[That is also unknown. It would be safe to assume that no one has been standing down their missile teams. Also, the Chinese cyberwarfare division is highly active at the moment. This may be something we can use to our advantage.]
“Yeah, okay. Go carefully. Anything else?”
[Yes,] said Michael.
Petrovitch waited. “Okay. Do go on.”
[I am uncertain what to make of this data, and whether it is a processing artefact. It is certainly anomalous.]
“Are you going to tell me what it is, or are you going to leave me guessing?”
[Sasha, what is the orbital velocity of an object in Low Earth Orbit?]
“You know I know this. I know you know this. Why are you asking me?”
[The object that was shot by the SkyShield satellite was travelling at between seven and a half and eight kilometres a second.]
Petrovitch frowned. “That’s wrong. And didn’t we clock it going slower?”
[Post-encounter. Reanalysis of the admittedly poor images we have of the object suggest that its velocity was up to twice that before it was struck.]
“And you’ve checked everything at least ten times, right?”
[A group of analysts spent most of yesterday arguing about the results.]
Petrovitch pursed his lips. “So let’s get this straight: you’re suggesting that between being hit by SkyShield and entering the atmosphere, it lost half its orbital speed. And that it was going way too fast in the first place.”
[Yes.]
“Chyort.”
[Indeed.]
“What the huy was it?”
[I still do not know.]
“Is Newcomen up?”
[No. He finally achieved sleep only a few hours ago. I will wake him if you wish.]
“I’ll do it. I want you to keep crunching those numbers. See if you can work out where it might have come from, now we know its vector. Astronomical plates, reports from amateurs, sky-flash cameras: anything that might be useful.” He looked at the door to the tiny en-suite bathroom, and shrugged. He reached for his clothes and patched himself through to the sleeping man in the next room. “Hey.”
He could hear a slight sigh, then the snoring resumed. He ramped the volume up all the way to eleven.
“Hey! Newcomen! Get your fat Yankee zhopu out of bed. Breakfast in ten.”
There was a thud that reverberated through the wall. “What? Who?”
“Me,” said Petrovitch. “We’ve got work to do.”
“I,” said Newcomen, and hesitated. This would be an opportunity to confess. “I didn’t sleep too good again.”
So that was how he wanted to play it. Okay. “Tell Mister Sandman, because I don’t give a shit. Nine minutes.”
Petrovitch finished hitting his socks on the wall, and dragged the now-limp things on to his feet. He slipped his feet in his boots without lacing them, and looked around.
He picked up his gun and posted it in his waistband, laid the axe lengthways along his bag, then scooped up the handles in one hand. In the other went his bundle of outdoor clothes. That was it: everything he needed.
It was a short walk from his room to the dining room. He slumped into the same seat he’d sat in yesterday – in the corner with a good view of all the doors. He dropped his stuff by his feet and laid his gun on his side plate.
Reception Guy, alerted one way or another to his presence, ambled in.
“Good morning, Dr Petrovitch.”
“Past’ zebej. If you insist on maintaining this yebani charade, the least you can do is bring me some coffee. Or I can just shoot you. I might do it anyway.” Petrovitch looked pointedly at his crockery. “Don’t push it.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and his initial attempt at good humour wasn’t repeated. He poured Petrovitch coffee – his guest’s only response was a growled “Leave the pot” – and retreated to the kitchen to bang some pans around.
Petrovitch was left to brood, but despite being served by a trained killer, the coffee started to do its job.
“Michael, I’ve just thought of something.”
[Which is?]
“If the object managed to decelerate from eight to four k a second between the time it was hit and the time it blew up, maybe it was going even faster before that.”
[That would put it close to, if not above, escape velocity.]
“Who do we know has a Moon mission planned?”
[Sasha, have we been asking the wrong questions?]
“I think we have. Can we get some recent ultra-high-res pictures of the lunar surface?”
[I will search the databases.]
“And convene the Secrets committee. I want to keep this private for a day or two.”
[They will consider your request. Any particular reason?]
“Yeah. Whether I’m right or wrong, we need the Chinese on side for just a little bit longer.” Petrovitch looked up and saw Newcomen appear at the entrance to the restaurant. “It’s all about face, right? And especially about not losing it in front of a global audience.”
Newcomen sat down opposite him, and Petrovitch dribbled a stream of black coffee into the proffered cup.
“You’re looking pointy,” said Newcomen. He wiped his hands on his thighs. Sweat.
“Yeah,” said Petrovitch. “I am, aren’t I?”
The agent noticed the handgun on the table. “Trouble?”
“Pretty much all the time.” He changed the subject even while his mind was racing away down a new track. “Breakfast is on its way.”
“I really don’t know how you can be hungry.” Newcomen shook his head. “Did they… damage you yesterday?”
“I’ve run the diagnostics a couple of times. Nothing burnt out. I’m fine.”
“Seriously? You took it hard, especially the second shot.”
“I didn’t enjoy it, if that’s what you mean.” Petrovitch shrugged. “Next time I see him, I shove his shotgun up his zhopu. Then I pull the trigger: see how he likes it.”
Newcomen added milk to his coffee, and Petrovitch poured himself a second cup.
“Do you dream?” asked Newcomen. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m just asking if you do or not.”
Petrovitch sat back in his chair, wondering whether or not to answer. “Michael does. Or did, at least. When he was trapped in a quantum computer under the Oshicora building, he had nothing to do but dream the days away. So he constructed this world – a universe, really – and dreamed about what it would be like.”
“Doesn’t that need imagination? It’s…”
“Just a smart program? No. No, it’s not. Michael can be creative in ways that are frankly scary. And he’s a citizen of the Freezone, a person in his own right.”
“I’m not comfortable with that.”
“Yeah. Figures. Of course I dream, same as I always did. Being a cyborg doesn’t take away your humanity; just adds to it.”
Newcomen did that thing where he adjusted himself on his seat; the little sideways shuffle to the right, then the left, that showed he was emotionally disturbed.
“I was just interested.” He looked around, up at the ceiling to see if there were any microphones dangling down, then towards the kitchen door, in case there were more obviously human ears listening in. “Does it – does Michael mind me talking about him like this?”
“He has feelings to hurt, if that’s what you mean, even though his feelings are different from ours because they don’t come with the same range of physiological responses. His emotions are very pure; no hormones to cloud his thinking. That has its good side and its bad side.”
“How so?” He had Newcomen’s full attention.
“Because if he’s got a reason to be pissed at you, logic dictates he’s going to stay pissed for ever, until he’s taken his revenge. He can’t calm down and forget about it, because he doesn’t get angry in the same way. His fury is cold and hard, and eminently reasonable. Remember that.” Petrovitch saw the kitchen door bang open, and Reception Guy came through bearing two plates. “Eat up.”
When it had been set in front of him, Newcomen stared ruefully at the plate full of meat and carbs. His expression slowly slipped and he looked despondent for a moment.