It signalled the Break Even again. Still nothing.
The Fate was starting to wonder what the point was of sticking around here. The big guns would start arriving in a day or two; it looked like it was going to be in some sort of ludicrous continual chase with the two Elencher ships until then, which would be tiresome (with the possibility that the other three, war-ready Elencher ships might join in, which would be downright dangerous) and, after all, there was that war fleet on its way. What more was it usefully going to be able to do here? Certainly, it could keep a watch on the Excession, see if it did anything else interesting, but was that worth the risk of being overwhelmed by the Elench? Or even by the Excession itself, if it was as invasive as it now appeared to be? Enough of its drones, platforms and sensor platforms might be able to evade the Elenchers for the time it took until the other craft got here; they could keep watch on the situation, couldn’t they?
Ah, to hell with this, it thought to itself. It dodged unexpectedly along the surface of the closest-approach limit, producing corresponding alterations in the headings of the two Elencher ships. It speeded up for a while, then slowed until it was stopped relative to the Excession.
The position it held now was such that if you drew a line between the Excession and the direction it was expecting the MSV Not invented Here to arrive from, it would be on that line too.
The Fate signalled the two Elencher ships once more, trying to get sense from the Appeal To Reason and any reply at all from the Sober Counsel. It was careful to target the last known positions of the Break Even and its two militarily configured sister ships as well, still trying to elicit a response. None was forthcoming. It waited until the last possible moment, when it looked like the Appeal To Reason was about to ram it in its enthusiasm to overwhelm it with signals, then broke away from it, heading straight out, directly away from the Excession.
The Fate Amenable To Change’s avatars began the task of telling the human crew what was happening. Meanwhile the ship turned onto a course at a right-angle to its initial heading and powered away at maximum acceleration. The Appeal To Reason targeted its effector on the fleeing Culture ship as it curved out trying to intercept it, but the attack – configured more as a last attempt to communicate – was easily fended off. That wasn’t what the Fate was concerned about.
It watched that imaginary line from the Excession to the MSV Not Invented Here, focusing, magnifying its attention on that line’s middle distance.
Movement. Probing filaments of effector radiations. Three foci, clustered neatly around that line.
The Elencher ship Break Even and its two militarily configured sister craft had been awaiting it.
Congratulating itself on its perspicacity, the GCU headed on out, leaving the immediate vicinity of the Excession for the first time in almost a month.
Then its engines stopped working.
IV
‘I was told,’ Genar-Hofoen said in the traveltube, to the blank-faced and cadaverous ship’s avatar, ‘that I’d be off here in a day. What do I need quarters for?’
‘We are moving into a war zone,’ the avatar said flatly. ‘There is a good chance that it will not be possible to off-load the Grey Area or any other ship between approximately sixteen and one hundred plus hours from now.’
A deep, dark gulf of the Sleeper Service’s cavernous interior space was briefly visible, sliding past, then the tube car zipped into another tunnel. Genar-Hofoen stared at the tall, angular creature. ‘You mean I might be stuck on here for four days?’
‘That is a possibility,’ the avatar said.
Genar-Hofoen glared at the avatar, hoping he looked as suspicious as he felt. ‘Well, why can’t I stay on the Grey Area?’ he asked.
‘Because it might have to leave at any moment.’
The man looked away, swearing softly. There was a war on, he supposed, but even so, this was typical SC. First the Grey Area was allowed on board the Sleeper Service when he’d been told it wouldn’t be, and now this. He glanced back at the avatar, which was looking at him with what could have been curiosity or just gormlessness. Four days on the Sleeper. He’d thought earlier, stuck on the module, that he’d be grateful when he could leave Ulver Seich and her drone behind on the GCU while he came aboard the Sleeper Service, but as it turned out, he wasn’t.
He shivered, and imagined that he could still feel Ulver’s lips on his, from when they’d kissed goodbye, just a few minutes earlier. The flash-back tremor passed. Wow, he thought to himself, and grinned. That was like being an adolescent again.
Two nights, one day. That was all he and Ulver had spent together as lovers. It wasn’t remotely long enough. And now he’d be stuck aboard here for up to four nights.
Oh well. It could be worse; at least the avatar didn’t look like it was the one he’d slept with. He wondered if he was going to see Dajeil at all. He looked at the clothes he was wearing, standard loose fatigues from the Grey Area. Wasn’t this how he’d been dressed when he and Dajeil had last parted? He couldn’t recall. Possibly. He wondered at his own subconscious processes.
The tube car was slowing; suddenly it was stopped.
The avatar gestured to the door that rolled open. A short corridor beyond led to another door. Genar-Hofoen stepped into the corridor.
‘I trust you find your quarters acceptable,’ he heard the avatar say quietly, behind him. Then a soft rrrng noise and a faint draught on his neck made him look back in surprise. The traveltube had gone, the transparent tube door was closed and the corridor behind him was empty’ He looked about but there was nowhere the avatar could have gone. He shrugged and continued on to the door ahead. It opened onto a small lift. He was in it for a couple of seconds, then the door rotated open and he stepped out, frowning, into a dimly lit space full of boxes and equipment that somehow looked vaguely familiar. There was a strange scent in the air… The lift door snicked closed behind him. He saw some steps over to one side in the gloom, set into a curved stone wall. They really did look familiar.
He thought he knew where he was. He went to the steps and climbed them.
He came up from the cellar into the short passageway which led to the main door on the ground storey of the tower. The door was open. He walked down the passageway to it and stood outside.
Waves beat on the shining, sliding shingle of the beach. The sun stood near noon. One moon was visible, a pale eggshell half hidden in the fragile blueness of the sky. The smell he’d recognised earlier was that of the sea. Birds cried from the winds above him. He walked down the slope of beach towards the water and looked about. It was all pretty convincing; the space couldn’t really be all that big – the waves were perhaps a little too uncomplicated, a little too regular, further out – but it certainly looked like you were seeing for tens of kilometres. The tower was just the way he remembered it, the low cliffs beyond the salt marsh equally familiar.
‘Hello?’ he called. No answer.
He pulled out his pen terminal. ‘Very amusing…’ he said, then frowned, looking at the terminal. No tell-tale light. He pressed a couple of panels to institute a systems check. Nothing happened. Shit.
‘Ah hah,’ said a small, crackly voice behind him. He turned to see a black bird, folding its wings on the shelf of stones behind him. ‘Another captive,’ it cackled.
V
The Fate Amenable To Change let its engine fields race for a moment, running a series of tests and evaluation processes. It was as if its traction fields were just sinking through the energy grid, as if it wasn’t there. It tried signalling, telling the outside universe of its plight, but the signals just seemed to loop back and it found itself receiving its own signal a picosecond after it had sent it. It tried to create a warp but the skein just seemed to slide out of its fields. It attempted Displacing a drone but the wormhole collapsed before it was properly formed. It tried a few more tricks, finessing its field structures and reconfiguring its senses in an attempt at least to understand what was going on, but nothing worked.
It thought. It felt curiously composed, considering.
It shut everything down and let itself drift, floating gradually back through the four-dimensional hypervolume towards the skein of real space, propelled by nothing more than the faint pressure of radiations expelled from the energy grid. Its avatars were already starting to explain the change in the situation to its human crew. The ship hoped the people would take it calmly.