Mieli frowns. How can they be so carefree? There is an invasion coming, perhaps within days, certainly not much longer – now that the Sobornost ruse has been discovered, the obvious tactical move is to strike immediately. The fleet and the guberniyas with their Hawking drives may already be on their way. The zoku must know that with the vast energies of the Inner System under Sobornost control, Supra City is at an enormous disadvantage – yet the Liquorice-zoku talks about the coming battle like it was a difficult level in a game. If the Great Game is doing something about it, she is not included in the effort: that jewel has been silent ever since their return from the Jovian Trojan belt. And in spite of her enormously increased entanglement within the secretive zoku, she has not dared to request any more information.
One problem is that she does not know what questions to ask.
She reaches the carousel and watches the whirling horses, most of them riderless. There are people on the other side of the structure and the party jewel is pulling her there, but she does not want to go just yet. She would rather hide in the tinkling music, the light and the motion: in the small sphere of carousel glow, she can imagine the vastness of Supra City does not exist.
Sydän would love this place. They could have come here, when they left Oort. But no, she wanted true immortality, the kind that only the Sobornost offers.
The thought pinches her with sharp claws. The cold touch of the jewelled chain around her ankle mingles with the phantom pains of her leg. I am losing her. The pellegrini’s constant presence in her mind was a reminder of her mission, a sharp rock she could squeeze in her hand when in doubt; a peach-stone in her mouth.
The pellegrini. Mieli first met the goddess – or the Prime – in her temple on Venus, jealously guarding the singularity she had made out of Amtor City and the matter of Lakshmi Planum and sacrificed minds. A tiny captive star whose event horizon still holds the soul of Sydän and countless others. What will you give me, little girl? She was always a vengeful, hot-tempered taskmaster, a cold bitch, as Perhonen often put it. Never one for self-sacrifice, as the goddess herself told Mieli. Why did she save me? The pellegrini-gogol in her head was one of uncountable billions, but Mieli knows well that it does not make death any less real, sacrifice any easier. She remembers her own copies who died fighting in the wildcode desert of Earth, the pain and sudden nothingness she felt through her metaself.
Remember, the pellegrini said.
And she does. Invasion or not, Sydän is still trapped in a black hole, and the Kaminari jewel is the only way to get her out. She must stay inside the Great Game, find out what they know about the jewel, and think of a way to get to it – all before the Sobornost invasion comes. Again, she wishes the thief was here: he would know what to do. Or Perhonen. Mieli’s song for her is still unfinished. She does not want to think about the ship: she knows too well what it would say.
Mieli is alone, and there is no more time for the past.
She takes a deep breath and walks around the carousel, to the sea of light and conversation.
And that’s when the zombies attack.
They come at her from behind the carousel, four rotting bodies in tuxedos and evening dresses, lurching forward slowly, arms outstretched. She recognises the two women in yellow from before, except that one has a broken neck now, head hanging at an odd angle, and their skin has a deathly pallor. A sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde and rot surrounds them.
The undead elf-man in a dinner jacket reaches for her and brushes her cheek with clammy fingers. Without thinking, Mieli swings her handbag at his head as hard as she can. The force of the blow lifts him off his feet and tosses him into the spinning carousel. The riders of the white wooden horses scream – with delight or terror, Mieli is not sure. She takes a step back and stares at the dead women in yellow, wondering if the party Circle would allow her to try out her new weapon systems.
‘What did I tell you? No zombie games!’ It’s Zinda, in a beautiful green dress that creates an impression of large green leaves made of lace, silk and pearls, but leaves her olive-skinned shoulders and neck bare. She is holding a champagne flute in her hand, and looks furious.
There is a howl somewhere in the distance.
‘Or werewolves!’
The girls in yellow shimmer into more warm-blooded forms and scowl at Mieli. ‘The Circle rules specify a rebirth theme,’ one of them protests, a chestnut-haired girl with an imperious expression on her cherry lips. ‘And it’s appropriate for the period!’ Her honey-blonde companion nods vigorously.
Zinda rolls her eyes. ‘Duh huh. But you don’t have to take it so literally. Look at me: plants. Green. New life. Spring.’
‘Or envy?’ the other girl says. ‘I can understand, with that alter.’
‘I’m sorry, Mieli, this will only take a moment.’
Mieli can’t suppress a smile. Zinda puts her hands on her hips.
‘Zombies get their own sub-Circle, starting now. All right?’ The chestnut girl’s eyes harden, and she brings her hand forward in a challenge. Zinda scoffs. They wave their hands rapidly in the air in the same rhythm, three times. In the end Zinda’s hand is open and flat, and the other girl’s hand is curled in a fist.
‘Damn!’ the chestnut-haired girl swears, stamping her foot. ‘I spent so much time on this alter!’ She takes the hand of the other yellow-dressed girl and they walk towards the busier areas of the party.
Zinda sighs. ‘Can you believe her? I wanted to do something simple and old-fashioned, but once the party zoku got bigger, it got out of hand. I’m afraid the whole thing is a bit inconsistent in terms of style and theme. And it seems some people can’t tell their Fitzgerald from their Lovecraft. So don’t be surprised if you see a few flapper Deep Ones tonight.’
‘Am I supposed to know what those are?’
‘Frankly, it’s better that you don’t. The only ones who are worse than the Mythos Zoku are Manaya High fans, like me. But what am I thinking! It’s your party, and here you are, without a glass in your hand, and being attacked by the undead!’ She hooks her arm through Mieli’s and pulls her towards the music. She smells of a soft perfume, fruit, peach perhaps. ‘Come on. Let’s go meet some people!’
*
The party proper is a dazzling, whirling clockwork of talk, dance, music and drink. A white-clad band plays jazz. Most guests are elegantly dressed baselines, but there are a few odd ones out, pushing the boundaries of what the Circle allows. One of them is a cyborg with bushy sideburns and a tall black hat that Mieli reckons is even more ancient than most of the party wear, a brass barrel of a man with an elaborate moravec arm that is clutching several champagne glasses at once. He is the centre of a small group of anthropomorphic animal alters, a fox, a badger and a white creature that looks like a pointy-eared hippo; it keeps adjusting its bow tie awkwardly with small paws.
‘And boom!’ the man in the hat says, gesturing. ‘They all started going off! To be honest, we should have thought of it ourselves, to arrange something like that! Perhaps for the centennial of the zoku! But it was so rude!’ He shakes his head. ‘And to cause truedeath – but I won’t tarnish this happy occasion with sad memories. Although Chekhova would surely have liked to be here. Ah, Zinda! And this can surely only be the lady of the hour!’
‘Mieli, this is Barbicane, from the Gun Club Zoku,’ Zinda says. The name is familiar to Mieli from the Protocol War: the Gun Club creates many of the zoku warships and weapons, eccentric and elaborate, but effective designs. He is Great Game, one of us, Zinda qupts. An Elder. A good person to know.
Barbicane kisses Mieli’s hand. His sideburns brush her skin, rough like steel wool. He smells of gun oil and a heavy, stinging aftershave. An Elder, she thinks. He must know more about the jewel. But what should I ask?
‘Charmed! Please join us.’ Congratulations, he qupts. In a very short time, you have achieved great things.
I only want to serve.
The fox and the badger greet her politely. They appear to be a coup
le and are from a zoku called Dancing Cat. The white creature is too shy to say anything, just shakes her hand quickly.
My goodness, what has Zinda been telling you? Barbicane qupts back, with an amused tone. The Great Game is not just about serving. It’s about having fun! He offers Mieli a champagne flute. She accepts it and takes a sip. The golden liquid is sweet and tickles her throat as it goes down. It makes her feel bolder.
‘The honour is mine. I am … familiar with your work,’ Mieli says. It is not a lie: Perhonen was once caught in a Gun Club holeship blast when an oblast destroyed it, and they had to surf the Hawking radiation front to safety.
I keep hearing that word, she qupts. It’s not one I would use myself to describe a Sobornost invasion. What is Great Game going to do about it?
‘Capital! Then you will be interested to hear my news! I was just telling these gentlemen about a spot of bother we had on Iapetus recently,’ Barbicane says. ‘A most audacious break-in! An artefact stolen, irreparable damage caused to our collection. A blatant Circle violation.’ This is hardly the time and the place to discuss such matters, and it could be considered rude towards our lovely hostess, to boot. I suggest you direct your enquiries directly to the zoku itself: I note your volition cone has increased considerably, and we will listen. This qupt has a firm undertone that suggests that the conversation is over, even if the link is still there.
Mieli smiles at him. ‘How interesting,’ she says. Zinda gives her a puzzled look. ‘Do tell us more.’
We Oortians are not known for our courtesy, she qupts at Barbicane. So, is inaction simply a sign of a tired civilisation whose time has run out? Or do we just feel safe because we have the Kaminari jewel?
The quptlink wavers. Briefly, Mieli sees a flash of something unutterably alien, a twisting sheet of light, like a skin beneath the skin of the Universe, impossibly far and right next door at the same time. Then the link is gone.
Barbicane is just lifting a glass to his lips but is stopped by a sputtering cough that turns into a giant belch. A jet of vaporised champagne shoots into the air from his mouth. The Dancing Cat members duck, and Zinda stares at the zoku Elder in stark horror.
Barbicane gives Mieli a fatherly smile and wipes champagne from his sideburns with a napkin held delicately between a few of his smaller manipulator limbs. ‘My sincere apologies! I’m afraid I was in such a rush to answer the young lady’s question that I poured some of this lovely stuff right into my boiler! If you will excuse me, I shall go and perform certain urgent mechanical engineering operations to prevent an explosion that no doubt would spoil the mood entirely! It is not time for fireworks yet, hmm?’
He vanishes into the crowd, weaving back and forth a little unsteadily on his leg-jets.
‘What was that all about?’ Zinda asks. ‘Don’t tell me you were flirting with him?’ She covers her mouth with a tiny hand. ‘Disaster!’
‘Of course I wasn’t!’ Mieli protests. ‘What makes you say that?’
Zinda sighs. ‘Well, to be honest, that was the most likely explanation for all your strange expressions! Especially given that you have been living like a nun ever since you got here.’ She punches Mieli in the shoulder gently. ‘We are going to have to fix that!’ Then her eyes narrow.
‘Okay, I believe you. Unless looking angry is the way Oortians flirt. Whatever it was, it’s making you far too serious. That won’t do, not at all. Whatever you are worrying about, it can wait.’ She takes Mieli’s hand and starts leading her through the party, towards the forest.
‘Where are we going?’ Mieli asks.
‘Hunting,’ says Zinda, picking up a champagne bottle and two glasses from a passing botlet waiter.
‘Hunting for what?’
‘Treasure eggs, of course!’
There are eggs hidden all over the forest, small blue things that look like the party zoku jewel, with glowing golden numbers written on them.
‘Do you like it?’ Zinda asks, sipping her drink. ‘It’s an egg hunt lottery – every number has a prize attached to it! I figured you wouldn’t like the more mainstream games like jeepform or fastaval – they tend to be all grimdark anyway – so I thought I’d go for something simple. The more difficult the hiding place, the better the prize.’ She smiles. ‘Besides, I figured you would like to have an excuse to get away from all the people. It’s just difficult to throw a small party in Supra City, you know.’
The zoku girl’s eyes are clear and kind. She is trying to help. I don’t understand what she is doing, but she is trying.
Mieli empties her fourth glass and listens to the soft sounds of the forest, and the faraway clamour of the main party. The floating lanterns above give the forest and its leaf labyrinths and the river a fairy-tale tinge. The gold and blue twinkles of the hidden eggs in the undergrowth and in the trees tickle something deep in her belly, like the aftertaste of the champagne. The end of the world is coming, and we are going to play children’s games. Well, why the hell not?
She wonders if it is just the drink, or perhaps the strange intoxication emanating from the party zoku jewel in her hair that is making her giddy. In any case, she is, for the first time in a long, long time, pleasantly gloriously drunk.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’m going to play. And win. Unless you are planning on cheating. Wasn’t it you who designed this whole thing?’
‘Oh no, it was the party zoku! The idea came from my volition, but I have no idea where they are, or what is in them. But let’s make it a little more interesting. If I find more eggs than you do, I get to make a wish. Not a zoku wish, just a wish, an old-fashioned one, like the ones you make when you see a star fall. What do you say?’
‘Fine,’ Mieli says. ‘I want a wish too, if I win. Let’s meet by the river in one hour. But you are forgetting one thing.’ Zinda grins. ‘And what is that?’
‘I can fly.’
Mieli spreads her wings and lets the microfans lift her soundlessly to the level of the paper lanterns. Below, the forest is full of tiny blue stars.
12
THE THIEF AND THE CRYSTAL STOPPER
There are zoku ships everywhere above the Irem Plate. I glimpse them through my q-dot bubble’s magnifying skin as pinpoints as I rise towards my ship’s geostationary orbit. Then the entanglement beams between them become visible in the thin ammonium and water vapour, turning the sky into a silver net, woven to catch me.
Transitioning into the Leblanc‘s Realm through its gateskin is perfectly smooth now, like slipping beneath the surface of cool water. The pilot’s chamber flows into place around me. Carabas stands to attention and takes its hat off with a mechanical flourish.
The ship’s sensors show over two hundred ships in Plate space, ranging from the Notch-zoku’s Replicators – tiny, blocky insects – to green dense Dyson trees, sleek, spiky, purple pseudomatter vessels of the Evangelion-zoku, and even individual baseline quicksuits, silver humanoids with large, circular waste heat fins. In spite of the diversity, they are clearly members of one temporary zoku, moving in a seemingly random dance that nevertheless covers all possible escape vectors. What did Barbicane say? A challenge for a small zoku, nothing more. It looks like the Great Game has spun off an entirely new quantum collective to catch me.
I suppose I should feel flattered.
I fire up the ship’s Hawking drive and uncloak. The distributed information attack starts immediately. Qupt probes and attack software bore into the ship’s firewall from all directions. It seems they want me alive.
‘Two hundred baseline milliseconds until firewall collapse,’ Carabas says, ‘3.07 subjective minutes at maximum clockspeed.’
I wave the cat aside, sit down at the control keyboard and brush the brass keys gently. The ship’s non-sentient presence is a calm cool armour around my mind.
I can’t help but pause to think for a moment. What if I let them catch me? After what the Aun told me, I feel like I deserve it. It would be easy. I feel the possible vectors now, and there is nothing I can ch
oose that will get me past the Plate and into either trans-Saturnian space to flee or into the planet’s dense depths to hide. Even tiny course corrections I make provoke an immediate response from the zoku all around. Is this how Mieli felt when she wanted to fight the Hunter swarm?
A quptlink request comes, through the tiny Great Game jewel Dunyazad gave me, safely in its own sandbox. I let Carabas and its agents examine it, and then let it through.
That was very sloppy, dear boy! It’s Barbicane, of course. The qupt comes with an aftershave smell and the echo of hollow brass. Did you think we wouldn’t notice? What have you done to a brand new Plate?
Hearing the zoku Elder’s voice brings a burst of welcome anger. I tell my metaself to use it to help me focus.
In the trade we call this breaking and redecorating, I respond. Stay out of Irem. You will find that it is under the control of a Notch-zoku member called Dunyazad. It’s all perfectly legitimate. Unless you want to take it up with Vipunen the Elder in the South Pole? I believe he ate the last expedition that tried to find his Realm.
Capital! Barbicane says. Perhaps he would like to join our brand new Ganimard-zoku! Detectives and manhunters extraordinaire. They get entanglement based on how close they get to you, of course.
He’s trying to distract me. Think, Jean. What would Mieli do?
Unless, of course, you want to surrender and we can settle this like gentlemen! They would be terribly disappointed! I am certain young Mieli would be pleased to see you and discuss the matter of her ship Perhonen with you as well – I believe that is the civilisation that destroyed it that you have helped to recreate down there, yes?
The Causal Angel (Jean le Flambeur) Page 16