your own Wang bullet! Ships are just guns pointed away from the enemy! The Robur and Nemo Societies find inspiration there.’ Barbicane strokes his whiskers. ‘We are often misunderstood! We don’t build things to destroy, but to test ourselves! Cannon shell against armour, vessel versus space – same thing!’
There is thunder in the distance.
Both Barbicane and Chekhova look up. I need to buy a few more seconds. I decide to go for the philosophical option.
‘So, you don’t have any problems with others using them for the purposes of war—’ I begin.
And then things start blowing up.
A rapid cascade of booming explosions makes the Arsenal feel like the inside of a drum. Missiles whoosh past us. Shells and bullets ricochet from the pseudomatter walls below. In the chamber behind us, rifles and cannons go off one after another like exploding domino pieces. The q-dot shell around us is like a night sky with blinking stars as it becomes adamantine under the constant fire from conventional weapons. The noise becomes so loud the bubble has to start filtering it out.
Then one of the holeships starts moving, slowly. Its linear accelerator stem swings around, back and forth, like the weapon of a drunkard.
The bubble zips us out of the way. Not that it will make much of a difference if the holeship’s weapon goes off. A single shot from one could take out the whole moon.
Barbicane and Chekhova break the Circle. She explodes into a bright constellation of foglets and jewels; he becomes a disembodied head with a stovepipe hat in the eye of a storm of diamond orbs. To hell with it. I speed up and hurl a qupt at Matjek.
What the hell are you doing?
There is an apologetic microsecond pause.
I got access to all of them , comes a response. I just wanted to play.
Well, stop that right now and come and get me! The thought has more anger than I intended. The response is hot with tears.
Okay, he says in a small voice. I’m sorry.
Never mind. Just come and—
Invisible limbs seize me. I find myself suspended in the air between them by foglet tendrils, spread-eagled. Somewhere, far away, the Colonel Sparmiento identity pops like a soap bubble. White fire of the explosions in the distance makes the two trueformed zoku members look literally incandescent.
Wait, I qupt at Matjek. Don’t stop. Keep them popping. But stay away from the holeships!
Barbicane’s eyes are bulging with rage.
‘ You ,’ he says.
‘Hello, Barbicane,’ I gasp. ‘It’s been a long time.’ I try to incline my head towards Chekhova, but I can’t move. ‘Jean le Flambeur, at your service.’
‘You are causing irreparable damage,’ Barbicane thunders. ‘Get out of our gunscape now!’
Another cascade goes off in another chamber further down. I’m pretty sure there is a nuke or two this time. Debris bounces off the skin of the nearest holeship. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help much: a red sun shines through my eyelids, and a metal brush of second-degree burns caresses my skin.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. Not until I have what I came for. But open the Arsenal exit and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘It’s the Leblanc you want, isn’t it? Why didn’t you just ask ?’
‘This is way more fun. Besides, I never trusted you. What’s it going to be?’ Something black and sleek is moving in the distance. Come on, boy. I don’t have all day.
‘No deal.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The holeship turret is still moving, slowly but inexorably. It collides with a silvery seashell – a Protocol War metacloak generator, I now pick up from the Arsenal’s chaotic spimescape – and shatters it. ‘Oh my. That did look rather valuable.’
It’s not enough. They will detect Matjek any second. I need something else, something that will sting even outside the Circle.
Barbicane has been subtly different from the man I remember, but zoku Elders do not change. Not unless their q-self changes, unless they join a new zoku. Could it
There is thunder in the distance.
Both Barbicane and Chekhova look up. I need to buy a few more seconds. I decide to go for the philosophical option.
‘So, you don’t have any problems with others using them for the purposes of war—’ I begin.
And then things start blowing up.
A rapid cascade of booming explosions makes the Arsenal feel like the inside of a drum. Missiles whoosh past us. Shells and bullets ricochet from the pseudomatter walls below. In the chamber behind us, rifles and cannons go off one after another like exploding domino pieces. The q-dot shell around us is like a night sky with blinking stars as it becomes adamantine under the constant fire from conventional weapons. The noise becomes so loud the bubble has to start filtering it out.
Then one of the holeships starts moving, slowly. Its linear accelerator stem swings around, back and forth, like the weapon of a drunkard.
The bubble zips us out of the way. Not that it will make much of a difference if the holeship’s weapon goes off. A single shot from one could take out the whole moon.
Barbicane and Chekhova break the Circle. She explodes into a bright constellation of foglets and jewels; he becomes a disembodied head with a stovepipe hat in the eye of a storm of diamond orbs. To hell with it. I speed up and hurl a qupt at Matjek.
What the hell are you doing?
There is an apologetic microsecond pause.
I got access to all of them , comes a response. I just wanted to play.
Well, stop that right now and come and get me! The thought has more anger than I intended. The response is hot with tears.
Okay, he says in a small voice. I’m sorry.
Never mind. Just come and—
Invisible limbs seize me. I find myself suspended in the air between them by foglet tendrils, spread-eagled. Somewhere, far away, the Colonel Sparmiento identity pops like a soap bubble. White fire of the explosions in the distance makes the two trueformed zoku members look literally incandescent.
Wait, I qupt at Matjek. Don’t stop. Keep them popping. But stay away from the holeships!
Barbicane’s eyes are bulging with rage.
‘ You ,’ he says.
‘Hello, Barbicane,’ I gasp. ‘It’s been a long time.’ I try to incline my head towards Chekhova, but I can’t move. ‘Jean le Flambeur, at your service.’
‘You are causing irreparable damage,’ Barbicane thunders. ‘Get out of our gunscape now!’
Another cascade goes off in another chamber further down. I’m pretty sure there is a nuke or two this time. Debris bounces off the skin of the nearest holeship. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help much: a red sun shines through my eyelids, and a metal brush of second-degree burns caresses my skin.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. Not until I have what I came for. But open the Arsenal exit and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘It’s the Leblanc you want, isn’t it? Why didn’t you just ask ?’
‘This is way more fun. Besides, I never trusted you. What’s it going to be?’ Something black and sleek is moving in the distance. Come on, boy. I don’t have all day.
‘No deal.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The holeship turret is still moving, slowly but inexorably. It collides with a silvery seashell – a Protocol War metacloak generator, I now pick up from the Arsenal’s chaotic spimescape – and shatters it. ‘Oh my. That did look rather valuable.’
It’s not enough. They will detect Matjek any second. I need something else, something that will sting even outside the Circle.
Barbicane has been subtly different from the man I remember, but zoku Elders do not change. Not unless their q-self changes, unless they join a new zoku. Could it
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