Excession

I

Ulver Seich sobbed into her pillow. She had felt bad before; her mother had refused her something, some lad had — unbelievably — preferred somebody else to her (admittedly very rare), she had felt terribly alone, exposed and vulnerable the first time she had camped out under the stars on a planet, and various pets had died… but nothing as terrible as this.

She raised her tear-marked face up from the sodden pillow and looked again at her reflection in the reverser field on the walk-in across the horribly small cabin. She saw her face again and howled with anguish, burying her head in the pillow once again and bashing her feet up and down on the under-cover, which wobbled like a jelly in the AG field, trying to compensate.

Her face had been altered. While she’d slept, during the night, one day out from Phage. Her face, her beautiful, heart-shaped, heart-winning, heart-melting, heart-breaking face, the face which she had sat and gazed at in a mirror or a reverser field for hours at a time on occasion when she’d been old enough for her drug glands to come on line and young enough to experiment with them, the face she had gazed at and gazed at not because she was stoned but because she was just so damned lovely… her face had been made to look like somebody else’s. And there was worse.

It might be hurting a little now if she wasn’t keeping the pain turned off, but that wasn’t what mattered; what mattered was that her face was: a) puffy, swollen and discoloured after the nanotechs had done their work, b) not her own any longer, and, c) older! The woman she was supposed to look like was older than she! Much older! Sixty years older!

People claimed that nobody in the Culture really changed much in appearance between about twenty-five and two hundred and fifty (then there was a slow but sure ageing to the three-fifty, four hundred mark, by which time your hair would be white (or gone!) your skin would be wrinkled like some basic’s scrotum and your tits swinging round your belly-button — ugh!) but she had always been able to tell how old people were; she was rarely more than five or ten years out — never more than twenty, at any rate — and she could see how old she was now, even beneath the puffiness and shadowy bruising; she was seeing how she would look when she was older, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t her own face, it didn’t matter that she would probably look much better than this by the time she was in her mid-eighties (she had pictures of 99.9 per cent certain projections prepared for her by the house AI which showed exactly how she’d look at every decade for two centuries ahead, and they looked great); what mattered was that she looked old and dowdy and that would make her feel old and dowdy and therefore that would make her behave old and dowdy, and that feeling and that way of behaving and therefore that look might not go away when she was returned to her normal, her natural, her own appearance.

This wasn’t turning out as she’d hoped at all; no friends, no pets, no fun, and the more she thought about it, the riskier it all might be, the less certain she was what she was getting into. This whole thing was supposed to be an adventure, but this part on the ship was just boring and so would the return journey be as well, and in the middle lay who-knew-what? Everybody knew how devious SC was; what were they really up to, what did they really want her to do? Even if it did turn out to be somehow exciting and even fun, she wouldn’t be allowed to tell anybody about it, and where was the point in fun if you couldn’t talk about it later?

Of course, she could tell other people, but then she wouldn’t be able to stay in Contact. Hell, Churt was being ambiguous about whether she was in it now or not. Well was she or wasn’t she? Was this a real Contact and even SC mission she was engaged in — as she’d dreamed of, fantasised about since early childhood — or some extracurricular wheeze, even a test of some sort?

She bit the pillow, and the particular texture of the fabric in her mouth and between her teeth, and the sensation of her face being puffed-up while her eyes stung with tears, took her back to childhood again.

She raised her head, licking her top lip clear of the salty fluid, and then snorted and sniffed back both the tears and the snot that was filling her nose. She thought about glanding some calm, but decided not to. She did some deep breathing, then swivelled round on the bed and sat up and looked at herself in the reverser, raising her chin at the hideous image it showed and sniffing again and wiping her face with her hands and swallowing hard and fluffing out her hair (at least it could stay as it was), sniffing again, and stared herself in the eyes and forbade herself to cry or look away.

After a few minutes, her cheeks had dried and her eyes were coming clear again, losing their red puffiness. She was still abhorrently ugly and even disfigured by her own high standards, but she was not a child and she was still the same person inside. Ah well. She supposed a little suffering might do her some good.

She had always been pampered; all her hardships had been self-inflicted and recreational in the past. She had gone hungry and unwashed when hiking somewhere primitive, but there had always been food at the end of the day, and a shower or at the very least a peelspray to remove the grime and sweat.

Even the pain of what had felt on occasion like an irretrievably broken heart had consistently proved less lasting than she’d initially imagined and expected; the revelation that a boy’s taste was so grotesquely deficient he could prefer somebody else to her always reduced both the intensity and the duration of the anguish her heart demanded be endured to mark such a loss of regard.

She had always known there were too few real challenges in her life, too few genuine risks; it had all been too easy, even by Culture standards. While her life-style and material circumstances in Phage had been no different from that of any other person her age, it was true that just because the Culture was so determinedly egalitarian, what little hierarchic instinct remained in the population of the Rock manifested itself in the ascription of a certain cachet to belonging to one of the Founder Families.

In a society in which it was possible to look however one wanted to look, acquire any talent one wished to acquire and have access to as much property as one might desire, it was generally accepted that the only attributes which possessed that particular quality of interest which derives solely from their being difficult to attain were entry into Contact and Special Circumstances, or having some familial link with the Culture’s early days.

Even the most famous and gifted of artists — whether their talents were congenital or acquired — were not regarded in quite the same hallowed light as Contact members (and, somewhere really old, like Phage, direct descendants of Founders). Being a famous artist in the Culture meant at best it was accepted you must possess a certain gritty determination; at worst it was generally seen as pointing to a pitiably archaic form of insecurity and a rather childish desire to show off.

When there were almost no distinctions to be drawn between people’s social standing, the tiny differences that did exist became all the more important, to those who cared.

Ulver’s feelings about her family’s ancient name were mostly negative. Admittedly, possessing an old name meant some people were prepared to make an advance on any respect they might come to feel was rightly your due, but on the other hand Ulver wanted to be admired, worshipped and lusted after for herself, just her, just this current collection of cells, right here, with no reference to the inheritance those cells carried.

And what was the point of having what was sometimes insultingly referred to as an advantage in life if it couldn’t even smooth your way into Contact? If anything, it had been hinted, it was a disadvantage; she would have to do better than the average person, she would have to be so completely, utterly, demonstrably perfect for the Contact Section that there could be no question of anybody ever thinking she’d got in because the people and machines on the admissions board knew the name Seich from their history lessons.

Well, Churt had been right; this was her big chance. She had been and would be unamendedly beautiful, she was intelligent, charming and attractive and she had common sense by the bucket-load, but she couldn’t expect to breeze this the way she had breezed everything else in her life so far; she’d work at it, she’d study, she’d be diligent, assiduous and industrious and all the other things she’d worked so hard at not being while ensuring that her university results had sparkled as brilliantly as her social life.

Maybe she had been a spoiled brat; maybe she still was a spoiled brat, but she was a ruthlessly determined spoiled brat, and if that ruthless determination dictated ditching spoiled brathood, then out it would go, faster than you could say “Bye.”

Ulver dried her eyes, collected herself — still without the help of any glandular secretions — then got up and left the cabin. She would sit in the lounge where there was more space, and there she would find out all she could about Tier, this man Genar-Hofoen, and anything else that might be relevant to what they wanted her to do.

II

Leffid Ispanteli eased himself into the seat beside the vice-consul for the AhForgetIt Tendency, carefully hooking his wings over the seat back and smiling at the vice-consul, who regarded him with that particular kind of vacant look people tend to assume when they’re communicating by neural lace.

Leffid held up his hand. “Words, I’m afraid, Lellius,” he said. “Had my lace removed for the Festival.”

“Very primitive,” vice-consul Lellius said approvingly, nodding gravely and returning his attention to the race.

They were sitting in a carousel suspended beneath a vast carbon-tubed structure sculpted in the image of a web tree; the thousands of viewing carousels dangled like fruit from the canopy and were multifariously connected by a secondary web of delicate, swaying cable bridges. The view beneath and to either side was of a series of great steps of stone dotted with vegetation and moving figures; it was very like looking at an ancient amphitheatre which had been lifted from the horizontal to the vertical and each of whose seat levels was able to rotate independently. The moving figures were ysner-mistretl combinations; the ysners were the huge two-legged flightless (and almost brainless) birds doing the running while their thinking was done by the mistretl jockey each carried on its back. Mistretls were tiny and almost helpless but brainy simians and the combination of one of them per ysner was a naturally occurring one from a planet in the Lower Leaf Spiral.

Ysner-mistretl races had been a part of life on Tier for millennia, and running them on a giant mandala two kilometres across composed of steps or levels all rotating at different speeds had been traditional for most of that time. The huge slowly turning race-course looked a little like Tier itself, which took its name from its shape.

Tier was a stepped habitat; its nine levels all revolved at the same speed, but that meant that the outer tiers possessed greater apparent gravity than those nearer the centre. The levels themselves were sectioned into compartments up to hundreds of kilometres long and filled with atmospheres of different types and held at different temperatures, while a stunningly complicated and dazzlingly beautiful array of mirrors and mirrorfields situated within the staggered cone of the world’s axis provided amounts of sunlight precisely timed, attenuated and where necessary altered in wavelength to mimic the conditions on a hundred different worlds for a hundred different intelligent species.

This environmental diversity and the civilisational co-dependence it implied and intermingling it encouraged had been Tier’s raison d’être, the very foundation of its purpose and fame for the seven thousand years it had existed. Its original builders were, perhaps, unknown; they were believed to have Sublimed shortly after building it, leaving behind a species — or model, depending how you defined these things — of biomechanical sintricate which ran and maintained the place, were individually dull but collectively highly intelligent, took the shape of a small sphere covered with long articulated spines, were between half a metre and two metres in size and had seemed to have an intense suspicion of anything possessing less of a biological basis than they did themselves. Drones and other AIs were tolerated on Tier but very closely watched, followed everywhere and their every communication and even thought monitored. Minds were immune to this sort of treatment of course, but their avatars tended to attract a degree of intense physical observation which bordered on harassment, and so they rarely bothered entering the world itself, sticking to the outer docks where they were made perfectly welcome and afforded every hospitality. Tier, after all, was a statement, a treasure, a symbol, and as such any small discriminatory foibles it chose to display were considered perfectly tolerable.

The ysner-mistretl race track was one level up from the tier where the Homomdan mission was housed and three levels down from Leffid’s home circumference.

“Leffid,” the vice consul said. He was a rotund, massy male of apparently indeterminate species, vaguely human in shape but with a triangular head and an eye at each corner. His skin was bright red; the flowing robes he wore were a vivid but gradually shifting shade of blue. He turned his head slightly so that two of his eyes regarded Leffid while the third continued to watch the race. “Did I see you at the Homomdan do last night? I can’t remember.”

“Briefly,” Leffid said. “I waved Hello but you were busy with the Ashpartzi delegate.”

Vice-consul Lellius wheezed with laughter. “Trying to hold the blighter down. It was having buoyancy problems inside its new suit; automatics weren’t really up to the job with the AI removed. Terrible thing when one of these gas-giant floater beasties suffers from flatulence, you know.”

Leffid recalled that Lellius had rather looked as though he’d been wrestling with the bow-rope for what appeared to be a small airship at the Homomdan ambassador’s party. “Not as terrible as it must be for the inhabitant of the suit, I’d guess.”

“Ha, indeed,” Lellius chuckled, nodding and wheezing. “May I order you some refreshment?”

“No, thank you.”

“Good; I have given up emoter-keyed foods and drinks for the duration of the Festival and would only be jealous.” He shook his head. “I thought primitives were supposed to have more fun, but everything I could think of changing the better to partake in the Festival’s spirit seemed to make life less fun,” he said, then made a tutting noise at something on the race course.

Leffid looked to see one of the ysner-mistretl pairs failing to make a jump, hitting the ramp just behind and falling down to another level. They picked themselves up and ran on, but they’d need to be very lucky to win now. Lellius shook his head and used the flat end of a stylo to smooth a number off the wood-bordered wax tablet he held in his broad red hand.

“You winning?” Leffid asked him.

Lellius shook his head and looked sad.

Leffid smiled, then made a show of inspecting the race track and the contending ysner-mistretl pairs. “They don’t look very festive to me,” he said. “I expected something more… well, festive,” he concluded, lamely.

“I believe the race authorities regard the Festival with the same misanthropic dubiety as I,” Lellius said. “The festival is — what? — two days old?”

Leffid nodded.

“And already I am tired of it,” Lellius said, scratching behind one of his three ears with the wax tablet stylo. “I thought of taking a holiday while it was occurring, but I am expected to be here, of course. A month of challenging, ground-breaking art and ruthlessly enforced fun.” Lellius shook his head heavily. “What a prospect.”

Leffid put his chin in his cupped hand. “You’ve never really been a natural for the AhForgetIt Tendency, have you, Lellius?”

“I joined hoping it would make me more…” Lellius looked up contemplatively at the broad spread of the tree sculpture hanging above them. “… cavort-prone,” he said, and nodded. “I wished to be more prone to cavorting and so I joined the Tendency hoping that the natural hedonism of people like your good self would somehow infect my own more deliberate, phlegmatic soul.” He sighed. “I still live in hope.”

Leffid laughed lightly, then looked slowly around. “You here alone, Lellius?”

Lellius looked thoughtful. “My incomparably efficient Clerical Assistant Number Three visits the latrines, I believe,” he wheezed. “My wastrel son is probably trying to invent new ways of embarrassing me, my mate is half a galaxy away — very nearly enough — and my current darling stays at home, indisposed. Or rather, disposed not to come to what she terms a boring bird-and-monkey race.” He nodded slowly. “I could reasonably be said to be alone, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

Leffid sat a little closer, arms on the carousel’s small table. “Saw something strange last night,” he said.

“That young thing with the four arms?” Lellius asked, at least one eye twinkling. “I did wonder if any other of her anatomical features were also doubled-up.”

“Your prurience flatters me,” Leffid said. “Ask her nicely and she will probably furnish you with a copy of a recording which proves both our relevant bits were quite singular.”

Lellius chuckled and drank from a strawed flask. “Not that, then. What?”

“Are we alone?” Leffid asked quietly.

Lellius stared blankly at him for a moment. “Yes; my lace is now turned off. There is nothing else I know of watching or listening. What is this thing you saw?”

“I’ll show you.” Leffid took a napkin from the table’s slot and from a pocket in his shirt extracted the terminal he was using instead of the neural lace. He looked at the markings on the instrument as though trying to remember something, then shrugged and said, “Umm, terminal; become a pen, please.”

Leffid wrote on the napkin, producing a sequence of seven pendant rhombi each composed of eight dots or tiny circles. When he’d finished he turned the napkin towards Lellius, who looked carefully down at it and then equally deliberately up at Leffid.

“Very pretty,” he wheezed. “What is it?”

Leffid smiled. He tapped the rightmost symbol. “First, it’s an Elench signal because it’s base eight and arranged in that pattern. This first symbol is an emergency distress mark. The other six are probably — almost certainly, by convention — a location.”

“Really?” Lellius did not sound especially impressed. “And the location of this location?”

“About seventy-three years into the Upper Swirl from here.”

“Oh,” Lellius said with a sort of rumbling noise that probably meant he was surprised. “Just six digits to define such a precise point?”

“Base two-five-six; easy,” Leffid said, shrugging his wings. “But what’s interesting is where I saw this signal.”

“Mm-hmm?” Lellius said, momentarily distracted by something happening on the race track. He took another drink then returned his attention to the other man.

“It was on an Affronter light cruiser,” Leffid said quietly. “Burned into its scar-hull. Very lightly, very shallowly; at an angle across the blades—”

“Blades?” Lellius asked.

Leffid waved one hand. “Decoration. But it was there. If I hadn’t been very close to the ship — in a yacht — as it was approaching Tier I’d never have seen it. And the intriguing possibility exists, of course, that the ship doesn’t know it bears this message.”

Lellius stared at the napkin for a moment. He sat back. “Hmm,” he said. “Mind if I turn on my lace?”

“Not at all,” Leffid said. “I already know the ship’s called the Furious Purpose and it’s back here unscheduled, in Dock 807b. If it’s a mechanical problem it’s got, I can’t imagine it’s anything to do directly with the scarring. As for the location in the signal; it’s about half way between the stars Cromphalet I/II and Esperi… slightly closer to Esperi. And there’s nothing there. Nothing that anybody knows about, anyway.”

Leffid tapped at the pocket terminal and after some experimentation got the beam to brighten until it ignited the napkin he’d written on. He let it burn and was about to sweep the ashes into the table’s disposal slot when Lellius — who was slumped back in the seat, looking blank — reached out one red hand and absently ground the ashes under his palm before scattering them to the breeze; they fell floating away from the carousel in an insubstantial cloud, towards the seats and private boxes stacked below.

“Some minor running-gear problem,” Lellius said. “The Affronter ship.” He was silent a moment longer. “The Elench may have had a problem,” he said, nodding slowly. “A clan-fleet — eight ships — left here a hundred days ago to investigate the Swirl.”

“I remember,” Leffid said.

“There have been,” Lellius paused, “… indications — barely even rumours — that not all has been right with them.”

“Well,” Leffid said, placing his palms flat on the table and making to rise from his seat, “it may be nothing, but I just thought I’d mention it.”

“Kind,” Lellius wheezed, nodding. “Not sure what the Tendency can do with it; last ship we had coming here went Sabbatical on us, ungrateful cur, but we might be able to trade it to the Mainland.”

“Yes, the dear old Mainland,” Leffid said. It was the term the AhForgetIt Tendency usually employed to refer to the Culture proper. He smiled. “Whatever.” He held his wings away from the seat-back as he stood.

“Sure you won’t stay?” Lellius said, blinking. “We could have a betting competition. Bet you’d win.”

“No thanks; this evening I’m playing host to a lady who needs two place settings at a time and I have to go polish my cutlery and make sure my flight feathers are fettled for ruffling.”

“Ah. Have armfuls of fun.”

“I suspect I shall.”

“Oh, damn,” Lellius said sadly, as a great shout went up from below and to most sides; the race was over.

Lellius leant over and scratched out another couple of numbers on the wax tablet.

“Never mind,” Leffid said, patting the vice-consul on his ample shoulder as he headed for the swaying cable bridge that would take him back to the main trunk of the huge artificial tree.

“Yes,” Lellius sighed, looking at the smudge of ash on his hand. “I’m sure there’ll be another race starting in a while.”

III

The black bird Gravious flew slowly across the re-creation of the great sea battle of Octovelein, its shadow falling over the wreckage-dotted water, the sails and decks of the long wooden ships, the soldiers who stood massed on the decks of the larger vessels, the sailors who hauled at ropes and sheets, the rocketeers who struggled to rig and fire their charges, and the bodies floating in the water.

A brilliant, blue-white sun glared from a violet sky. The air was crisscrossed by the smoky trails of the primitive rockets and the sky seemed supported by the great columns of smoke rising from stricken warships and transports. The water was dark blue, ruffled with waves, spattered with the tall feathery plumes of crashing rockets, creased white at the stem of each ship, and covered in flames where oils had been poured between ships in desperate attempts to prevent boarding.

The bird flew over the edge of the sea scene, where the water ended like a still, liquid cliff and the unadorned floor of the general bay resumed, just five metres below, its surface also covered with what looked like wreckage — as though the tide had somehow gone out in this part of the bay but not the other — but which on closer inspection proved to be objects — parts of ships, parts of people — which had been in the process of construction. The incomplete sea battle filled less than half of the bay’s sixteen square kilometres. This would have been the Sleeper Service’s master-work, its definitive statement. Now it might never be finished.

The black bird flew on, passing a few of the ship’s drones on the surface of the bay, gathering the construction debris and loading it onto an insubstantial conveyor belt which appeared to consist of a thin line of shady air. It kept beating. Its goal lay on the far end of the doubled general bay, between this internal section and the bay that opened to the rear of the ship. Damn the woman for choosing to stay at the bows, nearest to where the tower had been. Bad luck the place it had to be was so close to the stern.

It had already flown through twenty-five kilometres of interior space, down the gigantic, dark internal corridor in the centre of the ship, between closed bay doors where a few dim lights glowed and utter silence reigned, a kilometre of air below its gently flapping wings, another above and one to each side.

The bird had looked about it, taking in the huge, gloomy volumes and supposing it ought to feel privileged; the ship had kept it out of these places for the last forty years, restricting it to the upper kilometre of its hull which housed the old accommodation areas and the majority of its Storees. Gravious had senses beyond those normally available to an ordinary animal, and it had employed a couple of them in an attempt to probe the bay doors and find out what lay behind them, if anything. As far as it could tell, the thousands of bays were empty.

That had only taken it as far as the general bay engineering space, the biggest single volume in the ship with the divisions down; nine thousand metres deep, nearly twice that across and filled with noise and flickering lights and blurringly fast motion as the ship created thousands of new machines to do… who-knew-what.

Most of the engineering space wasn’t even filled with air; the material, components and machines could move faster that way. Gravious was flying down a transparent traveltube set into the ceiling. Nine kilometres of that took it to a wall which led into the relative serenity — or at least, stillness — of the sea battle tableau. It was halfway across that now; just another four thousand metres to go. Its wing muscles ached.

It landed on the parapet of a balcony which looked out into the rear of this set of general bays. Beyond were thirty-two cubic kilometres of empty air; a perfectly empty general bay, the sort of place where a normal GSV of this size would be building a smaller GSV, playing host to one which was visiting, housing an alien environment like a gigantic guests’ room, turning over to some sports venue, or sub-dividing into smaller storage or manufacturing spaces.

Gravious looked back at the modest tableau on the balcony, which in its previous existence, before the GSV had decided to go Eccentric, had been part of a cafe with a fine view of the bay. Here were posed seven humans, all with their backs to the view of the empty bay and facing the hologram of a calm, empty swimming pool. The humans wore trunks; they sat in deck chairs around a couple of low tables full of drinks and snacks. They had been caught in the acts of laughing, talking, blinking, scratching their chin, drinking.

Some famous painting, apparently. It didn’t look very artistic to Gravious. It supposed you had to see it from the right angle.

It lifted one leg up from the parapet, and slipped, falling into the air of the general bay. It hit something between it and the bay and fell, bouncing off the bay’s rear wall, then off the invisible wall, then found its bearings, flapped close and parallel to the wall, twisted in the air when it got back to the level of the balcony, and returned to it.

Uh-huh, it thought. It risked using again the senses it was not supposed to have. Solidity in the bay. What it had hit was not glass, and not a field between it and the empty bay; the bay was not empty, and what it had hit was the field-edge of a projection. On the far side, for at least two kilometres, there was solid matter. Dense, solid matter. Partially exotic dense solid matter.

Well, there you were. The bird shook itself and preened a little, combing its feathers smooth with its beak. Then it looked around and half hopped, half flew over to one of the posed figures. It inspected each one briefly, staring into an eye here, seemingly looking for a juicy parasite in an ear here, peering at a stray hair here and carefully studying a nostril here.

It often did this, studying the next ones to go, the ones who would next be revived and taken away. As though there was something to be learned from their carefully artificial postures.

It pecked, in a desultory, barely interested sort of way at a stray hair in one man’s armpit, then hopped away, studying the group from a variety of nearby tables and angles, trying to find the correct perspective from which to view the scene. Soon to be gone, of course. In fact, they were all going. This lot with the rest, but this lot to re-awakening whereas most of them would just be Stored somewhere else. But this lot, when they were woken in a few hours, would be coming back to life, somewhere. Funny to think of it.

Finally, the bird shook its head, stretched its wings, and hopped through the hologram and into the deserted cafe beyond, ready to begin the first leg of its journey back to its mistress.

A few moments later, the avatar Amorphia stepped out of another part of the hologram, turned once to glance back at where the bird had hopped through the projection, then went and squatted before the figure of the man at whose armpit Gravious had pecked.

IV

[tight beam, M32, tra. @n4.28.864. 0001]

xEccentric Shoot Them Later

oGSV Anticipation Of A New Lover’s Arrival, The

It was me.

oo

[tight beam, M32, tra. @n4.28.864.1971]

xGSV Anticipation Of A New Lover’s Arrival, The

oEccentric Shoot Them Later

What was you?

oo

I was the go-between for the information transmitted from the AhForgetIt Tendency to SC. One of our people on Tier saw the Affront light cruiser Furious Purpose as it arrived back there; it had a location in Elench code burned onto its scar-hull. The information was transmitted from the Tendency mission on Tier to me; I passed it on to the Different Tan and the Steely Glint, my usual contacts in the Group/Gang. I would guess the signal was then relayed to the GSV Ethics Gradient, home ship of the GCU Fate Amenable To Change, which subsequently discovered the Excession.

So in a sense, this is all my fault. I apologise.

I had hoped this confession would never be necessary, but having turned this over in my mind I have concluded that — as was the case concerning the passing-on of the original information regarding the scar-hull signal in the first place — I had no choice. Had you guessed? Had you started to? Do you still trust me?

oo

It had occurred to me, but I had no access to Tendency transmission records and was unwilling to ask the other Gang members directly. I trust you no less for what you say. Why are you telling me now?

oo

I would like to retain that trust. Have you discovered anything else?

oo

Yes. I think there is a link to a man called Genar-Hofoen, a Contact representative with the Affront on a habitat called God’shole, in the Fernblade. He left there the day after the Excession was discovered; SC has hired three Affronter battle cruisers to take him to Tier. They are due there in fourteen days. His biography: (files attached). You see the connection? That ship again.

oo

You think it involved beyond what we believe we have agreed to already?

oo

Yes. And the Grey Area.

oo

The times look a little unlikely; if it really pushed itself the GA can reach Tier in, what?… three days or so after this human gets there? But that still leaves our other concern two months or more out of touch.

oo

I know. Still, I think there is something going on. I am following up all the avenues of investigation I can. I’m making further inquiries through the more likely contacts mentioned in his file, but it’s all going terribly slowly. Thank you for your candour. I shall remain in touch.

oo

You’re welcome. Do keep me informed.

[stuttered tight point, M32, tra. @n4.28. 865.2203]

xEccentric Shoot Them Later

oLSV Serious Callers Only

Got fed up waiting; I called it (signal file attached).

oo

[stuttered tight point, M32, tra. @n4.28. 865.2690]

xLSV Serious Callers Only

oEccentric Shoot Them Later

And now it “trusts you no less”. ha!

oo

I remain convinced it was the right thing to do.

oo

Whatever; it is done. What of the ship you asked to head for Pittance?

oo

On its way.

oo

And why Pittance?

oo

Is it not obvious? Perhaps not. Mayhap the paranoia of The Anticipation Of A New Lover’s Arrival is contagious… However that may be, let me make my argument: Pittance houses a veritable cornucopia of weaponry; indeed, the weapons deployed there just to protect the main cache of munitions — that is, the ships — alone represents a vast stockpile of potential destruction. Certainly the store’s course takes it nowhere near the Excession, but it has taken it into the general volume within which the Affront have some interest. Now, while it has almost certainly gone unnoticed and even if it is spotted and tracked it can be of no interest to the Affront (and, of course, it is anyway well able to defend itself), and it is not part of the subtle mobilisation being organised by the Steely Glint, it nevertheless represents the greatest concentration of matériel in the vicinity.

I start to wonder; when, roughly, did the Culture start to have doubts — serious doubts — about the Affront? And when was Pittance chosen as one of the ship stores? Around the same time. Indeed, Pittance was chosen, fitted out and stocked entirely within the time-scale of the debate which took place at the end of the Idiran War regarding military intervention against the Affront. There are billions of bodies like Pittance; the galaxy is littered with such pieces of wreckage wandering between the stars. Yet Pittance was chosen as one of only eleven such stores; a rock whose slow progress would take it into Affronter space within five or six centuries — depending on how fast the Affront expanded their sphere of influence — and which might well remain within that sphere for the foreseeable future, given that Affronter influence could easily push its borders out at a greater rate than that of a slowly tumbling rock moving at much less than a per cent of light speed. How fortuitous to have such a wealth of weaponry embedded in Affront space!

Might not this all, in fact, be a set-up?

Think about this; is this not just the sort of thing you would be proud to have thought up? Such foresight, such patience, such attention to the long game, such plausible protestations of innocence should the coincidence be remarked upon or revealed! I know I’d be pleased with myself had I been part of such a plan.

Lastly, on the committee of Minds which oversaw the choice of these stores, the names Woetra, Different Tan and Not Invented Here all sound rather familiar, think ye not?

Taken all together, and even recognising that this is almost certainly a blind alley, I thought it irresponsible not to have a sharp eye attached to a sympathetic mind in the vicinity of that precious little rock.

oo

All right. Point taken.

oo

And what of whatever you were working on?

oo

My original idea was to attempt to find someone acceptable on Tier who might be persuaded to our purpose; however, this proved impractical; there is considerable Contact and SC presence on the habitat but nobody I think we could risk sharing our apprehensions with. Instead, I have the tentative agreement of an old ally to support our cause should the occasion arise. It is a month or more from Tier, and the Excession lies beyond there on its orientation, but it has access to a number of warships. The tricky part is that some of them may be called up in the mobilisation, but a few may be put at our disposal. Not as warships, I hasten to add, certainly not against other Culture ships, but as counters, as it were, or delivery systems, if and when we find a vulnerable point in the conspiracy we believe might exist.

This Genar-Hofoen person; I may make my own inquiries in that direction, if I can avoid stepping on the metaphorical toes of our co-concernee.

The Affront angle is the one that worries me. So aggressive! Such drive! For all our oft-repeated horror at their effects on others, there exists, I think, a kind of grudging admiration in many Culture folk for the Affront’s energy, not to mention their apparent freedom from the effects of moral conscience. Such an easy threat to see, and yet so difficult a problem to deal with. I dread to think what awful plan might be hatched with a thoroughly clear conscience by perfectly estimable Minds to deal with such a perceived menace.

Equally, given the qualitative scale of the opportunity which may be presented by the Excession, the Affront are just the sort of species — and at precisely the most likely stage in their development — to attempt some sort of mad undertaking which, however likely to fail, if it did succeed might offer rewards justifying the risk. And who is to say they would be wrong in making such a judgement?

oo

Look, the damned Excession hasn’t done anything yet. All this nuisance has been caused by everybody’s reaction to it. Serve us all right if it turned out it is a projection of some sort, some God’s jest. I’m growing impatient, I don’t mind telling you. The Fate Amenable To Change stands off, watching the Excession doing nothing and reporting on it every now and again, various low-level Involveds are puffing themselves up and girding their scrawny loins with a view to taking a sight-seeing trip to the latest show in town and in the vague hope that if there is some sort of action they’ll be able to pick up some of it, and all that the rest of us are doing is sitting around waiting for the big guns to arrive. I wish something would happen!

V

“Good travelling with you, Genar-Hofoen,” Fivetide boomed. They slapped limbs; the man had already braced one leg and the gelfield suit absorbed the actual impact, so he didn’t fall over. They were in the Entity Control area of the Level Eight docks, Affronter section, surrounded by Affronters, their slaved drones and other machines, a few members of other species who could tolerate the same conditions as the Affront, as well as numerous Tier sintricates — floating around like little dark balls of spines — all coming and going, leaving or joining travelators, spin cars, lifts and inter-section transport carriages.

“Not staying for some rest and recreation?” Genar-Hofoen asked the Affronter. Tier boasted a notoriously excellent Affront hunting reserve section.

“Ha! On the way back, perhaps,” Fivetide said. “Duty calls elsewhere in the meantime.” He chuckled.

Genar-Hofoen got the impression he was missing a joke here. He wondered about this, then shrugged and laughed. “Well, I’ll see you back on God’shole, no doubt.”

“Indeed!” Fivetide said. “Enjoy yourself, human!” The Affronter turned on his tentacle tips and swept away, back to the battle-cruiser Kiss The Blade. Genar-Hofoen watched him go, and watched the lock doors close on the transit tunnel, with a frown on his face.

— What’s worrying you? asked the suit.

The man shook his head. ~ Ah, nothing, he said. He stooped and picked up his hold-all.

“Human male Byr Genar-Hofoen plus gelfield suit?” said a sintricate, floating up to him. It looked, Genar-Hofoen thought, like an explosion in a sphere of black ink, frozen an instant after it began.

He bowed briefly. “Correct.”

“I am to escort you to the Entity Control, human section. Please follow me.”

“Certainly.”

They found a spin car, little more than a platform dotted with seats, stanchions and webbing. Genar-Hofoen hopped on, followed by the sintricate, and the car accelerated smoothly into a transparent tunnel which ran out along the underside of the habitat’s outer skin. They were heading spinward, so that as the car gained speed they seemed to lose weight. A field shimmered over the car, seeming to mould itself to the curved roof of the tunnel. Gases hissed. They went underneath the huge hanging bulk of one of the other Affronter ships, all blades and darkness. He watched as it detached itself from the habitat, falling massively, silently away into space and the circling stars. Another ship, then another and another dropped away after it. They disappeared.

— What was the fourth ship? the man asked.

— The Comet class light cruiser Furious Purpose, the suit said.

— Hmm. Wonder where they’re off to.

The suit didn’t reply.

It was getting misty in the car. Genar-Hofoen listened to gases hiss around him. The temperature was rising, the atmosphere in the field-shrouded car changing from an Affronter atmosphere to a human atmosphere. The car zoomed upwards for lower, less gravity intense levels, and Genar-Hofoen, used to Affronter gravity for these last two years, felt as though he was floating.

— How long before we rendezvous with the Meatfucker? he asked.

— Three days, the suit told him.

— Of course, they won’t let you into the world proper, will they? the man said, as though realising this for the first time.

— No, said the suit.

— What’ll you do while I’m off having fun?

— The same; I’ve already inquired ahead and come to an arrangement with a visiting Contact ship GP drone. So I shall be in Thrall.

It was Genar-Hofoen’s turn not to say anything. He found the whole idea of drone sex — even if it was entirely of the mind, with no physical component whatsoever — quite entirely bizarre! Ah well, each to his own, he thought.

“Mr Genar-Hofoen?” said a stunningly, heart-stoppingly beautiful woman in the post-Entity Reception Area, Human. She was tall, perfectly proportioned, her hair was long and red and extravagantly curled and her eyes were a luminous green just the right side of natural. Her loose, plain tabard exposed smoothly muscled, glossily tanned skin. “Welcome to Tier; my name’s Verlioef Schung.” She held out a hand and shook his, firmly.

Skin on skin; no suit, at last. It was a good feeling. He was dressed in a semi-formal outfit of loose pantaloons and long shirt, and enjoying the lushly sensual sensation of the glidingly smooth materials on his body.

“Contact sent me to look after you,” Verlioef Schung said with a hint of ruefulness. “I’m sure you don’t need it, but I’m here if you do. I, ah… I hope you don’t mind.” Her voice… her voice was something to immerse yourself in.

He smiled broadly and bowed. “How could I?” he said.

She laughed, putting one hand over her mouth — and, of course, her perfect teeth — as she did so. “You’re very kind.” She held out a hand. “May I take your bag?”

“No, that’s all right.”

She raised her shoulders and let them drop. “Well,” she said, “you’ve missed the Festival, of course, but there’s a whole gang of us who did, too, and we’ve sort of decided to have our own over the next few days and, well, frankly we need all the help we can get. All I can promise you is luxurious accommodation, great company and more delectable preparations than you can shake a principle at, but if you care to make the sacrifice, I promise we’ll all try to make it up to you.” She flexed her eyebrows and then made a mock-frightened expression, pulling down the corners of her succulently perfect mouth.

He let her hold the look for a moment, then patted her on the upper arm. “No, thank you,” he said sincerely.

Her expression became one of hurt sadness. “Oh… are you sure?” she said in a small, softly vulnerable voice.

“Fraid so. Made my own arrangements,” he said, with genuine but determined regret. “But if there was anyone who was likely to tempt me away from them, it would be you.” He winked at her. “I’m flattered by your generous offer, and do tell SC I appreciate the trouble they’ve gone to, but this is my chance to cut loose for a few days, you know?” He laughed. “Don’t worry; I’ll have some fun and then I’ll be ready to ship on out when the time comes.” He fished a small pen terminal out of one pocket and waved it in front of her face. “And I’ll keep my terminal with me at all times. Promise.” He put the terminal back in his pocket.

She gazed intently into his eyes for a few moments, then lowered her eyes and then her head and gave a small shrug. She looked back up, expression ironic. When she spoke, her voice had changed as well, modulating into something deeper and more considered, almost regretful. “Well,” she sighed, “I hope you enjoy yourself, Byr.” She grinned. “Our offer stands, if you wish to reconsider.” Brave smile. “My colleagues and I wish you well.” She looked furtively round the busy concourse and bit her bottom lip, frowning slightly. “Don’t suppose you fancy a drink or something anyway, do you?” she said, almost plaintively.

He laughed, shook his head, and bowed as he backed off, hoisting his hold-all over his shoulder.

Genar-Hofoen had arrived a few days after the end of Tier’s annual Festival. There was an air of autumnal desuetude mixed with high-summer torpor about the place when he arrived; people were cleaning up, calming down, getting back to normal and generally behaving themselves. He’d signalled ahead and succeeded in booking the services of an erotroupe as well as reserving a garden penthouse in the View, the best hotel on Level Three.

All in all, entirely worth passing up the rather too obvious advances of his perfect woman for (well, no it wasn’t… except it was when your perfect woman was almost certainly a Special Circumstances agent altered to look like the creature of your fantasies and sent to look after you, keep you happy and safe, when what you actually wanted was a bit of variety, some excitement and some un-Culture-like danger; his perfect partner certainly looked like the very splendid Verlioef Schung, but she was even more positively not SC, not Contact, and probably not even Culture either. It was that desire for strangeness, for apartness, for alienness they probably couldn’t understand).

He lay in bed, pleasantly exhausted, the odd muscle quivering now and again of its own accord, surrounded by sleeping pulchritude, his head buzzing with the after-effects of some serious glanding and watched the Tier news (Culture bias) channel on a screen hanging in the air in front of the nearest tree. An ear-pip relayed the sound.

Still leading with the Blitteringueh-Deluger saga. Then came a feature on the increase in Fleeting in Culture ships. Fleeting was when two or more ship Minds decided they were fed up being all by themselves and only being able to exchange the equivalent of letters; instead they got together, keeping physically close to each other so that they could converse. Operationally most inefficient. Some older Minds were worried it represented their more recently built comrades going soft and wanted the premise-states of Minds which would be constructed in the future to be altered to deal with this weak, overly chummy decadence.

Local news; there was a brief follow-up report basically saying that the mysterious explosion which had happened in dock 807b on the third day of the Festival was still a mystery; the Affronter cruiser Furious Purpose had been lightly damaged by a small, pure energy detonation which had done nothing more than locally burn off a layer of its scar-hull. An over-enthusiastic Festival prank was suspected.

Not quite so locally, the arguments were still going on about the creation of a new Hintersphere a few kiloyears anti-spinward. A Hintersphere was a volume of space in which FTL flights were banned except in the direst of emergencies, and life generally moved at a slower pace than elsewhere in the Culture. Genar-Hofoen shook his head at that one. Pretentious rusticism.

Nearer home again, back-up craft were only a day away from the location of the possible anomaly near Esperi. The discovering GCU was still reporting no change in the artifact. Despite requests from Contact section, various other Involved civilisations had sent or were sending ships to the general volume, but Tier itself had forgone dispatching a craft. To the surprise of most observers, the Affront had criticised the reaction of those who had decided to be nosy and had stayed severely away from the anomaly, though there were unconfirmed reports of increased Affront activity in the Upper Leaf Swirl, and just today four ships—

“Off,” Genar-Hofoen said quietly, and the screen duly vanished. One of the erotroupe stirred against him. He looked at her.

The girl’s face was the very image of that belonging to Zreyn Tramow, one-time captain of the good ship Problem Child. Her body was different from the original, altered in the direction of Genar-Hofoen’s tastes, but subtly. There were two like her and three who looked exactly like famous personalities — an actress, a musician and a lifestyler. Zreyn and Enhoff, Shpel, Py and Gidinley. They had all been perfectly charming as well as being quite plausible impersonators, but Genar-Hofoen thought you had to wonder at the mentality of people who actually chose to alter their appearance and behaviour every few days just to suit the tastes — usually though not always sexual — of others. But maybe he was just being a bit fuddy-duddyish. Perhaps they were slightly boring people otherwise, or perhaps they just liked a deal more variety in such matters than other people.

Whatever their motivations, all five had fallen politely asleep on the AG bed after the fun, which had been preceded by a meal and a party. The troupe’s Exemplary Couple, Gakic and Leleeril were asleep too, lying in each other’s arms on the carpet-like lawn between the bed platform and the stream which threaded its way from the tinkling waterfall and the pool. Detumesced, the man’s prick was almost normal looking. Genar-Hofoen felt slightly sleepy himself, but he was determined to stay awake for the whole holiday; he brushed the sleepiness back under the edges of his mind with a glandular release of gain. Doing this for three days solid would leave him needing lots of sleep, but there would be a week on the Grey Area/Meat fucker; plenty of time to recover. The buzz of gain coursed through him, clearing his head and ridding his body of the effects of fatigue. Gradually a feeling of rested, ready peacefulness washed over and through him.

He clasped his hands behind his neck and gazed happily upwards past the fronds of a couple of overhanging trees at the blue, cloud-strewn sky. Just that movement, performed in the gravity of Tier’s standard-G level, gave him a good, light, almost childishly enjoyable sensation. Affronter standard gravity was more than twice the Culture-promoted human norm, and he supposed it was a sign of how well and how easily his body had adapted to conditions on God’shole habitat that he had quickly and long since stopped noticing how much heavier he had felt from day to day.

A thought occurred to him. He closed his eyes briefly, going quickly into the semi-trance that the average Culture adult employed, when they needed to and could be bothered, to check on their physiological settings. He dug around inside various images of his body until he saw himself standing on a small sphere. The sphere was set at one standard gravity; his subconscious had registered the fact that he had been in a steady, reduced gravity field for longer than a few hours and had re-set itself. Left to its own devices, his body would now start to lose bone and muscle mass, thin the walls of his blood vessels and perform a hundred other tiny but consequential alterations the better to suit his frame, tissues and organs to that reduced severity of weight. Well, his subconscious was only doing its job, and it didn’t know he would be back in Affronter gravity again in a month or so. He increased the size of the sphere his image stood upon until it was back to the two point one gravities his body would have to readjust itself to once he returned to God’shole. There, that should do it. He cast a quick look round his internal states while he was here, not that there ought to be anything amiss; warning signs made themselves obvious automatically. Sure enough, all was well; fatigue being dealt with, presence of gain noted, blood sugar returning to normal, hormones generally being gathered back to optimum levels.

He came out of the semi-trance, opened his eyes and looked over at where the pen terminal lay on a sculpted, smoothly varnished tree stump at the bedside. So far he had mostly used it to check up on the replies from his Contact contacts, confirming what they could concerning this — so far — pleasantly undemanding mission. The terminal was supposed to blink a little light if it had a message stored for him. He was still waiting to hear from the GSV Not Invented Here, the Incident Coordinator for the Excession. The terminal lay where he’d left it, dull. No new messages. Oh well.

He looked away and watched the clouds move in the sky for a while, then wondered what it looked like turned off.

“Sky, off,” he said, keeping his voice low.

The sky disappeared and the true ceiling of the penthouse suite was revealed; a slickly black surface studded with projectors, lights and miscellaneous bumps and indentations. The few gentle animal sounds faded away. In the View Hotel, every suite was a penthouse corner suite; there were four per floor, and the only floor which didn’t have four penthouse suites was the very top one, which, so that nobody in the lower floors would feel they were missing out on the real thing when it was available, was restricted to housing some of the hotel’s machinery and equipment. Genar-Hofoen’s was called a jungle suite, though it was entirely the most manicured, pest-free and temperately, temperature-controlled and generally civilised jungle he had ever heard of.

“Night sky, on,” he said quietly. The slick black ceiling was replaced by blackness scattered with sharply bright stars. Some animal noises resumed, sounding different compared to those heard in the daylight. They were real animals, not recordings; every now and again a bird would fly across the clearing where the bed was situated, or a fish would splash in the bathing pool or a chattering simian would swing across the forest canopy or a huge, glittering insect would burr delicately through the air.

It was all terribly tasteful and immaculate, and Genar-Hofoen was already starting to look forward to the evening, when he intended to dress in his best clothes and hit the town, which in this case was Night City, located one level almost straight down, where, traditionally, anything on Tier that could breathe a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere and tolerate one standard gravity — and had any sort of taste for diversion and excitement — tended to congregate.

A night in Night City would be just the thing to complete this first mad rush of fun at the onset of his short holiday. Calling ahead and ordering up a fabulously expensive erotroupe to act out his every sexual fantasy was one thing — one extremely wonderful and deeply satisfying thing, beyond all doubt, he told himself with all due solemnity — but the idea of a chance meeting with somebody else, another free, independent soul with their own desires and demands, their own reservations and requirements; that, just because it was all up to chance and up to negotiation, just because it all might end in nothing, in rejection, in the failure to impress and connect, in being found wanting rather than being wanted, that was a more valuable thing, that was an enterprise well worthy of the risk of rebuff.

He glanded charge. That ought to do it.

Seconds later, filled to bursting with the love of action, movement and the blessed need to be doing something, he was bouncing out of bed, laughing to himself and apologising to the sleepily grumbling but still palatably comely cast of the erotroupe.

He skipped to the warm waterfall and stood under it. As he showered he told a blue-furred, wise-looking little creature dressed in a dapper waistcoat and sitting on a nearby tree what clothes he wished prepared for the evening. It nodded and swung off through the branches.

VI

“It’s nothing to worry about, Gestra,” the drone told him as he stepped out of the bulky suit in the vestibule beyond the airlocks. Gestra Ishmethit leant against a maniple field which the drone extended for him. He looked down the corridor to the main part of the accommodation unit, but there was no sign of anybody yet. “The ship has come with new codes and updated security procedures,” the drone continued. “It’s some years before these were due to be altered, but there has been some unusual activity in a nearby volume — nothing threatening as such, but it’s always best to be careful — so it’s been decided to move things along a bit and perform the update now rather than later.” The drone hung the man’s suit up near the airlock doors, its surface sparkling with frost.

Gestra rubbed his hands together and accepted the trousers and jacket the drone handed him. He kept glancing down the corridor.

“The ship has been verified and authenticated by the necessary outside referees,” the drone told him, “so it’s all above-board, you see?” The machine helped him button up the jacket and smoothed his thin, fair hair. “The crew have asked to come inside; just curious, really.”

Gestra stared at the drone, obviously distressed, but the machine patted him on the shoulder with a rosy field and said, “It’ll be all right, Gestra. I thought it only polite to grant their request, but you can stay out of their way if you like. Saying hello to them at first would probably go down well, but it isn’t compulsory.” The Mind had its drone study the man for a moment, checking his breathing, heart rate, pupil dilation, skin response, pheromone output and brain-waves. “I know what,” it said soothingly, “we’ll tell them you’ve taken a vow of silence, how’s that? You can greet them formally, nod, or whatever, and I’ll do the talking. Would that be all right?”

Gestra gulped and said, “Y-y-yes! Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. “That… that would be good… good idea. Tha-thank you!”

“Right,” the machine said floating at the man’s side as they headed down the corridor for the main reception area. “They’ll Displace over in a few minutes. Like I say; just nod to them and let me say whatever has to be said. I’ll make your excuses and you can go off to your suite if you like; I’m sure they won’t mind being shown round by this drone. Meanwhile I’ll be receiving the new ciphers and routines. There’s a lot of multiple-checking and bureaucratic book-keeping sort of stuff to be done, but even so it should only take an hour or so. We won’t offer them a meal or anything; with any luck they’ll take the hint and head off again, leave us in peace, eh?”

After a moment, Gestra nodded at this, vigorously. The drone swivelled in the air at the man’s side to show him it was looking at him. “Does all this sound acceptable? I mean, I could put them off completely; tell them they’re just not welcome, but it would be terribly rude, don’t you think?”

“Y-yes,” Gestra said, frowning and looking distinctly uncertain. “Rude. Suppose so. Rude. Mustn’t be rude. Probably come a long way, should think?” A smile flickered around his lips, like a small flame in a high wind.

“I think we can be pretty sure of that,” the drone said with a laugh in its voice. It clapped him gently on the back with a field.

Gestra was smiling a little more confidently as he walked into the accommodation unit’s main reception area.

The reception area was a large round room full of couches and chairs. Gestra usually paid it no attention; it was just a largish space he had to walk through on his way to and back from the airlocks which led to the warship hangars. Now he looked at each of the plumply comfortable-looking seats and sofas as though they represented some terrible threat. He felt his nervousness return. He wiped his brow as the drone stopped by a couch and indicated he might like to sit.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” the drone said as Gestra sat. A screen appeared in the air on the far side of the room, starting as a bright dot, quickly widening to a line eight metres long then seeming to unroll so that it filled the four-metre space between floor and ceiling.

Blackness; little lights. Space. Gestra realised suddenly how long it had been since he’d seen such a view. Then, sweeping slowly into view came a long, dark grey shape, sleek, symmetrical, double-ended, reminding Gestra of the axle and hubs of a ship’s windlass.

“The Killer class Limited Offensive Unit Attitude Adjuster,” the drone said in a matter-of-fact, almost bored-sounding voice. “Not a type we have here.”

Gestra nodded. “No,” he said, then stopped to clear his throat a few times. “No pattern… patterns on it… its hull.”

“That’s right,” the drone said.

The ship was stopped now, almost filling the screen. The stars wheeled slowly behind it.

“Well, I—” the drone said, then stopped. The screen on the far side of the room flickered.

The drone’s aura field flicked off. It fell out of the air, bouncing off the seat beside Gestra and toppling heavily, lifelessly, to the floor.

Gestra stared at it. A voice like a sigh said, “… sssave yourssselfff…” then the lights dimmed, there was a buzzing noise from all around Gestra, and a tiny tendril of smoke leaked out of the top of the drone’s casing.

Gestra leapt up out of the seat, staring wildly around, then jumped up on the seat, crouching there and staring at the drone. The little wisp of smoke was dissipating. The buzzing noise faded slowly. Gestra squatted, hugging his knees with both arms and looking all about. The buzzing noise stopped; the screen collapsed to a line hanging in the air, then shrank to a dot, then winked out. After a moment, Gestra reached forward with one hand and prodded the drone’s casing with one hand. It felt warm and solid. It didn’t move.

A sequence of thuds from the far side of the room shook the air. Beyond where the screen had hung in the air, four tiny mirror spheres bloated suddenly, growing almost instantly to over three metres in diameter and hovering just above the floor. Gestra jumped off the seat and started back away from the spheres. He rubbed his hands together and glanced back at the corridor to the airlock. The mirror spheres vanished like exploding balloons to reveal complicated things like tiny space-ships, not much smaller than the mirror spheres themselves.

One of them rushed towards Gestra, who turned and ran.

He pelted down the corridor, running as fast as he could, his eyes wide, his face distorted with fear, his fists pumping.

Something rushed up behind him, crashed into him and knocked him over, sending him sprawling and tumbling along the carpeted floor. He came to a stop. His face hurt where it had grazed along the carpet. He looked up, his heart twitching madly in his chest, his whole body shaking. Two of the miniature ship things had followed him into the corridor; each floated a couple of metres away, one on either side of him. There was a strange smell in the air. Frost had formed on various parts of the ship things. The nearer one extended a thing like a long hose and went to take him by the neck. Gestra ducked down and doubled himself up, lying on his side on the carpet, face tucked into his knees, arms hugging his shins.

Something prodded him about the shoulders and rump. He could hear muffled noises coming from the two machines. He whimpered.

Then something very hard slammed into his side; he heard a cracking noise and his arm burned with pain. He screamed, still trying to bury his face in his knees. He felt his bowels relax. Warmth flooded his pants. He was aware of something inside his head turning off the searing pain in his arm, but nothing could turn off the heat of shame and embarrassment. Tears filled his eyes.

There was a noise like, “Ka!” then a whooshing noise, and a breeze touched his face and hands. After a moment he looked up and saw that the two machines had gone down to the airlock doors. There was movement in the reception area, and then another one of the machines came down the corridor; it slowed down as it approached him. He ducked his head down again. Another whoosh and another breeze.

He looked up again. The three machines were moving around near the airlock doors. Gestra sniffed back his tears. The three machines drew back from the doors, then settled down onto the ground. Gestra waited to see what would happen next.

There was a flash, and an explosion. The middle set of doors blew out in a burst of smoke that rolled up the corridor and then collapsed backwards, seemingly sucking the whole explosion back into where the doors had been. The doors had gone, leaving a dark hole.

A breeze tugged at Gestra, then the breeze turned to a wind and the wind became a storm that howled and then screamed past him and then started moving him bodily along the floor. He shouted in fear, trying to grab hold of the carpet with his one good arm; he slid down the corridor in the roar of air, his fingers scrabbling for a grip. His nails dug in, found purchase, and his fingers closed around the fibres, pulling him to a stop.

He heard thuds and looked up, gasping, towards the reception area, eyes streaming with tears as the wind whipped by him. Something moved, bouncing in the lighted doorway of the circular lounge. He saw the vague, rounded shape of a couch thudding into the floor twenty metres away and flying towards him on the howling stream of air. He heard himself shout something. The couch thudded into the floor ten metres away, tumbling end over end.

He thought it was going to miss him, but one end of it smashed into his dangling feet, tearing him away; the storm of air picked him up bodily and he screamed as he fell with it past the shapes of the three watching machines. One of his legs hit the jagged edges of the breach in the airlock doors and was torn off at the knee. He flew out into the huge space beyond, the air pulled from his mouth first by his scream and then by the vacuum of the hangar itself.

He skidded to a stop on the cold hard floor of the hangar fifty metres from the wrecked doors, blood oozing then freezing around his wounds. The cold and the utter silence closed in; he felt his lungs collapse and something bubbled in his throat; his head ached as if his brain were about to burst out of his nose, eyes and ears, and his every tissue and bone seemed to ring with brief, stunning pain before going numb.

He looked into the enveloping darkness and up at the towering, heedless heights of the bizarrely patterned ships.

Then the ice crystals forming in his eyes fractured the view and made it splinter and multiply as though seen through a prism, before it all went dim and then black. He was trying to shout, to cry out, but there was only a terrible choking coldness in his throat. In a moment, he couldn’t even move, frozen there on the floor of the vast space, immobile in his fear and confusion.

The cold killed him, finally, shutting off his brain in concentric stages, freezing the higher functions first, then the lower mammal brain, then finally the primitive, near-reptilian centre. His last thoughts were that he would never see his model sea ships again, nor know why the warships in the cold, dark halls were patterned so.

Victory! Commander Risingmoon Parchseason IV of the Farsight tribe nudged the suit forward, floating out through the torn doors of the airlock and into the hangar space. The ships were there. Gangster class. His gaze swept their ranks. Sixty-four of them. He had, privately, thought it might all be a hoax, some Culture trick.

At his side, his weapons officer steered his suit across the floor — over the body of the human — and up towards the nearest of the ships. The other suited figure, the Affronter Commander’s personal guard, rotated, watching.

“If you’d waited another minute,” the voice of the Culture ship said tiredly through the suit’s communicator, “I could have opened the airlock doors for you.”

“I’m sure you could,” the Commander said. “Is the Mind quite under your control?”

“Entirely. Touchingly naive, in the end.”

“And the ships?”

“Quiescent; undisturbed; asleep. They will believe whatever they are told.”

“Good,” the Commander said. “Begin the process of waking them.”

“It is already under way.”

“Nobody else here,” his security officer said over the communicator. He had gone on into the rest of the human accommodation section when they had made their way to the airlock doors.

“Anything of interest?” the Commander asked, following his weapons officer towards the nearest warship. He had to try to keep the excitement out of his voice. They had them! They had them! He had to brake the suit hard; in his enthusiasm he almost collided with his weapons officer.

In the ruined suite that had been the place where the human had lived, the security officer swivelled in the vacuum, surveying the wreckage the evacuating whirlwind of air had left. Human coverings; clothes, items of furniture, some complicated structures; models of some sort. “No,” he said. “Nothing of interest.”

“Hmm,” the ship said. Something about the tone communicated unease to the Commander. At the same moment, his weapons officer turned his suit to him. “Sir,” he said. A light flicked on, picking out a metre-diameter circle of the ship’s hull. Its surface was riotously embellished and marked, covered in strange, sweeping designs. The weapons officer swept the light over nearby sections of the vessel’s curved hull. It was all the same, all of it covered with these curious, whorled patterns and motifs.

“What?” the Commander said, concerned now.

“This… complexity,” the weapons officer said, sounding perplexed.

“Internal, too,” the Culture ship broke in.

“It…” the weapons officer said, spluttering. His suit moved closer to the warship’s hull, until it was almost touching. “This will take for ever to scan!” he said. “It goes down to the atomic level!”

“What does?” the Commander said sharply.

“The ships have been baroqued, to use the technical term,” the Culture ship said urbanely. “It was always a possibility.” It made a sighing noise. “The vessels have been fractally inscribed with partially random, non-predictable designs using up a little less than one per cent of the mass of each craft. There is a chance that hidden in amongst that complexity will be independent security nano-devices which will activate at the same time as each ship’s main systems and which will require some additional coded reassurance that all is well, otherwise they will attempt to disable or even destroy the ship. These will have to be looked for. As your weapons officer says, the craft will each have to be scanned at least down to the level of individual atoms. I shall begin this task the instant I have completed the reprogramming of the base’s Mind. This will delay us, that’s all; the ships would have required scanning in any event, and in the meantime, nobody knows we’re here. You will have your war fleet in a matter of days rather than hours, Commander, but you will have it.”

The weapons officer’s space suit turned to face the Commander’s. The light illuminating the outlandish designs switched off. Somehow, from the way he performed these actions, the weapons officer conveyed a mood of scepticism and perhaps even disgust to the Commander.

“Ka!” the Commander said contemptuously, whirling away and heading back towards the airlock doors. He needed to wreck something. The accommodation section ought to provide articles which would be satisfying but unimportant. His personal guard swept after him, weapons ready.

Passing over the still, frozen body of the human — even that hadn’t provided any sport — Commander Risingmoon Parchseason IV of the Farsight tribe and the battleship Xenoclast — on secondment to the alien ship Attitude Adjuster — unholstered one of the external weapons on his own suit and blasted the small figure into a thousand pieces, scattering fragments of frosty pink and white across the cold floor of the hangar like a small, delicate fall of snow.