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has heard a little about this—he makes it his business to
know something about everything that occupies adjacent niches to him
in the twilight economy—and he has seen with his own eyes now
what it can achieve, but it still feels like witchcraft to him.
Quantum dots in superwhateverpositions. Ten to the eight hundred
universes. That is not reality. Reality is Brooklin Bandeiras running
back to the office, out of funding and out of quarry. Reality is
people stupid enough to pay three thousand reis for a handbag, and
people stupid enough to steal one. Reality is the necessity of
getting with this magnetic, strict creature.
    "If you say," says Edson. If she thinks he is ignorant, he
might as well put it to work. "But you could explain it to me
over lunch."
    "I'd rather you just paid me now."
    Down in the lounge, he throws the bag to Gerson while the bicha in
the suit prints out an invoice. A movement distracts Edson,
someone/thing among the quantum computers above. Impossible. No one
could get past them on the neon staircase. Weird shit happens
around them , Mr. Smiles had warned.
    "We'd prefer cash," the bicha says. Whatever preferred
payment option, it's impossible.
    "Don't be owing us," advises the Black Metalista. Edson's
money-sense cues him that he is the wealth behind the operation.
    "I'll take the bag," says Fia. Edson snatches it away from
his brother. "So, gafieira?" he chances as the truck pulls
into a safe stop and the shutter clatters up. "José's
Garage, Cidade de Luz."
    "Don't push it," says Fia quantumeira, but Edson can see
deep down, at the quantum level, she's a baile queen.

JUNE 19, 1732
    The mule went mad on the cobbled pier of the Cidade Baixa. The
insanity iell on it in an instant, one moment doggedly hauling the
laden wagon with the tenacity of its breed, the next shying in its
traces, ears back, teeth bared, braying. It tore free from the
barefoot slave who had been steering it halfasleep, such was the
stolid placidity of the mule, from the engenho to the dock where the
low, slow carracks rolled on the swell of the Bahia de Todos os
Santos, fat with sugar and Vila Rica gold. The slave snatched for the
bridle; the mule shied away from the hand, eyes rolling. The mule
reared, kicked. The wagon rocked, spilling white pillows of sugar
that split on the cobbles. The dockside whores, come down for the
arrival of Cristo Redentor in Salvador harbor—a ship
from Portugal, a navy ship—flew with cries and oaths. Soldiers
in the buff and crimson of the imperial infantry under the command of
a sword-carrying Teniente ran from the customhouse. The mule leaped
and plunged; the slave danced around before it, trying ro seize the
lead rope, but the cry had already gone out across the harbor: The
rage the rage .
    "Help me!" the slave cried. A hoof caught the carter a
glancing blow; he reeled across the quay, blood starting from his
smashed jaw. The mule bucked and plunged, trying to twist off the
heavy cart. Yellow foam burst from its mouth. Its chest heaved, sweat
stained its hide. Cries, shrieks from the ladies in their headscarves
and petticoats. Slaves left their rail carts, their master and
mistresses, encircled the insane mule, arms outstretched. The
soldiers unshouldered their muskets. Eyes wide, the mule reared again
and launched into a full gallop along the pier. Slaves and soldiers
fled.
    "The priest! For the love of God, Father!" the Teniente
shouted.
    Father Luis Quinn looked up from where he had been supervising the
unshipping of his small trunk of possessions from Cristo Redentor . The mule and leaping cart bore down upon him like a blazing war
chariot from the Fianna legends. Luis Quinn threw his arms up. He was
a big man, larger and more imposing yet in the simple black robe of
his order, a piece of night fallen into day. The mule leaped straight
up into the air in its traces, came down foursquare, and stopped
dead, head bowed.
    Every sailor, every officer, every soldier, every