‘My God, you stupid old man,’ he laughed. ‘You want to know who the real representative of the Culture is on this planet? It’s not her,’ he nodded at the woman, ‘it’s that powered flesh-slicer she has following her everywhere, her knife missile. She might make the decisions, it might do what she tells it, but it’s the real emissary. That’s what the Culture’s about: machines. You think because Balveda’s got two legs and soft skin you should be on her side, but it’s the Idirans who are on the side of life in this war—’
‘Well, you will shortly be on the other side of that.’ The Gerontocrat snorted and glanced at Balveda, who was looking from under lowered brows at the man chained to the wall. ‘Let us go, Miss Balveda,’ Amahain-Frolk said as he turned and took the woman’s arm to guide her from the cell. ‘This . . . thing’s presence smells more than the cell.’
Balveda looked up at him then, ignoring the dwarfed minister as he tried to pull her to the door. She gazed right at the prisoner with her clear, black-irised eyes and held her hands out from her sides. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to him.
‘Believe it or not, that’s rather how I feel,’ he replied, nodding. ‘Just promise me you’ll eat and drink very little tonight, Balveda. I’d like to think there was one person up there on my side, and it might as well be my worst enemy.’ He had meant it to be defiant and funny, but it sounded only bitter; he looked away from the woman’s face.
‘I promise,’ Balveda said. She let herself be led to the door, and the blue light waned in the dank cell. She stopped right at the door. By sticking his head painfully far out he could just see her. The knife missile was there, too, he noticed, just inside the room; probably there all the time, but he hadn’t noticed its sleek, sharp little body hovering there in the darkness. He looked into Balveda’s dark eyes as the knife missile moved.
For a second he thought Balveda had instructed the tiny machine to kill him now – quietly and quickly while she blocked Amahain-Frolk’s view – and his heart thudded. But the small device simply floated past Balveda’s face and out into the corridor. Balveda raised one hand in a gesture of farewell.
‘Bora Horza Gobuchul,’ she said, ‘goodbye.’ She turned quickly, stepped from the platform and out of the cell. The walkway was hoisted out and the door slammed, scraping rubber flanges over the grimy floor and hissing once as the internal seals made it watertight. He hung there, looking down at an invisible floor for a moment before going back into the trance that would Change his wrists, thin them down so that he could escape. But something about the solemn, final way Balveda had spoken his name had crushed him inside, and he knew then, if not before, that there was no escape.
. . . by drowning them in the tears . . .
His lungs were bursting! His mouth quivered, his throat was gagging, the filth was in his ears but he could hear a great roaring, see lights though it was black dark. His stomach muscles started to go in and out, and he had to clamp his jaw to stop his mouth opening for air that wasn’t there. Now. No . . . now he had to give in. Not yet . . . surely now. Now, now, now, any second; surrender to this awful black vacuum inside him . . . he had to breathe . . . now!
Before he had time to open his mouth he was smashed against the wall – punched against the stones as though some immense iron fist had slammed into him. He blew out the stale air from his lungs in one convulsive breath. His body was suddenly cold, and every part of it next to the wall throbbed with pain. Death, it seemed, was weight, pain, cold . . . and too much light . . .
He brought his head up. He moaned at the light. He tried to see, tried to hear. What was happening? Why was he breathing? Why was he so damn heavy again? His body was tearing his arms from their sockets; his wrists were cut almost to the bone. Who had done this to him?
Where the wall had been facing him there was a very large and ragged hole which extended beneath the level of the cell floor. All the ordure and garbage had burst out of that. The last few trickles hissed against the hot sides of the breach, producing steam which curled around the figure standing blocking most of the brilliant light from outside, in the open air of Sorpen. The figure was three metres tall and looked vaguely like a small armoured spaceship sitting on a tripod of thick legs. Its helmet looked big enough to contain three human heads, side by side. Held almost casually in one gigantic hand was a plasma cannon which Horza would have needed both arms just to lift; the creature’s other fist gripped a slightly larger gun. Behind it, nosing in towards the hole, came an Idiran gun-platform, lit vividly by the light of explosions which Horza could now feel through the iron and stones he was attached to. He raised his head to the giant standing in the breach and tried to smile.
‘Well,’ he croaked, then spluttered and spat, ‘you lot certainly took your time.’
2.
The Hand of God 137
Outside the palace, in the sharp cold of a winter’s afternoon, the clear sky was full of what looked like glittering snow.
Horza paused on the warshuttle’s ramp and looked up and around. The sheer walls and slim towers of the prison-palace echoed and reflected with the booms and flashes of continuing fire-fights, while Idiran gun-platforms cruised back and forth, firing occasionally. Around them on the stiffening breeze blew great clouds of chaff from anti-laser mortars on the palace roof. A gust sent some of the fluttering, flickering foil towards the stationary shuttle, and Horza found one side of his wet and sticky body suddenly coated with reflecting plumage.
‘Please. The battle is not over yet,’ thundered the Idiran soldier behind him, in what was probably meant to be a quiet whisper. Horza turned round to the armoured bulk and stared up at the visor of the giant’s helmet, where he could see his own, old man’s face reflected. He breathed deeply, then nodded, turned and walked, slightly shakily, into the shuttle. A flash of light threw his shadow diagonally in front of him, and the craft bucked in the shock wave of a big explosion somewhere inside the palace as the ramp closed.
By their names you could know them, Horza thought as he showered. The Culture’s General Contact Units, which until now had borne the brunt of the first four years of the war in space, had always chosen jokey, facetious names. Even the new warships they were starting to produce, as their factory craft completed gearing up their war production, favoured either jocular, sombre or downright unpleasant names, as though the Culture could not take entirely seriously the vast conflict in which it had embroiled itself.
The Idirans looked at things differently. To them a ship name ought to reflect the serious nature of its purpose, duties and resolute use. In the huge Idiran navy there were hundreds of craft named after the same heroes, planets, battles, religious concepts and impressive adjectives. The light cruiser which had rescued Horza was the 137th vessel to be called The Hand of God, and it existed concurrently with over a hundred other craft in the navy using the same title, so its full name was The Hand of God 137.
Horza dried in the airstream with some difficulty. Like everything else in the spaceship it was built on a monumental scale befitting the size of the Idirans, and the hurricane of air it produced nearly blew him out of the shower cabinet.
The Querl Xoralundra, spy-father and warrior priest of the Four Souls tributory sect of Farn-Idir, clasped two hands on the surface of the table. It looked to Horza rather like a pair of continental plates colliding.
‘So, Bora Horza,’ boomed the old Idiran, ‘you are recovered.’
‘Just about,’ nodded Horza, rubbing his wrists. He sat in Xoralundra’s cabin in The Hand of God 137, clothed in a bulky but comfortable space suit apparently brought along just for him. Xoralundra, who was also suited up, had insisted the man wear it because the warship was still at battle stations as it swept a fast and low-powered orbit around the planet of Sorpen. A Culture GCU of the Mountain class had been confirmed in the system by Naval Intelligence; the Hand was in on its own, and they couldn’t find any trace of the Culture ship, so they had to be careful.
Xoralundra leaned towards Horza, castin
g a shadow over the table. His huge head, saddle-shaped when seen from directly in front, with the two front eyes clear and unblinking near the edges, loomed over the Changer. ‘You were lucky, Horza. We did not come in to rescue you out of compassion. Failure is its own reward.’
‘Thank you, Xora. That’s actually the nicest thing anybody’s said to me all day.’ Horza sat back in his seat and put one of his old-looking hands through his thin, yellowing hair. It would take a few days for the aged appearance he had assumed to disappear, though already he could feel it starting to slip away from him. In a Changer’s mind there was a self-image constantly held and reviewed on a semi-subconscious level, keeping the body in the appearance willed. Horza’s need to look like a Gerontocrat was gone now, so the mental picture of the minister he had impersonated for the Idirans was fragmenting and dissolving, and his body was going back to its normal, neutral state.
Xoralundra’s head went slowly from side to side between the edges of the suit collar. It was a gesture Horza had never fully translated, although he had worked for the Idirans and known Xoralundra well since before the war.
‘Anyway. You are alive,’ Xoralundra said. Horza nodded and drummed his fingers on the table to show he agreed. He wished the Idiran chair he was perched on didn’t make him feel so much like a child; his feet weren’t even touching the deck.
‘Just. Thanks, anyway. I’m sorry I dragged you all the way in here to rescue a failure.’
‘Orders are orders. I personally am glad we were able to. Now I must tell you why we received those orders.’
Horza smiled and looked away from the old Idiran, who had just given him something of a compliment; a rare thing. He looked back and watched the other being’s wide mouth – big enough, thought Horza, to bite off both your hands at once – as it boomed out the precise, short words of the Idiran language.
‘You were once with a caretaker mission on Schar’s World, one of the Dra’Azon Planets of the Dead,’ Xoralundra stated. Horza nodded. ‘We need you to go back there.’
‘Now?’ Horza said to the broad, dark face of the Idiran. ‘There are only Changers there. I’ve told you I won’t impersonate another Changer. I certainly won’t kill one.’
‘We are not asking you to do that. Listen while I explain.’ Xoralundra leant on his back-rest in a way almost any vertebrate – or even anything like a vertebrate – would have called tired. ‘Four standard days ago,’ the Idiran began – then his suit helmet, which was lying on the floor near his feet, let out a piercing whine. He picked up the helmet and set it on the table. ‘Yes?’ he said, and Horza knew enough about the Idiran voice to realise that whoever was bothering the Querl had better have a good reason for doing so.
‘We have the Culture female,’ a voice said from the helmet.
‘Ahh . . .’ Xoralundra said quietly, sitting back. The Idiran equivalent of a smile – mouth pursing, eyes narrowing – passed over his features. ‘Good, Captain. Is she aboard yet?’
‘No, Querl. The shuttle is a couple of minutes out. I’m withdrawing the gun-platforms. We are ready to leave the system as soon as they are all on board.’
Xoralundra bent closer to the helmet. Horza inspected the aged skin on the back of his hands. ‘What of the Culture ship?’ the Idiran asked.
‘Still nothing, Querl. It cannot be anywhere in the system. Our computer suggests it is outside, possibly between us and the fleet. Before long it must realise we are in here by ourselves.’
‘You will set off to rejoin the fleet the instant the female Culture agent is aboard, without waiting for the platforms. Is that understood, Captain?’ Xoralundra looked at Horza as the human glanced at him. ‘Is that understood, Captain?’ the Querl repeated, still looking at the human.
‘Yes, Querl,’ came the answer. Horza could hear the icy tone, even through the small helmet speaker.
‘Good. Use your own initiative to decide the best route back to the fleet. In the meantime you will destroy the cities of De’aychanbie, Vinch, Easna-Yowon, Izilere and Ylbar with fusion bombs, as per the Admiralty’s orders.’
‘Yes, Qu—’ Xoralundra stabbed a switch in the helmet, and it fell silent.
‘You got Balveda?’ Horza asked, surprised.
‘We have the Culture agent, yes. I regard her capture, or destruction, as of comparatively little consequence. But only by our assuring the Admiralty we would attempt to take her would they contemplate such a hazardous mission ahead of the main fleet to rescue you.’
‘Hmm. Bet you didn’t get Balveda’s knife missile.’ Horza snorted, looking again at the wrinkles on his hands.
‘It destructed while you were being put aboard the shuttle which brought you up to the ship.’ Xoralundra waved one hand, sending a draught of Idiran-scented air across the table. ‘But enough of that. I must explain why we risked a light cruiser to rescue you.’
‘By all means,’ Horza said, and turned to face the Idiran.
‘Four standard days ago,’ the Querl said, ‘a group of our ships intercepted a single Culture craft of conventional outward appearance but rather odd internal construction, judging by its emission signature. The ship was destroyed easily enough, but its Mind escaped. There was a planetary system near by. The Mind appears to have transcended real space to within the planetary surface of the globe it chose, thus indicating a level of hyperspatial field management we had thought – hoped – was still beyond the Culture. Certainly such spaciobatics are beyond us for the moment. We have reason to believe, due to that and other indications, that the Mind involved is one from a new class of General Systems Vehicles the Culture is developing. The Mind’s capture would be an intelligence coup of the first order.’
The Querl paused there. Horza took the opportunity to ask, ‘Is this thing on Schar’s World?’
‘Yes. According to its last message it intended to shelter in the tunnels of the Command System.’
‘And you can’t do anything about it?’ Horza smiled.
‘We came to get you. That is doing something about it, Bora Horza.’ The Querl paused. ‘The shape of your mouth tells me you see something amusing in this situation. What would that be?’
‘I was just thinking . . . lots of things: that that Mind was either pretty smart or very lucky; that you were very lucky you had me close by; also that the Culture isn’t likely to sit back and do nothing.’
‘To deal with your points in order,’ Xoralundra said sharply, ‘the Culture Mind was both lucky and smart; we were fortunate; the Culture can do little because they do not, as far as we know, have any Changers in their employ, and certainly not one who has served on Schar’s World. I would also add, Bora Horza,’ the Idiran said, putting both huge hands on the table and dipping his great head towards the human, ‘that you were more than a little lucky yourself.’
‘Ah yes, but the difference is that I believe in it.’ Horza grinned.
‘Hmm. It does you little credit,’ observed the Querl. Horza shrugged.
‘So you want me to put down on Schar’s World and get the Mind?’
‘If possible. It may be damaged. It may be liable to destruct, but it is a prize worth fighting for. We shall give you all the equipment you need, but your presence alone would give us a toe-hold.’
‘What about the people already there? The Changers on caretaker duty?’
‘Nothing has been heard from them. They were probably unaware of the Mind’s arrival. Their next routine transmission is due in a few days, but, given the current disruption in communications due to the war, they may not be able to send.’
‘What . . .’ Horza said slowly, one finger describing a circular pattern on the table surface which he was looking at, ‘. . . do you know about the personnel in the base?’
‘The two senior members have been replaced by younger Changers,’ the Idiran said. ‘The two junior sentinels became seniors, remaining there.’
‘They wouldn’t be in any danger, would they?’ Horza asked.
‘On the contrary. Insid
e a Dra’Azon Quiet Barrier, on a Planet of the Dead, must rank as one of the safest places to be during the current hostilities. Neither we nor the Culture can risk causing the Dra’Azon any offence. That is why they cannot do anything, and we can only use you.’
‘If,’ Horza said carefully, sitting forward and dropping his voice slightly, ‘I can get this metaphysical computer for you—’
‘Something in your voice tells me we approach the question of remuneration,’ Xoralundra said.
‘We do indeed. I’ve risked my neck for you lot long enough, Xoralundra. I want out. There’s a good friend of mine on that Schar’s World base, and if she’s agreeable I want to take her and me out of the whole war. That’s what I’m asking for.’
‘I can promise nothing. I shall request this. Your long and devoted service will be taken into account.’
Horza sat back and frowned. He wasn’t sure if Xoralundra was being ironic or not. Six years probably didn’t seem like very long at all to a species that was virtually immortal; but the Querl Xoralundra knew how often his frail human charge had risked all in the service of his alien masters, without real reward, so perhaps he was being serious. Before Horza could continue with the bargaining, the helmet shrilled once more. Horza winced. All the noises on the Idiran ship seemed to be deafening. The voices were thunder; ordinary buzzers and bleepers left his ears ringing long after they stopped; and announcements over the PA made him put both hands to his head. Horza just hoped there wasn’t a full-scale alarm while he was on board. The Idiran ship alarm could cause damage to unprotected human ears.
‘What is it?’ Xoralundra asked the helmet.
‘The female is on board. I shall need only eight more minutes to get the gun—’
‘Have the cities been destroyed?’
‘. . . They have, Querl.’
‘Break out of orbit at once and make full speed for the fleet.’
‘Querl, I must point out—’ said the small, steady voice from the helmet on the table.