by Paul McAuley
Hari supplied it, although he was certain that it wouldn’t buy him anything more than another pointless meeting with some official equipped with a sheaf of excuses and evasions.
He sat in his little room in the little tower, reading in Kinson Ib Kana’s book, his book now, watching the road from Down Town’s elevator stack, waiting for Rav to return from his visit with the tick-tock matriarch Gun Ako Akoi. At night, he imagined an assassin sneaking across the ruined perimeter wall of the compound, a flickering shadow in a camo cloak, a knife gleaming in her teeth.
He trawled the cluttered wreckage of the compound’s workshop, but found no weapons, and nothing that could be repurposed as a weapon.
He had Tamonash’s maker print off a batch of shuriken, and practised throwing them at a target pinned to a tree at one end of the overgrown lawn. It wasn’t easy: they flew in arcs instead of straight lines.
The Saint, Esme, didn’t call, and he couldn’t call her because it would show weakness.
He spoke to the p-suit’s eidolon. She had nothing to report.
And then, late in the afternoon of the second day, Rav returned and told Hari that Gun Ako Akoi had agreed to meet him.
‘Did she say that she can open the files?’
‘She made Dr Gagarian what he is,’ Rav said. ‘If she can’t unlock him, no one can. But there is something we must do for her, first. A small favour. A little task. Something you’ll appreciate, what with being in the salvage trade. She covets a trinket she gave away long ago, and wants back. A fragment taken from a QI just before it vastened into a seraph. I’ve spent the past two days tracking it down. All we have to do now is get hold of it.’
‘You want me to what? Negotiate a price with the owner?’
‘Not exactly. The present owners of this trinket, the Masters of the Measureless Mind, are a gypsy sect who for some reason believe it to be a holy relic. They aren’t about to sell it, so we’ll have steal it instead,’ Rav said. ‘It should be simple enough. A little distraction, a little legerdemain, and hey presto! The trinket will fall into our hands.’
‘Just like that,’ Hari said.
‘Why not? You baseliners see what you want to see. Everything follows from that.’
Hari told the Ardenist about Mr D.V. Mussa, and his visit with the under-minister. Trying to turn it into a joke about himself. Saying, ‘I knew there was a good chance that I would be swindled, but fortunately I didn’t have much to lose.’
‘If you mean the credit you were able to transfer to Ophir’s bourse, you’re right. You won’t need or miss it because as soon as Gun Ako Akoi cracks open the tick-tock’s head we can be on our way. But what about the credit still on deposit in Tannhauser Gate?’
‘There isn’t much left. My father used most of it to fund Dr Gagarian’s research.’
Rav fixed Hari with his lambent gaze and recited a string of numbers of increasing size, pausing after the last and then choosing one somewhere in the mid-range of the string, repeating it three times as if relishing the sound it made.
‘It’s nothing like that,’ Hari said, trying to hide his dismay. Rav’s guess had been scarily close.
‘It isn’t a fortune, but it’s a useful little sum,’ Rav said. ‘It has heft. It has leverage. Don’t worry. Unlike your uncle, I’m not interested in it. If I was, I would have taken it long ago. In addition to mind-reading, I’m adept at legerdemain, hypnotism, and illusions grand and small. Luckily for you, I’m on your side. Luckily for you, we have interests in common.’
Hari felt a prickling unease, wondering if Rav knew about his contact with the Saints.
He said, ‘I don’t mind losing a little credit. It repays my uncle’s hospitality.’
‘Such as it is.’
‘But I am disappointed that I haven’t been able to access Salx Minnot Flores’ files.’
‘He was a good friend of your father and Dr Gagarian, wasn’t he? I’m sure he shared his secrets with them. So anything in his files will also be inside the tick-tock’s head.’
‘They talked freely with all their collaborators,’ Hari said. ‘But I can’t be sure that their collaborators talked freely with them. And it isn’t only his files. Mr Mussa told me that he had built something that duplicated the experience of the Bright Moment. It would be interesting, I think, to examine that.’
Hari watched Rav think about it.
‘I suppose we might learn something,’ the Ardenist said. ‘Also, it would annoy your uncle. Let me see what I can do.’
He came back a few hours later, striding into the long room where Hari and Tamonash were sharing a frugal supper of dahl, chapatis and pickled vegetables, sitting down uninvited at the table.
‘It’s arranged,’ he told Hari. ‘The inspector in charge of the investigation will show you the dead philosopher’s possessions first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Just like that?’
Rav shrugged. ‘I’m a barbarian. I’m not interested in etiquette and formality. And neither, as it turns out, is our police inspector.’
‘You do not have to live with the consequences of your actions,’ Tamonash said. ‘You barge in, cause trouble, and leave others to repair the damage.’
‘And how was your way of doing things working out? There aren’t any files,’ Rav told Hari. ‘No physical records were found in the house, and its mind had been destroyed. Salx Minnot Flores rented storage space in the commons, but that was wiped clean by a djinn. And there isn’t much left of his experimental equipment, after the fire. But maybe you’ll spot something useful.’
‘And how much will this cost my nephew?’ Tamonash said.
‘A trifling bribe,’ Rav said. ‘Nothing like the credit you and your tanky friend have been bleeding from him.’
Tamonash drew himself up and said that he deeply resented the implication that he was profiting from helping his nephew.
‘Oh, I’ve noticed that you have little liking for the truth,’ Rav said.
He was vivid and vital, as if lit by the radiance of another, better world. Sitting on the floor with one leg crooked beneath the other, hands clasping his knee. Wings falling on either side of his bare, scarred torso, his silver-capped teeth gleaming in his easy smile, his green eyes flashing as the myrmidon behind Tamonash stirred.
‘That’s rented, isn’t it?’ Rav said.
‘It is bonded to me, and completely under my control,’ Tamonash said.
‘Tell it to stand down, or you’ll have to find the credit to repair it,’ Rav said, and stood with a swift, fluid motion. ‘Meet me at the elevators at first light, youngblood. And say goodbye to your uncle. We’ll set out on our little adventure as soon as we’ve checked out the wreckage.’
That was before the message came. The message that came in the night, like an assassin.
5
After Hari’s bios had checked the message for djinns and tried and failed to track its origin, after he had watched it with mounting dismay, after he had rewatched it with furious concentration, he rose from his bed and walked around and around his little room, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. He punched the wall, and the pain surprised him. The shock and the sting of it. He punched the wall again, and again, and felt calmer. He stood at the unglazed port. Cool air blowing across his face; cool flowstone pressing against his thighs. It was an hour before dawn. Everything in shades of grey. The sunstrip was a pearlescent ribbon running across the overhead from horizon to horizon. Down Town’s tiers were defined by lights scattered amongst the buildings along their edges. A few lights were shuttling up and down the elevator stalk that connected it to the floor.
Hari saw all this without really seeing it. The hijackers had found him. They had reached out to him and shown him a nightmare. A crude threat meant to shock and intimidate him. And he was shocked. Shocked, appalled, angry. But he had to get past his shock and anger. He had to work out what he should do.
He stared out of the port. He paced around the room. At last he called Rav, who
answered at once.
Hari said, ‘The hijackers sent a message.’
‘Are you sure it’s from them?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘What did it say?’
‘I have a confession to make. I talked to the Saints.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Always assume that I know everything, youngblood. You finally realised that the Saints were behind the hijack, and decided to approach them directly. You could have tried to send a message to their leaders, but you weren’t sure how to go about it, and besides, your family are traders. You prefer to negotiate face to face. The Saints have a school in Down Town, and that’s where you went while I was talking with Gun Ako Akoi. You thought that I was making a deal that would be to my advantage, so you decided to make a deal that would be to your advantage, by offering to exchange the tick-tock’s head for your family and your ship. The Saints you talked to denied that they had anything to do with the hijack. And they were probably telling the truth. They’re locals, recruiting for a cause they don’t fully understand. But they contacted their superiors, the message went up the command chain, just as you hoped it would, and now you’ve received a reply. Am I right, or am I right?’
‘You had someone follow me, didn’t you? Or wait – you talked to the Saints too.’
‘If I ever talk to any of the Saints, it wouldn’t be a cosy little chat about mutual acquaintances. And I didn’t have you followed. I worked it out from basic principles.’
‘It must be nice, always being right,’ Hari said.
‘Actually, it’s usually disappointing,’ Rav said. ‘Time and again, I hope people aren’t going to do the obvious thing. Time and again, they let me down.’
‘Although I’m still not entirely certain that it was the Saints,’ Hari said. ‘Despite the timing.’
‘Who else would it be? You pushed them. They pushed back. I suppose they made some kind of threat or ultimatum. Because if they’d agreed to your terms, you would have taken that head straight to the school in Down Town.’
‘Do you want to see the message, or do you want to assume that you already know what it is?’
‘Show me. Isn’t that why you called?’
Hari sent the short clip to Rav.
They watched it together.
It began without introduction or overture. Here was Nabhoj, naked, looking past the viewpoint with an uncertain expression, as if waiting for instruction. A stocky man with a small pot belly and curls of black hair on his chest. Standing in front of a wall of rough dark rock, shivering slightly as he spoke.
This time around, Hari felt a slow burn of sympathetic humiliation. Nabhoj was a quiet, serious man. Long on thought, short on words, as Nabhomani liked to say. Brooding in the tower of the command and control module like some ruined prince. Formidable. Minatory. And shy, this was something Hari had realised only recently, from the new perspective of his exile. Nabhoj had avoided ordinary human discourse as much as possible because he was shy. But now he was stripped of his dignity, a naked shivering forked creature with his black hair loose in lank strings about his shoulders. Halting, stumbling, as he recited what was clearly a prepared script. Licking his lips, once losing the thread of a sentence and starting over. Asking Hari to do the right thing. Telling him that he must forget about heroics and tricks. Telling him that he was responsible for the lives of everyone he held dear. That there was only one right thing to do; only one way that things would come out right.
‘You should not have run to Ophir. There is no help for you there. The Ardenist cannot help you. Tamonash Pilot cannot help you. There is no safety in his house. Give up the head of Dr Gagarian. Deposit it in a safe place. You will be contacted again, and you will tell them where they can find the head. If you do that, they will let us go. You have my word on that, Gajananvihari. You know that I do not lie. You know how precious the truth is to me. And you know what they can do. Give up the head. Do it straight away. Do it—’
The abrupt ending of the clip was a blow to the heart.
Rav said, ‘It raises several questions. The first and most important is this: was that really your brother?’
Hari said, ‘I wondered about that too. The two women who tracked me down, on Themba, tried to trick me with an eidolon of Agrata. It’s possible that this could be more of the same.’
‘But you don’t think so.’
‘Agrata told me that she thought that Nabhoj had been killed by the hijackers. But she wasn’t certain. She couldn’t contact him, or Nabhomani. Their bioses were down. But she hadn’t seen them. She hadn’t seen their bodies . . .’
‘It was clever, implying that others of your family are still alive. And the ending, that was also a nice touch. Melodramatic, but effective.’
‘I have to assume that it was him. That he’s alive. But don’t worry, I am not going to do anything rash.’
‘Except you already did. No need to apologise, by the way,’ Rav said. ‘I already factored it into my plans. And I have to admit that I’m disappointed that they responded with this cheap little threat. I was hoping that they would try to snatch you, force you to retrieve the head from the bonded store. Then we could have had some real fun.’
‘They are trying to panic me. Trying to make me do something foolish. To give them what they want without talking to them, without negotiating. Well, I won’t,’ Hari said.
His anger was back. The unreasoning anger that had possessed him during his first days of exile on Themba. Prowling the basement of his mind. Hot and black and raw with grief and fear.
Rav said, ‘Have you told your uncle about this?’
‘Not yet.’
‘His attempts to help you haven’t amounted to much so far,’ Rav said. ‘Send him a message, or don’t, but come and meet me right away. We’ll take a quick look at the dead philosopher’s stuff, and then we’ll knock the dust of this rotten little town from our wings.’
6
The government store was a dimly lit grey cube cluttered with machines and furniture and racks and crates of sooty, scorched kibble. The stink of char sharp in the dry chill air. Everything tagged with dense blocks of police code.
The unsmiling police inspector explained that Salx Minnot Flores’ possessions were being stored there because a complex dispute about the terms of his will had not yet been resolved, told Hari and Rav that they were welcome to look around but must not touch anything.
Rav leaned against the wall, picking at his teeth with a bamboo splinter, while Hari walked up and down. The breakfast he’d eaten at a hawker’s cart sat heavily in his stomach. He found it hard to concentrate. He kept seeing moments from the hijackers’ message. His brother, naked, pleading, humiliated.
There was a maker, racks of machine parts, assemblies of what might have been guns or telescopes, elaborate arrangements of mirrors. Some of it vaguely resembled the apparatus Hari had built for Dr Gagarian, but on a much smaller scale. All of it was broken and blistered and smoke-blackened. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it had been designed to probe or measure.
There were crates of burned debris. Carbonised shards and slabs. Ashy fragments. There was a table of heat-warped, piebald artefacts that mites had been reconstructing, millimetre by millimetre, molecule by molecule, when the murder investigation had been abandoned.
‘That doohickey inside the Faraday cage is faintly interesting,’ Rav said. ‘Looks very much like some kind of neural inducer.’
He pushed away from the wall and stalked past a stack of storage crates and pulled open the door of a wire-mesh booth.
The inspector reminded him that he was forbidden to touch anything. Rav ignored her, peering at the chair and the spidery apparatus hung over it, looking over his shoulder at Hari, saying that this looked very much like the kind of thing that would let you play with your own brain.
‘I told you to leave the stuff alone,’ the inspector said.
‘And I decided to ignore you,’ Rav said
. ‘We bribed you for access, so you have no way to back up your authority.’
‘Think again,’ the inspector said, and reached inside a slit in her scarlet uniform jacket.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Rav said.
He held up her slug pistol, dangling from the little finger of his left hand by its trigger-guard, then leaned into the booth and made an adjustment to the spidery apparatus. There was a low, deep hum as something powered up.
The inspector said that he was in serious trouble.
Rav showed his teeth. ‘Oh, and who are you going to tell?’
Hari said, ‘Let me try it. Let me see what it does.’
‘I think we should all try it,’ Rav said, and hooked his claws in the mesh roof of the booth and peeled it back, then reached inside again.
The inspector started towards the Ardenist and there was a soundless flash of white light inside Hari’s head. It consumed everything. Thought, sight, everything. And then he was back in the dim, cluttered cube.
The inspector had fallen to her knees. She pushed to her feet and glared up at Rav and told him to have intercourse with his grandmother.
‘I never had a grandmother,’ Rav said.
Hari said, ‘I didn’t see a stick figure.’
‘Neither did I,’ Rav said. ‘Just the carrier wave.’
‘The white light.’
‘The white light.’
‘Right in the middle of my head.’
‘Right in the middle of everything.’
‘You’re meddling in things you do not understand,’ the inspector said.
‘Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,’ Rav said. ‘And so did Salx Minnot Flores, as it turns out.’
‘It wasn’t much like the Bright Moment,’ Hari said, as he and Rav walked towards the elevators to the docks.
‘What would you know about the Bright Moment, youngblood?’ Rav said.
‘I’ve experienced simulations.’
‘I very much doubt that they were much like the Bright Moment, either. But it was impressive, in a way. And it was only a prototype. I wonder what the final version could do. A machine built by a baseliner, capable of approximating a vision cast off by a posthuman intelligence at the moment of its vastening. Yes, I am impressed. How about you?’