The Quantum Thief

‘I was wondering about Trojan horses,’ Isidore says. ‘Is it possible that he could have bought a disguised device, something containing a microdrone or something that could have placed the letter where M. Unruh found it? For that matter, the device could have been purchased a long time ago, sitting here until it was activated.’

‘I find that unlikely,’ Odette says. ‘Christian reviews every item he buys very carefully with the help of experts. And even if there had been a device of some sort, it would have shown up in the exomemory.’

‘True.’ Isidore looks at her curiously. ‘And do you have a theory of your own?’

‘That’s not what I’m paid for,’ Odette says. ‘But if I had to offer one … well, let us just say that during my employ I have seen dear Christian do more eccentric things than writing letters to himself.’ She smiles, something much older and wicked this time. ‘He gets bored easily. For your sake, M. Beautrelet, I hope you are as good at creating mysteries as you are solving them. And a better detective than you are a dresser. Your wardrobe definitely needs some improvement.’

Isidore is still thinking about the letter when he returns home that evening. He realises how much he has missed it, the slowly unfolding map of a new mystery inside his head.

Lin must still be awake: the lights are on in the kitchen. He realises he has not eaten since lunch, and tells the kitchen fabber to whip up some risotto.

As he watches the fabber arm dance over the plate, painting rice grains into being with its atom beam, he thinks about Unruh. There is something about him that does not quite fit. Odette’s suggestion that he has been invited to play along in some elaborate charade seems to fit all the facts. But its shape is too awkward to be acceptable.

He stares at the steaming plate, decides he wants to hang on to the sharpness of hunger and thought, leaves it on the kitchen table and goes to his room.

‘Long day?’

Pixil is sitting on his bed, legs crossed, playing with the green creature.

‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’ He has deliberately excluded Pixil from his gevulot for the past few days. It has felt like a local anaesthetic, covering up something raw with numbness.

Pixil holds up the entanglement ring. There is a blurry granularity in her features, and he realises she is a utility fog image. ‘It’s not just a communication device, you know,’ she says. ‘I got tired of playing the guess what your boyfriend is thinking game. I suppose you showed initiative in coming up with that one.’

‘Are you—’

‘Serious? No. Most people in the zoku would be, no question about it. I like this guy. Does he have a name?’

‘No.’

‘Shame. He could use one. Something from Lovecraft perhaps. Although there are bigger slimy and tentacled beings around here.’

Isidore says nothing.

‘I suppose you are too busy to talk?’ Pixil says. ‘Maybe I’m just tired of the let’s talk about our feelings game.’

Pixil looks at him for a while. ‘I see. And here I was coming up with a new scoring system for that. One point every time you say a true thing, with achievements unlocked by actual emotional revelations. But I see I wasted my time.’ She crosses her arms. ‘You know, if I asked Drathdor, he could set up a little emotional response model that would tell me exactly what makes you tick.’

A horrible thought strikes Isidore. ‘You don’t have anything to do with this le Flambeur thing, do you?’ He hits the boundaries of what the gevulot allows him to share about Unruh’s assignment, and his tongue freezes. But it does feel exactly the kind of thing Pixil would do. Setting up an elaborate puzzle to restore his confidence. With some horror, he realises it is not a hypothesis he can discard outright.

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ she says. ‘Clearly, you are busy focusing on important things. I came to say that no matter what game you want to play with me – and believe me, I play better than you – it’s your move.’

She disappears. The entanglement ring and the green thing fall to the bed with a thump. The creature lands on its back and waves its tentacles in the air helplessly.

‘I know exactly how you feel,’ Isidore says.

He picks the creature up and turns it upright. It gives him a large-eyed thankful look. He lies down next to it and stares at the ceiling. He should be thinking about Pixil, and ways to make it up to her, he knows. But his thoughts keep returning to the letter. The letter is a physical object. It has an origin. Somebody wrote it. It is impossible for exomemory not to have recorded where it came from. Therefore, one must be able to find its origin in the exomemory. Unless—

Unless exomemory itself is flawed.