‘So be careful when you talk to me about Paul Sernine,’ Marcel says. He narrows his eyes. ‘I’ve never noticed it before, but you look like him. Don’t tell me this is another one of his games.’
‘It’s not, I promise,’ Isidore says. ‘Quite the opposite. I’m trying to figure out why he did what he did. It’s important to know why he visited you. Would he have had access to your partner’s memories?’
‘Owl’s? What does he have to do with this?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. Please. It’s important. Not just to me, but to all of Mars.’
‘I see.’ Marcel runs a hand along his shaved scalp. ‘I suppose it’s possible. Not with my permission, but then he did give me that damned Watch. The tzaddikim told me that he hid things in my memories, somehow. And Owl and I shared everything: he had no secrets from me. So Paul could have accessed Owl’s memories through my gevulot. What good that would have done him, I do not know.’
Isidore takes a deep breath. ‘With your permission, I would like to take a look at those memories. The night of the Spike in particular. I have been trying to understand why the person you knew as Paul Sernine came back here, what he was looking for. There is a pattern, I can feel it, and it’s related to the Sobornost civil war, the Spike, what happened to the Earth – to everything. We need to understand it if Mars is to survive this.’
‘Hm.’ Marcel smiles a sad smile. ‘So you really think it’s worth it? Saving our world, even if it is built on a lie?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Isidore says. ‘Not all illusions are bad. Sometimes they are necessary. My father – my adoptive father – taught me that.’
Marcel looks at Isidore. Then he picks up his glass.
‘Very well. Please come and meet my love. His name is Owl Boy.’
Owl Boy sits by the window wrapped in a medfoam cocoon, looking out. There are fresh flowers in the room, and a faint lavender smell from scented candles. It is clearly the cleanest room in the house. The view is directly over the Martian desert. The city is passing through Hellas Planitia, and tendrils of orange dust worm along the rough surface behind it.
Owl Boy makes hollow metallic sounds in his throat, like a fingernail tapping a tin can. His Noble body is still young, but he has the face of an old man, slack-jawed and worn. His eyes are blank. The gevulot around him feels foggy, broken.
Marcel kisses his cheek. ‘I take it you know about his condition?’
‘I ’blinked it. His brain was altered by the Spike in ways that the Resurrection Men do not understand: there is a quantum condensate in his microtubules, something like the ancient theories of consciousness, but artificial. He can’t go to the Quiet, or the condensate might collapse, and they do not know what would happen then.’
‘Twenty years, he’s been like this.’ Marcel sighs. ‘I live in hope. Quantum states do not live forever. Perhaps he will come out of it. When he does, I will be waiting. So I live modestly, stretch out my days.’
‘Perhaps the zoku can help him. I could talk to—’
Marcel smiles sadly.
‘I do not put my trust in gods anymore,’ he says. ‘Please. Do what you came to do. It will be his bedtime soon.’
Isidore nods, holds the thief’s Watch in a tight grip and takes out the Key in his mind, the one that opens the doors of all memory.
Owl Boy’s exomemory unfolds before him, but Isidore closes his eyes to most of it, ’blinking for a night in a glider, over Noctis Labyrinthus. The night of the Spike.
And then he remembers being there, above Ius Chasma, laughing at Marcel’s fear at the aerial acrobatics.
Owl Boy thinks Marcel can be such a girl sometimes. To pacify him he takes the glider higher, to see the stars. It has been a good night. Sometimes he does not understand Marcel, his obsession with his work, his need to be alone. But up in the night sky, it feels like they are meant to be together.
And of course, that’s exactly when Marcel has to drop the bomb.
‘I’ve been thinking about going away,’ Marcel says.
‘Leaving?’ Owl Boy says. Somewhere, far away, Isidore tastes his disappointment, the bitter sting that pierces his chest. ‘Where would you go?’
Marcel gestures. ‘You know. Up. Out there.’ He presses his palm against the smooth, transparent skin of the glider.
‘It’s a stupid cycle here, don’t you think? And it doesn’t feel real here anymore.’
Owl Boy is angry now. Is that what I am, after all? A part of the stupid cycle. A diversion, something that you could play with before you go to do bigger and better things? He lets it come out in his words.
‘Isn’t that supposed to be your job? Feeling unreal?’
‘No,’ Marcel says. ‘It’s about making unreal things real, or real things more real. It would be easier, up there. The zokus have machines that turn thoughts into things. The Sobornost say that they are going to preserve every thought ever thought. But here—’
Here it comes, thinks Isidore, clinging onto his self, trained by his Kingship to sustain the flow of his own consciousness in the river of memory, looking at Owl Boy’s frozen thoughts one by one. Is this why Marcel clings to him? Because the last thing he told him was about going away?
The time in the memory slows down. Marcel’s fingers are pressed against the glass. A bright Jupiter winks between his fingers. And then there is another memory, a sudden discontinuity, a knife-cut through the thread of Owl Boy’s thoughts.
Marcel can be such a girl sometimes. Jupiter is bright between his fingers. A sudden discontinuity—
Isidore remembers remembering, is caught in a memory of the memory itself, an infinite mirror tunnel that draws him in. Marcel’s fingers move more and more slowly. Time flows sluggish and cold, as if he was swimming against an icy current.
Of course. The thief would have left a trap for anyone who tried to follow. A memory pit that traps you in the infinite moment.
But Isidore is not anyone. He is everyone. He is the King of Mars, and exomemory holds no secrets for him.
Struggling against the memory flow, he takes out the Key again, and reluctantly summons its other function: accessing the back doors of memory that allows them to be edited, changed and manipulated. It burns red-hot against the ice of the memory trap and melts it away. Time leaps forward like a dog from a snapped leash.
Jupiter explodes in Marcel’s hand and turns his fingers into red glowing pillars. There is a rain of stars in Owl Boy’s eyes. And then the quantum gods speak to Isidore.
The first voice belongs to a child. A tiny hand holds his own, by two fingers.
You live on an island called causality, the voice says. A small place, where effect follows cause like a train on rails. Walking forward, step by step, in the footprints of a god on a beach. Why do that when you could run straight into the waves and splash water around?
Laughter. He feels the joy of water droplets flying up, glittering in the sun, toes digging into the sandy bottom, and he knows that he could leap up and fall and all it would do is create a big splash.
Causality. It’s a lens through which we see things. An ordering of events. In a quantum spacetime, it is not unique. It’s just one story among many.
Listen. We’ll explain.
You have to understand before you can be us.
A different voice, an older male voice, a tone that sounds like Pixil’s tanglemother the Eldest, with the same hint of ancient weariness.
It was an idea they already thought of in the twentieth century, that spacetime could compute. They tested it, in the last days of the Large Hadron Collider, when they learned how to make tiny black holes. Encode computations into their event horizons, then probe the information paradox by smashing them together, see if quantum gravity is more powerful than Turing Machines or their quantum cousins. Something to do for the humming LHC, still warm from finding the first Higgs.