Surface Detail

Twenty-eight

She was in her sleeping pod, the aching fruit within its dark enfolding confinement, when whatever happened, happened.

She had been slowly stretching herself, extending one wing and then the other — creakingly, with much joint-grumbling and tendon-grating and what felt like even the leathery fabric of her wings protesting — then rotating her neck as best she could, against what felt like the gravel filling her vertebrae, then flexing first one leg and then the other, hanging by a single clawed talon each time.

Then, without warning, there was a sort of shiver in the air, as though the shock wave of a great explosion far away had just passed by.

The pod around her started to shake. Then it froze, somehow, as though the blow that had struck it had been cancelled from reality rather than allowed to ring on through the fabric of her great dark roost.

She knew immediately there was something odd and unprecedented about it, something that hinted at outside, at an existential change to her surroundings, maybe even to the Hell itself. She thought of the glitch, the silver mirror-barrier, the patch where the landscape had been deleted, smoothed over.

She had lost count of how many thousands she had dispatched since she had been brought back here. She had meant to keep count, but had baulked at scratching a mark for each death on the interior surface of her roost — she had considered this — because it just seemed so cold. She’d attempted to keep count in her head, but then lost it a few times, and then for a long time had thought that it didn’t matter. The last figure she remembered was three thousand eight hundred and eighty-five, but that had been a long time ago. She had probably killed at least that number again since.

The pain grew each time, after each killing, each release, every day. She existed in a sort of continual haze of aching limbs and over-sensitive skin and grinding sinew and ever-cramping internal organs. She liked to think that she ignored it, but she couldn’t really. It was there all the time, from when she woke to when she fell, moaning, grumbling, asleep. It was there in her dreams, too. She dreamed of bits of her body falling off or developing their own lives, tearing themselves off her and flying or falling or walking or slithering away, leaving her screaming, bereft, bleeding and raw.

Every day it was a struggle to let go of the upside-down perch, quit her roost pod and scour the blackened, pox-addled lands beneath for a fresh soul to release. She was getting later and later, these days.

Once she had flown for the joy of it; because flight was still flight, even in Hell, and felt like freedom for somebody who had grown up a devoutly ground-dwelling quadruped. Providing one got over one’s fear of heights, of course, which somehow — since the long-ago days when she’d grown old within a convent perched on a rock — she had.

Once she had loved to go exploring, fascinated to find the parts of Hell she hadn’t discovered before. She was almost invariably horrified by what she found, no matter where she looked, but she was fascinated nevertheless. Just the geography, then the logistics, then the hatefully sadistic inventiveness of it all was enough to captivate the inquiring mind, and she had made full use of her ability to fly over the ground that lesser unfortunates had to crawl, limp, stagger and fight over.

No longer. She rarely flew far from her roost to find somebody to kill and eat, and usually waited until she felt such pangs of hunger that she no longer had any real choice in the matter. It was a delicate balance and a tricky choice, trying to decide whether her grumbling, empty guts were causing her more discomfort as the day went on than the ever-present shoals and flocks of aches and pains that seemed to squall through her like some bizarre parasitic infection.

Her status as a soul-releasing angel had slipped, she suspected. People came from all around to be blessed by her, but there was not the same level of worship she had enjoyed before; she no longer appeared almost anywhere, to anyone. Now you had to be able to make your way to near where she lived. That changed things. She had become a localised service.

She suspected the demons had finally got wise and were arranging for certain individuals to be more or less presented to her for death and release. She did not want to think what unlikely favours or perverse rewards the demons exacted for this. And, frankly, she no longer cared. She was glad that it really did seem to release this or that particular soul from its suffering, but all the same, it was just what she did, what she had no choice but to do.

The last interesting thing had been when she’d gone to see the uber-demon. She’d been wondering about the glitch she’d discovered, the patch of hill and cliff and factory that had simply disappeared, and — after what had felt like weeks of mulling it over — had finally summoned up the strength to fly to where the vast demon sat and ask it what had happened.

“A failure,” he’d roared at her, as she’d flapped painfully in front of him, still careful not to get too close to those terrible, body-crushing hands. “Something went wrong, wiped everything from that area. Landscape, buildings, demons, the tormented; all just ceased to be. Released more of the undeserving wretches in a blink of an eye than you’ve set free in all the time you’ve worked for me! Ha! Now fuck off and stop troubling me with matters even I have no control over!”

Now this.

She felt different. The pod she was hanging in felt different, and it was as though all the pain she had taken on was evaporating. A sort of back-surge of relief, well-being — almost sexual, nearly orgasmic in its contrasting intensity — washed through her, sloshing back and forth within her as though she was the hollow presence here, not the pod-roost. The sensation slowly lost energy and dampened down, leaving her feeling clean and good for the first time in longer than she could recall.

She found that she had let go of the perch, but was still hanging where she had been. Her body seemed different too; no longer so great and terrible and fierce; no longer Hell’s dark angel of release. Trying to look at it, she realised she couldn‘t really see what she had become instead, either; it was as though everything about her had become pixelated, smoothed out. She had some sort of body, but it somehow contained all the possibilities of every sort of body: four-legged mammal, two-legged mammal, bird, fish, snake… and every other type of being, including ones she had no names for, as though she was some brand new embryo, cells so few and so fixated on simple, continual multiplication that they had not yet decided what to become.

She floated to the limit of the pod. It all looked and felt different: smaller, quieter — completely silent — and without the stink she realised had been in her nostrils for as long as she’d been back. The air in here now was probably completely neutral, odour-free, but that absence smelled like the sweetest, freshest mountain meadow breeze to her after what she’d been used to for so long.

There was, however, no exit, no way out of the pod, even where the hole at the foot had been. This troubled her less than she would have anticipated. The walls of the pod were neither soft nor hard; they were untouchable. She reached for them but it felt as though there was some perfectly clear glass between her and them. She struggled even to tell what colour the walls were.

Such relief, such relief, no longer to be in pain. She closed her eyes, feeling things wind up, wind down, go into a sort of static, stored, steady state.

Something was happening; something had happened. She would not even start to think about what it might be or what it might imply or mean. Hope, she recalled, had to be resisted at all costs.

A sort of buzzing filled her body and her head. Behind her already closed eyes she felt herself starting to drift away. If this was death, she had time to think — real, full, proper, no-waking-up-from death — then it was not so terrible.

After all that Hell had made her suffer and made her witness and made her complicit with, she might finally be getting to die in some sort of peace.

Too good to be true, she thought woozily. She’d believe it when… well…

xGSV Dressed Up To Party

oPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

NR possibly labouring under all-too-accurate apprehension re YN’s true mission. As was, anyway; YN since deactivated from our POV, traces removed, memories wiped (diaglyph details attached). Full deniability now possible. Try to get NR off M,IC’s case.

…I mean by using argument, absolutely not force.

∞

xPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

oGSV Dressed Up To Party

And a fascinating link implied between NR and Bulbitians! Aloof!

∞

xGSV Dressed Up To Party oPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

That is not your business.

xPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

o8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary (NR ship — assumed)

Greetings. Can’t help noticing you've been combatively interested in some meatball on the good ship Me, I’m Counting. Imagining this isn't start of final applied stage of NR bio-disgust so there must be a specific reason. Care to share? I mean, I've very little time for the horrible, wasteful, bacteria-slathered, germ-infested, shit-filled squishy things myself, but I generally draw the line at trying to incinerate them — the effort/result equation is just woeful.

Smooches.

∞

x401.00 Partial Photic Boundary (NR Bismuth category ship)

oPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

Reciprocated greetings. I am not free to discuss operational matters.

∞

xPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

o8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary

Look, the only non-avatar on the tub is a not-even-neural-laced neuter-gendered human called Yime Nsokyi, of the Culture Quietus Section, currently slowly knitting herself back together after getting half crushed to death by an unhinged Bulbitian. What can you have against her?

∞

x8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary

oPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

I remain unable to discuss operational matters of this nature.

∞

xPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

o8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary

This is the bod who’s famous in the Culture because she turned down SC. She is most certainly not part of SC. I should know; I am part of fucking SC. And — perhaps persuaded by your helpful and refreshing openness and infectious garrulousness — I am able and willing to reveal that she has been sent here specifically to stop what one might term a certain potential loose cannon from interfering with your ally Joiler Veppers. So. From where comes the squabble?

∞

x8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary

oPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

While I remain unable to discuss operational matters of this nature, your information will be both taken into account tactically and command up-chained.

∞

xPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

o8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary

Right. Spiffing having this little talk. Want to come out to play? Help blow up some smatter?

∞

x8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary

oPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

I am unfortunately unable to re-dispose myself in such an extemporisational manner, especially with regard to the overtures of a non-NR entity; however I am cognisant of the positive intention I deem to be behind said invitation.

∞

xPS Falling Outside the Normal Moral Constraints

o8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary

Steady.

“Bettlescroy. Happier?”

The little alien, shown in rather better definition on the main screen of Veppers’ hired flier — though the amount of signal scrambling was still obvious — was back to looking as calm as usual.

“The first wave seems to have done what was required of it,” the Legislator-Admiral conceded. “The pursuing element of the Culture capital ship has also continued on past Sichult and appears set on hunting down all the ships; they won’t be returning.” Bettlescroy shook its head, smiled. The image broke up a little, struggling to cope with such dynamism. “There is going to be a lot of space debris around the Quyn system, Veppers. Far less than in the Tsung system, of course, but more troublesome due to the higher amounts of day-to-day traffic around Sichult.” The Legislator-Admiral glanced at another screen. “You’ve already lost numerous elements of your soletta, some important satellites — actually, almost all your satellites, both close and synchronous have had their orbits altered at least temporarily by the gravity wells of the passing ships — and at least two small manned space vehicles including one carrying a party of twenty-plus college students would seem to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time when the ships went past. I hope you’ve been watching the skies; should have been quite a pretty display.”

Veppers smiled. “Happily I own most of the major space-debris-clearing, satellite- and ship-building and soletta-maintenance companies. I expect many lucrative government contracts.”

“I imagine my sorrow for your loss will prove containable. Are you on your way to your estate house? The latest estimates have the second wave arriving between forty and fifty minutes from now.”

“Nearly there,” Veppers said. “Think we saw the last of the missiles landing, close in, a few minutes ago.” He watched Jasken’s side of the screen, where a dark, only half-familiar landscape was still unrolling towards them, slowing as the flier braked. On either side of the aircraft what looked like gigantic black hedges kilometres high rose up, still growing, into the evening sky. At their bases, spattered wavy lines of craters, some still glowing, were surrounded by the remains of smashed and burning trees, blackened, still smouldering fields of crops, smaller copses, woods and forests just catching alight, and the occasional wrecked and burning farm building. The smoke appeared to hem the flier in and rise even higher, the closer they got. They had seen various ground vehicles on the estate roads, all sensibly fleeing towards the perimeter. Veppers had thought he’d recognised at least one of them after catching a fleeting glimpse of a sleek yellow blob heading away fast along the estate’s main access road.

“That’s my fucking limited edition ’36 Whiscord,” he’d muttered, watching the slim shape disappear behind them through the smoke. “I don’t even let myself drive it that fast. Thieving bastard. Somebody’s in a lot of trouble.”

On the comms, there was silence. Jasken had been trying to contact people at the house since they’d set out, but without success. Elsewhere, it was chaotic; a combination of the disturbed satellites, electromagnetic discharges and pulses associated with the energy weapons, hyper-velocity kinetics tearing through the atmosphere and nukes had left the area around Espersium in utter communicative disarray and sent a systems-deranging shock through the comms of the whole planet.

“Well, I wouldn’t delay,” Bettlescroy said. “The remaining ships of the second wave are being severely harried by the Culture ship-element following them and may not have as much time as we would like to carry out the most precise of attacks. I’d aim to be tens of kilometres away, along or up, when they drop by, just in case.”

“Duly noted,” Veppers said as, ahead, he caught the first glimpse of the mansion house in the distance, surrounded by walls of smoke. “I’ll grab a few precious items, tell any remaining staff they’re free to leave if they wish and be gone within half an hour.” He glanced at Jasken as he cut the connection with Bettlescroy. “We’ve got that, have we?”

“Sir,” Jasken said.

Veppers regarded his security chief for a moment. “I want you to know this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Jasken.” He’d delayed telling Jasken what was going to happen to the estate until the last moment. He’d thought the man would accept this as just correct, standard, need-to-know security procedure, but — now he thought about it — he supposed even the ultra-professional Jasken might feel a little miffed he’d been kept in the dark for so long.

“These are your lands, sir,” Jasken said. “Your house. Yours to dispose of as you wish.” He glanced at Veppers. “Was there some warning for the people on the estate, sir?”

“None whatsoever,” Veppers said. “That would have been idiotic. Anyway, who wanders the trackways? I’ve been keeping them as devoid of people as I can for over a century.” Veppers sensed Jasken wanting to say something more, but holding back. “This was all I could do, Jasken,” he told him.

“Sir,” Jasken said tightly, not looking at him. Veppers could tell the other man was struggling to control his feelings.

He sighed. “Jasken, I was lucky to be able to off-load the NR Hell back to them. They’re one of the few civs still willing to host their own and not care who knows it. Everybody else seems to have got cold feet. Nobody else I took them from would take them back. They were happy and relieved to get rid of them decades ago. That’s why I got such lucrative deals in the first place; they were desperate. I even looked into placing them else-where, quite recently; GFCF put me in touch with something called a Bulbousian or something, but it refused. The GFCF said it would have been too unreliable anyway. I’d never have got the approval of the Hells’ owners. You’ve no idea how tied my hands are here, Jasken. I can’t even just close the substrates down. There are laws that our galactic betters have seen fit to pass regarding what they think of as living beings, and some people in the Hells are there voluntarily, believe it or not. And that’s without taking into account the penalty clauses in the agreements I signed taking responsibility for the Hells, which are prohibitive, even punitive, believe me. And even if I did ignore all that, the substrates under the trackways can’t be switched off; they’re designed to keep going through almost anything. Even cutting down all the trees would only make them switch to the bio energy they’ve stored in the root systems; take decades to exhaust. You’d have to dig it all up, shred it and incinerate it.”

“Or hit it with nukes, energy weapons and hyper-kinetics,” Jasken said, sounding tired, as the flier rocked through a tumbling wall of smoke.

“Exactly,” Veppers said. “What’s happening here counts as force majeure; gets us off that contractual hook.” He paused, reached over and touched Jasken on one shoulder. “I have thought all this through, Jasken. This is the only way.”

They had avoided most of the slow-drifting smoke until now; it was rising almost straight up, shifted only a little by faint and fitful breezes, though the fires now starting to take hold were creating their own winds. Outside, beneath, this close to the house, it was almost midnight dark, here at the centre of all the destroyed and still flaming remains of the strewn, cratered trackways.

They crossed the circle of satellite plinths, where once domes had stood and now prone, stippled, phased array plates lay, processing the comms which linked the house and all that had been around it to the rest of the world, the Enablement and everything beyond.

Part of himself, Veppers realised, wanted to call a halt now; enough damage had been done, the trackways and the substrates they had hidden were gone or going. The comms didn’t matter without what they had to communicate. The Hells were erased, or so reduced they weren’t worthy of the name any more.

But he knew that what had happened so far wouldn’t be enough. It was all about perception. When the smoke cleared, figuratively as well as literally, he needed to look like the victim here. It wouldn’t seem that way if the house got away unscathed and only the lands about it were hit. Some landscaping, bit of decontamination and then copious tree-planting; who’d give him any sympathy just for that?

“Still,” Jasken said as they passed above game courts, lawns and the corner of the great maze — all mostly dark, lit only by a few bright embers that had drifted in from the burning lands all around — “they might have expected a little more, sir.” Another glance. “The people, I mean, sir. Your people. They’ve given—”

“Yes, my people, Jasken,” Veppers said, watching as the flier’s landing legs deployed and the craft floated down through darkness, fire and confusion towards the flame-lit torus of Espersium house. “Who like you have always been well paid and looked after and known the kind of man I am.”

“Yes, sir.”

He watched Jasken as they passed over the roofs of the mansion. The cladding was dotted with scattered bits of flaming twigs and small branches which a few of the staff were running around trying to put out. Rather pointless, Veppers thought; the roof was fire-proof. Still, people needed to do something, he supposed.

The flier poised, ready to drop into the central courtyard of the house. “There isn’t anyone special to you that I don’t know about here, is there, Jasken?” Veppers asked. “On the estate, I mean. You’ve hidden it very well if there is.”

“No, sir,” Jasken said, as the flier descended into the empty heart of the torus-shaped building. “No one special.”

“Well, that’s as well.” Veppers glanced at the antique watch as the skids touched the flagstones of the courtyard and the craft settled. “We need to be back aboard in twenty-five minutes.” He pushed the seat restraints aside and stood. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll stay with you if you want,” Demeisen said.

“I don’t want,” Lededje told him. “Just go.”

“Right. Guess I’d better. Stuff to shoot.”

Ambassador Huen held up one hand. “Wait; you don’t think we need any extra protection when that second wave comes through?” she asked, looking sceptical.

“I — another bit of me — might have run them all down before they can get here,” Demeisen said. “I strongly suspect I’ll account for a few myself in passing on the way back to the main event out at Tsung. Plus the Inner System and Planetary boys will be better prepared and have longer this time; this lot look like they’re preparing to crash-stop. Which also implies greater accuracy from them. Should be safe enough.” He nodded towards the city, where a little smoke was drifting, lessening all the time, from the summits of some of the towers and skyscrapers. “Last resort, that’s what your glitterage is for.” He looked quizzically at the ambassador, performed a curtsy. “By your leave, ma’am.”

Huen nodded. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure.” Demeisen turned grinning to Lededje. He winked at her. “You’ll get over it.”

Then he was a silvery ovoid stood on its end. It vanished with a faint popping noise.

Lededje felt herself let out a breath.

Huen looked at the drone Olfes-Hresh, then closed her eyes for a moment as though tired. “Ah,” she said. “Finally we get the official version.” She looked at Lededje. “I’m told you are indeed Ms. Y’breq. In that case, I am glad to see you again, Lededje, though, given the circumstances of your death—”

“Murder,” Lededje said, standing and going to the window looking over the park to the city, her back to the other woman and the drone floating at the ambassador’s shoulder. Beyond the city, in the dimming evening light, more flashes lit up distant dark clouds that had not been there before.

“Murder, then,” Huen said. “The rest of what Demeisen alleged…”

“All true.”

Huen was silent for a few moments. “Then I am very sorry. I truly am, Lededje. I hope you realise we had little choice. To let Veppers go, I mean. And to treat with him.”

Lededje stared at the distant buildings, watching the little wisps of smoke die, her eyes full of tears. She shrugged, flapped one hand in what she hoped looked like a sort of dismissal. She didn’t trust herself to say anything.

In the reflection, she saw Huen turn her head fractionally towards the drone. “Olfes-Hresh,” the ambassador said, “tells me you are in possession of considerable funds, controlled by a card in one of your pockets. I was going to ask what you intended to do now, but…”

Then another silvery ovoid appeared, just where the one that had taken Demeisen had stood. It was gone in an instant, while Lededje was still turning round, and Demeisen was standing there again. Lededje almost yelped.

“Suddenly busy round here,” Demeisen said to Huen. He spared Lededje the briefest of nods. “You’ve more visitors. I’d better stick around for a few moments; say hi.”

Huen looked at the drone.

“The ex-LOU Me, I’m Counting, of the Ulterior,” Olfes-Hresh announced. “Just arrived.”

Two more silvery ellipsoids came and went, revealing two tall, pan-human but most certainly not Sichultian people: a man and an androgynous figure that looked slightly more female than male. The man was bald, and dressed in severe-looking dark clothes. Lededje recognised him, though he looked more alien than the last time they’d met. The other person wore a sort of suit, even more formal-looking, in grey.

“Prebeign-Frultesa Yime Leutze Nsokyi dam Volsh,” the drone announced, “and Av Himerance, of the ex-LOU Me, I’m Counting.”

“Ms. Y’breq,” Himerance said softly, bowing to her. “Good to see you again. Do you remember me?”

Lededje swallowed, wished she’d had time to dry her eyes, and did her best to smile. “I do. Good to see you, too.”

Himerance and Demeisen exchanged looks, then nods.

Demeisen stared at Yime Nsokyi, gaze flicking over her from boot sole to high collar. “You know,” he said, “I’m sure I’ve seen somebody else in Quietus wearing exactly the same clothes as you’re wearing now.”

“It’s called a uniform, Av Demeisen,” Yime told him patiently. “It is what we wear in Quietus.”

“No!”

“We feel it shows respect for those on whose behalf we work.”

“Really?” Demeisen looked thunderstruck. “Fuck me, I had no idea the dead could be so demanding.”

Yime Nsokyi smiled the tolerant smile of those long-used to such remarks and executed a sort of nodding-bow to Lededje. “Ms. Y’breq. I have come a long way to meet with you. Are you well?”

Lededje shook her head. “Not great.”

Demeisen clapped his hands. “Well, riotous fun though this is, I really need to be putting some heliopauses between me and here. See you all around. Ambassador.”

Huen held up one hand, delaying Demeisen, to his obvious annoyance. “Do you think Veppers told the truth earlier?” she asked. “When he implied he had yet to reveal the targets for this second wave of ships?”

“Of course not. Can I go now? I mean, I’m going to go, but may I with your permission, given we seem to be observing excruciatingly correct protocol?”

Huen smiled and gave a small nod.

There was just about a delay between Huen nodding and the silvery ellipsoid forming and collapsing. The popping noise was more of a bang this time. Huen saw Lededje’s shoulders relax again.

The girl shook her head, muttered, “Excuse me,” and went back to looking out of the window.

“Are we clear, Olf?” Huen asked the drone.

“We are, ma’am,” the machine told her.

“Ms. Nsokyi, Av Himerance,” the ambassador said. “To what do we owe the honour?”

“I have been sent by Quietus to check on Ms. Y’breq, as she is a recent reventee,” Yime Nsokyi said.

“And I promised to bring Ms. Nsokyi here,” Himerance said. “Though I also thought it would be pleasant to pay my respects to Ms. Y’breq.”

There was an anguished noise from near the window, where Lededje was staring at her reflection, her nose almost pressing against the glass, while the fingers of her right hand stabbed at the skin on the inside of her left wrist. They all looked.

She whirled round. “Now the fucking tat’s stopped working!” She looked round all of them, meeting mostly blank looks.

Huen sighed, looked at the drone. “Olfes, would you?”

“Calling.”

Demeisen’s image appeared, translucent, on the polished wooden floor, just bright enough to throw a reflection.

“Now what?” the image said, waving its arms, gaze directed at Lededje. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of me?”

“What’s happened to my tat?” she demanded.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s stopped working!”

The image appeared to squint, staring at her. “Hmm,” it said. “See what you mean. Looks like it’s frozen. Well, that will happen. Probably from when I had to half-stun you to stop you ripping Veppers’ throat out; collateral damage. Sorry. My apologies.”

“Well, fix it!”

“Can’t. Heading fast for Tsung. Have to Displace you and the tat and I’m already too far away and getting further away too quickly. Ask the drone.”

“Beyond my ken,” Olfes-Hresh said. “I’ve had a quick look. I can’t even see how it works.”

“Come back!” Lededje wailed. “Fix it! It’s stuck the way it was!”

The image nodded. “Okay. Will do. Not right now though. Day or two. Later.”

The image had disappeared by the time the word “later” reached Lededje’s ears. She buried her face in her hands and roared.

Huen looked at the drone, which made a shaking motion. “Not picking up,” it said quietly.

“Is there anything I can do… we can do?” Yime said.

Lededje collapsed onto her haunches, face still hidden in her hands.

Huen looked thoughtfully at her, then raised her gaze to the Quietus agent and the avatar. “Perhaps,” she said, “there is. Let me explain the situation.”

“Before you do that,” Demeisen’s voice said from Huen’s desk. “May I add something?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lededje breathed, taking her hands away from her face and rolling backwards to lie on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. “Is there no getting away from this fucking machine?”

Huen was frowning at the drone. “I thought we were clear?” she said.

“As did I,” the machine said, aura field purple-grey with embarrassment.

“Well, couldn’t help overhearing,” Demeisen’s voice said.

“Liar,” Huen muttered.

“And I thought you might like to hear this. Just dropped into my in-box, at it were. Theoretically anonymous, but it definitely came from my new best chum, the bright and breezy NR Bismuth category ship 8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary. Slightly lo-fi after a lot of processing de-manglement, but I think you’ll forgive it that. It’s from about three hours ago, between Mr. V and Legislator-Admiral Bettlescroy-Bisspe-Blispin III, the bod in charge of the GFCF forces here in the Enablement. Here we go:”

“Anyway,” Veppers’ voice said, also coming from whatever comms gear was hidden in Huen’s desk, “to reiterate: every trackway is underlain by what to the untutored eye looks like some sort of giant fungal structure. It isn’t. It’s substrate. Low-power, bio-based, not ultra-fast running, but high-efficiency, highly damage-resistant substrate; anything from ten to thirty metres thick under and amongst the roots, but adding up to over half a cubic kilometre of processing power spread throughout the estate. All the comms traffic to and from is channelled through the phased array satellite links dotted round the mansion house itself.

“That’s what you have to hit, Bettlescroy. The under-trackway substrates contain over seventy per cent of the Hells in the entire galaxy. Of those we know of, anyway. Used to be slightly more, but very recently I sub-contracted the NR Hell, just to be on the safe side. I’ve been buying Hells up for over a century, Legislator-Admiral, taking the processing requirements and legal and jurisdictional implications off other peoples’ hands for most of my business life. The majority of the Hells are right here, in system, on planet. That is why I have always felt able to be so relaxed regarding the targeting details. Think you can get enough ships to Sichult to lay waste to my estate?”

“Truly?” another voice said. “The targets are on your own estates? Why would you do that?”

“Deniability, Bettlescroy. You’ll have to raze the trackways, wreck my lands, blast the satellite links and damage the house itself; maybe even destroy it. That house has been in my family for centuries; it and the estate are inestimably precious to me. Or at least so everybody assumes. Who’s going to believe I brought all that destruction on myself?”

“And so on,” Demeisen’s voice told them. “Then there’s this really good bit:”

“And the people?”

“What people?”

“The people on the estate when it is laid waste.”

“Oh. Yes. I assume I have a few hours before any attack takes place.”

“There’s a bit of blah-blah-blah here from our boy Bettlescroy,” Demeisen’s voice said, “then:”

“So, bottom line,” they heard Veppers say, “I’d have time to get a few people out. Not too many, of course; it still has to look convincing. But I can always hire more people, Bettlescroy. Never a shortage of those, ever.”

“… Fascinating, what?” Demeisen’s voice said from Huen’s desk. “Specially the bit about handing the NR’s theme-park of woe over to somebody else before all the other Hells got wasted. Bet he thought that was being clever, getting the NR off his back. Just like the GFCF thought they were being clever swiping all that NR comms knowledge, back in the whenever-when, never thinking it might come with trap-doors the NR could tap into and copy their comms any time they wanted. Don’t you think it’s hilarious when people think they’re being terribly clever? I know I do. Just as well some of us genuinely fucking are or we’d be in a hell of a fucking state. Well, my work here is done. Mostly, anyway; still more smatter-ships to smashify. Be seeing you!”

There was silence in the room for a while.

The drone Olfes-Hresh made a shaking motion. “Well,” it said to Huen, “again, I think we’re clear, and it’s gone, but then I thought that the last time.”

On the floor, lying loosely spread, shaking her head, Lededje sighed.

Huen looked up from her to Yime and Himerance.

“Obviously,” she said, “there are things we ought not to be doing or taking part in here, either for first-principle moral reasons, or due to the regrettable exigencies of realpolitik.” She paused. “However.”