“Brothers! Sisters! Isn’t it like I said? The Machine cares for us. We live under its benevolent rule. We’re going to go and find food, because the Machine needs us to be strong. We need to be strong, so we can obey its orders. With me, brothers. With me, sisters!” Keeping his arm aloft, he walked through the gathered people.

And they followed him. Petrovitch stood quite still until the last of them had trailed off in the direction of Paddington. Then he let his shoulders sag. He put his hand on his chest, just to make sure that his heart was still beating.

“New Machine Jihad? Ootebya nyetu peeski, getting me to do your dirty work for you.” He checked his guns, and started north, up the Edgware Road.

A quarter of the way up the deserted road, he smelled burning. Halfway up, he spotted a large group of people making their way down toward him. He couldn’t make out the details due to the haze, but he was certain that one of them was flying a white flag.

Behind them, over the flyover, the Paradise housing complex was wreathed in dark smoke. Only the very tops of the towers rose above the chaos below.

The man carrying the flag resolved into a priest waving one of the choir robes Petrovitch hadn’t previously wrecked or borrowed. Then came a gaggle of a couple of hundred… refugees was the only word to describe them, some of them clutching bags, some of them children, some of them holding cloths to their mouths and noses against the acrid chemical stink.

Lastly, Sister Madeleine, Vatican-approved gun in her hand. She should have been checking the street behind her, guarding her back and those with her. Instead, she watched Petrovitch get closer and closer, until he and Father John were face to face.

“Small world,” said Petrovitch.

24

What are you doing here?” said Father John. The hand that clutched his makeshift flagpole was bleeding through a bandage.

“I’d be lying if I said I’d come to see you.” Petrovitch could see that they’d left in a hurry. They weren’t dressed for an orderly evacuation. Some were dressed for bed. “I take it they found you at home this time?”

Father John brushed his wayward hair from his forehead. His scalp was also bleeding, and he smeared fresh streaks of red across his skin. “They blew up the police station. Demolished it completely, broke every window round about. Then they just came swarming across the Marylebone Road.”

“By they, I take it you think it was the Paradise militia?”

“Who else?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea who.” There was smoke drifting down the road. “What’s on fire?”

“My church.” Father John flexed his knuckles and dared Petrovitch to smirk. “And you still haven’t answered the question. “What are you doing here? Looting?”