V
‘Good travelling with you, Genar-Hofoen,’ Fivetide boomed. They slapped limbs; the man had already braced one leg and the gelfield suit absorbed the actual impact, so he didn’t fall over. They were in the Entity Control area of the Level Eight docks, Affronter section, surrounded by Affronters, their slaved drones and other machines, a few members of other species who could tolerate the same conditions as the Affront, as well as numerous Tier sintricates – floating around like little dark balls of spines – all coming and going, leaving or joining travelators, spin cars, lifts and inter-section transport carriages.
‘Not staying for some rest and recreation?’ Genar-Hofoen asked the Affronter. Tier boasted a notoriously excellent Affront hunting reserve section.
‘Ha! On the way back, perhaps,’ Fivetide said. ‘Duty calls elsewhere in the meantime.’ He chuckled.
Genar-Hofoen got the impression he was missing a joke here. He wondered about this, then shrugged and laughed. ‘Well, I’ll see you back on God’shole, no doubt.’
‘Indeed!’ Fivetide said. ‘Enjoy yourself, human!’ The Affronter turned on his tentacle tips and swept away, back to the battle-cruiser Kiss The Blade. Genar-Hofoen watched him go, and watched the lock doors close on the transit tunnel, with a frown on his face.
~ What’s worrying you? asked the suit.
The man shook his head. ~ Ah, nothing, he said. He stooped and picked up his hold-all.
‘Human male Byr Genar-Hofoen plus gelfield suit?’ said a sintricate, floating up to him. It looked, Genar-Hofoen thought, like an explosion in a sphere of black ink, frozen an instant after it began.
He bowed briefly. ‘Correct.’
‘I am to escort you to the Entity Control, human section. Please follow me.’
‘Certainly.’
They found a spin car, little more than a platform dotted with seats, stanchions and webbing. Genar-Hofoen hopped on, followed by the sintricate, and the car accelerated smoothly into a transparent tunnel which ran out along the underside of the habitat’s outer skin. They were heading spinward, so that as the car gained speed they seemed to lose weight. A field shimmered over the car, seeming to mould itself to the curved roof of the tunnel. Gases hissed. They went underneath the huge hanging bulk of one of the other Affronter ships, all blades and darkness. He watched as it detached itself from the habitat, falling massively, silently away into space and the circling stars. Another ship, then another and another dropped away after it. They disappeared.
~ What was the fourth ship? the man asked.
~ The Comet class light cruiser Furious Purpose, the suit said.
~ Hmm. Wonder where they’re off to.
The suit didn’t reply.
It was getting misty in the car. Genar Hofoen listened to gases hiss around him. The temperature was rising, the atmosphere in the field-shrouded car changing from an Affronter atmosphere to a human atmosphere. The car zoomed upwards for lower, less gravity intense levels, and Genar-Hofoen, used to Affronter gravity for these last two years, felt as though he was floating.
~ How long before we rendezvous with the Meatfucker? he asked.
~ Three days, the suit told him.
~ Of course, they won’t let you into the world proper, will they? the man said, as though realising this for the first time.
~ No, said the suit.
~ What’ll you do while I’m off having fun?
~ The same; I’ve already inquired ahead and come to an arrangement with a visiting Contact ship GP drone. So I shall be in Thrall.
It was Genar-Hofoen’s turn not to say anything. He found the whole idea of drone sex – even if it was entirely of the mind, with no physical component whatsoever – quite entirely bizarre! Ah well, each to his own, he thought.
‘Mr Genar-Hofoen?’ said a stunningly, heart-stoppingly beautiful woman in the post-Entity Reception Area, Human. She was tall, perfectly proportioned, her hair was long and red and extravagantly curled and her eyes were a luminous green just the right side of natural. Her loose, plain tabard exposed smoothly muscled, glossily tanned skin. ‘Welcome to Tier; my name’s Verlioef Schung.’ She held out a hand and shook his, firmly.
Skin on skin; no suit, at last. It was a good feeling. He was dressed in a semi-formal outfit of loose pantaloons and long shirt, and enjoying the lushly sensual sensation of the glidingly smooth materials on his body.
‘Contact sent me to look after you,’ Verlioef Schung said with a hint of ruefulness. ‘I’m sure you don’t need it, but I’m here if you do. I, ah… I hope you don’t mind.’ Her voice… her voice was something to immerse yourself in.
He smiled broadly and bowed. ‘How could I?’ he said.
She laughed, putting one hand over her mouth – and, of course, her perfect teeth – as she did so. ‘You’re very kind.’ She held out a hand. ‘May I take your bag?’
‘No, that’s all right.’
She raised her shoulders and let them drop. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’ve missed the Festival, of course, but there’s a whole gang of us who did, too, and we’ve sort of decided to have our own over the next few days and, well, frankly we need all the help we can get. All I can promise you is luxurious accommodation, great company and more delectable preparations than you can shake a principle at, but if you care to make the sacrifice, I promise we’ll all try to make it up to you.’ She flexed her eyebrows and then made a mock-frightened expression, pulling down the corners of her succulently perfect mouth.
He let her hold the look for a moment, then patted her on the upper arm. ‘No, thank you,’ he said sincerely.
Her expression became one of hurt sadness. ‘Oh… are you sure?’ she said in a small, softly vulnerable voice.
“Fraid so. Made my own arrangements,’ he said, with genuine but determined regret. ‘But if there was anyone who was likely to tempt me away from them, it would be you.’ He winked at her. ‘I’m flattered by your generous offer, and do tell SC I appreciate the trouble they’ve gone to, but this is my chance to cut loose for a few days, you know?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll have some fun and then I’ll be ready to ship on out when the time comes.’ He fished a small pen terminal out of one pocket and waved it in front of her face. ‘And I’ll keep my terminal with me at all times. Promise.’ He put the terminal back in his pocket.
She gazed intently into his eyes for a few moments, then lowered her eyes and then her head and gave a small shrug. She looked back up, expression ironic. When she spoke, her voice had changed as well, modulating into something deeper and more considered, almost regretful. ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘I hope you enjoy yourself, Byr.’ She grinned. ‘Our offer stands, if you wish to reconsider.’ Brave smile. ‘My colleagues and I wish you well.’ She looked furtively round the busy concourse and bit her bottom lip, frowning slightly. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a drink or something anyway, do you?’ she said, almost plaintively.
He laughed, shook his head, and bowed as he backed off, hoisting his hold-all over his shoulder.
Genar-Hofoen had arrived a few days after the end of Tier’s annual Festival. There was an air of autumnal desuetude mixed with high-summer torpor about the place when he arrived; people were cleaning up, calming down, getting back to normal and generally behaving themselves. He’d signalled ahead and succeeded in booking the services of an erotroupe as well as reserving a garden penthouse in the View, the best hotel on Level Three.
All in all, entirely worth passing up the rather too obvious advances of his perfect woman for (well, no it wasn’t… except it was when your perfect woman was almost certainly a Special Circumstances agent altered to look like the creature of your fantasies and sent to look after you, keep you happy and safe, when what you actually wanted was a bit of variety, some excitement and some un-Culture-like danger; his perfect partner certainly looked like the very splendid Verlioef Schung, but she was even more positively not SC, not Contact, and probably not even Culture either. It was that desire for strangeness, for apartness, for alienness they probably couldn’t understand).
He lay in bed, pleasantly exhausted, the odd muscle quivering now and again of its own accord, surrounded by sleeping pulchritude, his head buzzing with the after-effects of some serious glanding and watched the Tier news (Culture bias) channel on a screen hanging in the air in front of the nearest tree. An ear-pip relayed the sound.
Still leading with the Blitteringueh-Deluger saga. Then came a feature on the increase in Fleeting in Culture ships. Fleeting was when two or more ship Minds decided they were fed up being all by themselves and only being able to exchange the equivalent of letters; instead they got together, keeping physically close to each other so that they could converse. Operationally most inefficient. Some older Minds were worried it represented their more recently built comrades going soft and wanted the premise-states of Minds which would be constructed in the future to be altered to deal with this weak, overly chummy decadence.