Too Like the Lightning by Ada Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

revolving array of dates home, Thisbe sometimes too. I’ll send you a list of recents.”
    We reached the fatal spot. “Here it is, Nepos. Untouched, just as ordered.” I showed Martin the trash bin beneath a corner cabinet, where the paper marked with kanji protruded like a flag between an ancient manikin hand and most of a plastic horse.
    Martin moved carefully around the bin to let his tracker image every angle, then pulled out a pocket scanner to search for fingerprints and DNA. “Is this a household trash bin?”
    â€œThe trash mine delivery bin,” Ockham answered. “There’s ten million tons of dump under the city. Aluminum and plastics mostly, nothing older than turn of the millennium. A lot was hollowed out to make space for the computers, but the city’s still mining the rest, and every bash’house has a right to rent a bot to look for particular types of items if we want. Thisbe has a thing for ancient toys.”
    Martin leaned close. “It’s certainly the right kind of paper.”
    Ockham glared at the crumpled sheet as if it were a spider he would squish if not for poison. “Do they really write their articles in pen on real paper? That must take forever.”
    â€œActually, Members,” I ventured, “as I understand, they just do it for the notes for the most important article each week.” It felt warm, being among men who knew me well enough that I could safely share my newspaper geekery.
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œIt’s Black Sakura ’s titular tradition,” I answered. “The folklore is that the sakura cherry tree blooms pink because its roots drink the blood of the dead, so the premise is that a dedicated reporter is so steeped in ink their veins would stain the blossoms black.”
    Ockham gave an approving nod.
    Martin did not, and I caught his eyes straying from the alien characters on the envelope to me. Martin does not acknowledge Machiavelli. When a wrong action will yield a good result, even so small a wrong as breaking the taboo on translating another Hive’s language, he halts like a parent unwilling to admit to a child that its favorite toy is lost. It is not that he fears dirtying his hands, nor even that the wrong itself deters him. Rather, I think he hates admitting that this world contains such shades of gray.
    Ockham doesn’t mind gray. “Earn your supper, Mycroft. What’s it say?”
    Reconciled to the practicality, Martin scanned the paper’s internal contents and brought the Japanese before my eyes. “Don’t translate everything, just enough to verify that it is a Seven-Ten list.” He hesitated. “And tell me the last three names. The motive may lie in them.”
    Ockham cocked his head. “I thought the big money was people betting on the order of the big seven.”
    â€œThat’s the bulk of the money, yes, but the three unpredictable names at the bottom, numbers eight, nine, and ten, are about to skyrocket in celebrity, so if investments can be made, interviews or contracts set up in advance, five million is nothing against the potential profit.”
    â€œYes, Cardie does get a rush of calls whenever their name makes a list.”
    Martin frowned. “Cardie?”
    â€œSniper,” Ockham answered. “Ojiro Cardigan Sniper.”
    I don’t know that I’d ever seen Martin snicker before, but everyone snickers the first time they learn that the legendary Sniper answers to ‘Cardigan’ at home.
    â€œRead it, Mycroft.”
    I cannot unlearn the skills of my youth. I may let them rot, as a retired boxer sets aside his gloves, but I cannot unsee the words couched in the strokes of languages I have no right to know. I feel guilt, if that consoles you, reader, when I eavesdrop unwillingly on Masons, or Humanists, or Japanese Mitsubishi chatting in their private tongues. I can at least do some penance by sharing my skills on those