But perhaps the boy has gotten distracted.
‘Elder, is this really necessary?’ Chekhova says. ‘I have better things to do than to act as a tour guide—’
I start considering options to break the Circle for a second, but with the internal security systems of the Arsenal, I don’t dare risk it. To get here, we had to pass through a Realmgate that took us apart, scanned us at the atomic level for anything potentially dangerous. Of course, they would not do that to valuable antique items, risk damaging their precious quantum information contents: and that’s precisely what my plan relied upon.
I interrupt her. ‘It’s interesting to see so many ships here. I thought you were called the Gun Club?’
‘It’s not so different! Like your own Wang bullet! Ships are just guns pointed away from the enemy! The Robur and Nemo Societies find inspiration there.’ Barbicane strokes his whiskers. ‘We are often misunderstood! We don’t build things to destroy, but to test ourselves! Cannon shell against armour, vessel versus space – same thing!’
There is thunder in the distance.
Both Barbicane and Chekhova look up. I need to buy a few more seconds. I decide to go for the philosophical option.
‘So, you don’t have any problems with others using them for the purposes of war—’ I begin.
And then things start blowing up.
A rapid cascade of booming explosions makes the Arsenal feel like the inside of a drum. Missiles whoosh past us. Shells and bullets ricochet from the pseudomatter walls below. In the chamber behind us, rifles and cannons go off one after another like exploding domino pieces. The q-dot shell around us is like a night sky with blinking stars as it becomes adamantine under the constant fire from conventional weapons. The noise becomes so loud the bubble has to start filtering it out.
Then one of the holeships starts moving, slowly. Its linear accelerator stem swings around, back and forth, like the weapon of a drunkard.
The bubble zips us out of the way. Not that it will make much of a difference if the holeship’s weapon goes off. A single shot from one could take out the whole moon.
Barbicane and Chekhova break the Circle. She explodes into a bright constellation of foglets and jewels; he becomes a disembodied head with a stovepipe hat in the eye of a storm of diamond orbs. To hell with it. I speed up and hurl a qupt at Matjek.
What the hell are you doing?
There is an apologetic microsecond pause.
I got access to all of them, comes a response. I just wanted to play.
Well, stop that right now and come and get me! The thought has more anger than I intended. The response is hot with tears.
Okay, he says in a small voice. I’m sorry.
Never mind. Just come and—
Invisible limbs seize me. I find myself suspended in the air between them by foglet tendrils, spread-eagled. Somewhere, far away, the Colonel Sparmiento identity pops like a soap bubble. White fire of the explosions in the distance makes the two trueformed zoku members look literally incandescent.
Wait, I qupt at Matjek. Don’t stop. Keep them popping. But stay away from the holeships!
Barbicane’s eyes are bulging with rage.
‘You,’ he says.
‘Hello, Barbicane,’ I gasp. ‘It’s been a long time.’ I try to incline my head towards Chekhova, but I can’t move. ‘Jean le Flambeur, at your service.’
‘You are causing irreparable damage,’ Barbicane thunders. ‘Get out of our gunscape now!’
Another cascade goes off in another chamber further down. I’m pretty sure there is a nuke or two this time. Debris bounces off the skin of the nearest holeship. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help much: a red sun shines through my eyelids, and a metal brush of second-degree burns caresses my skin.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. Not until I have what I came for. But open the Arsenal exit and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘It’s the Leblanc you want, isn’t it? Why didn’t you just ask?’
‘This is way more fun. Besides, I never trusted you. What’s it going to be?’ Something black and sleek is moving in the distance. Come on, boy. I don’t have all day.
‘No deal.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The holeship turret is still moving, slowly but inexorably. It collides with a silvery seashell – a Protocol War metacloak generator, I now pick up from the Arsenal’s chaotic spimescape – and shatters it. ‘Oh my. That did look rather valuable.’
It’s not enough. They will detect Matjek any second. I need something else, something that will sting even outside the Circle.
Barbicane has been subtly different from the man I remember, but zoku Elders do not change. Not unless their q-self changes, unless they join a new zoku. Could it be?
It’s worth a try.
‘Something you may wish to consider, Miss Chekhova,’ I say. ‘Your Elder is working for the Great Game Zoku.’
Chekhova stares at Barbicane. A torrent of communication passes between them, blurring the spimescape. Her trueform features are a mask of shock and rage.
My low-rent metacortex picks up only a few fragments of the quptstorm between them, and fails to translate it. But I can imagine what they are saying.
‘I would never have believed it, but it makes perfect sense.’
‘He is bluffing! Can’t you see? He will say anything!’
‘This is why you blocked the ekpyrotic test, you bastard, it’s why—’
There is a blinding flash. My synthbio body is jarred to the core. Matjek fired a Hawking shell, it’s all over now, I have time to think. But my continuing consciousness implies that our lives have not been ended by a dying black hole.
My vision clears, and I see Barbicane coalesce back into his steampunk form, except that this time there is a silver egg-like q-gun floating next to his head. I fall onto the bubble bottom gently. The air is thick with inert utility foglets and scattered zoku jewels. Chekhova is gone.
‘Now look at what you made me do,’ Barbicane says. ‘Or rather, what I made you do! That’s the official version!’
‘Not getting softer in your old age, Barbicane? You used to have a spark of anarchy. Remember the sunlifter job? You were quite happy to break the rules then. That’s why I asked your zoku to make my ships.’
‘Just playing a different game now, Jean! As should you.’
‘Oh, I’m not playing. Not this time.’
‘Jean, don’t be a fool! Work with us! We know you were on Earth. We need intel. The Sobornost is going mad! This is the best offer you’re going to get!’
I shake my head.
‘I don’t work for cops, even ones that wear stovepipe hats,’ I say. ‘And by the way, my best offer is this: I leave now – with my ship – or we’ll get to see what Iapetus looks like with a black hole in the middle. Quite a lot like Mars, I would imagine. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
Barbicane hesitates. I can feel the invisible scan beam of the q-gun probing my forehead. I grit my teeth and try not to blink. It’s hard when a light show of lasers, particle beams and kinetic warheads turns the chamber above into a red-and-white spiderweb.