Free The Curve of The Earth by Simon Morden

any safer, but because you all participate in this consensual illusion, you’re willing to put up with all the indignities and intrusions.” He snorted. “Meh.
Eto mnye do huya
. What you do in your own country to your own citizens is up to you. But you don’t do it to me.”
    They stood while all around them people passed by. The babble of voices, the sounds of the announcements, the bright displays, the steady stream of bodies and odours: it was a world away from the near silence of ruined Dublin.
    Petrovitch, the city street kid, overwhelmed by crowds now as well as awed by snowfields.
    He was going to have to get a grip. He was soft.
    Finally he said: “How were you planning to get us out of this mad house?”
    Newcomen blinked. “Uh. What? There’s the connecting flight to Seattle in,” and he searched the sky for a clock when there was a perfectly serviceable one on his wrist. “Four hours. We could grab a coffee, something to eat…”
    “Okay, Newcomen, it’s like this. Firstly, four hours here is going to make me go postal. Secondly, I’ve changed the flights. We’re going later.”
    “You can’t do that.”
    “Clearly I can,” said Petrovitch. “What you’re saying is I shouldn’t. I have things to do here in New York. And you have to come with me, whether you like it or not.”
    “Our travel plans were made days ago. They’ve been filed.”
    Petrovitch reached up and snagged Newcomen’s neck. He tried to pull away but found he couldn’t. They were touching foreheads when they spoke again.
    “I’ll do what’s necessary to find my Lucy. Anything and everything. If that means messing last minute with someone else’s schedule, I’ll do it without hesitation, and if they don’t like it, they can suck my
yelda
.”
    Newcomen recoiled, and Petrovitch increased his pull.
    “At least let me tell AD Buchannan.”
    “You don’t get it, do you? Your saintly Assistant Director already knows. For the moment, he’s content to let it happen. They have to allow me the appearance of acting freely. Only at the last moment will they try and pin me down.”
    “You’re paranoid. First you think your daughter’s disappearance isn’t an accident, and now you think everyone’s out to get you.”
    “It wasn’t, and they are.” Petrovitch let go, and Newcomen massaged away the finger marks. “Now, are you coming?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Taxi rank’s that way. Let’s find us a yellow cab.”

8
    There was a long queue for the taxis, but there was also a long queue of cabs waiting for a fare. It was painfully inefficient, with all except one access point roped off and the order enforced not just by public opprobrium but by a couple of uniformed cops, buttoned up against the cold. The cab driver at the front of the procession of cars would leap out, glad-hand his fares and stow their luggage, then drive off. Everyone would move up one space, and the ritual would be repeated.
    If they’d allowed everyone who needed a ride just to grab one, both queues would have vanished in an instant.
    “Who the
huy
designed this?” muttered Petrovitch.
    “We have to wait in line. It’s the way we do things here,” Newcomen explained. “It’s polite.”
    Petrovitch writhed in mock agony. “Arrgh, the stupid: it burns, it burns!”
    Things were moving, though. Slowly, but moving. Seeing no easy way to subvert the system, Petrovitch seethed his waythrough the next five minutes and watched the aircraft drifting lazily overhead as they rose to their operating altitude. It was strangely subdued. Objects that size should have been making a thunderous noise. As it was, giant cigar shapes were hanging in the clear air, their engines ticking over, barely producing enough thrust to clear the airport. Just because he’d made that whole process possible didn’t mean he was comfortable with it.
    Newcomen’s luggage trundled up a few more steps as they approached the head of the queue.
    “Where are we going?” he