Read Online The Causal Angel (Jean le Flambeur) by Hannu Rajaniemi - Free Book Online
Authors: Hannu Rajaniemi
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stands in front of me, tears running down his face.
‘Don’t be angry, Prince,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry about Narnia. You went away, and I didn’t know what to do. You said I could help Mieli, too, but you are doing it all on your own.’
I conjure a silk handkerchief from my sleeve and wipe his face. ‘I know, Matjek. I should not have gotten angry. It’s not your fault. Something … something bad happened and I have been thinking about it too much.’
‘What was it?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I smile. ‘But that was a nice trick you did, just now, with time. Can you tell me how it’s done?’
He shrugs. ‘I used to play time games a lot, on the beach, when I got bored. You always need to have a trigger like that that speeds you up if you get too slow by accident, so you don’t blink and miss the end of the world.’
Uh oh.
My plan was to sandbox the Wardrobe ’s vir and slow Matjek’s clockspeed down while I was off doing the Iapetos job so that he would not even notice my absence. Clearly, that is not going to work. I could try to design a more secure vir, but I don’t have enough time, and I am starting to doubt that any construct I could come up with would even hold him.
I look at Matjek, at the thin dark hair that will go grey too early, at his snub of a nose and serious mouth, and there is an odd, warm tingle in my chest.
I need a babysitter. It would be so much easier if I could just leave a copy of myself here. Unfortunately, Joséphine made sure I’m a singleton white male now, unable to spawn off gogols of myself, and I can’t trust a partial to keep up with Matjek. The people of Sirr are compressed data, and until I complete my mission, I can’t bring them back. I don’t dare to bring in anybody from outside, either: Matjek is hot property, an early gogol of a Sobornost Founder.
That leaves—
I sigh. There are no two ways about it. I need to talk to the Aun.
Carefully, I gather the shards of the thought-mirror and put them onto the table. ‘I’ll tell you what. Here is a puzzle for you. If you manage to put the mirror back together, you get to keep it. I need to go and take care of something, but I won’t be gone long, and after I come back, I’m going to make some hot chocolate. How does that sound?’
Feigning obedience, Matjek sits back down and starts moving the glass fragments around with one forefinger.
‘Be careful, they are sharp,’ I tell him.
I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head as I walk towards the back of the shop and the many volumes of Sirr.
It is dark there, and the only light comes from the faint silver lettering on the spines of the night-blue books. Everything feels soft, dreamlike: around the edges, the vir forgoes a detailed physics simulation and exploits the brain’s ability to lie to itself. In the narrow passage between the looming shelves, I feel like an insect inside a book, pressed between porous, heavy pages.
I swallow. I don’t really understand the Aun. They were let loose in the Collapse – or long before that, by Matjek, if you believe what they say. They are pure self-loops, living memes that inhabit minds as parasites. They claim that I am one of them, their lost brother. I’m not sure I believe them. I never claimed to be a god. But the simple fact is they make my skin crawl. And the way you talk to them is by letting them become you.
I run my fingers along the books until I find the right one. I open it, and they rise from the pages, the never-human gods of Earth, serpents of light, coiling and uncoiling, illuminating the stacks around me with a fluttering will-o-the-wisp glow.
I close my eyes and let them in.
The one that comes to me is called the Chimney Princess. She speaks to me in a voice that sounds like my own inside my head.
Hello, brother.
I am not your brother.
Have you come to join us?
No.
Have you come to deliver our children to our new home?
No. Not yet. I massage my temples. Sirr. The last city
‘Don’t be angry, Prince,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry about Narnia. You went away, and I didn’t know what to do. You said I could help Mieli, too, but you are doing it all on your own.’
I conjure a silk handkerchief from my sleeve and wipe his face. ‘I know, Matjek. I should not have gotten angry. It’s not your fault. Something … something bad happened and I have been thinking about it too much.’
‘What was it?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I smile. ‘But that was a nice trick you did, just now, with time. Can you tell me how it’s done?’
He shrugs. ‘I used to play time games a lot, on the beach, when I got bored. You always need to have a trigger like that that speeds you up if you get too slow by accident, so you don’t blink and miss the end of the world.’
Uh oh.
My plan was to sandbox the Wardrobe ’s vir and slow Matjek’s clockspeed down while I was off doing the Iapetos job so that he would not even notice my absence. Clearly, that is not going to work. I could try to design a more secure vir, but I don’t have enough time, and I am starting to doubt that any construct I could come up with would even hold him.
I look at Matjek, at the thin dark hair that will go grey too early, at his snub of a nose and serious mouth, and there is an odd, warm tingle in my chest.
I need a babysitter. It would be so much easier if I could just leave a copy of myself here. Unfortunately, Joséphine made sure I’m a singleton white male now, unable to spawn off gogols of myself, and I can’t trust a partial to keep up with Matjek. The people of Sirr are compressed data, and until I complete my mission, I can’t bring them back. I don’t dare to bring in anybody from outside, either: Matjek is hot property, an early gogol of a Sobornost Founder.
That leaves—
I sigh. There are no two ways about it. I need to talk to the Aun.
Carefully, I gather the shards of the thought-mirror and put them onto the table. ‘I’ll tell you what. Here is a puzzle for you. If you manage to put the mirror back together, you get to keep it. I need to go and take care of something, but I won’t be gone long, and after I come back, I’m going to make some hot chocolate. How does that sound?’
Feigning obedience, Matjek sits back down and starts moving the glass fragments around with one forefinger.
‘Be careful, they are sharp,’ I tell him.
I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head as I walk towards the back of the shop and the many volumes of Sirr.
It is dark there, and the only light comes from the faint silver lettering on the spines of the night-blue books. Everything feels soft, dreamlike: around the edges, the vir forgoes a detailed physics simulation and exploits the brain’s ability to lie to itself. In the narrow passage between the looming shelves, I feel like an insect inside a book, pressed between porous, heavy pages.
I swallow. I don’t really understand the Aun. They were let loose in the Collapse – or long before that, by Matjek, if you believe what they say. They are pure self-loops, living memes that inhabit minds as parasites. They claim that I am one of them, their lost brother. I’m not sure I believe them. I never claimed to be a god. But the simple fact is they make my skin crawl. And the way you talk to them is by letting them become you.
I run my fingers along the books until I find the right one. I open it, and they rise from the pages, the never-human gods of Earth, serpents of light, coiling and uncoiling, illuminating the stacks around me with a fluttering will-o-the-wisp glow.
I close my eyes and let them in.
The one that comes to me is called the Chimney Princess. She speaks to me in a voice that sounds like my own inside my head.
Hello, brother.
I am not your brother.
Have you come to join us?
No.
Have you come to deliver our children to our new home?
No. Not yet. I massage my temples. Sirr. The last city
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