The Fractal Prince

appears, a cloud of purple and white flowers. Rumzan’s form becomes fluid, mixing with the newcomer’s. When he coalesces back to his mosaic self, his movements are quick and agitated.

‘The Council is requesting progress reports,’ he says. ‘I must leave you for a moment. In fact, perhaps it is better that I do so, if Lord Sumanguru intends to do something . . . unorthodox. That way, I will have no knowledge of such matters if questions are asked. I will ensure that my Repentants give you privacy. You will find an aviary through the doors at the end of the gallery and down the stairs.’

‘Thank you, Rumzan,’ Tawaddud says. ‘Your loyalty to the cause of Sirr will not be forgotten.’

‘I am at your service,’ the jinn says. ‘And for myself, I have not forgotten a certain pleasant afternoon and the new perspectives of the world you showed me.’

‘It will continue to remain our secret,’ Tawaddud says, forcing herself to smile.

At first, the noise in the aviary is deafening, a cacophony of high-pitched screams and the flapping of wings. It is a high dome of glass nearly a hundred metres in diameter. Most of the bottom half is taken up by chimera plants from the wildcode desert, thick purple tangled networks of tubes that expand and contract, geoengineering synthbio of old Earth gone wild in the absence of its masters. A few windmill trees rotate slowly, spiky turbine foliage catching the light in hues of amber and angry dark red.

When Tawaddud and Sumanguru enter, the rukh swarm notices them. They are everywhere: flying things of different sizes, from tiny sapphire insects to two or three manta-ray like gliders who circle near the ceiling. Tawaddud shields her eyes against the storm of wings. Then she barks a Secret Name at them and the swarm disperses and quiets down, becomes a coiling cloud amongst the vegetation.

Down in the centre of the aviary is a clear space, with a delicately wrought white table, a few chairs and a perch. Tawaddud sets Arcelia on it. The bird does not open its eyes but clings to it, flapping its wings briefly for balance.

Sumanguru studies the bird closely, leaning forward, hands clasped behind his back. Then he reaches out, fingers spread like a magician’s, surprisingly graceful for a man of his size. Five crackling lines of light appear between his fingertips and the bird. Arcelia lets out a shrill, mechanical scream and starts flapping its wings furiously. A bubble shimmers into being around it, holding it in place, and the sound is gone, leaving the bird scratching and pecking at its invisible prison in silence.

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.