The Quantum Thief (22 page)

‘For some time now we have known that exomemory has been compromised. There are people, one or more, who are manipulating it. To what extent, how or why, we don’t know. We call them cryptarchs. The hidden rulers. Or, as the Futurist puts it, fucking bastards.

‘We believe in what the Revolution stood for. A human Mars. A place where everyone owns their own minds, a place where we belong to ourselves. And that is not possible when someone behind the curtain is pulling our strings.’

Raymonde looks at me. ‘So that’s our price. Give us a way to find the cryptarchs, and we will give you what is yours.’

‘Of course,’ says the Bishop, ‘that assumes that the Gentleman’s high opinion of you is in any way justified.’

‘M. Reverte.’ I give him my most sharklike grin. ‘It took me two days to find out who you are. These cryptarchs – they know you. In fact, I think they keep you around. You fit the system they have created. You keep it stable. And that’s exactly what they want.’

I drain my glass and lean back in my chair. ‘You never play dirty. You are glorified cops, when you need to be revolutionaries. Criminals. And that’s definitely something I can help you with. Is there any wine left?’

‘Frankly,’ says the Futurist, ‘this is exactly what we should be fighting. Offworld influences who think they are better than us.’ She looks around the room. ‘I vote we kick them off the planet and get back to the real business. And the Gentleman should be reprimanded for her behaviour.’

There are nods around the table, and I curse myself for not reading them right; I’m still not quite as good with gevulot as a native Martian, in spite of the gogol pirate engines. This is not going to end well.

That’s when Mieli speaks.

*

‘We are not your enemy,’ Mieli says.

She stands up and looks at the tzaddikim. ‘I come from far away. I believe in different things than you. But trust me when I say this: what the thief says he can do, whatever agreement we make, I will make sure it is honoured. I am Mieli, of the Hiljainen Koto, daughter of Karhu. And I do not lie.’

Strangely, there is something more familiar about the people in the room than in anything she has seen on this world so far. There is a dream burning on their masked faces, something bigger than themselves. She remembers seeing the same thing in the young warriors of her koto. The thief will never understand it: he speaks a different language, of games and tricks.

‘Look into my thoughts.’ She opens her gevulot to them, completely, as far as she can. They can read her surface thoughts now, see all her memories of this world so far. It is like casting off a heavy cloak, and suddenly she feels light.

‘If you find any deceit there, banish us here and now. Will you accept our help?’

For a moment there is a complete silence around the table. Then the Silence speaks one word.

‘Yes,’ he says.

Raymonde leads us through Montgolfiersville, through the small fenced gardens where the balloon homes are tethered. The sunlight filtering through the many-coloured gas sacks and the vertigo sensation caused by gevulot – not being allowed to remember where the meeting place was – keeps me quiet for a while. But after we enter the more familiar, wide streets of the Edge and Raymonde reverts from the Gentleman to her elegant female self, I feel compelled to speak.

‘Thank you,’ I tell her. ‘That was a big risk you took. I’ll try to make sure you won’t regret it.’

‘Well, there is a strong chance that you will get hurt doing this,’ she says. ‘So don’t thank me yet.’

‘Was it really that bad?’

‘Yes. Yes, it was. I thought I had made a mistake until your friend spoke.’ Raymonde looks at Mieli with respect. ‘That was a … noble thing to do,’ she tells her. ‘I apologise for the circumstances of our first meeting, and I hope we can work together.’

Mieli nods quietly.

I look at Raymonde. It is only now that I realise she looks different from my memories. Less vulnerable. Older. In fact, I’m not sure I know this new, strange woman at all.

‘This is really important to you, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, it is. I’m sure it is a completely alien sensation to you. Doing something for other people.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It has been a … confusing time for me too. I was in a very nasty place for a very long time.’

Raymonde gives me a cool look. ‘You were always very good at coming up with excuses. And there is no need to apologise, it won’t help. In case it is not completely clear, there are few people in the universe who repulse me more. So, if I were you, I’d go and find them, as discussed. Perhaps then we can at least make a favourable comparison.’

She stops. ‘Your hotel is that way. I have a music class to teach.’ She smiles at Mieli. ‘We’ll be in touch soon.’

I open my mouth, but something tells me it is wiser to let it go this time.

That afternoon, I sit down to make plans.

Mieli is turning our quarters into a small fortress – q-dots are now patrolling the windows – and is still regenerating some of the damage from the tussle with Raymonde. So once again I can indulge in relative solitude – apart from the awareness of our biot link. I sit down on the balcony with a pile of newspapers, coffee and croissants, put on my sunglasses, sit back start going through the society pages.

As with everything here, they do not skimp on craftsmanship, and I find myself enjoying the exaggerated reality drama of the stories quite a lot. The tzaddikim feature heavily, tone depending on the publication; some outright worship them. I note a story about a kid working on a gogol pirate case with the Gentleman and wonder if this is the detective the Cockatrice mentioned.

But the real meat is the list of upcoming carpe diem parties; supposedly secret, of course, but the journalists put an admirable effort into finding things out.

That looks like too much fun to be called work, Perhonen says.

‘Oh, but it is: serious business. I’m coming up with a plan.’

Care to explain it to me?

‘What, you are not just a pretty face?’

I look up at the clear sky. The commlink shows me the ship a dot, invisible to the bare eye, somewhere above the horizon. I blow a kiss at it.

Flattery will get you nowhere.

‘I never explain my plans before they are fully hatched. It’s a creative process. The criminal is a creative artist; detectives are just critics.’

We are in high spirits today, I see.

‘You know, I’m finally starting to feel myself again. Fighting a cabal of planetary mind-controlling masterminds with a group of masked vigilantes – that’s what life should be all about.’

Is that right? the ship says. And how is the path to self-discovery going?

‘That’s private.’

To quote Mieli—

‘Yes, yes, I know. Raymonde caught me too early. I didn’t get anything except flashes. Nothing that useful.’

Are you sure?

‘What do you mean?’

Someone suspicious might think that you already know how to find what we are looking for. That you are just stringing us along to amuse yourself, to get into that flamboyant thief persona of yours.

‘I’m insulted. Would I really do something like that?’ The ship does have a point. I have been stepping around the memories like they were eggshells, and yes, perhaps a part of that is because in spite of myself, I’m having fun.

I have another theory, too. You are trying your damnedest to impress this Raymonde girl.

‘That, my friend, is in the past. Allowing such things to cloud my thinking would be more than dangerous in this profession.’

Uh huh.

‘As much as I enjoy your company, the sooner I can get back to the things I do best, the happier I’ll be. Speaking of which – I could use some peace and quiet. I’m trying to think about breaking into the land of the dead.’ I lean back in my chair, close my eyes and cover my face with the newspaper to hide from the sun and the ship.

See? That’s exactly what I mean, Perhonen says. You have been waiting to say that all day.

*

Mieli feels tired. Her body is in the process of checking and rebooting its systems. She hasn’t had her period for years, but vaguely remembers that this is what it felt like. When they return from the meeting with the tzaddikim, all she wants is to lie down in her room, play gentle Oortian songs and drift to sleep. But the pellegrini is waiting for her. The goddess is wearing a deep blue evening gown. Her hair is done up, and she is wearing long black silk gloves.

‘Dear child,’ she says, planting a scented kiss on Mieli’s cheek. ‘That was delightful. Drama. Action. And such passionate conviction on your part: convincing the people in their funny costumes that they need you. A custom-made gogol persona would not have done a better job. I’m almost sorry that you will receive your reward so soon.’

Mieli blinks. ‘I thought we were going to let the thief—’

‘Of course, but there are limits. A few vasilevs here and there, that is one thing, but there are aspects of this place that we do have to consider in the context of the Great Common Task. The cryptarchs are one of them: a balance that we do not want to upset just now, for a variety of reasons.’

‘We are not going to … destroy them?’

‘Of course not. You are going to meet with them. And coordinate activities. You are going to give the tzaddikim precisely enough to get what we need. And then – well, we are going to give the tzaddikim to the cryptarchs. Everybody wins.’ The pellegrini smiles.

‘Now, child, I think our thief is going to talk to you about his new ideas. Do humour him. Ciao.’

Mieli touches Sydän’s jewel, just to remember why she is doing this. Then she lies down to wait for the knock on the door.

THE DETECTIVE AND CARPE DIEM

On the evening of the carpe diem party, the garden has the hushed tone of a performer holding his breath, muttering his lines.

There are tables with champagne glasses in orderly rows, little pavilions for more exotic offworld vices, and foglet fireflies still unlit. A Quiet orchestra test their instruments – parts of their body – creating a gentle brass cacophony. A fireworks expert, wearing a tall hat, is laying out multicoloured rockets in a device that looks like a miniature pipe organ.

‘So, what do you think, M. Detective?’ Unruh asks. He is dressed as Sol Jovis, the last day of the Darian calendar week. The colours of the long-lost gas giant blaze across the fabric of his tunic. In the shadows of the trees, it glows faintly in hues of bright red and white.

‘It looks like one of the old Kingdom parties,’ Isidore says.

‘Ha. Yes. Not a bad way to spend a few hundred mega-seconds, in any case,’ Unruh says. He holds up his Watch, attached with a chain to his waistcoat, surprisingly plain: a black disc with a single golden dial. ‘When do you think I will be robbed?’

‘We are as prepared as we can be. Le Flambeur or not, we will make him work hard for his loot.’

In the end, the security arrangements consist of a few carefully placed agoras and additional Quiet servants hired from the Voice by Odette – assault anti-phoboi Quiet with a variety of specialised sensors and weapons. Isidore hopes it will be enough. He considered a variety of more elaborate options involving black market tech, but in the end, he concluded that they would introduce more vulnerabilities than strengths.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Unruh says, patting Isidore on the shoulder. ‘You know, we never discussed the matter of your fee.’

‘M. Unruh, I assure you that—’

‘Yes, yes, very noble of you. I want you to have the library. Perhaps you will be able to make sense of it. Or burn the whole thing down. Odette has already drawn up the contract; I will be sure to transfer the gevulot to you before the end of the night.’

Isidore stares at the millenniaire blankly. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need to thank me. Just give our uninvited guest a run for his money. Are you bringing a date tonight, by any chance?’

Isidore shakes his head.

‘A pity. Now, I have some debauchery to engage in before I die. Excuse me.’

Isidore watches the preparations for a while and instructs the Quiet – low, panther-like creatures with sleek, black carapaces – on their patrol routes on the grounds. Then he goes to one of the guest rooms where his Sol Lunae costume has been laid out. It still looks a little feminine, too tight in the wrong places. He puts it on anyway. It feels like something is missing, and realises that the entanglement ring is in his trouser pocket. He takes it out and hangs it on his Watch chain.

So this is what stage fever feels like, he thinks.

Raymonde and I arrive at the party fashionably late, and so does everyone else. Around us, spidercabs disgorge men and women in elaborate costumes, Xanthean dreams of silk, lace and smartmatter. Time is the theme, so there are Indian gods and goddesses of the Darian calendar, planets and stars, and, of course, prominently displayed Watches.

‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,’ Raymonde says. A humanoid Quiet servant in dazzling livery, sculpted face covered by a mask, checks our invitation co-memories and guides us along with the flow of the crowd that is slowly filling the sundial garden, pooling into small groups. The tinkle of glasses, aching ares nova music and the voices of the guests all merge into an intoxicating symphony of its own.

I smile at Raymonde. She is a seductive Phobos, in a deep-cut dress that includes white gloves and a glowing sphere of light in her abdomen, bright enough to cover strategic areas with luminescence. I am content to be a modest peacock next to her, in white tie, with several ornamental Watch replicas and a flower in my lapel.

‘I assure you, this is one of the least immoral jobs I’ve ever been involved in,’ I say. ‘Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. After a fashion.’

‘Still.’ She nods to a passing couple dressed as Venus and Mars whose gevulot reveals just enough to ensure that they are seen. ‘This is not what we do. Quite the opposite of what we do, in fact.’ The glow of the little Phobos in her belly highlights the elegant bone structure of her face: she reminds me of a sculpture of some Greek goddess.

‘Your masked friends need proof. We’ll give them proof.’ I pick up a champagne glass from a passing Quiet servant. I brush a dust particle away from the front of its coat, giving it an invisible dose of Part A of the plan from my flower. Potent stuff, but it is good to release it early: it will take some time for it to do its work. ‘Don’t worry. Provided that your friend can get us an introduction, everything will be as smooth as silk.’