The Quantum Thief

11. THE THIEF AND THE TZADDIKIM

The tzaddikim are not what I expect. I imagined a secret lair of some kind, with trophies of past victories, perhaps; a council room with a round table, with high chairs, each customised with each tzaddik’s personal iconography.

Instead, we meet in the Silence’s kitchen.

The Futurist fidgets with her glass impatiently, rolling its base around on the wooden table. She is a red, sleek creature, a cross between a human being and an ancient automobile, unable to stay still.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Would somebody please tell me what we are doing here?’

The Silence lives in a little zeppelin house in Montgolfiersville: a gondola suspended from a teardrop-shaped bag of gas, tethered to the city. The kitchen is small but has a hightech look to it. In addition to the fabber, it has traditional cooking implements, knives, pots and pans and other chrome and metal instruments I do not recognise: clearly, the Silence is someone who cares about food. Between the two of us and the six tzaddikim, things are somewhat intimate; I’m squeezed between Mieli and a skull-faced tall man in black – the Bishop. His bony knee presses against my thigh.

Our host opens a bottle of wine with a deft motion of his wrist. Like the Gentleman, he wears a faceless mask, but of dark blue, along with a utility fog cloak that makes him look like a living blot of ink. He is tall and even though he hasn’t said anything so far, there is a gravitas about him. He fills our glasses quickly and efficiently, then nods towards Raymonde.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she says, with the rasping voice of her tzaddik persona. ‘I have here two offworld visitors with whom I had a little… misunderstanding two nights ago. I have reason to believe that they might be sympathetic to our cause. Perhaps you can explain it yourself, Jean.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. Mieli agreed to let me do the talking, with the understanding that if things go south, I will be shut down with extreme prejudice. ‘My name is Jean le Flambeur,’ I say. ‘You can ’blink that if you wish.’ I pause for a moment for effect, but it is hard to read an audience wearing masks.

‘I used to be a citizen of the Oubliette, in a past life. My associate here and I are looking for some property that I left here. Your tzaddik colleague, whom I have some previous… familiarity with has assured me that she can help me. In return, we are offering to help you.’ I try the wine. Old Badeker Solarancio. The Silence has good taste.

‘I’m not sure we should be having this conversation,’ the Futurist says. ‘Why would we involve third parties in anything? And for God’s sake – am I the only one who is smelling the Sobornost tech this bitch here is stuffed full of?’ She whips her gaze from Raymonde to the Silence. ‘If anything, we should be interrogating them. At the very least. If you have some personal history with these creatures, deal with it yourself. There is no need to compromise the rest of us.’

‘I take full responsibility for everything, of course,’ Raymonde says. ‘But I believe that what they can do could help us to finally get to grips with the cryptarchs.’

‘I thought you were training your little pet detective for that,’ Cockatrice says. Her outfit is somewhat more revealing than those of the others, a red leotard, a Venetian-style mask that leaves her blond locks free and shows a sensual, large mouth. Under other circumstances, I would be focusing all my attention on her.

Raymonde is quiet for a moment. ‘That is a different discussion, and does not concern us here,’ Raymonde says. ‘In any case, we have to pursue more than one option at a time. What I’ve been trying to say is we are treating the symptoms. Offworld tech. Gogol pirates. But we are just as affected by the underlying infection as the people we are trying to protect.’ She leans across the table. ‘So when I see an opportunity to work with an outside agent who can help us with that, I bring it to your attention.’

‘And the price?’ the Rat King asks. He has a young, high voice and a thick body. His comical-looking rodent mask leaves his chin bare, showing a rough five o’clock shadow.

‘Let me worry about the price,’ Raymonde says.

‘So what exactly can they do that we can’t?’ The Futurist looks at me suspiciously.

I give her a sweet smile. ‘We can come to that in a moment, Mme Diaz.’ I can’t see her face, but a satisfying shudder of shock goes through her, turning her into a red blur for a moment.

I haven’t been idle for the two days it has taken Raymonde to set the meeting up. Mieli gave me a database whose source I did not dare to ask about, containing fairly solid leads to the identities of all the tzaddikim. I was able to confirm most of it with a little footwork and gevulot pilfering. As a result, I don’t know the names of their pets or favourite sexual positions, but I know enough.

‘But before we come to that, it might be useful for us to understand what exactly it is that you people are trying to do.’

‘Three things,’ Raymonde says. ‘To uphold the ideals of the Oubliette. To protect its people from gogol pirates and other outside forces. And to find out who really rules it, and destroy them.’

‘It started with the Voice,’ Raymonde says. A quick ’blink fills me in on the details of the Oubliette e-democracy system; specialised co-memories serving as votes and public policy decisions, implemented by the office of the Mayor and the public Quiet servants. ‘There were… strange patterns in the decisions. Opening up to the outside world. Granting citizenship to offworlders. Weakening tech restrictions.

‘Soon after that, the first gogol pirates started appearing. The Silence was among the first who suffered.’ She touches the tall tzaddik’s hand. ‘Our system is not stable if you introduce outside forces. The Quiet could not deal with technology disruptions. So we decided to. We have backers. With their own interests, of course. But aligned with those of the Oubliette.

‘We were able to do good. But whenever we saw a pattern, a way to fix things more permanently – to shut down a pirate radio transmitting stolen uploads, or excise a polluted gevulot network – things tended to disappear. The pirates know how to choose their targets and how to get close to them. They are good at what they do, but it is clear that they have help.

‘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.