be?
It’s worth a try.
‘Something you may wish to consider, Miss Chekhova,’ I say. ‘Your Elder is working for the Great Game Zoku.’
Chekhova stares at Barbicane. A torrent of communication passes between them, blurring the spimescape. Her trueform features are a mask of shock and rage.
My low-rent metacortex picks up only a few fragments of the quptstorm between them, and fails to translate it. But I can imagine what they are saying.
‘I would never have believed it, but it makes perfect sense.’
‘He is bluffing! Can’t you see? He will say anything!’
‘ This is why you blocked the ekpyrotic test, you bastard, it’s why—’
There is a blinding flash. My synthbio body is jarred to the core. Matjek fired a Hawking shell, it’s all over now , I have time to think. But my continuing consciousness implies that our lives have not been ended by a dying black hole.
My vision clears, and I see Barbicane coalesce back into his steampunk form, except that this time there is a silver egg-like q-gun floating next to his head. I fall onto the bubble bottom gently. The air is thick with inert utility foglets and scattered zoku jewels. Chekhova is gone.
‘Now look at what you made me do,’ Barbicane says. ‘Or rather, what I made you do ! That’s the official version!’
‘Not getting softer in your old age, Barbicane? You used to have a spark of anarchy. Remember the sunlifter job? You were quite happy to break the rules then. That’s why I asked your zoku to make my ships.’
‘Just playing a different game now, Jean! As should you.’
‘Oh, I’m not playing. Not this time.’
‘Jean, don’t be a fool! Work with us! We know you were on Earth. We need intel. The Sobornost is going mad! This is the best offer you’re going to get!’
I shake my head.
‘I don’t work for cops, even ones that wear stovepipe hats,’ I say. ‘And by the way, my best offer is this: I leave now – with my ship – or we’ll get to see what Iapetus looks like with a black hole in the middle. Quite a lot like Mars, I would imagine. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
Barbicane hesitates. I can feel the invisible scan beam of the q-gun probing my forehead. I grit my teeth and try not to blink. It’s hard when a light show of lasers, particle beams and kinetic warheads turns the chamber above into a red-and-white spiderweb.
‘Get the hell out of here!’ he growls, finally.
In the spimescape, I see the great gateway of the Arsenal irising open.
You can stop now, I tell Matjek.
Do I have to?
Yes. We are going to talk about this later, young man.
The Leblanc rises beneath us. I can feel its cool non-mind touch my own through my quptlink with Matjek. It is a sleek, midnight blue thing, not large, barely ten metres long, a cross between a Rolls Royce Silver Phantom and a spaceship. The glare of its Hawking drive pierces the chaos of the Arsenal.
‘You are making a mistake, Jean,’ Barbicane says. ‘The Oortian joined us. She is a member of the Great Game now, in the embrace of our volition cone. She told us everything.’
Shit.
‘We know you are not what you used to be. A challenge for a small zoku, nothing more. We will catch you!’
‘You are welcome to try,’ I say. ‘As for the Oortian, you can keep her.’ I stare at him. ‘Next time we meet, I will take more than just toys.’
Then I jump through the q-dot bubble and drift slowly downwards, towards the ship.
We’ll be ready , Barbicane mouths silently.
Another gun cascade goes off around us as a fiery goodbye, and then the blue cold skin of the Leblanc swallows me.
Interlude
THE GODDESS AND THE FLOWER
Joséphine Pellegrini takes a step, then another. Her legs ache. The sand is wet and clings to her feet.
The beach is dark. The spiderweb of the System map in the sky has faded into a ghostly glow. Even the sea is silent. The demiurges are busy, listening to her, making the partial. The gogol construct is
It’s worth a try.
‘Something you may wish to consider, Miss Chekhova,’ I say. ‘Your Elder is working for the Great Game Zoku.’
Chekhova stares at Barbicane. A torrent of communication passes between them, blurring the spimescape. Her trueform features are a mask of shock and rage.
My low-rent metacortex picks up only a few fragments of the quptstorm between them, and fails to translate it. But I can imagine what they are saying.
‘I would never have believed it, but it makes perfect sense.’
‘He is bluffing! Can’t you see? He will say anything!’
‘ This is why you blocked the ekpyrotic test, you bastard, it’s why—’
There is a blinding flash. My synthbio body is jarred to the core. Matjek fired a Hawking shell, it’s all over now , I have time to think. But my continuing consciousness implies that our lives have not been ended by a dying black hole.
My vision clears, and I see Barbicane coalesce back into his steampunk form, except that this time there is a silver egg-like q-gun floating next to his head. I fall onto the bubble bottom gently. The air is thick with inert utility foglets and scattered zoku jewels. Chekhova is gone.
‘Now look at what you made me do,’ Barbicane says. ‘Or rather, what I made you do ! That’s the official version!’
‘Not getting softer in your old age, Barbicane? You used to have a spark of anarchy. Remember the sunlifter job? You were quite happy to break the rules then. That’s why I asked your zoku to make my ships.’
‘Just playing a different game now, Jean! As should you.’
‘Oh, I’m not playing. Not this time.’
‘Jean, don’t be a fool! Work with us! We know you were on Earth. We need intel. The Sobornost is going mad! This is the best offer you’re going to get!’
I shake my head.
‘I don’t work for cops, even ones that wear stovepipe hats,’ I say. ‘And by the way, my best offer is this: I leave now – with my ship – or we’ll get to see what Iapetus looks like with a black hole in the middle. Quite a lot like Mars, I would imagine. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
Barbicane hesitates. I can feel the invisible scan beam of the q-gun probing my forehead. I grit my teeth and try not to blink. It’s hard when a light show of lasers, particle beams and kinetic warheads turns the chamber above into a red-and-white spiderweb.
‘Get the hell out of here!’ he growls, finally.
In the spimescape, I see the great gateway of the Arsenal irising open.
You can stop now, I tell Matjek.
Do I have to?
Yes. We are going to talk about this later, young man.
The Leblanc rises beneath us. I can feel its cool non-mind touch my own through my quptlink with Matjek. It is a sleek, midnight blue thing, not large, barely ten metres long, a cross between a Rolls Royce Silver Phantom and a spaceship. The glare of its Hawking drive pierces the chaos of the Arsenal.
‘You are making a mistake, Jean,’ Barbicane says. ‘The Oortian joined us. She is a member of the Great Game now, in the embrace of our volition cone. She told us everything.’
Shit.
‘We know you are not what you used to be. A challenge for a small zoku, nothing more. We will catch you!’
‘You are welcome to try,’ I say. ‘As for the Oortian, you can keep her.’ I stare at him. ‘Next time we meet, I will take more than just toys.’
Then I jump through the q-dot bubble and drift slowly downwards, towards the ship.
We’ll be ready , Barbicane mouths silently.
Another gun cascade goes off around us as a fiery goodbye, and then the blue cold skin of the Leblanc swallows me.
Interlude
THE GODDESS AND THE FLOWER
Joséphine Pellegrini takes a step, then another. Her legs ache. The sand is wet and clings to her feet.
The beach is dark. The spiderweb of the System map in the sky has faded into a ghostly glow. Even the sea is silent. The demiurges are busy, listening to her, making the partial. The gogol construct is
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