Hannu Rajaniemi - The Quantum Thief

They all look like Élodie’s boyfriend: sixteen, perfect features, blond hair, a young Martian’s zoku-influenced, tight-fitting clothes. At first their faces are expressionless. Then they all smile in unison, mouths twisting into cruel, mirthless lines.

‘Hello, copykiller,’ one of them says.

‘We recognise you now,’ says the second.

‘You should have-’

‘-minded your own business,’ finishes the last.

‘Foolish to come to our domain, smelling of the underworld.’

‘Foolish to come near the places the hidden ones have told us to guard.’

Like trained soldiers, they take a single step forward, and draw out small knives.

Isidore turns and runs, as fast as he can, looking for handholds to climb up the obstacle that has closed the alley.

The parkroulling Sebastian takes him down in a flying tackle. Air escapes his lungs, and he slams both elbows at the pavement, followed by his nose. The world goes red for a second. When his vision returns, he is prone on his back, and four perfect porcelain faces loom in a circle above him. There is something cold and sharp, pressing against his throat. Hands hold his limbs down. Desperately, he opens his gevulot, reaching for the police Quiet’s emergency feed. But it feels distant and slippery: the gogol pirates are doing something to stop it.

Upload tendrils dance above his face like the firework snakes at the party: he imagines them hissing. He feels a little pinprick of pain at his throat. One of the Sebastians lifts up a small injection needle. ‘We are going to have your mind, copykiller,’ he says. ‘It was such a blessing to find out what you looked like. We praised Fedorov when we saw the paper. You are going to scream now, just like the chocolatier in my brother’s memories. Pray that the Founders in their wisdom give you a part of the Great Common Task. As a missile guidance system. Or food for the Dragons, perhaps.’ The tips of the tendrils feel like sharp, electric kisses on his scalp.

‘Let him go,’ says a rasping chorus voice.

The Gentleman stands at the other end of the alley, just at the limit of Isidore’s blurring vision, a black shape with a glint of silver.

‘I don’t think so,’ the first Sebastian says. Some of the tendrils peek out of his mouth like a bouquet of glowing snakes. ‘I am touching his brain. Even your witch fog is not faster than light, bitch.’

Light . The Sebastians are looking at the Gentleman now. With a thought, he dissolves the q-bubble that holds the thief’s rose in his bag. I hope it works fast enough. I hope it works on them . He opens his gevulot to the Gentleman, enough to show his surface thoughts. Fireworks , he thinks at the tzaddik. Light .

‘In fact, you can listen to his screams-’

There is a flash of light, and then a long fall, down somewhere dark.

Eventually, the light comes back. Something soft cradles Isidore. The faces of the Sebastians still flicker in his vision, but after a moment he realises it is his own, reflecting from the Gentleman’s mask.

‘Don’t try to talk,’ says the tzaddik. ‘Help is on its way.’ Isidore is floating in the air, on a soft cushion of something : it feels nicer than his bed.

‘Let me guess,’ Isidore says. ‘That was the second stupidest thing you have ever seen?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘That was good timing,’ Isidore says. ‘We could have used you at the party last night.’

‘We cannot be everywhere. I take it that this foolish pursuit of yours involves the infamous uninvited guest?’

Isidore nods.

‘Isidore, I have been meaning to talk to you. To apologise. My judgement after our last case was… harsh. I do feel that you have what it takes to be one of us. I never had any doubts about that. But that does not mean that you have to be. You are young. There are other things you can do with your life. Study. Work. Create. Live.’

‘Why are we talking about this now?’ Isidore asks. He closes his eyes. His head is throbbing: a double dose of the optogenetic weapon in less than a day. The tzaddik’s voice sounds hollow and far away.

‘Because of this,’ the tzaddik says. ‘Because you keep getting hurt. And there are more dangerous things than vasilevs out there. Leave the thief to us. Go home. Sort things out with that zoku girl of yours. There is more to life than chasing phantoms and gogol pirates.’

‘And why… should I listen to you?’

The tzaddik does not reply. But there is a gentle touch on his cheek, and, suddenly, a light kiss on his forehead, accompanied by an odd sensation of a silver mask flowing aside. The touch is so light and smooth that, for once, Isidore is prepared to admit that Adrian Wu was right. And there is a perfume, smelling faintly of pine-

‘I’m not asking you to listen,’ the tzaddik says. ‘Just be careful.’

The kiss burns on his forehead when he opens his eyes. Suddenly, there is a bustle of activity and voices around him: Resurrection Men and red-and-white medical Quiet. But the tzaddik is gone. Lights flash in Isidore’s eyes again, and he closes his eyes. Like fireworks , he thinks. And with that, just before the dark, comes a question.

How did the tzaddik know about the fireworks?

Mieli and I stare at the stranger. He gets up, putting on his jacket. ‘Would either of you like a drink?’ He walks to the fabber and fills his glass. ‘I’m afraid I went ahead and helped myself while I was waiting. I understand you are celebrating, and no wonder.’ He takes a sip. ‘That was quite a little coup you pulled. We followed it with interest.’

Come on , I nudge Mieli. You can take this guy. Let’s make him talk .

Mieli gives me a strange look.

The man nods at Mieli. ‘Thank you for the invitation, by the way. My associates and I appreciate directness.’ He drops his cigar into his glass: it goes out with a hiss. ‘But where are my manners? Please.’ He gestures at the couch. ‘Do have a seat.’

I grab Mieli’s shoulder. Invitation? She shakes me off. Later . The Oortian singer from the Red Silk Scarf is gone, and her features are flint-hard again. Recognising that she is not in the mood to argue, I sit next to her. The man perches on the edge of the table, raising his eyebrows.

‘By the way, Jean, I’m surprised. Back in the old days, you would have been much more direct. You would not have waited for someone to die voluntarily, you would have made bodies where you needed them. You must be getting soft.’

‘I’m an artist,’ I say. ‘Bodies do not make good art. I’m sure I would have told you that even in the old days, M.?’

‘My apologies,’ he says. ‘I’m not wearing my own body. This young man came back from Quiet earlier this morning, and I appropriated it for the purpose of having this meeting to avoid any… temptations to cause me harm.’ He takes out another cigar, wets its tip in his mouth and smells it. ‘Besides, it is nice to try on something new every once in a while. You can call me Robert. We have met before, although I understand you may not recall it. And we have both moved on in our careers since. I have become… one of the enlightened individuals your friends the tzaddikim call cryptarchs, whereas you, apparently, became a prisoner.’

Robert the cryptarch lights the cigar and puffs on it. The tip glows red. ‘Makes you wonder about karma, doesn’t it? I’m thinking that should be a feature in the next-generation resurrection system.’

‘What do you want?’ I ask.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, now. Your associate here had a very interesting proposition. Perhaps the lady wants to repeat it for your benefit.’