The Quantum Thief

Don’t talk to me about business. It’s women who brought you here.’

I say nothing and clink my glass against his. We both drink. I cough. He laughs, a rough, booming sound.

‘So, am I going to have to kick your ass or did Raymonde do it already?’ he asks.

‘Over the last few days, people have been queueing for the position.’

‘Well, that’s as it should be.’ He pours more vodka into the glasses in a liberal waterfall that doesn’t spare the floor. ‘Anyway, I should have known that you were coming when the dreams started again.’

‘The dreams?’

‘Puss-in-boots. Castles. I always suspected you had something to do with them.’ He folds his arms. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Have you come back to find true happiness with your true love?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s good, because it’s too late. Idiot. I could see it coming, I have to say. You were always restless. Never happy with anything. Even Raymonde.’ He squints at me. ‘You are not going to tell me where you went, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s good to see you. It’s been a dull world without you.’ Our glasses clink again.

‘Isaac—’

‘Are you going to say something mushy?’

‘No.’ I can’t help laughing. I feel like I haven’t been away at all. I can imagine the afternoon running down a stream of vodka, sitting here and talking and drinking until Isaac starts reading his poetry and arguing about theology and talking endlessly about women, daring me to interrupt. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.

And that, of course, is the price.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say and put my glass down. ‘I really have to go.’

He looks at me. ‘Is everything all right? That’s a queer look you’ve got.’

‘It’s fine. Thanks for the drink. I’d stay longer, but—’

‘Phh. So it is a woman. It’s nothing. I’ll have this place tidied up by the time you come next time.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘About what? It’s not my business to judge what you do. Enough people around throwing stones.’ He claps my shoulder. ‘Go on. Bring me an offworld girl next time. Green skin would be good. I like green.’

‘Doesn’t it say something about that in the Torah?’ I say.

‘I’ll take my chances,’ Isaac says. ‘Shalom.’

I feel mildly drunk when I find my way to Raymonde’s apartment.

‘I wasn’t expecting you until much, much later,’ she says, when she lets me in. I squeeze past the inert synthbio drones that have been fixing the place. Tempmatter coverings hang everywhere, like spiderwebs.

‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ she says, ‘but it’s your fault.’

‘I know.’

She looks at me sharply. ‘So?’

‘Let me see it.’

I sit down on a freshly printed, flimsy-looking chair and wait. Raymonde returns and hands me an object, wrapped in a cloth.

‘You never told me what it actually does,’ she says. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

I take the gun out and look at it. It feels heavier than the last time I held it, ugly with its snub barrel and bulbous chamber with the nine bullets, nine dignities of God. I put it in my pocket. ‘I need to go and do some thinking,’ I tell Raymonde. ‘And if I don’t see you again – thank you.’

She does not say anything and looks away.

I close the door behind me and take the elevator back to the street level. I feel an odd tingling in my gevulot, and suddenly there is someone walking with me down the Avenue, a dark-haired young man wearing a dashing suit, matching my step. His face is mine, but his easy smile is not. I gesture him to lead on and follow.

Interlude VIRTUE

Gilbertine dreams about the puss-in-boots again. It is a streaky tom on two legs, wearing a flamboyant hat and heavy boots. It leads her through marble-and-gold corridors of a palace, with rows of doors on both sides. One door is open.

‘What is in there?’ she asks the cat. It looks up at her with strange, glittering eyes. ‘You will know,’ it says, in a high-pitched quivering voice, ‘when the master comes back.’

She wakes up in her Montgolfiersville apartment, next to the warm, snoring body of her latest lover, whose name is already fading from her memory. Her gevulot contracts are always well-crafted, a minimum of disruption for everybody, leaving only pleasing memories of flesh here and there, hot flushes of emotion associated with tastes and places.

The dreams have been more frequent lately. And her own memories feel loose, uncomfortable. She wonders if she is getting old, not in the old-fashioned way but developing the malady of immortals that Bathilde talks about, being erased and rewritten too many times.

The co-memory message comes when she is in the shower with her lover, his nameless fingers lathering her back. It is full of sudden anxiety and urgency. Raymonde.

She disappears from beneath his touch into a gevulot blur. That was always the plan anyway. She stops only to pick up her Watch from her night table: she hates wearing it when making love. The word Virtus engraved on it has always felt too much like a bad joke.

Raymonde waits for her in her Belly apartment. Her face is pale and drawn, and her freckles stand out against her skin.

‘What’s wrong?’ Gilbertine asks.

‘Paul. He is gone.’

‘What?’

‘He is gone. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know what to do.’

Gilbertine embraces her friend, anger rising inside her. ‘Sssh. Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.’

‘Is it?’ Raymonde’s shoulders shake. ‘How is it going to be fine?’

Because I’m going to find him and make him pay, Gilbertine thinks.

Her gevulot contracts are always well-crafted, even the old ones. And they always have emergency clauses.

To her satisfaction, she actually surprises him. He is in the strange robot garden of the Maze, sitting on a small luggage pod, smiling at empty space. He wears a sleek dark blue full-body garment, zoku style, not quite matter, not quite light. He holds a small box that he keeps turning in his hands, round and round.

When she lets him see her, for a fleeting moment he looks like a frightened little boy. Then he smiles.

‘Ah, there you are.’ Paul says. But he does not look like the Paul that Gilbertine remembers, the sometimes foolish, self-centred architect hopelessly in love with her friend. His eyes are clear and emotionless, and the smile playing on his lips is cold. ‘Can you remind me what your name is?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

He spreads his hands. ‘I made myself forget,’ he says.

Gilbertine takes a deep breath. ‘I am Gilbertine Shalbatana. You are Paul Sernine. You loved my friend Raymonde. She is hurting. You need to go back. Or at least have the guts to say goodbye. She already forgave you once.’

She hurls the memory at him, opening her gevulot.

Raymonde introduced them. Raymonde, Gilbertine’s comrade-in-arms ever since she came from Nanedi; a slow-town girl in the big city, wanting to make music. Secretly, Gilbertine hated her easy grace, the way things fell into place for her, seemingly without effort. He was one of those things. So of course she wanted him. And making