The Hydrogen Sonata

Nineteen (S -6)

“Wasn’t anything found?”

“Mere traces, Septame. Some form of highly sophisticated, very hi-tech device, already starting to dissolve into her flesh and blood the moment after it had delivered its payloads.”

“Payloads?”

Physician General Locuil nodded. “The first, almost certainly, into the president. The second, into Ms Orpe. Possibly a few seconds apart, perhaps almost at the same time. There is so little left of the device — so little not turned into its constituent molecules, at any rate — it’s hard to tell, but the likelihood is it was something tuned to Sef’s own genes, something that would only activate at her touch. Then, once it had delivered the toxin into her, it would deliver its second payload into the carrier, into Orpe.” Locuil held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “To stop her talking, we have to assume. We also have to assume that she knew the device was in there, but didn’t know it would kill the president. She might have thought it was going to drug her, or — given where it was — she might have thought it would, you know, enhance things for her, for both of them. We can’t know.”

The physician general sighed, sat back. He massaged his face with one hand. He sat across the septame’s desk from Banstegeyn. Marshal Chekwri sat nearby; no others were present in the septame’s private study in his town house, though both the marshal and the physician general had staff waiting in an ante-room along with Banstegeyn’s own people, including Jevan and Solbli.

Outside, it was almost dawn.

The two bodies had been discovered by the president’s own security team when her comm bracelet — taken off, lying by the bedside — had finally registered that the local sets of vital signs had altered anomalously. Both women had been beyond saving for many minutes before they were discovered, the fast-acting targeted synthetic neuro-toxins still multiplying within what was left of their brains and nervous systems, even as they gradually dissolved. A medical team of the best people and most exclusive machines had been working all night, trying to work out what had happened.

“But, the thing, this… how would it know to, when to… to activate?” Banstegeyn asked, aiming to sound bewildered without seeming too naively stupid.

“It would be monitoring everything it came into contact with,” Locuil said wearily. “As soon as it sensed any genetic material belonging to the target — the president — it’d arm, check that there was an actual bit of body there to accept the micro-barb, then spring out, deliver. In a way it’s quite old tech, Septame.”

“But it would have to have a sample of… of the…”

“It would need a sample, or rather the results of a sample, of Sefoy’s genetic material. But you could get that almost anywhere, Septame: from a glass, from one of the president’s hairs, from any article of her clothing; you could get that from just having shaken her hand or having brushed her cheek with your own.”

“Everyone she’s ever met throughout her life would be a first-order suspect,” Chekwri told Banstegeyn crisply. She turned to Locuil. “I assume you’re already cooperating with the cops?”

Locuil nodded. “Second call her security people made.”

“Truth is, though,” Chekwri said, “this looks like one of ours.”

“You mean the device that was used?” Banstegeyn said.

Chekwri nodded. “We had stuff like this. Once, long ago.” She flexed her eyebrows. “Back in what you might call the interesting old days. It was all supposed to have been got rid of, but… maybe some of it wasn’t. Maybe somebody kept some of it somewhere. Or kept the knowledge and the means to make it.”

Banstegeyn looked steadily into Chekwri’s eyes as she said this, and the marshal returned his gaze just as levelly.

“Or somebody invented a brand new one,” Locuil said. “The fact remains the president is dead. Not to mention her AdC. Not to mention in… delicate circumstances. But what really matters is, the president is dead. What’s to be done about it?”

“The protocols are clear,” Banstegeyn said. He was aware that he looked dreadful; tired, unkempt. That was good. His voice was hollow, flat. He was keeping it that way. “The longest-serving trime becomes acting president, the longest serving-septame becomes an acting trime—”

“Prophet’s spit,” Chekwri said, almost spluttering. “Int’yom as president, even for six days?” She shook her head.

“Yes,” Banstegeyn said, as though not noticing. “And so on down the levels, while a clone of Sefoy Geljemyn is grown, and elections for a new president are set in train.”

“That might look a little pointless with the Subliming so close,” Chekwri said.

“A vote of the whole parliament would be required to alter the protocols,” Banstegeyn said dully, letting the tiredness into his voice. “Eighty per cent approval required for any changes. We’d struggle even to form a quorum with the people we could call back from out-system in time.” He shook his head, wiped his eyes. “I think we have to stick to the rules, act as though there will be an election within forty days, even though there won’t be one.”

“Or in case there is,” Locuil said. The septame and the marshal both looked at him. He shrugged. “In case this whole situation — the attack on the Fourteenth, the president being assassinated — leads enough people to want to postpone the Subliming.” The other two people in the room continued to stare at him. “Well, it’s plausible,” he said.

“That would be a catastrophe,” Banstegeyn said.

“Would it?” Locuil looked unsure. “Just a postponement. Not a cancellation.”

“The septame is concerned that one might turn into the other,” Chekwri said.

“Everything has been put in place, everything planned, everything set up and aimed, focused on the one single day of Instigation,” Banstegeyn said. “We can’t go back.” He shook his head. “We go or we don’t, but a… a postponement? I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re going to have a lot people wondering who did these things,” the physician general said. “The attack on Eshri, the president’s assassination. These are big loose ends. People will feel… I don’t know; dissatisfied, heading off into the Sublime not knowing who had it in for us.” He looked from Banstegeyn to Chekwri. “Don’t you think?”

“Perhaps Subliming will look like a blessed relief from such worries,” the septame suggested. Neither the marshal nor the physician general looked like they were buying this.

“Well,” Locuil said, rolling up his screen and putting it back into his jacket pocket, “the first leak was over an hour ago. The news channels are spasming, or frothing, or whatever it is they do. I have a press conference to attend.” He stood. “Septame? I’m assuming you’ll want to be there too.”

Banstegeyn nodded. “Of course, Locuil. Can you give us five minutes? There are developments regarding Eshri and our Scavenger friends that the marshal and I have to discuss. Briefly, though; literally five minutes.” The septame glanced at his time-to. “Any longer and feel free to knock on the door. Do you mind?”

“Yes, all right. Five minutes, Banstegeyn,” the physician general said, frowning. He left the room; a babble of noise from the various staff members in the ante-room swelled, then subsided.

The septame looked at the marshal for a few moments. She gazed back, then slowly raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Septame, were you expecting me to say something just there?”

Banstegeyn smiled thinly. “No. Good. Right.” He clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “The physician general is right, though.”

“I should hope so, on medical matters at least.”

“Come on, Chekwri; you know what I mean. On people needing answers. We need to give them answers.”

“Do we? What answers?”

“What happened at Eshri, what has just happened here. He’s right; people — some people, at least — won’t want to go, won’t want to Sublime with all this going on, unsolved.”

“So we give them a solution?”

“We do.” He nodded his head to one side.

They walked across the study, to the short corridor that led to the bathroom and a small private sitting room. Banstegeyn closed the door behind them, shutting them in the two-metre-long corridor, lit by a single light.

“It’s very simple,” Banstegeyn said. “The Ronte are our fall guys.”

Chekwri looked sceptical. “For the prez, too?”

“We say she had found out how they had been threatening us; that Eshri was their first shot, an example of how they would deal with us if we didn’t let them have their way. Geljemyn was about to remove preferred Scavenger status from them by presidential decree, so they killed her. We tell them to get out of our space, sling as many as we can find of them here into prison or just ship them out too, and all our problems are solved.”

The marshal looked distinctly unconvinced. “They’re still a little… underdeveloped for convincing bad guys, Septame. In terms of ships they’re barely out of rockets and you think you’re going to convince people they could do this sort of stuff to us? That’s almost as bad as not knowing at all. At least so long as we’re in the dark we can pretend it’s somebody bigger and badder than us. This… just suggests we’re weak.”

“Blame it on all the ships that have already Sublimed, and hint that the Ronte must have had some higher-tech help.”

“Like the Culture?” The marshal’s expression was something close to contempt.

“They have helped the Ronte, haven’t they?”

“They’ve given a handful or two of their ships a tiny boost. One ship and an act of charity. Patronising, almost. Hardly a mutual aid pact.”

“So, no, we don’t try to implicate them. Certainly not directly. Just hint. People will come to their own conclusions. That’s all we need. And besides, the Ronte and the Liseiden have backers, mentors; them, perhaps. They might be blamed. You can do this, can’t you?”

“Of course I can do it, Septame.” Chekwri smiled. “I have a whole regimental intelligence service that’s developed a fine line in rumour-mongering and story-placing over the last few years, and the ear of every media player you’ve courted so assiduously over the decades; they will ask the questions we’ve suggested, they will listen, and they will repeat what we tell them. The issue is whether people believe it. I might even have to seem to oppose you, a little, by speaking up for the fleets — given that I am in charge of the Combined Regimental Fleet Command, after all. They’ll expect me to support them, and I’ll have to.”

“Do whatever it takes,” he told her.

“Depend upon it, Septame.” The marshal looked at Banstegeyn’s time-to, turning her head over to one side to read the upside-down figures and hands on the piece of jewellery adorning his chest. “Our five minutes are almost up,” she observed. “Excuse me.” She turned, took a step.

“I did what had to be done,” he said. “You believe that, don’t you?”

He hadn’t really meant to say this. Not to her, not to anybody. He was surprising himself here. That wasn’t good.

Chekwri turned, looked at him.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Septame,” she told him coolly. “All that matters is what you tell me to do.”

He shook his head, gave a half-laugh. “Do you lose any sleep at all over any of this, Chekwri?”

The marshal raised her eyebrows. “I sleep like the drugged, every night, Septame. I’m just a humble military officer obeying orders. Nobody’s ordered me to worry. Or to lose sleep.”

A bitterness seemed to fill his mouth. “It had to be done,” he told her.

“Of course, Septame.” Chekwri shrugged. “I never liked her anyway. Pleasant enough, but… too weak for the position she held. Too… accommodating.” Her eyebrows flexed again. “Still, eh? She died in the arms of somebody who really loved her. They both did. That’s something. In the circumstances, it’s almost kind.” She nodded to one side. “I think I can hear the physician general knocking. We’d best go.”

“There was one more thing, Septame,” Locuil said, as they sat in the back of the aircraft hopping them from the diplomatic quarter to the parliament for the press conference. Chekwri had taken her own flier back to the Home System regimental ground HQ.

“What?” Banstegeyn asked.

“Excuse me,” the physician general said, and reached forward to click a switch. The night-dark privacy screen rose silently between them and their respective senior staff members, sitting across from them.

Locuil leaned over, and, very quietly, into Banstegeyn’s ear, as the flier levelled out, said, “Ms Orpe was pregnant.”

“What?” Banstegeyn said.

“Only by about forty days; it would not have shown even at the time of the Subliming.”

“Are you—?”

“Entirely sure. No question of doubt.”

“But… Would she have…? She must have known…”

“She certainly would have known. And she was no primitivist in her elective physiology. She had all the standard medically advised augmentations and amendments. The pregnancy must have been deliberate, Septame. It must have been willed.”

Banstegeyn stared forward at the dark material covering the privacy panel, then looked away, to the side, out of the dull outward-mirrored windows of the aircraft. He watched the city sliding past. They crossed the river. The lowest tier of the parliament gardens rose walled above the troubled surface of the waves. The first few buildings and pavilions would appear in a moment. What had she been thinking of? What did she think she’d been doing? Had she gone completely mad?

“Why would she—?” he said, then — suddenly realising — stared at the physician general. “Has it — the embryo — has it… do you know who…?” He was babbling. This was not him. He pulled himself together. “Has it been… analysed?”

“The products of conception have been removed,” Locuil said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Privately, as it were. So that these do not presently form part of the judicial or evidential material held by the security forces. And they have not been analysed. Of course, they would need to be, for the identity of the—”

“It might be best if it was… that is, if it… it might be for the best for all concerned if it was… if all that disappeared.”

The physician general sat back, nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, Septame.”

He thumbed the privacy screen down again.

Banstegeyn felt his stomach lurch. The aircraft began its steep descent.

xGSV Contents May Differ

oLOU Caconym

oGCU Displacement Activity

oGSV Empiricist

oGSV Just The Washing Instruction Chip In Life’s Rich Tapestry

oUe Mistake Not…

oMSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In

oMSV Pressure Drop

oLSV You Call This Clean?

The avatar of the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In reports that the president of Gzilt, Sefoy Geljemyn, is dead and may have been assassinated.

∞

xLOU Caconym

Just looking at the feeds and the official in-system signal streams available, it looks pretty damn certain she was assassinated. One might have expected that our colleague the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In would know and be able to confirm this by its own direct channels, rather than still be speculating like some out-of-the-loop news concern consisting of a couple of dodgy float-cams and a single reporter hopping round their apartment trying to get their pants on and brush their teeth at the same time, while staring goggle-eyed at the breaking news screens of the big boys.

∞

xMSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In

In a matter of such consequence, I thought it best to take a cautious approach and wait until the exact nature of the president’s death had been officially announced by the rightful authorities. The Caconym is welcome to take over my role here, if and when it ever arrives in Gzilt. That will, as I understand it, be some considerable time after the Subliming has taken place, though, doubtless, regardless of how that goes, the Caconym will take the opportunity to lecture any Gzilt remaining behind on how they got their whole Subliming strategy wrong anyway.

∞

xGSV Contents May Differ

I’m sure this comes as a shock to all of us and we are bound to react to the news in different ways, including blaming ourselves; however, once that is out of the way — and the sooner the better, I’d suggest — the question is going to remain: what can we do now?

∞

xLOU Caconym

Might I suggest the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In takes a rather more robust and less respectful attitude to the Gzilt establishment? Treating the Gzilt as slightly eccentric but much-loved relations, worthy of being indulged as we might indulge other elements of ourselves, might be all very well when they are behaving as we might behave; however, when they start wasting Z-R ships, major command and control elements of their own military and their head of state, such indulgence starts to look, at best, like blindness born of self-deception.

∞

xMSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In

I can assure the Caconym and the others of the group that in a situation of such import, with the Subliming so close and yet so threatened, and a degree of panic and chaos seeming to infect even the highest echelons of Gzilt society, the last thing I shall be doing is indulging in any “blindness” or “self-deception”. I have already begun a more rigorous and assertive overview of the situation by various different methods and strategies. However, I might remind those who seek to tell me how to perform my task here that in a set of circumstances of such delicacy and sensitivity, being discovered to be behaving in what might be taken by our hosts as an aggressive or even threatening manner might only inflame matters further and make any contribution we may wish and be able to make to the solution of the problem itself problematic. This is not some bunch of lo-techs still struggling with the concept of four-dimensionality; this is an equiv-tech civilisation as old and as capable — point-by-point, if not in overall puissance — as our own and entirely able to prevent, discover and/or deal with the vast majority of any surveillance measures — for example — I might be able to emplace. It is also far from impossible that Gzilt is effectively under attack from outside and needs and expects our support, not our intrusive suspicions.

∞

xLOU Caconym

Had the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In been taking a more intrusive and suspicious approach from the start — bugging/hacking/whatevering the relevant players — we would almost certainly know by now whether they are under attack from outside or not. And I bet, by the way, that they’re not.

∞

xGSV Contents May Differ

I’m sure all these points are well made. Perhaps we ought to wait and see what the response of the Gzilt hierarchy itself is to the president’s death before we decide what might be done next.

“Our Intelligence agencies have further, ah, determined, that these same people, the Ronte, have been directly responsible or, through their agents and abettors, been indirectly though culpably responsible for both the attack on the, ah, headquarters of the Fourteenth regiment, on the Fzan-Juym moon of Eshri, Izenion. Izenion system. And the tragic, despicable murder, assassination… of President Geljemyn. Also, for attacks on two fleet warships, one at Eshri and another at the planet of Ablation. Excuse me. Ablate. The planet of Ablate, too, was attacked. And so, accordingly, we are resolved to resist the arrival of the Ronte fleet with all force and demand their surrender. Surrender of their agents and representatives, here. Here on, ah, Zyse and elsewhere. Our security forces are already, this day, carrying out the, ah… such, ah, actions. Being carried, ah… out. Thank you.”

The new president and extremely old politician — Trime Int’yom, until a small ceremony in the president’s office a few minutes ago — fell silent. He looked uncertain; a small, old man with nervous eyes and skin that had had to repair itself under the light of too many different suns. The first questions were being shouted out by the media people. Acting President Int’yom asked for the first one to be repeated, then held up one hand as he consulted with his staff, four of whom were standing behind him on the podium and looking just as nervy.

“Dear Scribe’s piss,” Trime Yegres sighed, turning to Banstegeyn with his hand partially covering his mouth. “Gets the Ablate thing wrong twice and then barely remembers the name of the planet he’s fucking standing on. Worthy successor, eh?”

The septame nodded, after a moment.

Yegres frowned. “You all right, Banstegeyn?”

“Just… shocked, Yegres,” he said. He looked at the mass of cameras, in case any were aimed at him. At least, in here, only hand-helds were allowed and you were free from the threat of a float-cam poking a lens up your nose. One or two cameras might have been trained on him and Yegres. He kept his blank, shocked, almost uncomprehending look going, gazed downwards again.

“You, shocked?” Yegres sounded surprised. “Whatever next?”

“Who knows whatever next?” Banstegeyn said.

Yegres sighed. “This is very early for this sort of thing. I didn’t even manage breakfast. Too much to expect assassins to show more tact, I suppose. My belly’s empty as the new president’s head.” Yegres exhaled loudly. “And the old one’s, from the rumours of what the poison did to her. And that lovely girl, her AdC… Orpe, wasn’t it?”

Banstegeyn nodded. Yegres looked at the septame, leaned in towards him and put his hand over his mouth again. “Always thought she might be a bit keen on you, you know. Was that… was I…?”

“Septame,” a voice said from the other side of Banstegeyn, as the avatar of the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In appeared suddenly. Banstegeyn took a deep breath. He’d have sworn the silver-skinned creature could slide through spaces it shouldn’t have been able to, insinuating itself through a press of bodies almost as though they weren’t there. Still, at least now he had an excuse not to answer Yegres. “We are deeply sorry,” Ziborlun continued, speaking very quiet and close to his ear, “to hear of the death of President Geljemyn and wish to extend both our sympathies and an offer of help — any help at all — to the Gzilt people. I do hope you and I can talk further, soon. I may have information that I can share only with you. Thank you, Septame,” the creature touched him once on the forearm, slipped away again.

Yegres leaned out, looking across Banstegeyn. “I assume that was condolences,” he muttered, “but it looked more like a betting tip.”

“…It is not known, at this moment in time,” the acting president was saying, “precisely and exactly who is responsible, beyond a… a reasonable belief that the Ronte, and their, ah, their agents and their, ah, abettors are, ahm, behind whoever that person or persons might be. So. There we are. Yes. You. What?”

Banstegeyn sighed. “How did this moron get to be a trime? Or a degan? Or a thirty-second, for that matter?”

Yegres cleared his throat. “You promoted him, old son.”

The septame stared at the older man. “What?” he whispered.

Yegres shrugged. “Oh, every available opportunity, maestro; gave him a helping hand whenever people wanted to kick him upstairs, which was often. Eventually you kicked him up above yourself, made the old duffer a trime.” Yegres looked at him blearily. “Fuck me, Banners, you’re not starting to forget which useful dipsticks you’ve supported over the years because they’ll always agree with you, are you? Prophet’s piss, you’ll be forgetting me next.” He shook his head, glanced at his time-to and muttered, “Wonder if the bars are serving yet…”

“This is much more satisfactory,” Team Principal Tyun told Cultural Mission Director Keril. Jelwilin Keril had been invited back aboard the Liseiden flagship, the Collective Purposes vessel Gellemtyan-Asool-Anafawaya, to be congratulated for whatever part he might have played in the recent turn-around in the fortunes of the Liseiden.

Keril floated in his transparent bubble within the ship’s command space, a genuine smile anchored on his face. He was sure that this expression, even if it was first-principles meaningless to the Liseiden — indeed, even if it was by some misfortune first-principles threatening to the Liseiden — would be suitably translated by the aquatic creatures’ AIs and its happy import transmitted to the Liseiden officers.

“I am very glad, sir, that your faith in me — and my faith, in turn, in Ambassador Mierbeunes — has turned out not to be misplaced. We are your faithful agents and servants, Team Principal, and are glad to have been able to fulfil this part of the mission we undertook for you.”

“Sir, is it true the Culture are suspected of having helped the Ronte?”

“I… Well, I’m not, that is, ah…” the acting president said, with the glazed look of somebody listening to something being said on their earbud. He raised one hand and appeared to be about to press his earbud further into his ear, then seemed to change his mind. “Excuse me.” The acting president turned and consulted his staff. He turned to face the front again. “Well,” he said. “There are rumours, apparently. Ah. There has been help of one ship, Culture ship, helping the fleet that has been approaching Gzilt. It is just one ship, and I’m sure our own fleets, own ships are entirely, ah, capable.”

“Sir, what about the GSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In, and the other Culture warships now stationed directly over Zyse itself?”

“Well, I can’t, I don’t… Excuse me,” he said, turning away again.

The screen cut to a different view, going back to the mass of media people again and zooming in on somebody shouting, “Sir, could this delay the Subliming?” while the acting president was talking urgently with his advisors.

Somebody else shouted out, “Sir, will you be putting yourself forward as a candidate, and will there even be an election?” and yet another person yelled, “Has President Geljemyn’s back-up been woken up yet?” After that, more shouting made it difficult to hear individual questions.

Berdle, sitting beside an open-mouthed Cossont, looked at her and said, “Well, this is interesting.”

Cossont, not long woken, dressed in a loose, voluminous robe, just stared at the screen. “The president’s dead?” she said.

“No,” Berdle told her, “that’s the new one. The avatar nodded at the old man on the screen. “Seems to work a bit like having a king; there always is one, no matter how many you bump off. Until you have a revolution or something.”

“She’s dead?” Cossont repeated.

“President Geljemyn is no more,” Berdle agreed. “And we — the Culture — appear to be in the frame somehow. That seems a bit unfair.”

“I liked President Geljemyn,” Pyan said, draping itself round Cossont’s shoulders. “She had a nice smile. Who is this old person again?”

“New president,” Berdle told it. “Acting President Int’yom.”

“I see. No, he hasn’t got such a nice smile.”

“You’re right,” Berdle said. “He hasn’t, has he?”

“No! He just hasn’t, has he? It’s just not there for him.”

“I know,” Berdle agreed, smiling.

Cossont looked from the screen to Berdle. “What the fuck is going on?”

The avatar shrugged, looked serious. “Long story. Power struggle, I suppose. Though that seems a little pointless, if everybody’s going to Sublime soon anyway. Though they might not be, now.” Berdle looked at Cossont. “And whether they do or not might come down to what happens when we get back to Xown and the Girdlecity, in about three days.” The avatar assumed a look of some thoughtfulness. “Bit of a responsibility, really.”

Cossont shook her head, looked back at the screen. “Oh, fuck…”

“‘Rescinded’! What can be “rescinded’? We had an agreement! We have done nothing! What have we done? Tell us what we have done! Prove anything!”

The individuals of the Ronte delegation were being dragged, inert, out of the adapted house in the diplomatic quarter that had been their home. As many media trucks were present as security vehicles.

The individual Rontes in their exo-suits had been covered in grapple nets by the security para-militaries after being effector-stunned in the early morning raid. The nets were supposed to disable their exo-suits and leave only basic life-support working, but while the aliens and their suits themselves were just dead weights being hauled out across the garden to the waiting police fliers, some sort of float-cam or drone device controlled by the aliens was still functioning, hovering over the scene and dodging attempts to shoot it by the security people.

“This is a diplomatic mission! On what authority do you—?” A small Gzilt security drone succeeded in landing a bore charge on the Ronte device, which jerked, went silent, then fell trailing smoke to the ground and thudded into a flowerbed.

The last exo-suited Ronte was bumped and dragged into the security flier. The ramp closed and the craft took off.

“I am standing here with Ambassador Mierbeunes of the Liseiden,” a reporter said to a float-cam. “Ambassador Mierbeunes, are you surprised to find the Ronte being treated in this way, while your own clients have been declared the new allies of the Gzilt?”

“Well, while I entirely understand the many and various pressures which are brought to bear on an alien delegation of this nature…”

“Has the Culture helped the Ronte or not?”

“Yes. Specifically, one of our ships helped a squadron of twelve of their vessels get from where they were to the Gzilt system outskirts. They’ve since turned about.”

“Twelve ships? Is this an invasion force?”

“Hardly, Mr… Kresele, isn’t it? No, their ships and weapons are quite primitive. Check the specs; freely available. And why would the Culture be helping anybody invade anybody else, let alone help anybody invade the Gzilt, who have been our friends for millennia? And why would anybody invade a people about to Sublime in the first place? Come now; at least try to make sense here. Yes, ma’am. Ms Aouse, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Hi. Have you helped the Ronte in any other way?”

“Certainly not, as far as I know. And I would have been told.”

“So you could have been helping them.”

“To do what? Destroy the Fourteenth’s HQ? That’s ridiculous. That was not them. And it certainly wasn’t us.”

“Who do you think was responsible, then?”

“I don’t know. But it’s more likely that one of your own ships gone rogue, rather than the Ronte or the Culture, destroyed the Fzan-Juym, and I leave it to you to judge how absurd a proposition that is.”

“Ziborlun! Was the Culture ship working in league with the Ronte acting on orders, and, if so, whose?”

“Oh. So we’ve gone from ‘helping’ to ‘working in league with’, have we? I see. The ship — the Beats Working, a tiny ship with a crew of five humans — had no orders. It still has no orders. It was doing what it and its crew thought was the right thing, at all points, including when it offered to help the Ronte get here faster. And at that stage, let’s not forget, the Ronte still thought you were their friends and, apart from anything else, wanted to get here in time to help celebrate the Subliming.”

“Somebody must have issued the orders.”

“No, they didn’t. There were no orders. You have much work to do, Mr Diria, understanding how the Culture works. Yes, ma’am. Ms Zige, isn’t it?”

“Has the Culture been spying on Gzilt?”

“If we have, obviously not enough, because we seem to be as confused as everybody else about what the hell is going on here. Yes; gentleman at the back.”

“Who’s that smart-arse?” Cossont asked, scowling at the screen from within the heavy robe. “Looks like a ship’s avatar.”

“That’s right,” Berdle said. “Ziborlun. The avatar of the MSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In.” Berdle seemed to hesitate, then said, “Ah. I don’t think you’re going to like this.”

“What?” she said.

The image switched to yet another press conference and a senior policeman flanked by two First Regiment Intelligence and Security officers. Somebody’s face was shown on an insert on the screen. Cossont knew she knew the person for about half a second before she realised; it was her own face. “We would be very interested in interviewing Ms Cossont,” the head cop was saying. “And, yes, she is a contributory suspect in the matter of the destruction of the regimental headquarters of the Fourteenth Regiment, on Eshri.”

“WHAT?” Cossont yelled, jumping to her feet. Pyan had to hang on tight to stay round her shoulders.

“Told you you wouldn’t like it,” Berdle said.

“Oh, Vyr, are you an outlaw?” Pyan said, sounding excited.

“But I haven’t done anything!” Cossont shouted.

Berdle looked at her, head tipped. “My, you really are naive, aren’t you?”

The ship dance of triumph that had been ‘The Approaching Eclipsing of One Sun by Another’ was abandoned in mid-final formation. On confirmation of the humanoid treachery, all ships somersaulted about, went to full power and simultaneously began a maximally tight zooming loop, twisting as they turned so that at all points throughout the manoeuvre their drives were presented towards their earlier destination, the planet Zyse in the system of Gzilt.

The drone Jonsker Ap-Candrechenat, representative of the Culture ship Beats Working, was accepted again within the command space of the Interstitial/Exploratory vessel Melancholia Enshrines All Triumph — arriving by the quicker though most alarming method of Displacement — and made a show of prostrating itself before the Swarmprince and Sub-Corporation Divisional Head.

Ossebri 17 Haldesib regarded the Culture machine for some time before saying, “Device, there are those amongst my officers who would have us attack you, believing you to have been complicit in a deception upon us. They believe that you were both leading and hurrying us into a trap, and that, as such, neither you nor your ship should be suffered to live.”

“If the Swarmprince so desires, I shall absent myself immediately, return to my ship and depart along with it. The Swarmprince should know, however, that we have engaged in no such deception at any point, and have at all times done all we could to cooperate with and to aid the Ronte fleet and squadron. Had we been engaged in any plot to deliver the squadron to a place of jeopardy, all those complicit would surely have brought the squadron further into the Gzilt system, where the threat to it would have been by that measure enhanced, before the trap was sprung, instead of timing matters such that the squadron has — happily — had time to deflect from its earlier course and instigate its current re-disposition.”

“‘Deflect from its earlier course and instigate its current re-disposition’,” Ossebri 17 Haldesib quoted. “Does the Culture machine possess any other especially pretty ways of saying ‘run away’ or ‘escape like a shamed, pursued prey’?”

“Swarmprince, we attempt to respect your customs and protocols and the ways that you express yourselves. If I fail to do so as well as I might, I apologise. Yes, we are running away. I run with you, being determined to stay with the squadron and fleet for as long as you wish me to. The instant you wish me gone, I shall be.”

“You say you respect us, yet you ignore my earlier threat to attack you. Is that not an insult, even if disguised by ignorance?”

“It is not, Swarmprince. It reflects my belief that I personally would probably be able to frustrate any attempt by you to harm, disable or imprison me, and that the Beats Working would similarly be able to escape unharmed should any hostile act be directed at it. We could, of course, be wrong on both counts, but we think not. To accept what we regard as this truth only reinforces our desire not to dwell on the unpleasantness of threats delivered by those who were so recently friends, whom we still value, and whom we hope will swiftly accept us as true and trustworthy friends again.”

“Then kindly leave us, both personally and in the shape of your ship. We shall make our own way to a place of safety. If what you claim is true and you meant us no harm by delivering us so expeditiously into the jaws of our enemies, you may accept our apologies. If not, then know that the Ronte make implacable foes, and the memory of a betrayal against one group becomes part of the memory of all. You are dismissed.”

“May I—?”

“Whatever it is, you may not. I said you are dismissed. Go.”

The Culture machine dipped its front portion in what was supposed to be taken as a respectful bow, then the whole machine was enveloped by a silvery sphere of fields beyond the ken of the most sophisticated analytical devices the Collective Purposes vessel possessed, the sphere shrank to a point and disappeared, and the machine was gone.

The Navigation and Targeting team reported that the Culture ship began to depart in the same instant, pulling slowly away and then, effectively, disappearing.

“A signal from the Culture ship, sir,” the communications officer said. “From the drone Jonsker Ap-Candrechenat.”

“Show.”

The drone appeared on screen.

“Swarmprince,” the drone said, “my apologies for intruding again so immediately; however, what I wished to say and still have to say is important: a five-ship formation of Gzilt war-craft including one capital ship has left Zyse, heading in your direction. Our initial simulations indicate that they intend to make a show of force and be seen to be seeing you off, rather than intending to offer battle. We believe similar though smaller Gzilt formations have been disposed to carry out similar actions wherever else Ronte forces have been en route to their destinations.

“Of more concern for your own squadron are two forces of Liseiden ships, both consisting of four vessels, each at least as heavily armed as your squadron flagship. These are believed to be converging on your entry point into the Gzilt system. The Beats Working continues to pull away but remains at your disposal and will respond as quickly as possible to any signal from you. Thank you and good luck.”

The screen blanked out.

“Signal all squadrons and elements to turn about,” Swarmprince Ossebri 17 Haldesib said. “Have them find places of safety according to existing fleet orders and prioritise eluding Liseiden units over those of the Gzilt and the Culture, though all are to be avoided, in that order. Senior Navigation Officer, you and I shall submit our codes to the AI to unlock our own sealed orders.”

“Sir.”

The sealed orders indicated that in the event of an emergency of the type now facing them, the squadron should make its way to the nearby system of Vatrelles, five days distant at full speed, to await further instructions.

The Swarmprince issued the appropriate orders, then turned to his communications officer. “Signal the Culture ship that it may remain at its current distance from us if it wishes. We may have need of it yet. Convene a full consultation with all senior officers, AIs and expert systems.”