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the Founders: god-kings with a trillion subjects. I used to go drinking with them.
You want a detective who has not Resurrected. You want a detective who can keep secrets. ‘You want a detective who can go after the cryptarchs.’ ‘That word,’ the Gentleman says, ‘does not exist.’
‘I don’t understand people. I need to deduce things. I don’t know why anyone says or does anything if I don’t think about it.’
‘This is the Oubliette. The place of forgetting.
There are three things they do better than anyone here: wine, chocolate and cryptography.
As perfect as exomemory is, it only gives you short-term memories. Deep learning still comes from approximately ten thousand hours of work on any given subject.
‘I lost my faith in the past. Something is wrong with it. Something is wrong with what we know.
we did have a horrible civil war first that unleashed self-replicating killing machines that undid the terraforming our slaver overlords managed to do before we killed them.’
‘Raymonde, meet Mieli. Mieli, meet Raymonde. Raymonde and I used to be an item; Mieli, on the other hand, tends to treat me like an item.
The criminal is a creative artist; detectives are just critics.’
Perhaps the Oubliette has it right, the right approach to immortality; die every now and then and appreciate life.
Isidore takes a deep breath. ‘An interplanetary thief is building a picotech machine out of the city itself while the cryptarchs take over people’s minds to try to destroy the zoku colony in order to stop the tzaddikim from breaking their power,’ he says. ‘I want to stop them both.’ He pauses. ‘Also, I think the thief is my real father.’ The driver stares at him blankly for a second. ‘Right on,’ he says. ‘Get in!’
