Simon Morden - Equations of Life  

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Simon Morden

Excerpt from Theories of Flight copyright 2011 by Simon Morden

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: April 2011

ISBN: 978-0-316-13439-2

Samuil Petrovitch Novels

Equations of Life

Theories of Flight

Degrees of Freedom

P etrovitch woke up. The room was in the filtered yellow half-light of rain-washed window and thin curtain. He lay perfectly still, listening to the sounds of the city.

For a moment, all he could hear was the all-pervading hum of machines: those that made power, those that used it, pushing, pulling, winding, spinning, sucking, blowing, filtering, pumping, heating and cooling.

In the next moment, he did the city-dwellers trick of blanking that whole frequency out. In the gap it left, he could discern individual sources of noise: traffic on the street fluxing in phase with the cycle of red-amber-green, the rhythmic metallic grinding of a worn windmill bearing on the roof, helicopter blades cutting the gray dawn air. A door slamming, voices risinga mans low bellow and a womans shriek, going at it hard. Leaking in through the steel walls, the babel chatter of a hundred different channels all turned up too high.

Another morning in the London Metrozone, and Petrovitch had survived to see it: God,I love this place.

Closer, in the same room as him, was another sound, one that carried meaning and promise. He blinked his pale eyes, flicking his unfocused gaze to search his world, searching

There. His hand snaked out, his fingers closed around thin wire, and he turned his head slightly to allow the approaching glasses to fit over his ears. There was a thumbprint dead center on his right lens. He looked around it as he sat up.

It was two steps from his bed to the chair where hed thrown his clothes the night before. It was May, and it wasnt cold, so he sat down naked, moving his belt buckle from under one ass cheek. He looked at the screen glued to the wall.

His reflection stared back, high-cheeked, white-skinned, pale-haired. Like an angel, or maybe a ghost: he could count the faint shadows cast by his ribs.

Back on the screen, an icon was flashing. Two telephone numbers had appeared in a self-opening box: one was his, albeit temporarily, to be discarded after a single use. In front of him on the desk were two fine black gloves and a small red switch. He slipped the gloves on, and pressed the switch.

Yeah? he said into the air.

A womans voice, breathless from effort. Im looking for Petrovitch.

His index finger was poised to cut the connection. You are who?

Triple A couriers. Ive got a package for an S. Petrovitch. She was panting less now, and her cut-glass accent started to reassert itself. Im at the drop-off: the caf on the corner of South Side and Rookery Road. The proprietor says he doesnt know you.

Yeah, and Wongs a pizdobol, he said. His finger drifted from the cut-off switch and dragged through the air, pulling a window open to display all his current transactions. Give me the order number.

Fine, sighed the courier woman. He could hear traffic noise over her headset, and the sound of clattering plates in the background. He would never have described Wongs as a caf, and resolved to tell him later. Theyd both laugh. She read off a number, and it matched one of his purchases. It was here at last.

Ill be with you in five, he said, and cut off her protests about another job to go to with a slap of the red switch.

He peeled off the gloves. He pulled on yesterdays clothes and scraped his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp vigorously. He stepped into his boots and grabbed his own battered courier bag.

Urban camouflage. Just another immigrant, not worth shaking down. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and palmed the door open. When it closed behind him, it locked repeatedly, automatically.

The corridor echoed with noise, with voices, music, footsteps. Above all, the soft moan of poverty. People were everywhere, their shoulders against his, their feet under his, their faceswet-mouthed, hollow-eyed, filthy skinnedclose to his.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling were made from bare sheet metal that boomed. Doors punctured the way to the stairs, which had been dropped into deliberately-left voids and welded into place. There was a lift, which sometimes even worked, but he wasnt stupid. The stairs were safer because he was fitter than the addicts whod try to roll him.

Fitness was relative, of course, but it was enough.

He clanked his way down to the ground floor, five stories away, ten landings, squeezing past the stair dwellers and avoiding spatters of noxious waste. At no point did he look up in case he caught someones eye.

It wasnt safe, calling a post-Armageddon container home, but neither was living in a smart, surveillance-rich neighborhood with no visible means of supportsomething that was going to attract police attention, which wasnt what he wanted at all. As it stood, he was just another immigrant with a clean record renting an identikit two-by-four domik module in the middle of Clapham Common. Hed never given anyone an excuse to notice him, had no intention of ever doing so.

Street level. Cracked pavements dark with drying rain, humidity high, the heat already uncomfortable. An endless stream of traffic that ran like a ribbon throughout the city, always moving with a stop-start, never seeming to arrive. There was elbow-room here, and he could stride out to the pedestrian crossing. The lights changed as he approached, and the cars parted as if for Moses. The crowd of bowed-head, hunch-shouldered people shuffled drably across the tarmac to the other side and, in the middle, a shock of white-blond hair.

Wongs was on the corner. Wong himself was kicking some plastic furniture out onto the pavement to add an air of unwarranted sophistication to his shop. The windows were streaming condensation inside, and stale, steamy air blew out the door.

Hey, Petrovitch. She your girlfriend? You keep her waiting like that, she leave you.

Shes a courier, you perdoon stary. Where is she?

Wong looked at the opaque glass front, and pointed through it. There, the shopkeeper said, right there. Eyes of love never blind.

Ill have a coffee, thanks. Petrovitch pushed a chair out of his path.

I should charge you double. You use my shop as office!

Petrovitch put his hands on Wongs shoulders and leaned down. If I didnt come here, your life would be less interesting. And you wouldnt want that.

Wong wagged his finger but stood aside, and Petrovitch went in.

The woman was easy to spot. Woman: girl almost, all adolescent gawkiness and nerves, playing with her ponytail, twisting and untwisting it in red spirals around her index finger.