The Commander slammed a limb end down on the desk. ‘What is going on?’ he roared. ‘We got the bastard, didn’t we?’
~ No, Commander. We ‘got’ some sort of shuttle or module. Somewhat faster and better equipped than the average example such a ship would normally carry, but possibly constructed en route with such a ruse in mind. Now we know why its approach appeared so politely leisurely.
The Commander peered into the holo spheres, juggling with magnifications and field-depths. ‘Then where the hell is it?’
~ Give me control of the primary scanner, Commander, just for a moment, will you?
The Commander fumed in his space suit for a moment, then nodded his eye stalks at the lieutenant.
The second holo sphere became a narrow, dark cone and swung so that the wide end was directed towards the ceiling. Pittance glowed at the very point of the other end of the projection, the screen of defence devices reduced to a tiny florette of coloured light, close in to the cone’s point. At the far, wide end there was a tiny, fiercely, almost painfully red dot.
~ There is the good ship Killing Time, Commander. It set off at almost the same time I did. Regrettably, it is both quicker and faster than I. It has already done us the honour of copying to me the signal it sent to the rest of the Culture the moment we opened fire on its emissary. I’ll transmit you a copy too, minus the various, venomous unpleasantnesses directed specifically at myself. Thank you for the use of your control desk. You can have it back now.
The cone collapsed to become a sphere again. The traitor ship’s last message scrolled off the side of the flat screen. The Commander and the lieutenant looked at each other. The small screen came up with another incoming signal.
~ Oh, and will you contact Affront High Command, or shall I? Somebody had better tell them we’re at war with the Culture.
III
Genar-Hofoen woke up with a headache it took minutes to calm down; performing the relevant pain-management inside his head took far too much concentration for somebody feeling this bad to perform quickly. He felt like he was a child on a beach, swinging a toy spade and building a sea wall all around him as the tide rushed in; waves kept over-topping and he was constantly shovelling sand up to small breaches in his defences, and the worst of it was the more sand he piled up the deeper he dug and higher he had to throw. Eventually water started seeping in from the bottom of his sea fort, and he gave in; he just blanketed all pain. If somebody started holding flames to his feet or he jammed his fingers in a door that’d just be too bad. He knew better than to shake his head, so he imagined shaking his head; he’d never had a hangover this bad. ,
He tried opening one eye. It didn’t seem too keen on cooperating. Try the other one. No, that one didn’t want to face the world either. Very dark. Like being wrapped up inside a big dark cloak or some-
He jerked; both eyes tore open, making both smart and water.
He was looking at some sort of big screen, in-holo’d. Space; stars. He looked down, finding it difficult to move his head. He was held inside a large, very comfortable but very secure chair; it was made of some sort of soft hide, it was half reclined and it smelled very pleasant, but it had big padded hoops that had clamped themselves over his forearms and his lower legs. A similar hide-covered bar looped over his lower abdomen. He tried moving his head again. It was held inside some sort of open-face helmet which felt like it was attached to the headrest of the chair.
He looked to one side. Hide-covered wall; polished wood. A panel or screen showing what looked like an abstract painting. It was an abstract painting; a famous one. He recognised it. Ceiling black, light studded. In front just the screen. Floor carpeted. Looked much like the inside of a standard Culture module so far. Very quiet. Not that that meant anything. He looked to his right.
There were two more seats like his across the width of the cabin – it was probably a cabin and this was almost certainly a nine or twelve person module; he couldn’t see behind to tell. The seat in the middle, the one nearer him, was occupied by a bulky, rather antique-looking drone, its flat-topped bulk resting on the cushion of the seat. People always said drones looked a bit like suitcases but this one reminded Genar-Hofoen of an old-fashioned sledge. Somehow, it gave the impression that it was staring at the screen. Its aura field was flickering as though it was undergoing rapid mood-changes; mostly it displayed a mixture of grey, brown and white.
Frustration, displeasure and anger. Not an encouraging combination.
The seat on the far side of the cabin held a beautiful young woman who looked just a little like Dajeil Gelian. Her nose was smaller, her eyes were the wrong colour, her hair was quite different. It was hard to tell whether her figure bore any resemblance to the other woman because she was inside what looked like a jewelled space suit; a standard-ish Culture hard suit plated in platinum or silver and liberally plastered in gems that certainly glittered and flashed in the overhead lights as though they were things like rubies, emeralds, diamonds and so on. The suit’s helmet, equally encrusted, rested on the arm of her seat. She wasn’t shackled into place in the seat, he noticed.
The girl bore on her face a frown so deep and severe he imagined it would have made almost anybody else look quite supremely ugly. On her it looked rather fetching. Probably not the desired effect at all. He decided to risk a smile; the open-faced helmet he was wearing ought to let her see it.
‘Umm, hello,’ he said.
The old drone rose and flicked round as if glancing at him. It thumped back into the seat cushion, its aura fields off. ‘It’s hopeless,’ it announced, as though it hadn’t heard what the man had said. ‘We’re locked out. Nowhere to go.’
The girl in the far seat narrowed her fiercely blue eyes and glared at Genar-Hofoen. When she spoke, her voice was like an ice stiletto. ‘This is all your fault, you ghastly piece of shit,’ she said.
Genar-Hofoen sighed. He was losing consciousness once more but he didn’t care. He had absolutely no idea who this creature was, but he liked her already.
It went dark again.
IV
[stuttered tight point, M32, tra. @n4.28.882.4656]
xLSV Serious Callers Only
oEccentric Shoot Them Later
It’s war! Those insane fucks have declared war! They’re mad!
oo
[stuttered tight point, M32, tra. @4.28.882.4861]
xEccentric Shoot Them Later
oLSV Serious Callers Only
I was about to call. I just got the message from the ship I requested attend Pittance. This looks bad.
oo
Bad? It’s a fucking catastrophe!
oo
Did your girl get her man?
oo
Oh, she got him all right, but then a few hours later the Affront High Command announced the birth of a bouncing baby war. The ship Phage sent to Tier was standing a day’s module travel away; it decided it had better things to do than hang around on a mission it had never been very happy with even from the beginning. I think the declaration of war came almost as a relief to it. It promptly announced its position to the Steely Glint and was immediately asked to ship out at maximum speed on some desperate defence mission. Bastard wouldn’t even tell me where. Took me real milliseconds to argue it out of confessing all to the Steely Glint and telling it exactly why it was anywhere near Tier in the first place. I was able to persuade it Phage’s honour rested on it keeping quiet; I don’t think it’ll squeal. I let it know I give serious grudge.
oo
But it was Demilled. Hasn’t it just gone back to Phage for munitioning?
oo
Ha! Demilitarised my backup. Fucker left Phage fully tooled. Phage’s own idea, sneaky scumbag. Always was over-protective. What comes of being that geriatric I suppose. Anyway, the Frank Exchange Of Views is cannoned to the gunwales and itching for a brawl, apparently. Whatever; it has gone. Which leaves our lass and the captive Genar-Hofoen floating in a module nearly a day out of Tier with nowhere to go. Tier is requesting – make that insisting – all Culture and Affront craft and personnel leave it for the duration of the hostilities and nobody’s being allowed in. I’ve tried to find somebody else within range to pick them up but it’s hopeless.
A Tier deep-scan inventory has already identagged their module. The Meatfucker is skimming in a day away and the module can make, oh, all of two hundred lights… Guess what happens next. We’ve failed.