Ziller nodded. The great dark eyes drank in the view. ‘I wonder if anyone goes against the flow?’
‘A few do. There are always some.’ Kabe paused. ‘None of them have yet completed a circuit of the entire Orbital; they would need to live a very long time to do so. Theirs is a harder course.
Ziller stretched his midlimb and arms and put his pipe away. ‘Just so.’ He made a shape with his mouth Kabe knew was a genuine smile. ‘Shall we return to Aquime? I have work to do.’
4
Scorched Ground
Are our own ships not good enough? Theirs are faster.
Still? I’m afraid so.
And I hate this chopping and changing. First one ship then another, then another, then a fourth. I feel like a delivery package.
-~ This wouldn’t be some obscure form of insult, or way of trying to delay us, would it?
-~ You mean not giving us our own ship?
-~ Yes.
I don’t think so. In an obscure sort of way they may even be trying to impress us. They’re saying that they’re taking so much care to correct the mistakes they made that they won’t spare any ships from normal duty for anybody.
-~ Sparing four ships at different times makes more sense?
It does the way they’ll have their forces set up. The first ship was very much a war craft. They’re keeping those close to Chel in case the war should begin again. They may loop a certain distance out, for example to ferry us, but no further. The one we are on now is a Superlifter, a sort of fast tug. The one we’re approaching is a General Systems Vehicle; a kind of giant depot or mother ship. It carries other warships they could deploy in the event of further hostilities, if they went beyond the scale their immediately available materiel could deal with. The GSV can loop further out than the war vessel but still can’t stray too farfrom Chelgrian space. The last ship is an old demilitarised war craft of a type commonly used throughout the galaxy for this sort of picket duty.
Throughout the galaxy. Somehow that still always comes as a shock.
-~ Yes. Decent of them to take such an interest in our relatively puny well-being.
If you believe them, that is all they were ever trying to do.
Do you believe them, Major?
I think I do. I am just not convinced that that is sufficient excuse for what happened.
Damn right it isn’t.
The first three days of their journey had been spent aboard the Torturer class Rapid Offensive Unit Nuisance Value. It was a massive, cobbled-together object; a bundle of gigantic engine units behind a single weapon pod and a tiny accommodation section that looked like an afterthought.
God that thing is ugly, Huyler said when they first saw it, riding across from the wreck of the Winter Storm in the tiny shuttle with the ship’s black-skinned, grey-suited avatar. —~ And these people are supposed to be decadent aesthetes?
-~ There is a theory that they are ashamed of their weaponry. As long as it looks inelegant, rough and disproportionate they can pretend that is not really theirs, or not really a part of their civilisation, or only temporarily so, because everything else they make is so subtly refined.
-~ Or it could just be form following function. However I confess that’s a new one on me. Which university whizz-kid came up with that theory?
-~ You will be glad to know, Hadesh Huyler, that we now have a Civilisational Metalogical Profiling Section in Naval Intelligence.
-~ I can see I have a lot of catching up to do with the latest terminology. What does metalogical mean? It is short for psycho-physio-philosophilogical. Well, naturally. Of course it is. Glad I asked.
-~ It is a Culture term. — A fucking Culture term? Yes, sir.
I see. And what the hell does this metalogical section of ours actually do?
It tries to tell us how other Involveds think. Involveds?
-~ Also one of their terms. It means space-faring species beyond a certain technological level which are willing and able to interact with each other.
-~ I see. Always a bad sign when you start using the enemy’s terminology.
Quilan glanced at the avatar sitting in the seat next to him. It smiled uncertainly at him. I would agree with that, sir.
He returned his gaze to the view of the Culture warship. It was, indeed, rather ugly. Before Huyler had expressed his own thoughts, Quilan had been thinking how brutally powerful the craft looked. How odd to have somebody else in your head who looked through the same eyes and saw exactly the same things you did and yet came to such different conclusions, experienced such dissimilar emotions.
The craft filled the screen, as it had since they had set off. They were approaching it quickly, but it had been a long way off; some few hundred kilometres. A read-out at the side of the screen was counting the magnification level back towards zero. Powerful, Quilan thought — entirely to himself — and ugly. Perhaps, in some sense, that was always the case. Huyler broke into his thoughts:
I take it your servants are already aboard?
I am not taking any servants, sir.
What?
-~ I am going alone, sir. Apart from yourself, of course.
You’re going without servants?Are you some sort offucking outcast or something, Major? You’re not one of these embryonicist Caste Deniers, are you?
No, sir. Partly, my not bringing servants reflects some of the changes that have occurred in our society since your body-death. These will no doubt be explained in your briefing files.
Yes, well, I’ll be taking a further look at those when I have the time. You wouldn’t believe the amount of tests and stuff they’ve been putting me through, even while you were asleep. I had to remind them that constructs need naps, too, or they’d have burned me out in here. But look, Major; this thing about servants. I read up on the Caste War, but I thought it ended up a draw. Dear scum in heaven, does this mean we lost it?
No, sir. The war ended in a compromise following the Culture’s intervention.
I know that, but a compromise which involves having no servants?
No, sir. People still have servants. Officers still employ squires and equerries. However I am of an order which eschews such personal help.
Visquile mentioned you were some sort of monk. I didn’t realise you’d be quite so self-denying.
There is another reason for travelling alone, sir. If I might remind you, the Chelgrian we are being sent to meet is a Denier.
Oh, yeah, this Ziller guy. Some spoiled, fur-rending liberal brat who thinks it’s his God-given duty to do the whining for those who can’t be bothered whining for themselves. Best thing you can do with these people is kick them out. These shits don’t understand the first thing about responsibility or duty. You can’t renounce your caste any more than you can renounce your species. And we’re indulging this arse-leaf?
-~ He is a great composer, sir. And we didn’t chuck him out; Ziller left Chel to go into self-exile in the Culture. He renounced his Given status and took— Oh, let me guess. He declared himself an Invisible.
Yes, sir.
Pity he didn’t go the whole way and make himself a Spayed.
At any rate, he is not well disposed to Chelgrian society. The idea was that by going without an entourage I might make myself less intimidating and more acceptable to him.
We should not be the ones having to make ourselves acceptable to him, Major.
We are in a position where we have no choice, sir. It has been decided at cabinet level that we must try to persuade him to return. I have accepted that mission, as indeed you have yourself. We cannot force him to return, so we must appeal to him.
-~ Is he likely to listen?
I really have no idea, sir. I knew him when we were both children, I have followed his career and I have enjoyed his music. I have even studied it. However that is all I have to offer. I imagine people closer to him by family or conviction might have been asked to do what I am doing, but it would seem that none of them were prepared to take on the task. I have to accept that while I may not be the ideal candidate, I must be the best of those available for the job, and just get on with it.
This all sounds a little forlorn, Major. I worry about your morale.
My spirits are at something of a low ebb, sir, for personal reasons; however my morale and sense of purpose are more robust and, when all’s said and done, orders are orders.
Yes, aren’t they just, Major?