The shadows didn’t deepen in a manner suggesting that a candle had snuffed out or that the moon had suddenly slipped behind a cloud. They deepened in a way that, in Isaac’s experience, indicated only one possibility.
“Socrates,” said Isaac, not even bothering to look toward the shadows. They resolved into the shape of a tall and muscular, black-clad man adorned with a wide assortment of complicated-looking weaponry.
“Isaac!” Socrates exclaimed, removing his balaclava, “I thought I’d find you here!”
“Then you were correct,” said Isaac.
“Any progress with the book?”
Isaac removed the Ocular Scanner from his eye socket and set it on his desk. He shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and made a noise that sounded like “Grrnmph.” And unlike the mysterious book, the meaning of this grrnmph was clear. It meant that Isaac was irritated, and that his level of irritation had spiked sharply with Socrates’ arrival.
Isaac and Socrates had always had a strained relationship.
In ordinary circumstances, Socrates and Isaac might have been friends. Not bosom friends, not the sort of friends who took fishing trips together or shared their hopes and dreams, but Work Friends. The sort of special-purpose friends who, bonded by oppression at the hands of the same employer, trade tales of their master’s latest demands. Isaac, for example, might have complained about the way the City Solicitor made him secretly collect, decode, and file samples of the DNA of every member of City Council, and Socrates might have countered with complaints about the effort of stain removal in the wake of work-related eviscerations — typical water-cooler banter passing between two government workers.
In ordinary circumstances they’d have been friends. But their circumstances weren’t ordinary.
For starters, Isaac was weird. Not “keeps snakes for pets” weird or even “participates in historical re-enactments” weird, but weird in a way that would have gotten him picked last for schoolyard baseball teams . . . had Isaac ever been a child, attended school, or tried a sport. It was the odd way that he looked at you — a disconcerting sort of analytical gaze, as though you were a novel chemical compound or a new, intriguing variable that had to be integrated into Isaac’s equations. It was creepy.
For another thing, Isaac knew that if he were ever to fall out of the City Solicitor’s good graces, Socrates would pay him a visit. It would be an awkward visit. A visit that, while mercifully short, would almost certainly end with (a) various parts of Isaac’s body parted uncomfortably from each other, and (b) Isaac’s memories and personality lost forever.
This made it difficult to bond.
“So . . . the book?” said Socrates, still waiting for a response.
“Nothing definitive,” said Isaac, trying his best to avoid glimpsing at the uncomfortable-looking devices hanging from Socrates’ bandolier. “But I’ve completed my calculations with respect to the other matter — the woman prophesied to bring about the Apocalypse.”
“And?”
“My analysis of the records you’ve provided yields an eighty-seven point three per cent probability that Ian Brown and Tonto Choudhury are the pair the Council seeks.”
“Eighty-seven point three per cent?”
“Yes,” said Isaac, looking abashed. “It’s as precise as I can be in the circumstances. There is something . . . something odd about the Choudhury woman, something that undermines the certainty of my computations.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is difficult to articulate. There is no metric capable of measuring Choudhury’s deviation from anticipated norms. She is . . . unusual. Her psychology is impenetrable: her movements and behaviour unexpected. Her devotion to this Ian Brown, as unremarkable and nondescript a specimen as I’ve ever examined, is utterly inexplicable. She is a woman of great skill and virtually unmatched capacities, yet she devotes these skills and capacities to this, this —”
“Ordinary man,” said Socrates.
“Precisely,” said Isaac, seeming flustered. “But it goes much deeper than that. Choudhury’s physical attributes and behaviour defy predictable norms. This woman may represent the pinnacle of human faculties, perhaps the most advanced being that the river has produced. She has no detectable flaw.”
If I had to describe this woman with an equation, Isaac mused, she would be eiπ + 1 = 0. He didn’t share this thought with Socrates. Saying this sort of thing out loud generally led to funny looks.
“So the woman defies analysis?” said Socrates, grinning slightly and embarking upon a game he liked to call “goad the nerd.” He always found this entertaining. He withdrew a packet of peanuts from his pocket and began to munch happily.
“Of course not,” said Isaac, flushing slightly. “She merely calls for further examination. In experimental philosophy we must look on propositions collected by general induction from phenomena as accurately or very nearly true, notwithstanding any contrary hypothesis that may be imagined, until such time as other phenomena occur, by which they may either be made more accurate or liable to exceptions. In this instance I have devised an algorithm to cope with the uncertainty engendered by —”
“Spare me the math,” said Socrates.
Isaac was used to this sort of interruption. He’d often been criticized for providing more detail than people wanted, generally when he said things like “I have devised an algorithm.” He was trying to break this habit by replacing especially complex bits of jargon with “QED.”
“Of course,” said Isaac. “But the result of every calculation I’ve devised, every computational model I’ve applied to the Choudhury woman, is inconclusive. I can be no more than eighty-seven point three per cent certain that she and Brown are the pair we seek.”
“The Solicitor won’t be happy,” said Socrates.
“He wasn’t. I have already informed the Solicitor of the uncertainty. Nevertheless, he’s given the order to proceed with the operation.”
“Hmm,” said Socrates. “I don’t mean to question you,” he added with the air of one who did, “but with an almost thirteen per cent chance of error, it’s unlikely that the Solicitor would approve of —”
“The Solicitor was quite clear,” said Isaac. “The plan is set. Our asset in the hospice confirms that Choudhury will attempt to extract Brown within the week. The asset will alert us when the plan is underway. When we receive his signal you will intercept the targets and bring them here.”
“Any backup?”
“None required. You will overpower Choudhury as she waits in a getaway vehicle — the make, model, and registration number of the vehicle will be uploaded to your intracranial system. Subdue Choudhury. Leave her mind intact.”
“Understood.”
“Brown and Feynman will arrive at Choudhury’s vehicle minutes later. Incapacitate Brown. Wipe Feynman. Bring all three of them here.”
“And if they fail to reach Choudhury’s car?”
“Our asset in the hospice will ensure that their plan succeeds. They will reach the vehicle, and you will bring them to the Solicitor.”
“Fair enough,” said Socrates, popping another peanut into his mouth. “At least this means I can stop retrieving records of delusional noob males who’ve been paired up with female guides. Do you know how many princks matched the profile that the City Solicitor gave us? In the last two weeks alone I must’ve collected —”
“Two hundred and seventy-three,” said Isaac, matter-of-factly.
“Right. Yes. Of course,” said Socrates. Isaac had never gotten the hang of rhetorical questions.
“So . . . tell me about this book,” said Socrates.
Isaac grumbled under his breath before affixing the Ocular Scanner to his eye and gazing down at the wretched book. He mumbled something barely audible.
“Excuse me?” said Socrates.
“I said, ‘I don’t un
derstand,’” Isaac muttered.
Socrates grinned. This was fun.
“What’s the difficulty?” he asked.
“I’ve checked the scanner’s readout numerous times. I’ve verified its calibration. I’ve performed all necessary calculations. The result is . . . anomalous.” Isaac hated to say “impossible.”
“Have you tried redoing your calculations?”
“Why would I do that?” asked Isaac. Isaac never had to redo his calculations.
“Right,” said Socrates, “of course. But tell me: why do you say the results are anomalous?”
“The scanner reports that this book has two distinct ages. It is approximately twenty years old, and yet it is also only four weeks old. Every page of the book, the covers, the text itself — all give rise to the same anomalous result. Every part of the book came into being twenty years ago, but also only four weeks ago.”
“Is that surprising?” asked Socrates, with a twinkle in his eye. He had no idea why the book would generate these anomalous readings, and he didn’t really care. He just liked to pester Isaac.
“Of course it is,” said Isaac, staring intently at the book and focusing on the scanner’s readings.
“Well, I’m sure you know best,” said Socrates, grinning, “but please, explain it to me. Why is it so surprising that this book has two ages?”
“Time should function as a constant,” grumbled Isaac, leafing through the book and performing a thorough scan of every page. “Absolute, true and mathematical time, of itself, and from its own nature, flows equably without regard to external forces — it cannot be thrown off course or varied. A physical object’s age progresses at a constant, measurable rate. Every object has one age — and one age only — at any given point in time.”
“You’re sure about that?” said Socrates.
“Of course I’m sure,” snapped Isaac. “Things exist or they do not. And one can, with the aid of the scanner, measure the time that has elapsed since the moment at which a thing came into being. QED.”
“Hmm,” said Socrates, in that annoying way of his. “Are you familiar with the work of Francis Bacon?”
“Of course I am,” said Isaac, still fixated on the book. “Any educated person has read the collected works of —”
“All right,” said Socrates, “just bear with me. Consider the heroine of Bacon’s most famous play, Romeo and Calliope. How old is she?”
“Please don’t do that,” said Isaac.
“Don’t do what?” asked Socrates, innocently.
“That questioning thing you do. You know I hate it. And it’s obvious where you’re heading with your line of argument,” added Isaac, who was always a step or two ahead in battles of wits. “Your arguments are fallacious.”
“Illuminate me,” said Socrates.
Isaac sighed and massaged his brow.
“I’m expected to respond that Calliope is fourteen years old,” he said, his eyes still glued to the book. “You’ll respond that Bacon’s play was written over three centuries ago, suggesting that, in a certain sense, Calliope is both fourteen years old and three centuries old at the same time. She has two ages.”
“And what does that tell you?” said Socrates.
“It tells me not to waste my time bandying words with an assassin,” said Isaac, still leafing through the pages of the book and frowning at the scanner’s readout. “I’m sure I needn’t bother pointing out the flaw in your reasoning.”
“Please do,” said Socrates. “I wish only to learn. I am, of course, entirely ignorant of —”
Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. One of the puzzles he’d never solved was how to deal with a maddening colleague who, if the mood struck him, could dissect you in a matter of seconds and turn your brain to mush.
“I asked you to stop that,” said Isaac.
“Stop what?”
“Your cross-examination. Your pedantic, tiresome habit of challenging everything I say. You feign ignorance, you ask misleading questions, and you create apparent flaws that seem to undermine a perfectly logical chain of reasoning. Your only purpose in doing this is to fluster those you question and make them appear foolish. You —”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” said Socrates. “I’d never —”
“It’s annoying,” said Isaac.
“Come now, Isaac,” said Socrates, his eyes agleam with interest, “when you say that my pattern of dialogue is annoying, are you sure of what you mean by —”
“Seriously,” said Isaac, finally looking up from the book and staring levelly at the assassin. “Cut it out. You’re still —”
Isaac fell silent. There weren’t many things that could drive Isaac to distraction, but Socrates was one of them. And in lifting his gaze from the book to look at Socrates, Isaac had neglected to turn off his Ocular Scanner.
It displayed Socrates’ age.
He was one month shy of celebrating his 2,412th manifestival.
But he was also only 612.
* * *
27Khuufru’s Encyclopaedia is regarded as even more authoritative than Wikipedia, despite the latter’s status as the source most frequently cited in undergraduate research papers.
28Although this is a contributing factor.
29Detroit’s top-selling gadget for the past forty years. The details of the Pleasuretron XTC have been removed by the editorial staff in the hope that this book will garner a PG rating.
30Incidentally, the only form of dating at which Isaac had been successful. This may have been a result of the two blue pills that the City Solicitor required Isaac to take every morning with his breakfast, or it might have been that girls made Isaac nervous.
Chapter 13
The Napoleon who called himself “Bonaparte” had a knife. He also had one eye that was bigger than the other and a facial tic that made him wince at irregular intervals, but what matters for present purposes is the knife.
He called it Alice.
Alice was smooth. Alice was hard. Alice was cold and sharp and hungry. Alice had an ivory hilt carved into the shape of a ballerina with a five-inch blade protruding from her tutu. She was Bonaparte’s best friend. She understood him.
The Napoleon who called himself Bonaparte liked knives. They were shiny. They were up close and personal. They weren’t as clumsy or as random as a blaster, and they provided greater scope for creativity. With a knife you could taste your victim’s fear, see the dilation of his pupils and hear him gasp as you twisted the blade and felt his blood spill down your wrist. There was literally no end to the fun you could have with immortal victims. Bonaparte had learned through years of painstaking (and painsgiving) practice that if you were careful about your butchery you could bleed your prey for weeks, matching the pace of your cuts and slices to your victim’s personal rate of regeneration.
The Napoleon who called himself Bonaparte loved knives. But he especially loved Alice. Alice knew things. Alice understood. Alice recognized Bonaparte for what he was: a Napoleon with a destiny, a Napoleon with a purpose, a Napoleon whom the river had created for Great Things. Alice whispered these truths to Bonaparte in the night, singing softly of his destiny, urging him toward glory, and reminding him that his was not an ordinary mind.
This Napoleon had been Chosen.
It was right that he had been Chosen, it was right that he’d have vengeance, it was right that he would grind all opposition under the heels of his fuzzy slippers. And when the mysterious silk-suited man had come to Bonaparte in the hospice, when he had told him of his plots and schemes and subtle machinations, Alice had recognized the man for what he was. He was the Harbinger of Fate.
Bonaparte had been called. Soon the world would know his worth. Soon the world would bow before him. They’d be sorry.
He wasn’t exactly sure what they’d be sorr
y for, come to think of it, and was a little vague on how his work for the silk-suited man would lead him out of the hospice and set him on the path to glory, but these fiddly little details probably took care of themselves. For the time being it was enough that Alice and Bonaparte knew what they had to do: they’d been asked to keep an eye on Ian Brown.
By the end of the first week of his secret mission Bonaparte had already proven valuable. He’d uncovered Brown and Feynman’s secret plot to escape the hospice and had revealed the entire plan to the mysterious silk-suited man. The silk-suited man had been pleased. And he’d be pleased again — he’d be pleased when Bonaparte, using the tiny electronic signalling device that he’d been given, issued the warning that Brown’s escape was underway.
There was one wrinkle. Bonaparte wasn’t supposed to harm Ian. The silk-suited man had been clear about that. Bonaparte could do whatever he liked with Rhinnick, Zeus, or the other Napoleons. He had to steer clear of Tonto, and that was fine by Bonaparte — he’d always been a bit queasy around attractive women who didn’t have five-inch blades protruding from their tutus — but Ian, well . . . Ian needed cutting. There was something odd about him, something about how normal he seemed, and something disturbing about the way he often stared off into space, as though he was paying a little too much attention to the voices in his head. It was creepy. It was familiar. Bonaparte hated that. Bonaparte hated Ian Brown. But the silk-suited man had said that Ian couldn’t be harmed.
That seemed unfair. What’s the point of being Chosen if you can’t have any fun?
Of course, Bonaparte reflected, une petite slice ’ere and zere might not be noticed. It’d be nice to have a keepsake — a sort of souvenir of Bonaparte’s first steps on the road to glory. Maybe a finger or an eyeball. Maybe a matching set of kidneys. Zey would grow back. It wasn’t as though Brown would miss them. And the silk-suited man would understand. He understood. He knew that Bonaparte was special. He’d understand that one should never stifle an artist’s creativity.
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