Hannu Rajaniemi: The Quantum Thief

‘I don’t believe you,’ Gilbertine says. ‘It’s not all about memory. A part of you is Paul, no matter who you think you are, no matter what you have done to your brain, no matter if he was just a mask you wore. And I hope he burns in hell.’ She wants to claw at his face. But the faint foglet halo around whatever the creature wearing Paul’s shape tells her that violence would be useless.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he says. ‘I can’t let you remember any of this, of course. I hope you can comfort Raymonde in some way.’

‘Do what you want to my memory,’ she says. ‘I’m going to make sure she hates you forever.’

‘Perhaps I deserve that,’ he says. ‘Goodbye.’

He touches her forehead, and a wind blows through her mind-

Gilbertine blinks at the bright Phobos light. She is standing alone in the robot garden. She feels disoriented, and it takes a few moments to remember meeting Raymonde. What did she do after that? She ’blinks at the last few minutes, but finds them empty. Damn. Must be another Spike legacy glitch .

For some reason, she remembers the dream she had last night: a puss-in-boots, a closed door. Did she have a dream?

For a moment, she considers ’blinking the dream, too, but decides against it. There is too much to do in the waking world.

It takes Isidore the rest of the day to recover. The Quiet medics refuse to let him go before he is pumped full of synthbio nanodocs. His thoughts are a confused jumble, racing in all directions at once: but when he gets home, the exhaustion takes over and he collapses in his bed. He wakes up late after a long, dreamless sleep.

Frustratingly, rest does not offer any solutions, so he sits at the breakfast table for a long time, staring at the world through the kitchen window, trying to grasp where everything belongs, where the seams are, where everything fits together: the tzaddik, the thief, Time, the memory palaces. The wallpapers are a complex Escheresque jungle again, garish in the bright, mixed daylight. His thoughts are interrupted by a cheerful gevulot request.

‘Good morning,’ Lin says.

‘Hnnh,’ Isidore grunts. His roommate is wearing a more careful attire than usual, jewellery glinting in her ears. She smiles at Isidore and starts making breakfast with the fabber, a Spanish omelette.

‘Coffee and sustenance?’ she asks.

‘Yes, please.’ Isidore realises that he is starving. The hot food restores some of his fortitude. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it. You look like you need it.’

‘You know, I gave your creature a name,’ Isidore says, between mouthfuls.

‘What did you call him?’

‘Sherlock.’

She laughs. ‘That’s a good name. Do I dare to ask how the detective business is going? You were in the Herald again. Parties, thieves and death. You have an exciting life, M. Beautrelet.’

‘Well.’ Isidore massages his temples. ‘It has its ups and downs. Right now, I don’t really know what I’m doing. It is all very confusing. I can’t figure out what this thief is doing, or if he is really a thief in the first place.’

Lin gives his arm a little squeeze. ‘You’ll figure it out, I’m sure.’

‘What about you? Did something happen? You look… different.’

‘Well,’ Lin says, running a finger along the wood grains of the table surface. ‘I met someone.’

‘Oh.’ There is an odd twinge of disappointment that should not be there. He ignores it. ‘That’s great.’

‘Who knows? We’ll see how it goes. It’s kind of been there for a while, you know, and we just… decided to stop stepping around it.’ She grins. ‘But I’m hoping it’ll last long enough that we can have some sort of party here. If you could bring your girlfriend over, we could all cook together. Or do zoku people eat? Just a thought.’

‘It’s a little bit complicated at the moment,’ Isidore says. ‘I’m not sure I can exactly call her my girlfriend anymore.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Lin says. ‘It’s funny, no matter how smart you are, these things always get so tangled. I think after a while you just have to treat it like a Gordian knot. One cut, that’s it, and it’s open. Not so complicated anymore.’

Isidore looks up and stops chewing. ‘You know what? You are a genius.’ He swallows, gulps down the rest of his coffee and runs to his room, grabbing his coat. He pats Sherlock on the head and rushes to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Lin shouts.

‘To find somebody with a sword,’ Isidore says.

The zoku colony is strangely forbidding this time. The glass cathedral’s points, edges and protrusions look sharp. Isidore stands at the gates, trying to decide what to do.

‘Hello?’ he says. But nothing happens. How is this supposed to work again? Just think, Pixil said .

He touches the cold surface of the door and imagines Pixil’s face. His fingers tingle. The reply is sudden and violent, much harsher than ever with the entanglement ring.

Go away. It comes with a sensation that is like a physical blow, a stinging slap on the cheek.

‘Pixil.’

I don’t want to talk to you right now.

‘Pixil, can we meet? It’s important.’

Important things have an expiry date. Like me. I have things to do.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. Things have been a little insane. Can you let me in or come out and meet me? It won’t take long, I promise.’

I’m supposed to go on a raid in twenty minutes. I’ll give you ten. Now get out of the way.

‘What?’

Get out of the way!

Something big comes through the door. The surface shimmers and ripples. Pixil is astride a massive black creature, like a six-legged horse but larger, covered in gold and silver plates, with bloodshot eyes and white, sharp teeth. She is wearing elaborate armour with wide shoulderplates like a samurai’s, and a ferocious mask pushed up to her forehead. A sword hangs at her side.

The creature snorts and snaps at Isidore, sending him scrambling backwards. He backs up against a pillar. Pixil dismounts and pats the creature’s neck. ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘You have met Cyndra already.’

The epic mount lets out a bellow that stinks of rotting meat and rings in Isidore’s eardrums.

‘I know we are in a hurry,’ Pixil tells the creature, ‘but you don’t have to eat him. I can handle him all by myself.’ It turns around and vanishes through the doors.

‘Sorry about that,’ Pixil says. ‘Cyndra wanted to come along to tell you what she thought of you.’

‘I see,’ Isidore says. His knees feel weak, and he sits down on the steps. Pixil crouches down next to him, armour clinking.

‘So, what is this about?’ she asks.

‘I have been thinking,’ Isidore says.

‘Really?’

He gives her a reproachful look.

‘I’m allowed to tease you,’ she says. ‘That’s how these things work.’

‘All right.’ He swallows. It is difficult to say the words. They are jagged, awkwardly shaped things in his mouth. He remembers reading about Demosthenes, the great orator who practised speaking while chewing on small rocks. He bites down on them and speaks.

‘It’s not going to work. Us,’ he says, and pauses for a moment. She says nothing.

‘I’ve been with you because you are different,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t read you. I couldn’t understand you. It was fun for a while. But it was never going to be any different.

‘And I never put you first. You were always just… the other thing. The distracting voice in my head. And I don’t want to think of you like that. You deserve better.’