“There should be no trial, no court, though, should there?” Banstegeyn said. “We – you – got away with it. Didn’t we? I mean, there’s not enough time, and I’m sure I could get … I could pull a string or two …”
According to the marshal, the most recent signal from the 7*Uagren had indicated that it had managed to slip away from the Izenion system without being detected, after dealing with the last known survivors of the HQ’s destruction; it had pursued them to the star Izenion itself, contained their attempts to signal, and ensured their swift termination.
“Yes, we got away with it,” Marshal Chekwri said, with a small, humourless smile. “And in theory without leaving behind too obvious an attack profile. A disinterested observer would probably still conclude it had been fratricidal, but it could be argued otherwise, and there are only eighteen days remaining to do the arguing. And the string-pulling.”
“Yes,” Banstegeyn said, biting his lip a little. “And they definitely couldn’t have already – the people, the AIs even, on the HQ – they couldn’t have Sublimed by themselves, early? That’s really not possible?”
“The people, definitely not; you need a Presence,” the marshal said, with the air of one addressing somebody who really ought to have been watching their own infomercials over the last umpteen years. “The AIs, almost certainly not. It takes time, preparation. Even for an AI there’s some sort of blissed-out, trance-like state that has to be achieved first before they can haul themselves in by their own bootstraps. Unlikely, in the circumstances.”
“Mmm, mmm,” the septame said, rubbing his face. “Good, good.” He had been looking away. “So the attack, it could be blamed on somebody else?”
The marshal took a moment before answering. “Yes, it could,” she said, slowly. “Though the plausibility spectrum might be a little …” she looked up to the domed ceiling of the room “… restricted, shall we say?” She looked back at the septame. “Why, did you have anybody particular in mind?”
“The Ronte?”
“The Ronte?” the marshal said. She frowned. “I thought we just made them our official Bestest Friends, Scavenger class.”
“I think you’ll find that is still conditional.”
“In a way that they don’t know about?”
Banstegeyn waved one hand. “Not your concern, Marshal. Is it plausible?”
Chekwri sat back, looked thoughtful. “Not really. Their main force is far too far away – unlikely even to get here before the Subliming – their tech is inadequate and their motive … I can’t even think what their motive might have been.”
“The Ronte with Culture help?” Banstegeyn suggested.
The marshal actually laughed. “Forgive me, Septame,” she said, one hand held out to Banstegeyn, though nothing else about her demeanour seemed apologetic. “Well, that would fill the tech gap, if we can put it that way, but I suspect the plausibility spectrum window just closed to zero.”
“No story we come up with needs to last very long, though,” Banstegeyn said, his face set in an expression of some displeasure. “Just until the Subliming.”
“Septame, one like that is going to struggle to last to the end of the sentence that first articulates it.”
“But there might have been a Culture ship there, at the Sculpt planet,” the septame said.
“The Uagren was aware of something performing a manoeuvre called a crash-stop into Izenion system, about four hours after the attack. Just from the implied initial velocity involved it reckoned if it wasn’t one of ours it must be a Culture ship. Even then, hard to find a plausible contender. Most likely it was something called the Mistake Not …, but if it was, the fucker’s even faster than we thought.”
“So we could – maybe – claim it had a part in the attack, couldn’t we?”
“Not really. Unless the Culture has finally invented a time machine.”
The septame’s face suddenly assumed a hard, unforgiving expression. “I don’t think,” he said icily, “this is an issue to be made light of, Marshal Chekwri.”
“Septame,” the marshal said levelly, “I am not the one coming up with laughable ex-post-facto combat scenarios.”
Banstegeyn glared at her for a little longer, seemed to realise he was wasting his time, waved one arm dismissively and said, “Well, leave that with me. But let’s not close anything off.” He took a deep breath. “The main thing is that the initial mission was successful. The leak has been … mopped up.”
“There is the … possible loose end of the Gelish-Oplule,” Chekwri said, with a tiny frown.
“But it was destroyed too, wasn’t it?”
“Just; that was too close. The Uagren wasn’t expecting it. But, yes, one less asset for the Fourteenth.”
“Well, then. Why is there a problem?”
“Because the ship wasn’t supposed to be there. And the fact that it was means it was keeping quiet about its movements and it must have moved to get there at the sort of speeds ships only undertake when they’ve got an urgent mission. Trans-excercisal speeds; you sim them but you don’t attempt them, even during full-on war games.”
“It might have been coincidence,” Banstegeyn said. “Or it was there for the High Command if they needed transport.”
“That’s kind of what we’re assuming for now,” Chekwri said. She shrugged. “Anyway, it’s vapour, and the Culture ship’s moved off seemingly without actually doing anything. And now the Uagren’s slipped away too, unnoticed as far as we know.”
“Yes. Where did it slip away to? Where’s it going now?”
“Didn’t I mention?” The marshal looked surprised. “It’s following the Culture ship.”
Eleven
(S -17)
xGSV Contents May Differ
oLOU Caconym
oGCU Displacement Activity
oGSV Just The Washing Instruction Chip In Life’s Rich Tapestry
oUe Mistake Not …
oMSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In
oMSV Pressure Drop
Hello all. I think we’ve all been brought up to speed with individual briefings where needed; welcome to the new members of the group. We understand the Mistake Not … makes full speed to Ospin, perhaps to discover something relevant to Mr QiRia and hence the claimed provenance of the Z-R information re the BoT. Meanwhile the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In has kindly agreed to continue to create what diplomatic pressure it can with the rump of the Gzilt political power structure. For myself, after extensive investigations, some calling in of favours and the reluctant acceptance of future obligations re the same on my part to those so confiding, I have discovered there may be another way to pursue the link with the legendary gentleman.
∞
xLOU Caconym
We really are taking this person’s existence as being a fact, not a myth?
∞
xGSV Contents May Differ
We are. It turns out that the myth which has been so carefully fostered is that his existence is mythical. It would certainly appear that various ships have known of his existence over the millennia, and even aided him in his efforts to stay outside the public eye and evade the kind of official annoyances such as censuses and inventories which might prove problematic to somebody of preposterous age who wished to keep quiet about it. Until now his mythical status has seemed charming, romantic even, and – happily for all concerned – irrelevant to matters either tactical or strategic. Now, it has suddenly assumed a certain importance. We must, of course, diligently and timeously pursue every avenue of investigation occurring in Gzilt space. However, there may well be a way to reinforce and back up our inquiries, working at least partly within the Culture. I have been in contact with a vessel which wishes to remain anonymous for now but which holds a human who may be able and persuaded to help. The price would be something close to full disclosure of what we all know regarding the matter at hand, both to the ship and, probably, it speculates, the person concerned as well.
∞
r />
xGSV Just The Washing Instruction Chip In Life’s Rich Tapestry
∞
And the Contents May Differ vouches for the ship and it for the human?
∞
xGSV Contents May Differ
Within the usual limits, yes.
∞
xGSV Just The Washing Instruction Chip In Life’s Rich Tapestry
Then I say go ahead.
∞
xGSV Contents May Differ
Any objections? … No? … Very well. Signal sent. I’ll keep you all informed. Meanwhile, after some pressure, the Empiricist’s Delinquent pair the Headcrash and the Xenocrat have – finally – been persuaded to give up their smatter-bagging competition at Loliscombana and make haste for Gzilt; heading straight to Zyse at the request of something called the Gzilt Combined Regimental Fleet Command – this would appear to be some new overview structure recently set up by this Banstegeyn fellow under Marshal Chekwri. The two ships are due there in seven days. Due to an agreement required to bring about the aforesaid pressure, the Empiricist will now become part of the group at the next signal, though it has expressed a preference for haunting rather than manifesting, as it were. The Empiricist itself now expects to be arriving at Zyse in eleven or twelve days. That’s all for now.
∞
xGSV Just The Washing Instruction Chip In Life’s Rich Tapestry
oGSV Contents May Differ
Oh, hurrah. Now the Empiricist gets to hover glowering over everything and step in when it thinks we’ve done enough of the hard work to make the outcome sufficiently positive to enhance its gloriousness.
∞
Size has its privileges.
∞
More to the point, we need to start thinking now about what we’re going to do if we do find out the truth – via Mr Q, or any other route. Do we tell the Gzilt? And if we tell, do we tell only those at the top – who might already know/have guessed – or do we take it upon ourselves to broadcast the embarrassing news (assuming it is) to all?
∞
Good question. I suspect a vote might be called for. Right now, personally, I’d probably plump for shutting the hell up and letting the Gzilt get on with it.
∞
Which begs the question, why, then, are we bothering to hunt down this truth at all?
∞
The Z-R asked us to help. Also, it’s just interesting. Here’s something we don’t know but we can maybe find out, and it’s something that other people don’t want us to know. How much more seductive can you get?
∞
Maybe there are some truths not worth chasing down. Maybe there are times when it’s best to remain ignorant.
∞
Very funny.
∞
I’m being serious.
∞
Sure you are. Anyway, how goes your batch of the Simming? Mine is gnarlsome, raspulescent, grislesque.
∞
Never mind. Hitting both Problems, since you ask. Trying to work around, but it’s getting all moral in one direction and chaotic in the other. Suspect it’s basically Intrinsically Unamenable on both counts, but will keep on trying.
∞
Have a lie down, as one of one’s humans might say to another.
∞
Shut up and get back to your work, as they also might say.
∞
Ha! Good simming. Over and outload!
A ship dance of celebration was required.
The fleet had already split into separate squadrons of eight ships apiece (save for the flagship squadron of twelve ships plus the accompanying Culture craft Beats Working) and these squadrons had flown in different directions towards their appointed places of interest where they might hope to accrue technology which would prove advantageous to the Ronte. Therefore a full fleet dance could not be performed. Instead a coordinated split-fleet dance would be performed, each squadron and ship and crew being made conscious of the movements of all the others so that the distributed dance would be accomplished as a joyous whole, virtually.
Accordingly, the dance “Multiple New Swarmqueens, Brought Together By Advantageous Zephyrs, Display Together In The Light Of The Two Home Suns At Double Zenith” was performed, to glorious effect. At the respectful request of the Culture ship, a place was found for it to become part of the dance as well, a task of honour it executed with diligence, understanding and precision, to the greater glory of the Ronte people, who had, against all expectation, been granted the Preferred status that they had known they deserved but had doubted would be conferred.
The Culture ship Beats Working accordingly accrued additional inferred alien cachet value (positive), honorary, with made-awareness of award status deferred.
The fleet squadrons reconfigured to reflect their new status. All but a few adjusted their courses for more important sources of technology, infrastructure and territory, given that these were likely now to fall to them without dispute. The flagship squadron turned to set a course for Zyse, the Gzilt capital and home system.
“People were targeted, I tell you, Banstegeyn,” Yegres told him as they walked in the grounds of the trime’s villa in the hills overlooking the city. The parliament building shimmered whitely in the distance, blurred with warm air rising, the Presence a dark inverted drip-shape above it, made tiny by the distance.
A pair of light cruisers, their smooth, kilometre-long hulls silvered, hung in the air ten thousand metres above the city. This was supposed to be reassuring for the remaining populace after the shock of the attack on the Regimental HQ of the Fourteenth at Eshri.
“Targeted,” Yegres repeated, glancing at Banstegeyn. The two crunched along a gravel path, followed at a discreet distance by Solbli and Jevan. Banstegeyn’s chief secretary and aide-de-camp were seemingly muttering to themselves, partially sub-vocalising as they communicated elsewhere. He’d given them the job of continuing to try and find a way to nullify the Scavenger vote earlier. There had been over ten millennia of inherently convoluted and frequently murky parliamentary business, all of it faithfully recorded; there had to be a precedent in there somewhere. It would be a start if nothing else.
Yegres was accompanied by a float-tray. It held a glass and decanter; he helped himself. “Frix was offered an introduction to some girl he’d had his eye on – or Quvarond’s wife or something; I don’t know – Yenivle took a case of Kolymkin … something; some priceless vintage.” Yegres frowned. “Wish the bugger had offered me that. So thoughtless.” He shrugged, shook his head. “Not sure what Jurutre was offered, but seemingly something furtive regarding a child. Not filthy, or even illegal, just … sad … Anyway, it was all terribly well organised. Done with military precision.” He barked a laugh. “Better than that, actually; didn’t miss and hit their own people.”
“And you?” Banstegeyn asked. “What did Trime Quvarond offer you?” He found it hard to keep the sneer out of his voice.
“Nothing at all, dear boy,” Yegres said amiably, waving one hand around. “I voted against you because I just don’t like you.”
Banstegeyn was stopped in his tracks. He heard Jevan and Solbli stop at the same time, gravel rasping under their feet. They’d gone silent, poised.
Yegres wandered on, oblivious, for another couple of steps before stopping too. He looked back at Banstegeyn.
“Oh, just kidding you on,” he said, smiling. “The vote was already lost so I joined in to look less … perennially obedient.” He frowned. “But you should realise, Septame; everything is breaking down a little now, including your grip. What worked until now – obligations, understandings, favours owed, the promise of future advancement and the threat of secrets becoming public and so on – they don’t have quite the force they did before.” He shrugged, then smiled broadly. “This is what you wanted, Ban. What you worked for all this time, what you’ve engineered. End of an era. Ha! End of the end of all eras.” He waved both hands this time, spilling a little wine. “School’s breaking up. People are o
ut to play.”
Scoaliera Tefwe, who had been a friend and a lover of Ngaroe QiRia long ago, when he was already a very old man and she had been of conventional middle age – a little under two hundred – woke slowly, as she had woken slowly a few dozen times, over the intervening centuries.
Only it wasn’t really waking slowly; she was being woken.
All dark at first. Stillness and silence too, and yet the sensation that things were happening nearby, and inside her head and body; organs and systems and faculties being woken, revived, checked, primed, readied.
It was at once reassuring and somehow disappointing. Here we go again, she thought. She opened her eyes.
SIMULATION, said the glowing red letters along the bottom of her field of vision. Ah, she thought, whereupon the word faded away.
So she was still sort of asleep, after all. But her consciousness and sense of embodiment were being woken up.
She was, apparently, already sitting, fully dressed, in a chair facing a table in a large, pleasant-looking room of some antiquity with a view – to one side, through opened floor-length windows – over mountains lined with trees and a lake whose shore was lined with villages. The wakes of a few boats left long white Vs on the wind-ruffled waters.
At the other end of the table from the windows, there was a time display in an ornate wooden case. She looked at the date.
My, that had been a long sleep.
Across the table from her there was a chair. When she looked away from the time display, a figure hazed from nothing through transparency into seeming solidity over the course of a couple of seconds. The small, pale, androgynous figure now sitting opposite her appeared to be the avatar of the LSV You Call This Clean? This was reassuring; she was still where she might have expected to be. The calm conventionality of the whole being-woken process had been a fairly infallible sign that nothing was likely to be too wrong, but this helped confirm it.