The Hydrogen Sonata

Twenty-one (S -2)

“Because you’re liable to get killed.”

“That doesn’t seem to be stopping you.”

“Of course not. I’m an avatar. ‘Killed’ doesn’t even mean the same thing for me. You’re a bio; I’ve seen how you guys die and it’s messy.”

“I meant as the ship. The Mistake Not… You’re liable to get killed. Aren’t you?”

“A slightly more weighty consideration, I accept, but even then; I’ve already transmitted my mind-state to my home GSV and switched to full combat readiness, so I’m kind of ready for death. And anyway, not dead yet.”

“This is my fight, though, isn’t it? More than yours?”

Berdle sighed. “This is about the Gzilt, but the Culture appears to be all mixed up in it, through QiRia, so it’s our problem to sort out.”

“It’s still basically about us. You can’t do everything. You’re not our… parent.”

“You’re not even backed-up, Cossont. If you die, you die.”

“Can’t you back me up?”

“No.”

She had a sudden thought. “Did you back-up QiRia, his mind-state from the grey cube?”

“Yes. Also transmitted, with a note it’s private and to be wiped if the original survives.”

She frowned. “Why can’t you back me up?”

“You’ve no neural lace; even starting right now it would take far too long. We’re already out of time.” Berdle waved his hands, as though exasperated. “Why are you so keen to risk your life anyway? You’re a military reservist civilian facing Subliming in a couple of days; why the rush to die? And, I’m telling you: having you present will make my job harder, not easier. You won’t be contributing, you’ll be jeopardising.”

“First of all, on that last point, I don’t believe you. I think you’re just trying to protect me, being all male-gallant. I’m flattered but there’s no need.”

“I’m a fucking razor-arsed starship, you maniac! I’m not male, female or anything else except stupendously smart and right now tuned to smite. I don’t give a fuck about flattering you. The few and frankly not vitally important sentiments I have concerning you I can switch off like flicking a switch.”

“Anyway. You can’t keep me prisoner on the ship. You’re Culture and I’m a free agent. I demand to be set down in the Girdlecity.”

“They are looking for you, remember? They think you trashed Fzan-Juym with your bare hands or whatever the fuck.”

“So you’d better look after me then.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I don’t need that extra workload! And if you insist on quitting the ship I’ll put you down wherever I damn well please, not where you specifically demand, so there you are; you can’t win.”

Cossont, already dressed in the same figure-hugging under-suit she’d worn at Bokri, stood looking levelly at the avatar across the module’s lounge. “If you don’t give a fuck about flattering me,” she said slowly, “and if you can just switch off any sentiments you have concerning me, you can do that down there, on the planet, in the Girdlecity, in the airship. So you don’t have to worry about me, and I will help, not hinder.”

Berdle stared at her. Then he smiled, and relaxed. His tone of voice changed. “I don’t know about you, Vyr,” he said, conversationally, “but I’m sort of posturing here.” He shrugged. “If you insist on coming, you can, though it’s your funeral and I won’t risk any part of what I’m supposed to be doing to keep you safe at all, not if it’s a trade-off; just nothing.” He shook his head. “I thought maybe you were just putting on a sort of good-enough show. You know; so you could feel okay about yourself even though you didn’t want to go, or expect to. So, one last chance, in all seriousness: please don’t come.”

“One last time: I want to. Take me with you.”

Berdle sighed. “Okay. You can’t say you weren’t warned. Put that on.” He nodded behind Cossont. She turned round to see a bizarre vision of a man in close-fitting armour — half mirror, half soot-black, headless — marching out of an alcove, growing an extra pair of arms and peeling itself open as it approached her.

“What’s that?”

“A better suit. I’m downloading a copy of QiRia’s mind-state to it now, so we can access the old geezer’s memories direct if we get hold of his eyes without the ship around. Go on; just step in as you are. We’ve ninety seconds before we snap aboard, so don’t take too long.”

“I thought we had ten minutes!”

“Not any more; the ship’s powering back out again, hoping to lure the battleship away from Xown.”

“Shit.” Cossont stepped over to the suit and then into it; it flowed closed around her, leaving the helmet component down. “Think that’ll work?” she asked.

“Doubt it,” the avatar admitted. “Assuming the battleship’s been talking to the battle-cruiser, it’ll know I’ve already been moving faster than it can, but it might factor in too much main traction stress degradation after all the dashing about I’ve been doing lately and think it has a chance. Assuming its engines aren’t slightly fucked too, of course. Worth a try.”

Pyan, sprawled loosely on a couch all this time, came flapping over and stood on a seat-back, facing her like a small, stiff flag. “Well done you!” it said. “I think you’re being terribly brave but I’m sure it’ll all work out splendidly! And just remember: I’ve always loved you!”

Cossont was about to say something like, Okay, now I’m worried… when her eyes narrowed and she looked at Berdle. “Did you put it up to that?”

Berdle shrugged. “Also worth a try.”

“But I do!” Pyan exclaimed, twisting to face Berdle, then back to Cossont. “But I do!”

“Yeah,” Cossont said.

“Twenty seconds.”

The ship sent a tiny update of its mind-state to its home GSV, mostly just so there would be a record of Cossont insisting on going with its avatar and other on-planet forces into the Girdlecity.

The ship was a constrained shell of force hurtling across the system now, re-accelerating hard, packaged within its wrapping of concentric fields like something cocooned, engines howling in frequencies no biological living thing would ever sense, a kilometre-long projectile submerged beneath the skein of real space, components of three outer fields lasing in hyperspace to direct the signal to its distant ship-mother, then clicking off again after a nanosecond, while other configurations of fields slid and flicked, stacked and snicked, readying for a series of multiple high-speed, high-accuracy Displaces to a complex-topography target deep in a gravity well; probably opposed.

This was, the ship knew, going to be challenging.

Most serious Culture ships, and all with any pretensions to being warships, possessed burst units: specialised engine components like motive power capacitors capable of providing sudden, brief flares of energy and movement. The Mistake Not…’s were more powerful and capable than most craft its size, which was kind of a game-giving-away liability if you actually had to use them in the presence of somebody able to spot such shenanigans, but — on the other hand — this was exactly the situation where they might help save the day, so…

The ship was already heading dangerously close to Xown’s gravity well, having to adjust its course in hyperspace to avoid crashing into the downward curve of skein. It jinked closer still at the last moment, using up all its burst unit energies both to swerve and slow, then focused in on the relatively tiny part of itself that held the module where its avatar and the humanoid were, snapping the two human-shaped forms and the woman’s pet away and then the module separately. It loosed the module first, targeting the Displace at a spot just outside the Girdlecity twelve hundred metres above local ground level and ten kilometres back from the current location of the airship Equatorial 353.

It was, given the relative velocities involved, one of the most accurate and precisely located Flying Displaces it had ever heard of, snapping the module into the air within an elegantly aligned pocket of vacuum that collapsed at just the right rate to allow the craft to continue on its way — under its own power, now — so smoothly that the ship doubted somebody standing inside the module — had there been anybody — would even have wobbled as the transition was completed.

That the whole craft was almost immediately snatched away again by an almost equally heavy-duty disloc facility — with a most inelegant bang like a sonic boom, caused by the caisson-field collapsing uncontrolled — was, happily, quite beside the point. While the Gzilt ship was busy doing this the Mistake Not… was merrily zapping all its real payloads — its avatar and Cossont included — into the places it had wanted to in the first place.

That done, within the same millisecond, it was off again, spiralling down under even fiercer acceleration as though intent on diving right under the planet’s depression in the skein and aiming for the energy grid far beneath. It steadied, zoomed, sped off, tracked but not targeted by the Gzilt war-craft, which remained stationary, hugging close to the planet.

Pyan was dumped into the ship’s last remaining human habitable space, a six-person shuttle.

~Where’s this? the creature said.

~New home, the ship sent.

~It’s small and boring!

~So are you.

~What! How dare you!

~Would you rather be on the planet?

~Which is safer?

The Mistake Not… watched the Gzilt ship staying — annoyingly, frustratingly — exactly where it was, singularly failing to pursue it, even though the Mistake Not… had pretended to be less quick than it really was, just to make it think it had a chance.

~Probably the planet, now, it admitted.

~The planet, then… Well? Hurry up!

~Too far. Next pass/approach.

~You’re going back?

~Of course I’m going back.

~I protest at this behaviour towards me! Why wasn’t I—?

~Best you go to sleep now, the ship said.

Pyan flopped inert to the floor of the little shuttle and was tidied, neatly folded, into a slim locker by a small ship drone, which then checked that everything else in the tiny craft was stowed and strapped in case there was any wild manoeuvring. Then it, too, stowed itself securely in another locker.

xGSV Empiricist

oLOU Caconym

oGSV Contents May Differ

oGCU Displacement Activity

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?

Open question, specifically to the Mistake Not…: Are you sure you are doing the right thing? It is plausible that the Gzilt craft is an 8*; possibly the ship responsible for what happened at Ablate. It is certainly powerful and may be unconstrained by conscience.

∞

xUe Mistake Not…

No, not sure at all. But committed, so let’s see what happens.

∞

xGSV Contents May Differ

I am equally worried re the Beats Working. It just transmitted its mind-state.

∞

xLOU Caconym

Suggestion? Tell it whatever it’s thinking of doing, don’t.

∞

xGSV Contents May Differ

I have been trying to contact it after the mind-state signal arrived. Nothing. To pass the time while I wait for a reply, I have been trawling the banks for evidence that this is anything other than a bad sign, coming from a Contact Unit. Guess what?

∞

xGSV Empiricist

The Beats Working is with the largest part of the Ronte fleet, heading for Vatrelles. The Gzilt saw them off but only as far as the system outskirts, then returned, with no known other hostility. That leaves the Liseiden. We have the Thug-class Value Judgement with the main squadron, do we not?

∞

xMSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In

Yes, though the main — the largest — squadron is not the flagship flotilla. They re-dispositioned, bringing various of their separate squadrons together into a more martial meta-configuration following the original decision on preferred Scavenger status going against them. One group of three ships joined the three of the flagship squadron, but three separate groups of three also amalgamated, and as that then constituted the greatest force they had, that is the one the Value Judgement was sent to shadow. We have nothing with the flagship squadron commanded by Ny-Xandabo Tyun, and — as that was the force already also converging on Zyse — that is the force most likely to offer any threat to the Ronte attempting to make Vatrelles.

∞

xLOU Caconym

oMSV Pressure Drop

Shit. I bet the Gzilt told the Liseiden where it looked like the Ronte were heading. And if the fucking Empiricist had let us use those Delinquents we wouldn’t be looking at this debacle.

∞

xGSV Empiricist

I suggest I send my fastest ship to rendezvous with the Beats Working and the Ronte, while signalling the Liseiden to desist from any hostile action they may be contemplating. I am sure we have such a preponderance of forces locally we can prevent any mooted unpleasantness.

∞

xLOU Caconym

oMSV Pressure Drop

Here we go. Spoken like a ship with no idea of how things actually work. It’s not about what forces you’ve got, it’s about what forces you’ve got where. You’d think even a civilian would understand that.

∞

You may be being too harsh. Agreed, nothing it has can get to the likely volume of combat in time, but it has a point regarding a warning possibly being enough.

∞

That would apply if we had nothing military here at all; we are who we are and we can call any shots at any time. That still might not stop the Liseiden from making a point to the Ronte, just to show who’s boss in future.

∞

Let’s hope you’re wrong.

∞

Yes, why don’t we? That ought to pass the time. Anyway, let’s hear what the Empiricist thinks we ought to do.

∞

xGSV Empiricist

I am despatching the ROU Learned Response, the LOU New Toy and the GOU Questionable Ethics in string formation, ROU leading, to maximum reach and make rendezvous, the LOU to 50 per cent and the GOU 12.5 per cent distance, adjusting to hold at those increments.

∞

xLOU Caconym

oMSV Pressure Drop

Oh fuck, now it’s making pretty patterns.

The/My squadron of six Liseiden ships, led by myself on the pride of our fleet, the Collective Purposes vessel and flagship Gellemtyan-Asool-Anafawaya, fell (/ruthlessly*) upon the pitiful/limping/struggling/fearsome* Ronte fleet with resolute professionalism/exemplary courage/heavy hearts**, our jaws/mouthparts forced [n.b.: awkward/over-species-specific in translation; suggest restructure using “given no choice” or equivalent] by the [?]/ responded to the Ronte fleet’s outrageous* provocations/unprovoked aggression**/aggressive intransigence with the only language they understand.**

*[n.b.: word choice? potentially hoary]

**[n.b.: phrase choice? potentially clichéd]

“Sir?”

“Hmm?” Salvage and Reprocessing Team Principal Ny-Xandabo Tyun accepted the call in his private cabin. It was from his Sensors/Targeting officer. He had asked not to be disturbed unless something urgent came up. “What?” he said with deliberate gruffness, though secretly he was glad of the interruption. He was finding writing what he hoped would turn into one of the more exciting parts of his memoirs rather more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“Sir, we have the Ronte fleet in sight at extended scanner range; thirteen targets.”

“Thirteen. So the Culture ship is still with them.”

“Appears so, sir.”

“Are they aware of us?”

“Doubtful, sir.”

“I’d prefer a percentage applied to that doubt, officer.”

“Sir. Ninety per cent certain they haven’t detected us, sir.”

“That’s better.”

“Also, sir, Comms coming on line with a signal from the Culture GSV Empiricist. Shall I—?”

“Yes. Comms, what are they saying?”

“There’s quite a lot of it, sir; I’ve patched it through. But it boils down to them telling us not to attack the Ronte.”

“I bet it does. I’ll take a look shortly. You have followed my earlier orders and not acknowledged?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. S/T?”

“Sir,” the Sensors/Targeting officer said.

“How long until we have the Ronte fleet in range?”

“A fraction over two hours at current velocities and courses, sir.”

“Two hours? I thought we expected to have them in range forty minutes after contact.”

“Their drive signatures are messier than anticipated, sir, plus the Culture ship with them appears to be hurrying them on; hard to tell from this far away — only about fifteen per cent certain — but it looks like it’s encased them in its own field enclosure, highly extended, and is acting like a sort of high-speed tug.”

“I see. Engineering?”

“Sir?”

“Can you give us a little more power?”

“Negative, sir. Another step-up from here would imply a seventy per cent chance of serious engine malfunction, probably in one or both of the two Jubunde-class ships.”

“Hmm. Very well. Continue to close at current velocity. Combat?”

“Sir?”

“Go to full readiness in one hour, ship-wide. I’ll rejoin the bridge then.”

“Sir.”

“Proceed, all,” he said. He cut off the chorus of acknowledgements and resumed his compositional task with a watery sigh.

The insectile drone Jonsker Ap-Candrechenat, representative of the Culture ship Beats Working, floated in front of the Swarmprince Ossebri 17 Haldesib, in the command space of the Ronte Interstitial/Exploratory vessel Melancholia Enshrines All Triumph.

“This need not be your fight, machine,” Haldesib told the drone.

“It feels like it is, Swarmprince. I led you into danger. I thought I might help you escape it, but it would appear we are discovered, so now the least I can do is try to make amends by coming between you and the enemies into whose reach I so foolishly delivered you.”

Haldesib flicked one leg in a dismissive gesture. “For ourselves, we do not seek our end; but the hive, the swarm, the race will go on, no matter. You need not presume to share our fate through misplaced guilt.”

“I feel I have no honourable choice, Swarmprince.”

“You intend to attack the Liseiden ships?”

“I intend to engage with them.”

“The distinction might be lost on them. We have dealt with the Liseiden before. They will interpret any ‘engagement’ as an attack. Or at least claim to, afterwards. Be warned.”

“Thank you. I am.”

“This is the decision of your human crew?”

“No. It is mine. I intend to get my human crew to safety before matters become critical.”

“They concur with this?”

“They have come to accept it. Two wanted to be heroes, and stay aboard. I argued them out of this course.”

The Swarmprince flexed his wing plates. In a human, the equivalent might have been a shake of the head. “We may all die out here, machine, but — of all of us — you have some choice. Must you be a hero? Can you not argue yourself out of this course?”

“I probably could, Swarmprince, but I’d regret it subsequently. I believe this is the right thing to do and so I am doing it.”

“You may steal some of our glory.” The Swarmprince’s legs flexed as he said this, dipping his body briefly to indicate that it was said humorously, not aggressively.

“I shall engage with them first, independently, Swarmprince, before any action between them and you. If I may, I’ll transmit to you whatever I can discover of their ships’ abilities, strengths and weaknesses. It may help, if I am unable to stop them.”

“We are pleased to accept this kind offer. But what if you prevail? We shall be denied all chance to prove ourselves!”

“Then you will have the benefit of my most profuse apologies, I shall accept any amount of inferred alien cachet value (negative), honorary, you care to bestow, and I shall be grateful subsequently for even the most demeaning and/or minor role in any ship dance within which you care to include me.”

Leg-clicks indicated the Swarmprince was laughing. A few other Ronte in the command space joined in quietly. “It has been gratifying to us to witness the knowledge of and respect for our ways you have displayed, ship,” the Swarmprince said. “We can only wish you well with your ‘engagement’. Fight well. Live if you can, die well if you must.”

“Thank you, Swarmprince. It’s been a pleasure.”

“You look tired, Septame,” Chekwri told him as she entered his office in the parliament building.

“I feel tired, Marshal.”

“Never mind; not long to go now. You chosen your last outfit?”

“What?”

“Your clothing; whatever you’re going to wear for the Instigation. Have you decided how you’ll be dressed when you meet your glorious translation into the Enfolded?”

“I… I think that’s all pre-decided for me. Ceremonial… Solbli. Yes, Solbli; she’ll be taking care of all that. Umm. You?”

“Oh, I shall be resplendent in all my finery, Septame, medals gleaming,” Chekwri said, folding herself into a seat across from the septame. Banstegeyn had noticed that the marshal didn’t ask whether she might disturb him these days, or wait to be invited to sit. Before, he might have made some frosty comment and insisted on protocols being followed, but no more. People were going quietly crazy in these last couple of days — in fact some people were going noisily, boisterously, even dangerously crazy. Meanwhile, all across the Gzilt domain, those who had been Stored, some for less than a year, some for a couple of decades or more, were waking up for final reunions, last goodbyes, leaving parties and fare-thee-wells-in-what-comes-next…

“I have buffed and polished my medals for decades of steady, dedicated watchfulness,” the marshal continued, clasping her hands behind her head as she leaned back and relaxed, legs crossed, “counted and re-counted my medals for outstanding work in simulations and exercises, carefully arranged my medals for heroic bravery under virtual fire, and even found room for my many, many medals for exemplary valour in the face of fellow officers coveting the same promotions as I.” She smiled at him without humour. “Shame we haven’t had time to strike any medals commemorating our latest exploits: jumping unarmed ships, wasting our own and setting naive aliens on each other. Still, one can have too much of a good thing, eh, Septame? And they do say there’s no guilt in the Sublime.”

“You seem positively energised by the whole process, Chekwri.” He looked pointedly round the room. “And very confident that my office isn’t bugged.”

“I had my own people make quite sure of that some time ago, Septame,” Chekwri said, smiling.

“While planting your own?”

The marshal’s smile broadened. “Have you always been so suspicious, Banstegeyn?”

He looked at her, unsmiling. “No, I stumbled into a position of great power quite by accident.”

Chekwri grinned, then shrugged. “Our troubles will soon be over, Septame,” she said, then frowned. “What?” she asked. Banstegeyn had just twitched and glanced to one side, like he’d seen something alarming from the corner of one eye.

The septame shook his head and bent back to his desk, where he was signing documents on his desk screen. “Nothing,” he muttered, scrawling his signature. “Have you only come to discuss matters of ceremonial attire or is there some actual point to this visit?”

Chekwri stood, walked to the window overlooking the stepped gardens and the city beyond the curve of river. “My, I do believe some people have started fires,” she said. “I thought that wasn’t our style.” She looked back at Banstegeyn. “One lot of aliens is about to trash another. The mighty Empiricist, no less, has signalled the miscreants telling them to play nicely but the rumour is it’s being ignored. I just wanted to be sure you were happy that we let things be and allow what might happen to happen. This is not to say that they’d take any notice of us, either, but in theory we might threaten to withdraw Scavenger cooperation. This has been suggested.”

“By whom?”

“Media, Culture, one or two politicos. There’d be more, but of course everybody’s distracted.”

“You’re the brave space marshal. What would your advice be?”

“I’d be indifferent; doesn’t affect us… save for the fact that our returned bad boy and what sounds like its entire marine force are just about to tangle with a Culture ship, out at Xown. That could get messy. Might require extraneous distractions to keep people from concerning themselves with it.” She crossed her arms. “Intelligence has crunched some more numbers and now thinks that particular side-show might all turn on this absurdly old Culture guy, and Cossont, the girl who survived Fzan-Juym and the fracas at Bokri. I think we take no chances and continue to let our assets around the Girdlecity do whatever’s needed; does that sound—?”

“Yes. Yes, it does. Do whatever’s needed,” the septame said, not looking up. “Is that all?” he asked. “Lot of signing required, winding up an entire civilisation, and the president was only too happy to delegate to his trimes and septames. Then I’ve got the joy of back-to-back receptions for a variety of newly arrived aliens and recently de-Stored self-important political nonentities to attend.”

“You should just tell them to fuck off,” Chekwri said cheerfully. “Go for a walk. Get laid. Start a fire.” She headed for the door. “Why not?”

The door closed, leaving him alone. He brought his head up, gazing at the closed door for a moment. Then his eyes flicked to one side for an instant, he made a small keening noise and bent quickly back to his task, the nib of the stylo scratching drily at the desk screen.

“Salvage and Reprocessing Team Principal, Ny-Xandabo Tyun?”

“I have that honour. And you?” Tyun had been called back to the bridge from his private cabin half an hour early. It appeared the Culture ship wanted to talk and was falling back towards them, leaving the Ronte fleet to crawl on without it. Tyun watched the representation of the situation on a giant screen stretching right across the forward part of the bridge.

“I am the Culture ship Beats Working,” the voice said, in perfect, unaccented Liseiden Formal.

“Sir,” Tyun’s combat officer broke in, “a contact, registering less than ten metres in length and flagging as an unarmed civilian personnel craft, has left the Culture ship. Divergent course; peeling away. Slung and slowing.”

Tyun could see the tiny trace, curving away from the approaching Culture ship; a thread from a speck. “Could it be a warhead?” he asked.

“Technically possible, sir,” the combat officer said. “Something improvised. Big, though, for such a small craft. They’re not supposed to carry any weapons anywhere near—”

“Deploy an HRMP to track it, slow approach. Keep the platform between the new contact and us.”

“Heavy Remote Missile Platform launched, sir. Launch authority for the missiles?”

“What would you recommend, officer?”

“Zero automaticity, sir. Our direct positive command.”

“That, then.”

“Team Principal?” the Culture ship said.

Tyun clicked back to speak to the Culture ship again. “Yes?”

“I take it you’ve noticed that I have despatched my human crew in a small shuttle craft. Their identities and the craft’s course are appended. They and the shuttle are entirely unarmed.”

“Why are your crew abandoning ship?”

“I asked them to, and advised them that they ought to.”

“Why would that be?”

“In case there are any hostilities.”

“Why should there be any hostilities?”

“I believe you mean some harm to the Ronte.”

“Not at all. You presume too much. I might as well assume that you mean harm to me and my ships because you have loosed what, for all I know, might be a warhead disguised as a shuttle.”

“The shuttle craft is drawing further away from you all the time and its course is set. Also, it is demonstrably unarmed.”

“Seven minutes until the Culture ship’s in range, sir,” the combat officer told him.

“Are we in range of it yet?” Tyun asked. He checked the magnification the screen was using, shown as a logarithmically scaled bar on one side.

“Shouldn’t be, sir; not a Scree class. They’re almost unarmed.”

“And you,” Tyun asked, clicking back to talk to the Culture ship. “Are you unarmed, machine? And what are your intentions?”

“I have only very limited military capability. My intention is to prevent you engaging with the Ronte ships ahead of you.”

“What makes you think we wish to engage with them?”

“You are pursuing them.”

“Hmm. I would not care to define it as such. We are merely following them.”

“You have targeted them.”

“We have illuminated them the better to track their progress.”

“This is not fully plausible. I believe you mean them harm.”

“Not at all. We may ask them to heave to and submit to our inspection; we are entitled to do so under the terms of our agreement with the Gzilt, as long as the Ronte or any unauthorised military or semi-military forces are in Gzilt space. Which they are, of course.”

“You know the Ronte will never permit such a thing.”

“That’s their problem. Certainly they have proved treacherous in the past and gone back on their agreements with us, so we are unable, sadly, to take their word regarding any questions we may have for them regarding cargo, weaponry and intentions. As I say, our initial approach will be entirely non-violent, simply requesting them to halt and cooperate.”

“Such an approach virtually guarantees there will be conflict. I believe you know this.”

“I know no such thing, ship. I am acting within my rights according to the recently signed agreement between the Liseiden people and the Gzilt; an agreement which rescinds and cancels any previous agreements your… clients might have thought they’d inveigled the Gzilt into signing with them. And I wonder that a Culture ship appears so determined to ally itself with those barbaric ruffians, the Ronte. I wonder, are we suffering from a degree of guilt at having enabled your Ronte friends to encroach so far into Gzilt space? If so, ship, I understand that you might feel some shame, some wounded pride, but our… contention at this time is not with you. If it is with anyone, it is with them. I must ask you to break off what is beginning to look like an attack run on our — far superior — force before we are compelled to take defensive action, which may, I’m afraid to say, include interception munitions.”

“I intend to continue on my present course, Team Principal.”

On the giant screen, the Culture ship looked very close now. Tyun clicked out. “Navigation, prepare to split the squadron in two: three right, three left, to half a light second apart. On my order. We’ll let the Culture ship go straight through the gap between. All ships target and prepare to fire on any hostile action from the Culture ship. We can afford to ignore the Ronte for a short while, yes?”

“Maybe five minutes, on present velocities,” his navigation officer said.

“Fine. Then make good those orders. And — to be clear — only fire on actual, overt hostile action from the Culture ship; not just targeting. We all got that?”

“Sir.”

“Targeting,” the combat officer said.

“Split the fleet,” Tyun ordered. He could hear and feel the ship around him hauling itself away from its earlier, straight course, starting to curve to one side along with two of the other ships. On the screen, the view swung, keeping the approaching Ronte fleet at one edge as the elongated dot that was the Beats Working swept past between the separated halves of the Liseiden squadron.

“Fleet split as prescribed,” the navigation officer reported. “Culture ship maintaining — correction: target slowing, rapidly. Target… now stopped relative to us. Accelerating. Catching up. Level with us in four seconds.”

The screen view swung slowly, keeping the smeared dot of the Culture ship at one edge. The view hazed oddly, as though they were running through a gas cloud.

“Sir, the Quiatrea-Anang reports total loss of engine control.”

“Sir, the Abalule-Sheliz reports total loss of power.”

“What?” He had two junior officers from fleet control talking to him at once. The main screen hazed grey then blanked out entirely.

“What the fuck—?” Tyun said, glancing at the display in his own helmet. The helmet display was still working but seemed to be having trouble locking on to his eyes to present a true holo image. A stray flash briefly dazzled him.

“Main screen in shut-down,” the damage control officer said, sounding puzzled. “Cause unknown.” The screen flashed, shivered woozily, went blank again.

The damage control officer broke in. “Effector attack, on us, targeting engine control and main sensors.”

“Sir, the Quiatrea-Anang reports total traction loss.”

“Culture ship level with us now, sir. Starting to draw ahead. It’s not changing—”

“Sir, the Quiatrea-Anang reports total sensor loss.”

“Engineering telemetry down.”

“Sir, the Laskuil-Hliz reports total loss of power.”

“—velocity. We’re slowing. Fleet formation breaking up.”

“Sir, the Abalule-Sheliz reports it’s being targeted by the Quiatrea-Anang’s Target Illumination Systems.”

“What?”

“Our engines beginning stepped disengagement on false telemetry, sir. Trying to head them off and re-initialise but they keep—”

Tyun could hear and feel something alter in the ship; a single great deep note was deepening still further, like something winding down, while a forward drag stirred micro-currents into the waters around him.

“Sir, the Abalule-Sheliz reports it’s being targeted by our own TIS.”

“That’s shit,” the junior combat/targeting officer said, voice shaking. “That’s just shit, not true. Sir.”

“This is an attack!” Tyun said. “This is hostile action! Fire to disable.”

“Hard small target, sir. Doubt we can be that accurate.”

“Well, just hit it!”

“Sir, the Fulanya-Guang reports total loss of engine telemetry.”

“No weapon control. All weapons aboard shutting to fail-safe mode, active systems powering down.”

“Hit it with something! Disable it, destroy it, I don’t care!”

“Nothing to throw at it, sir.”

“Sir, the Quiatrea-Anang reports total weapon control loss.”

“Sir, the Culture ship is within quick strike range of the missile platform launched earlier. Might not have spotted it.”

“Can the platform fire? Have we comms with it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir, the Fulanya-Guang reports total loss of main power.”

“Well fire it!”

“Sir, how many—?”

“Everything! All the missiles!”

“Six missiles firing,” the combat officer said. “Four sec — one missile gone — two destruct — three, four gone, five… five gone… Shit!”

“We… we hit it.”

“Last one got it. Holy fuck.”

“We got it, sir.”

“The fucker’s dust.”

“We got it! We fucking got it!”

“Order on the bridge,” Tyun said.

“Sir.”

“Engine telemetry re-established,” the damage control officer reported.

The main screen went into start-up mode, checking itself out with quick darting blocks of colour and sudden scrolls of text and logos, gone too quickly to read.

“Sir, all other ships reporting all controls and telemetry returning to normalcy.”

The main screen came alive. It showed a view on medium magnification, looking twenty degrees astern at one edge, of a small cloud of expanding, radiative debris. Dotted alongside, leading away into the darkness, were five even smaller clouds.

“Ronte fleet ahead, sir. Within range. They’re targeting aggressively.”

Tyun tore his gaze away from the puff of slowly cooling debris falling further away into the night behind them. He switched his attention to the Ronte fleet as the screen view swung back round. The Ronte ships were close now; they had started moving around in one of their odd, forever-changing patterns, as though unsure what formation to fly in. Not that that would make any difference to the targeting AIs. It was even quite pretty, in a pathetic sort of way. Tyun collected himself. “Send the hail.”

“Sent, sir.”

“All systems aboard at prime, sir. Minimal radiation damage to rear sensors.”

“All ships at prime, sir.”

“Confirm that, sir. Back to full battle-ready state, zero damage, all ships.”

“Positive locks on all twelve Ronte ships, sir.”

“Ronte reply in, sir.”

“And?”

“Obscene, sir. Absolute non-compliance.”

Tyun looked at the message on his now properly functioning in-helmet display. It was indeed obscene; almost inventively so. The Ronte must have been doing their homework on Liseiden physiology.

Salvage and Reprocessing Team Principal Ny-Xandabo Tyun floated back a little in his command bubble. He checked the distance and the time to Vatrelles system, or to any other known ships. Nothing around for light days. They had hours to play with.

“Officers, we are going to fire to disable, targeting their engines.”

“Historically, they don’t disable too well, sir,” the combat officer said.

“Yes. They tend to explode. I know,” Tyun said. “Let their high command regard what’s going to follow as an incentive to improve their engine design. All combat officers?”

“Sir?” was said in chorus.

“Concentrate all fire, full squadron, flagship combat officer coordinating,” he commanded. “Pick them off, one at a time, nearest at all times unless they turn and attack. They probably will. Then each ship to deal with the most immediate threat to it. The flagship will re-send the hail to stop and submit to inspection to all remaining Ronte vessels after each successful engagement. Begin.”

The first Ronte ship became an expanding flower of plasma within a minute. The Ronte employed better tactics than had been anticipated and each subsequent ship took a little longer to destroy than the one before; nevertheless, the whole engagement lasted less than a third of an hour. The Fulanya-Guang was lost with all hands when what was left of the last Ronte ship, believed to be the fleet flagship, rammed it.

This last development was, Tyun felt — secretly — almost a relief. To overwhelm an inferior fleet with no losses at all made it look like a dishonourably unequal contest; almost a massacre. Losing a ship made everything look a lot better, and would give him an opportunity to sound grave and caring for the dead and their loved ones when he wrote his memoirs.

Besting a suicidal Culture ship gone native — even if it was “just” a Contact Unit, and only tiny — was merely the crustal fronding on the meat-shell, though apparently that phrase, too, was “awkward/over-species-specific in translation”.