and rinsed out the least crusty of his mugs.

A fresh brew in front of him, he ignored the several hundred messages queued up for him and called Daniels.

“Doctor Petrovitch. What can I do for you?”

Daniels was sitting in his office—no sense of urgency, no frantic shredding or packing of documents in boxes—with the light slanting in through the vertical blinds behind him.

“You’re an intelligence officer, right?”

Daniels frowned. “Yes.”

“So I assume you know why the EDF are mining all the bridges across the Thames.”

“That’s classified information.” His voice remained neutral, urbane.

“What? The reason why, or that they’re doing it at all?” Petrovitch dragged his coffee closer so he could inhale the fumes. “Look. I find myself in the unusual position of having responsibilities other than keeping my organs inside my skin. If there’s a plan to cut the city in two and abandon everything north of the river to the Outies, I need to know.”

Daniels steepled his fingers. “Doctor Petrovitch, I won’t try and deny it…”

“Good,” interrupted Petrovitch, “because otherwise I’d call you all sorts of names, some of which you might understand.”

“Doctor, it’s simply a precaution. The EDF are just in a supporting role to MEA.”

“That’ll explain the five main battle tanks with French markings which passed me on the Fulham Road. Yobany stos, Daniels, I have eyes. Just tell me—how bad does it have to get before those bridges go?”

“I’m really not at liberty to discuss operational matters with you.”

Petrovitch tried again. “The Outies had twenty years to prepare for this, but even I don’t think a bunch of ill-equipped, uneducated ebanashka, no matter how well led and organized, can take on both MEA and the EDF. So what do you know that the general population doesn’t?”

Daniels clenched his fists on the rat’s little screen. “Doctor Petrovitch. You can press me for an answer as hard as you like, I cannot give you classified information.”