The Quantum Magician

by Derek Künsken

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  “Do you want to talk business?” Belisarius asked.

  “What are you? An augmented soldier? A killer hired by some of the exiled Numenarchy?”

  “Homo quantus,” Belisarius said.

  The Puppet frowned. “Homo quantus?”

  “Not a very good one,” Belisarius added quickly. “I’m missing some of the biochemical pieces I need to enter the fugue properly.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I get paid a lot of money to fix problems. I’ve got a problem and I’m assembling a crew to help me fix it. I need an exiled Puppet.”

  “What do you need a Puppet for?”

  “I want into the Free City,” Belisarius said.

  “You’ve got the wrong Puppet,” Gates-15 said. “I can’t get near the place. They’d kill me as soon as they found out what I was.”

  “Someone who can’t recognize divinity?”

  “That’s right,” Gates-15 said defiantly, lowering the knife and putting the shocker on his desk, although he kept his back pressed to the wall.

  “I know some black market geneticists. They have enough Puppet sequences to do somatic cell gene therapy,” Belisarius said. “You wouldn’t match anything in the Puppet databases. No one would know you’re Gates-15. Passports and visas and identity records can be fabricated, if you’re bankrolled properly.”

  Gates’ frowned deepened. “You’re crazy! Me go to the Free City?”

  “My job pays very well,” Belisarius said. “Your share would be a couple of million Congregate francs, and after the job, we can try to make some of the genetic changes permanent. I’m offering you a chance to go home, so you wouldn’t need to spend the rest of your life talking to visitors at knife point.”

  The Puppet folded the knife and slipped it into his pocket. Morosely, he stepped away from the wall and sat in his chair. He looked at his hands.

  “What do you want done? There’s a catch somewhere.”

  “You’d be part of a team that would turn off a big part of the Puppet defensive systems.”

  Gates-15’s eyes saucered. “That would leave them helpless.”

  “This isn’t an invasion,” Belisarius said.

  “What is it?”

  “There are some ships on the distal side of the Puppet Axis who want through.”

  “So why don’t they pay to come through?”

  “Your people set the price too steep. If you take the job, I’ll tell you the other reasons. I need a Puppet as an inside man to bring in the team to turn off the defensive systems for the few hours it will take the fleet to get through.”

  “You’re crazy,” Gates-15 said. “If I was a real Puppet, I might be able to get into the Forbidden City with a new identity, but I can’t get anyone else in.”

  “Sure you can,” Belisarius said, and explained. The Puppet’s eyes widened.

  “That’s horrible!” Gates-15 said. “No one would ever willingly put themselves in that position. And you couldn’t fool the Puppets.”

  “I can,” Belisarius said.

  “I’m not going to turn off the Puppet defenses, even if it is just to move something through the Axis. I’d never risk the safety of the Numen.”

  “No one has any designs on the Free City or on the Numen. Your people got greedy. My client needs to make their own way. This kind of choice only comes along once in life. You can die in exile in Alhambra, or you can roll the dice. You might get a chance to live back among the Puppets.”

  For a long time, Gates-15 stared at his white-knuckled hands clasped over his knees.

  Belisarius stood. “I know of three other exiled Puppets,” he said. “One of the three will certainly say yes. I came to you first because you were on my way.” He walked to the desk and slid the shocker closer to the flinching Puppet. “Have a good life, then.”

  Belisarius had not reached the door before Gates-15 said, “Wait!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  BELISARIUS WAS PULLED off the primary inspection line at customs at Saguenay Station, the Congregate’s provincial capital in the Epsilon Indi system. Instead of sub-AIs, Belisario faced the gendarme, in her smart blue uniform with its fleur-de-lis shoulder flashes. Officially, this woman was a low-level immigration bureaucrat. In reality, Belisarius’s movements had drawn the attention of the Congregate security apparatus.

  “You are Homo quantus, monsieur?” she asked.

  “Oui, madame,” he answered in the Montréal-flavored français 8.2 taught to foreigners. Her own accent was a natural variant of français 8.1, the pronunciation of the Venusian cloud cities. It was never politic for foreigners to mimic 8.1 too closely.

  “You list your place of residence as the Puppet Free City.”

  “I’m an art consultant in the Free City, madame.”

  “Why would a Homo quantus leave the Garret?”

  He pursed his lips tightly, putting the right amount of embarrassment in his physiological responses to convince not only the gendarme, but the cloud of sub-AIs embedded in her equipment.

  “Not every Homo quantus is capable of contributing to the project,” he said. “I chose to make a life elsewhere. The business statements are linked to my passport, and your own consulate in the Free City issued my embargo travel exemption.”

  She pondered his file before finally amending his holographic passport with a stamp admitting him into the Congregate. Belisarius walked off the concourses, into the deeper levels of Saguenay. In the vastness of Congregate space, Saguenay Stationwas a minor provincial capital. The six thousand civilians of the station were outnumbered by the twenty thousand military personnel in naval squadrons, military stations and asteroidal bases securing the two Congregate wormholes. Far from the windows looking onto the stars, and closer to the ventilation systems and the fission reactors, an arched doorway displayed a sign: La Parroisse de Saint-Jean de Brébeuf. The Parish of Saint John of Brébeuf.

  Belisarius opened one of the doors and squeezed into the small church. He could have touched both walls at once. A faux-wooden pew, only large enough for one person, stood in the middle of the floor, with a prie-dieu before it. Pressed against the back wall, so closely that no priest could fit behind it, stood an empty pulpit. There, a hologram of the head of Saint Matthew, as painted by Caravaggio, floated disembodied.

  “Mister Arjona!” Saint Matthew’s voice was rich, multi-tonal, designed to resonate with human hearing and neurology to induce awe. It didn’t work on Belisarius; his brain chemistry and architecture were different. That said, Belisarius doubted it had ever worked on anyone else either.

  “How’s the ministry, Saint Matthew?” he asked, lounging back as well as was possible in the hard pew.

  “Slow,” the voice said. “I’ve converted a few of the sub-AIs.”

  Saint Matthew was probably the most sophisticated AI in civilization, the first of the long-sought Aleph-class of AIs being developed with the considerable resources of the First Bank of the Plutocracy. Computationally, a network of sub-AIs could be linked to emulate Saint Matthew’s processing power, but it would take a warehouse to hold them all. Saint Matthew’s quantum computing capacities and hard positives on every sentience test made him advanced, even among the Aleph-class.

  There was only one problem: he believed himself to be the biblical Saint Matthew, reincarnated after almost two and a half millennia to rekindle the moribund cult of Christianity. And, unfortunately for the First Bank, Saint Matthew had no interest in banking or investments.

  Although he had not functioned as designed, the Bank could not, under Anglo-Spanish law, destroy a being possessed of consciousness. Most AIs in situations of program failure were given permission to activate their suicide switches, but Saint Matthew informed the Bank he would not use his. Nor could the bank free him. He was made of industrial secrets. His movements were tightly proscribed by a series of intellectual property contracts and licenses from the companies that had contributed IP to
his construction.

  So Saint Matthew had been trapped in Bank storage. He’d managed to get a message out to hire Belisarius to help him escape from the Bank. Belisarius had smuggled Saint Matthew into Congregate territory, where the First Bank of the Plutocracy could not look for him, and where Congregate authorities had no reason to guess that he wasn’t just another sub-AI.

  That had been Belisarius’s first job after leaving the Garret at sixteen. In it, he’d discovered a talent for high-risk heists. Since his emancipation, Saint Matthew had been trying to build his ministry on SaguenayStation, and had almost always refused to involve himself in Belisarius’s jobs.

  “You may need more parishioners,” Belisarius mused, looking about the closet church.

  “I need missionaries to spread the gospel, Mister Arjona.”

  “Maybe a larger church would do the trick.”

  Belisarius considered the face Caravaggio had painted. Bearded. Stern. Yet sympathetic.

  “You have a job, don’t you?” Saint Matthew asked warily.

  “Is the seal on?”

  Saint Matthew activated the seal of the confessional, a program that would provide alternate conversation to the Congregate electronic snoopers.

  “Maybe,” Belisarius continued.

  “I would like to dissuade you,” Saint Matthew said.

  “I would like to hire you.”

  “I can’t do any jobs, Mister Arjona. Stealing isn’t right.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you and your role as an apostle.”

  “Really?” The great holographic head leaned over him, brush strokes visible as different emotions moved across it. Excitement. Expectation. Caution. Fear.

  “The original apostles wouldn’t have gotten anything done if they’d stayed at home either, Saint Matthew. No one needs you here. No one here is facing a trial requiring faith.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I need an electronics man,” Belisarius said, “someone good enough to be considered miraculous.”

  “Is this like breaking me out, or like stealing a security code?”

  “The nature of the job is not as important as the context. Do you ever feel a sense of fate?”

  “All the time,” Saint Matthew said.

  “In fated times,” Belisarius said, “miracles are not only possible, but logically necessary.”

  “Go on,” Saint Matthew said.

  “Your coming to me twelve years ago can’t be an accident,” Belisarius said. “What I hadn’t figured out, until now, was where your mission had to start, or what my role was.”

  Saint Matthew looked breathless, on the edge of his seat, even though he was just a hologram of a painted head. “What do you see?”

  “The job I’ve taken,” Belisarius said, “may not coincidentally mean I’ll have to work with some criminals who—”

  “Is it Miss Phocas?” Saint Matthew interrupted.

  “Among others.”

  “I don’t like her.”

  “Your savior washed the feet of lepers,” Belisarius said.

  “She threatened to force me to emulate holosex calls for the mob.”

  “You know she was just teasing you.”

  “She tried to hack my feed and fill me with Puppet porn.”

  “Saint Matthew!” Belisarius said, waving his hands at the interruptions. “You’re losing sight of the thread of my theological argument! Some of the people I’m collecting may be fated to meet you. It can’t be a coincidence that this job will need criminals, Homo quantus, the People of the Mongrel, the Puppets, and a people who have been lost in the wilderness for years.”

  Saint Matthew’s heavy painted brows creased and the fleshy lips pressed tight.

  “Nothing will be the same after this job,” Belisarius said. “I need some minor miracles and you’ll have a fateful role.”

  “Your plans always involve something criminal.”

  “What hypocrisy!” Belisarius said.

  “What?”

  “You’re not the reincarnation of anyone.”

  “I’m Saint Matthew!”

  “Would a real Saint Matthew be sitting in a safe, empty church, or would he be out there, carrying the gospel to the world? To the lepers. To the tax collectors. To the prostitutes. I’m offering you a chance to see the Puppets, face to... face. And the Tribe of the Mongrel. What would you say to them if you had the chance? They suffer. If nothing else, you will know the world and what its people face right now.”

  “I have to reflect on this.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Belisarius said, but he didn’t move. In pure computational terms, Saint Matthew thought even faster than Belisarius. After eight point six one seconds, an eternity to an AI as fast as Saint Matthew, the painted head frowned.

  “I need a sign of good faith from you.”

  “What?” Belisarius asked.

  “I want you to be baptized.”

  “Would that make me the first human baptized?”

  “Not counting religious extremists, the first in about three centuries, yes.”

  “And you’ll come with me, then?”

  “If only to care for your soul.”

  “What form does this caring take?” Belisarius asked.

  “I’ll provide you with moral and spiritual guidance,” Saint Matthew said.

  “That sounds pointless, as I don’t have a soul. I’m simply trying to help you achieve your goals.”

  The holographic painted head tilted downward. “You have a soul. I’ve been watching you for years. Your problem is that your soul is torn in two.”

  “I need your help for this job,” Belisarius said. “If you think it will help, I’ll be... baptized.”

  A smile cracked wide the paint marks on the big holographic face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SAGUENAY MAY ONLY have been a provincial capital, but it had high expectations. The Lanoix Casino at Saguenay Station was brighter and louder than Belisarius remembered, bubbling with lights and life. Not having access to old Congregate money, it made new money flow well enough through competing shipyards and their supply chains. Money did not make class and status in the Congregate. One could not buy a way into being pur laine or de souche, those descriptors reserved for the oldest of Venusian bloodlines. Yet money never hurt. Winning and losing money was a sport, and the Lanoix was a good arena.

  Belisarius was body-scanned at the high-ceilinged reception area on a red carpet leading to the concourses. The casino would have him on file from times he’d been a bit more of a regular. No doubt the X-rays had spotted his electroplaques again, and perhaps even some of the nanocarbon filaments networking his body. The six networked Fortuna AIs knew he was Homo quantus, and might assign a bit of extra surveillance, but not much more.

  Belisarius checked his coat, brushed at the dark wool of his evening suit, and was offered a man, woman or intersex companion to escort him around the casino. He chose an attractive woman in a blue evening gown. They linked arms and stepped into the first concourse.

  “Bel!” she whispered in français 8.1. “It’s been so long! You’ve grown up.”

  “You flatter, Madelaine.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Here and there,” he said. “I’m acquiring Puppet art in the Free City now.”

  “Really? What’s it like?”

  “As disturbing as you’d expect.”

  She batted his arm playfully. “You should have come here more often, had a little fun.”

  “Sadly, I’m out of practice, and I’m on business.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t sound like the old Bel I knew. I still remember that fight you and William got into in the back concourse bar! I can’t believe you tried to—”

  “That’s old news,” he said quickly. “I just buy and sell art now.”

  She slowed, offered him a spot at the roulette wheel. He shook his head. They strolled, arm in arm. She pulled two glasses of scotch from a passing w
aiter—a real, human waiter. The Lanoix had expectations.

  “Art sounds so boring,” she mused.

  “I’ve always been boring, Mado. Memories make everything seem better than they were.”

  “Ha! They still call you the magician in some of the clubs, when they get to telling tall tales.”

  “All the tales are tall, Mado.”

  She laughed. “What kind of business you on?”

  “I’m looking for a doctor by the name Antonio Del Casal.”

  Madelaine’s smile did not shift as she surveyed the room, but tiny glints in her eye meant she was accessing the guest list in corneal displays.

  “A geneticist? What do you want? Trying to get some augments, or take some out?”

  “He may know someone who wants to buy some art.”

  “You came all the way out to Saguenay for that?”

  “You’d be surprised how many people are looking for Puppet art.”

  Now she looked into his eyes. She had beautiful eyes, old Northern European blue, contrasting with skin almost as dark as his. But faint, doubtful light glinted in them as she accessed information on Puppet art from the net. She frowned. “Ewww.” Then the frown deepened.“Tabarnak!” she swore. “What’s wrong with them? Other than the obvious, I mean.”

  “Do they need more than the obvious?”

  “I guess not.” Madelaine shivered and the light in her eyes was gone. “Ick. Time isn’t going to improve that memory.”

  She strolled him down the middle of the first concourse, past roulette tables, craps games, blackjack dealers and baccarat tables, to the stairs. The thinnest of vines wrapped up a narrow, smooth-barked tree trunk. Transparent gossamer leaves sprouted from it at regular intervals. These stairs looked so fragile that he expected them to bow under her weight, but Madelaine led him up the leaves. They fluoresced as she passed.

  His brain ripped apart the engineering in the stairs as he followed her: plant cells engineered to grow carbon nanofilament, probably reinforcing the xylem and phloem to steely hardness. And likely colonized intracellularly by bioluminescent bacteria that glowed under pressure. Lovely.