The teletroopers lined up outside. Even though he’d destroyed their comms centre, Petrovitch assumed that Nevada had some other way of telling Ben or Jerry, or anyone else still on the ground, they’d lost control. It didn’t look like it, though. No one was running for cover, breaking out the heavy weapons or calling for air support.

Michael was right. They’d learned nothing from their first encounter with the New Machine Jihad. Relying on remotely operated weapons? What were they thinking? Didn’t they know who they were up against?

“For old times’ sake, then.” He patched himself through to the lead teletrooper, and activated the speakers. There was a spook not ten metres away, trying to peer through the dark and the snow, his eyes shielded with one hand while he lazily held an automatic in his other.

“Prepare,” said the teletrooper.

The man turned sharply. “Not reading you.” He tapped his hooded ear.

“Prepare.”

“Did you just say… Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” The teletrooper took three quick strides forward, eating up the distance between them, and backhanded the spook with his cannon arm. The snow sprayed red, and he aimed a missile at the nearest car: hot target, engine running white under the red of the bonnet.

[You have more important tasks, Sasha. I have command.]

Petrovitch was eased off the virtual levers gently but firmly, and he was back outside the hangar, frost accumulating in his hood’s fur.

The gunfire was abruptly intense. Michael picked off their vehicles first, then started to divide his forces: some walked off in the direction of town, while others chased the living away, into the blizzard, with no clear idea of where they were heading. A third group, numbering five, went back down the runway towards the control tower, spreading out into a line across the tarmac, illuminated by the bright lights meant for aircraft.

Petrovitch picked up his axe and hacked at the door. The lock gave, and he pushed the door in. The images were dark, confusing, but there seemed to be no one there. The lights were off, and there were no telltale splashes of body heat. He pushed the door back closed, and wedged it shut with a half-filled barrel of waste oil.

Parts. He was surrounded by parts. A repair shed, then. Where there were mechanics, there’d be a kettle, and something to put in a mug.

Aware of the incongruity, he weaved his way around the darkened benches and half-assembled skidoos in search of coffee, while outside, thirty-two robotic killers hunted for prey.

33

Petrovitch rattled the office door, and it swung open. It was little more than a ropy prefab hut dumped in one corner of the hangar, but it had lights and power, and in amongst the pieces of paper thumbtacked to the notice boards and oily bits brought into the warm were fingerprinted mugs and empty plates.

He dumped his bag on one of the debris-strewn tables and sorted through it. There was a replacement for Lucy’s link: a little curved computer with its earpiece, all wrapped in plastic and ready to pass on. There was a singularity bomb, an antigravity sphere, a pencil-thick hi-def video camera, battery packs, more plastique, remote-control units.

And the card reader. He pulled it out and sat it on the table, but was distracted by the sight of a half-cup of cold coffee, its black surface trembling with distant explosions.

He had time enough for a brew.

He found an almost-clean cup on the draining board of the not-completely-plumbed-in sink, and over on a workbench, a bare heating element wired into the wall. It didn’t look entirely safe, but he’d used worse. And there were biscuits in one of the drawers, along with a fistful of coffee sachets.

He poured two of those into the cup, topped it up with water and lowered the heater into it. There was a satisfying blue spark when he turned it on, and the slowly blackening water started to seethe.

The biscuit packet was new: he ripped at one end with his teeth, and extruded the first directly into his mouth. Thereafter he chain-ate them, swallowing one as he started chewing the next.

His coffee boiled. He turned off the element at the wall – another snap of electricity – and carried the mug to the table. He retrieved the envelope again, and this time eased his finger under the gummy flap, easing it open.

Turning it over, he tipped the contents out. A little black rectangle clicked on to the scarred formica. An old-school memory card from a camera: fifteen, maybe even twenty years out of date.

“You have got to be yebani kidding me.”

[Is there a problem?]

Petrovitch held up the card so Michael could see.

[This is frustrating. Your reader does not take that format.]

“No. No, it doesn’t.” He pressed the card to his forehead. “Nothing. Nada.”

[Either you find a suitable data port in your locale, or you will have to solder wires to the contacts and manually interrogate the data. It is likely the information on that card is critical to the success of your mission.]

“Haven’t you got robots to command, rather than stating the yebani obvious?”

[Yes, but they do not require much oversight. A relatively simple iterative search program coupled with an executive order protocol that flags up possible targets for me to consider renders intensive management redundant. One trooper has been disabled by small-arms fire, and another by a mechanical defect. The environment is extreme, and I expect the rate of attrition to be high.]

Petrovitch was already on his feet, inspecting the workstation hiding in the corner. “Just the regular slots.” He spun it around and inspected the back. “Chyort vos’mi.”

He knelt down and systematically worked his way through all the cupboards, then started on the benches. Nothing. And no guarantee that if he found something, it would still work. He was about to break something gratuitously when he saw a couple of bags hanging from hooks behind the door.

He spilled the contents of the first one out on the floor, and sorted through them with his sweeping hands: small bronze coins, loose keys, bits of paper, a couple of pens, a hip flask, a slim notebook with dog-eared pages. The second was heavier; rather than just upending the bag, he plunged his hand between the jaws of the zip and struck figurative gold.

His fingers tightened around a dense cold lump, and he knew by its heft it was tech. He pulled it out: a compact video camera, paint worn out with use, silverwork scratched. It looked ancient, a museum piece. He checked its make and model. It had been new twenty-three years earlier. By rights, it should have been consigned to the bin ages ago.

But once he’d found the on switch, he discovered its battery was half charged up. And there was no memory card in the little slot. He had not just found a suitable bit of hardware to slot his card into, but the original camera it had come from. Whoever owned it worked in that very hangar, repairing things for ARCO.

Petrovitch sent a virtual agent to work through the duty roster, trying to find suitable suspects: while he waited for it to report back, he fished out the memory card, turned it the right way around, and gently eased it into place.

The camera digested its new information, then displayed the updated results. The card was all but full. He found the preview button, checking with an online copy of the original documentation to make sure it was the preview button because he was paranoid about deleting something by accident, then pressed it.

Video had accumulated like coral: it looked like no one had bothered to either download or wipe any image they’d ever taken, and the time stamp on the earliest clips was from two decades ago. But Petrovitch wasn’t bothered about personal memories from the mid twenty-tens, more about what had happened last week.