Tawaddud clenches and unclenches her fingers in rhythm with the bird’s suffering. Finally, she can’t bear it.
‘What are you doing?’ she hisses at Sumanguru.
‘Interrogating, like I said.’
‘How?’
‘Copying its mind into a vir. A little reality, if you like. Running a genetic algorithm on it: asking the bird-brain questions and changing its brain structure until I get something sensible out.’ Sumanguru flexes his fingers. ‘It should only take a few thousand iterations. Half a minute, I’d say.’
‘Stop that. Immediately,’ Tawaddud says. ‘This is a Sirr citizen you are talking about. I will not have her tortured. I will alert the Council.’ She makes a fist, ready to summon a Repentant from her ring.
Sumanguru turns to look at her. His grin merges with his scars into a monstrous grimace.
‘It’s your city’s future. I can make it talk. Means getting your hands dirty.’
Tawaddud swallows. Is this what Dunyazad meant? That it’s not a game. The things you might have to do. She looks at the frantic qarin. Her heart thumps. Not like this.
‘There might be . . . another way. A better way.’ There has to be.
She pulls her doctor’s bag over her shoulder, puts it on the table and opens it. She takes out her beemee and puts it on her head. ‘Please let her go. I can find out what we need.’
‘How?’
‘I could entwine with the jinn. It will want to anchor itself to a body, just like with Alile.’
Sumanguru frowns. ‘Explain.’
‘Self-loops. The stories in our heads. When you love someone, you become entwined. Your self spreads to others, like swarms of fireflies, mingling. There are ways to . . . invite someone in. The body thieves do it with stories. But you can be more direct. The athar responds to commands we call Secret Names. Many have been lost, but they can be used for many purposes, if you know how.’
The Sobornost gogol’s eyes narrow. ‘And you do.’
‘I was taught.’
‘In the guberniyas, the Founders forbid this. We know this leads to monsters and horrors. Hominid minds were made to be separate.’
‘Perhaps it is you who is afraid of getting your hands dirty,’ Tawaddud says.
Sumanguru looks first at her and then at Arcelia. He looks curious, like a child, almost.
‘Very well,’ he says, finally. ‘We are wasting time as it is. Just make sure it doesn’t fly away.’
The aviary does not have the kind of harmony as her assignation room, but she takes a few moments to meditate, breathing, letting her awareness spread out, into the noise of the rukh swarm and the plants and the hot humid air. Then she whispers to the metal bird in her arms.
Tell me your name. I am Tawaddud. Tell me your name.
At first, nothing, just a tickle in the back of her head. It occurs to her it is dangerous to do this in a place so full of wildcode, even if it is behind Seals. But it is better than letting an innocent creature suffer.
What is your name?
Something moves inside the bird, in her head, suddenly, like a startled serpent. A shape in the athar, like smoke, coiling in the bird’s heart. She is an ouroboros of software, in the tiny confines of her metal shell, in a little world that feels like a dream – except that, suddenly, there is a corridor of light, and a voice calling out to her.
I am Arcelia.
Arcelia, she says. Arcelia, listen to me. I’m going to tell you a story.
Stories always lie.
This one is a true story, I promise.
What is it about?
It’s a love story.
I like love stories.
Good, Tawaddud says and begins.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved only monsters.
11
THE THIEF AND THE SCARS
The vir smells of gunpowder and oil. There is a distant sound of gunfire. I’m bound to a metal chair under a bright light, naked. The plastic straps cut into my wrists and ankles, and the thin chair frame presses painfully into my back. The tiger is no longer a tiger but a man, standing in shadow with his arms folded, a distant expression on his scarred face.
He steps forward into the light, still moving like a tiger.
‘This is a good ship,’ he says. ‘Too many concessions to the flesh, of course. But we can change that. Starting with your whore.’
‘What have you done to Mieli?’
‘The Oortian? Nothing. She’s going to do me a favour, get me out properly.’ He pulls his own chair forward, swings it around, sits down and leans on the backrest, his face close to mine like the tiger’s muzzle. ‘So we have time to talk.’
I flinch. Our minds are still running inside the Box. This vir is inside Perhonen. A separation between worlds and minds, that is the Sobornost way. But it’s not going to make this hurt any less.
The tiger-man opens a flick-knife slowly.
‘This vir comes from my memories,’ he says. ‘I put a lot of detail into it. Good avatars. Nerves, muscles, veins.’ He tests the edge against his thumb, draws a red line of blood like a tiny smile. ‘The others always forget about the flesh. But you should never forget about the enemy. It’s always there, even when you are not looking. The quantum filth know that.’
The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, comes out from my lips with droplets of spittle and blood.
‘You always had a sense of humour, le Flambeur,’ he says. ‘Maybe we can make this short, if you tell me what that bitch Pellegrini wants from me this time.’
‘It’s not that,’ I say.
‘Well, if laughing makes it easier for you—’ He reaches out with the knife, presses it against the corner of my eye, starts making the first cut—
‘You know, I wanted to give you a chance,’ I say, blood running down my face. ‘That’s why I left the Realmgate open. I thought you had good reasons to do what you did. But now I really think you just like hurting people.’
His eyes widen and he takes a step back. My features start flowing. My body changes. His Code echoes in my mind – soft cold dead skin under my fingers. I smile a tiger smile. I dissolve the chair with a thought and get up.
‘What did you do?’ he growls.
‘I may be smaller and weaker and younger, but that does not mean I’m not smarter. Like you said: you should not forget about the enemy. I made a firmament vir. Yes, it should be impossible. Unless you have Oortian hardware running Sobornost software. She is a good ship.’
He slashes with the knife, but I am already a ghost, outside the laws of the vir. ‘You should have gone through the gate,’ I say. ‘The monkey does not always lie.’
I freeze the vir and cut my link to it. A discontinuity takes me back to the dark forest. The tiger is frozen in mid-leap. I pick up my sword and walk past it, through the Realmgate.
The gate slams me back into a physical body, inside the swirling madness of the router. I grab the Box and tear it away from the router’s delicate machinery, just when the rain of Hunters starts.
Mieli watches as the butterfly avatars become still. The sneering face of the box god slowly dissolves as they drift apart.
‘Perhonen?’ she whispers.
Here, the ship’s voice says.
‘Are you all right?’
I think so. I feel strange. I think I fell asleep.