Brasyl

“But nothing happened.”

“I ran through possible combinations in ten to the eight hundred universes. That’s not exactly nothing.”

“Of course,” says Edson unconvincingly.

“There’s always an answer out there somewhere.”

Edson 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 ru

“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 Qui

Every sailor, every officer, every soldier, every slave, every whore in her bright jollyboat, stopped to stare at Luis Qui

“I advise you not to approach the creature, Father,” the Teniente called, a pale, European face among the caboclo faces of the Salvador Auxiliaries. “We will shoot the beast and burn its body; that way the rage will not spread.”

“Hush, hush there,” Luis Qui

“Ah, the creature the creature.” It had been but an animal, but Luis Qui

“You are all right, Father.”

“I am unharmed.” Qui

“A madness of horses first, latterly of all beasts of burden, God between us and evil.” The Teniente signaled for one of his troopers to bear the father’s trunk. As the young officer escorted him toward the Custom House, Qui

“We have not heard of this in Coimbra.”

“There is much in Brazil never reaches the ears of Portugal.” The Teniente halted short of the bustling portico of the Custom House. “Ah. As I feared. It is always so when a ship’s arrival corresponds with the sailing of the sugar fleet. The Custom House is the most hopeless jam; I ca