Surface Detail

by Iain M. Banks

  Thanks be for drug glands.

  She hoped whoever had done this got seriously fucked up, by the Culture or the GFCF or somebody. Maybe it was immature to lust after revenge, but fuck that; let the fuckers die horribly.

  Well, let them die.

  She’d compromise that far.

  Evil wins when it makes you behave like it, and all that.

  Very very very hot now, and getting woozy. She wondered if it was oxygen starvation making her feel woozy, or the heat, or a bit of both. Feeling oddly numb; hazy, dissociated.

  Dying. She’d be revented, she guessed, in theory. She’d been backed up; everything up to about six hours ago copied, replicable. But that meant nothing. So another body, vat-grown, would wake with her memories – up to that point six hours ago, not including this bit, obviously – so what? That wouldn’t be her. She was here, dying. The self-realisation, the consciousness, that didn’t transfer; no soul to transmigrate. Just behaviour, as patterned.

  All you ever were was a little bit of the universe, thinking to itself. Very specific; this bit, here, right now. All the rest was fantasy. Nothing was ever identical to anything else because it didn’t share the same spacial coordinates; nothing could be identical to anything else because you couldn’t share the property of uniqueness. Blah blah; she was drifting now, remembering old lessons, ancient school stuff.

  “What’s—?”

  Pathetic last words.

  She thought of Lan, her lover, her love, probably dying just like this, just like her, hundreds of thousands of klicks away in the suffocating heat, surrounded by the cold dark silence.

  She thought she might cry again.

  Instead, she could feel her skin trying to sweat, creating a prickling feeling all over her body. Pain management reduced it from extreme discomfort to mere sensation.

  Her whole body, crying stickily.

  Image to bow out on.

  Thank you and good night …

  “You the fella I need to talk to?”

  “I’m not sure. Who exactly is it you wish to talk to?”

  “Whoever’s in charge round here. That you?”

  “I am Legislator-Admiral Bettlescroy-Bisspe-Blispin III. It is my privilege to command the GFCF forces in this volume. And you?”

  “I’m the passing-for-human face of the Culture warship Falling Outside The Normal Moral Constraints.”

  “You are the Torturer-class vessel we heard was in-bound? Thank goodness! We – the GFCF and our allies the Culture, here in the Tsungarial Disk – have come under heavy and sustained attack. All reinforcements are most welcome and urgently needed.”

  “That was me, sort of. I was just pretending to be a Torturer class.”

  “Pretending? I’m not sure I—”

  “Thing is, short while ago, somebody jumped me. Whole squadron of craft: one capital ship, fourteen others plus ancillary units and slaved weapon platforms. Had to off them all.”

  Bettlescroy stared at the face of the human-looking thing regarding him from the screen on the battle-bridge of the Vision Of Hope Surpassed, his flagship and one of the three Deepest Regrets-class craft under his command. Bettlescroy himself had given the order for the Abundance Of Onslaught and its flotilla of accompanying vessels to open fire on the incoming Torturer-class ship. Communication had been lost with all the craft during the engagement, which had seemed to be going well at first but then had obviously deteriorated. The ships had ceased communication so rapidly it seemed impossible that they had simply been destroyed, so the assumption Bettlescroy and his officers were working on was that some sort of comms blackout had taken place; feverish attempts to contact the ships were taking place even as he spoke.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, they’d lost touch with Veppers, back on Sichult. The last thing they’d heard – minutes before this unwanted call had come in – had been was an unconfirmed report of a large explosion taking place on Veppers’ estate, possibly on the route his aircraft would have taken back to his house. Bettlescroy had been trying to keep calm and not think about what that might imply; now it looked like he had something else to keep calm and not think about.

  “‘Off’ them all?” Bettlescroy said carefully. That couldn’t possibly mean what he dreaded, could it? “I’m sorry, I’m not cognisant of that term’s official weight, as it were. Obviously we were aware there had been some sort of engagement a little way beyond the system’s outer limit …”

  “I was attacked, without provocation,” the human-looking thing on the screen said. “I retaliated. By the time I’d finished retaliating, fifteen ships were gone. Offed. Deleted. Blown to smithereens. Thing is, they looked remarkably like GFCF ships. In every way, really. The biggest and most capable presented as almost exactly like that one you’re on. A Deepest Regrets class, unless I’m mistaken. Weird eh? How do you account for that?”

  “I confess, I cannot. No GFCF craft would ever knowingly attack a Culture vessel.” Bettlescroy could feel his guts churning and his face burning. He was this close to cutting the comms, to give himself time to think if nothing else. Had this … thing just casually obliterated nearly a third of his war fleet? Was it trying to get him to confess something, blurt something out, enrage him with its off-hand attitude? Bettlescroy was very aware of his officers on the bridge keeping extremely quiet; he could feel their gazes on him.

  The human on the screen was talking again: “ … Excuse they had was something about deeming me to be a hostile, just pretending to be a Culture vessel.”

  It was still sinking in. He’d lost a Deepest Regrets-class ship!

  Dear Gods of Old! The faction within the GFCF High Command which had authorised this high-risk strategy had known they risked losing vessels and materiel, but no one had so much as hinted they might lose one of their capital ships; not a pride of the fleet, not a Deepest Regrets class. This whole thing would all have to go fabulously well from this point on if he was to be forgiven for that.

  “I see. Well, indeed. Yes, I see,” Bettlescroy said, stalling while he got himself under control. “Of course, I have to point out that, as you have said, you are – or were – pretending to be a Torturer class, so—”

  “Ah, I get it. You think that might have been the source of the misunderstanding?”

  “Well, you can see how it might be.”

  “Sure. So, were they your ships, or not?”

  Bettlescroy wanted to weep, to scream, to fold himself into a little ball and never talk to anyone ever again. “The operational status of the fleet I was given to command here within the Disk comprises one medium-level, non-military vessel and a screen of eighteen smaller ships. The vessel which you find me on, ah, has just been delivered to us, in recognition of the seriousness of the threat we are facing.”

  “Wow. That’s incredibly fast work. Congratulate your simming/planning/dispositioning people.”

  “Thank you. More than that I am not at liberty to say, I regret.”

  “So what you’re saying is you can’t confirm or deny those were your ships? The ones that attacked me.”

  “Effectively. Though if they were ours and they did attack you, it could only have been a mistake.”

  “Fine. Just thought I’d check. Also, to let you know; I’m still on my way in. Currently braking hard; due with you guys in the Disk in twelve and a half minutes. Just wanted to keep you informed, so there wouldn’t be any more misunderstandings.”

  “Quite. Well, yes, of course. And you are … ?”

  “The Falling Outside The Normal Moral Constraints, like I said. And definitely a Culture ship. That’s the main thing. Feel free to check my provenance and references. Here to help. One of your allies. All in this together. So. Understand things are a bit awkward in there; happy to get stuck in alongside your good selves. Going to let me have an interface situational with your tactical substrates so I can get a head start on the task in hand?”

  “Ah … yes, of course. Relevant protocols agreeing, obviously.”

  �
�Obviously.”

  “But I meant your class, if you’re not a Torturer?”

  “Picket ship. Glorified night-watchman, that’s me.”

  “Picket Ship. Picket Ship. Picket Ship. Yes, I see. Well, welcome aboard, if I may make so bold.”

  “Cheers, person. With you in twelve minutes.”

  Bettlescroy signed to cut the connection. He turned to his Security chief. “We are supposed to be presenting as the Messenger Of Truth. How the fuck could that thing tell we’re actually on a Deepest Regrets class?”

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  Bettlescroy permitted himself a sigh, through a tight, jerky smile. “Well, that would appear to be our motto at the moment, wouldn’t it? We seem to have no idea about anything.”

  The Fleet Coordination Officer cleared his throat and said, “MDV nearest the projected engagement start-point reports incoming weapon blink and battle light, sir. Debris spectra so far indicating ours alone.”

  Bettlescroy nodded silently. He turned to the Disk Fabricaria Control section of the bridge. The lead officer sat at attention. “Tell every second fabricaria to release its ship, immediately; random choice,” Bettlescroy told him. “One half of the remainder to let their ship go within the next quarter-hour to four hours, again randomly, and randomly in time as well, within those parameters. One half of the rest to release theirs between four and eight hours, and so on until it doesn’t matter any more. Do you under-stand?”

  “Sir, most of them—”

  “Will be unprepared and may not even function at all. I know. Nevertheless. Even if they have to be physically ejected by their particular fabricary, do what I have said. Have as many as possible of the most functional equipped with donated AM from the war fleet. Spare nothing; our ships can operate on fusion for a while. Not us, though; not this ship.”

  “Sir.”

  Bettlescroy turned to the bridge comms section and smiled coldly at the chief communications officer. “Get me Veppers. If not Veppers, get me Jasken. I know they’re missing, but just find them. Do whatever it takes.”

  The comms connection was cut and the image of the silkily beautiful Legislator-Admiral Bettlescroy-Bisspe-Blispin III of the GFCF remained frozen before them.

  Demeisen turned to Lededje. “What do you think?”

  “He’s not my species,” she protested. “How should I know?”

  “Yeah, but you must have a feeling; come on.”

  Lededje shrugged. “Lying through his perfect teeth.”

  Demeisen nodded. “Same here.”

  She got fed up trying to finish her meal on the ground, surrounded by fawning, keening worshippers. She sighed, roared at them. A few backed off a little; most stayed where they were. Then, tearing off a haunch, she lifted wearily into the foul-smelling air, carrying the piece of leg as something to gnaw on somewhere else more private. Each wing-beat hurt, her great dark wings seeming to creak.

  It was mid-afternoon by the raw chronologies of Hell, and something like fresh light shone from grey overcast that for once looked tentative rather than dark and heavy. It was as close to direct sunlight as the place ever got, and the air, though still smelling of sewage and burned flesh, was relatively clear.

  The crowd of worshippers was a wide, messy torus, now filling slowly in as the people came forward to gaze on the remains of the one she had killed, possibly looking for clues regarding what might have attracted her to that lucky individual in the first place.

  She had long since given up trying to tell them it was pointless.

  She chose her victims, her blessed, at random. She flew high until she felt physically hungry sometimes, then just dropped, spread her wings over the first person she found. Other times she went to some particular place she’d seen before and noted, and alighted there, waiting for the first one to come to her. She varied where she went and which time of day she chose to make her kills. There was no particular pattern to it; it just happened. Not entirely at random, but not predictable so that one of these benighted wretches could arrange to collate information on where she struck and contrive to be in the right place at the right time.

  Still, people had indeed made a religion of her and her daily killings. As the king of the demons had envisaged and desired, she had brought a little hope back into Hell.

  She thought about stopping, sometimes, but never did, not for more than a day. She had decided at the start that she would release one of these unfortunates from their pains each day, and the few times she had tried to experiment by not killing once per day had left her racked with cramps; gut pains that left her nauseous and barely able to fly. That had only happened three times.

  She still only got to release one soul on the following day; the earlier day’s unused kill didn’t seem to carry over. Any extra she killed were, as ever, resurrected, often almost instantaneously, coming shrieking back to life in their impossibly torn-open bodies, miraculously repairing and reforming themselves before her eyes, while their eyes filled with looks of uncomprehending betrayal.

  The ones she truly killed departed with a look of gratitude she had come to treasure. The expressions on the faces of those who gathered round to watch were of simple envy, a sort of beatific hunger laced with outright jealousy. Sometimes she’d deliberately choose people because they were on their own or only with a few other people, just so she escaped the weight of those death-desiring gazes.

  You could not reason with people in the grip of such a faith. She had tried, but failed. The truth was that she could offer them release; she was an angel who, here, really did exist, and really could offer these people what they most desired. It was not even really faith; it was perfectly reasonable belief.

  She climbed into the high, clear air, chewing on the still-warm haunch of the one she’d released only minutes earlier. The crowd gathering round the body was too small to see now, lost in the scabbed landscapes beneath the drifting clouds of smoke.

  Way off in the distance, something shimmered in a way that she was not sure she had seen here, ever before. Something seemed almost to shine, way over there, towards a line of small mountains, tall cliffs and acid lakes. Not with flame; with what could almost be watery sunlight, if that wasn’t an absurd idea, here in Hell, where there contrived to be light without sun. It looked like a column, like a broad, silvery pillar, half invisible, between land and cloud.

  She took one last gulping bite, then dropped the haunch-bone and struck off for the distant anomaly.

  The column only grew more mysterious the closer she got. It was like a strange irregular curtain of silver draped over the land; a few kilometres across, maybe one deep; a sort of semi-regular shape of what looked like a pure mirror. It had no light of its own, but seemed to reflect all light that touched it. Flying close, she saw her own dark, elongated shape flickering liquidly across its surface.

  She went up through the clouds to see that the pillar extended all the way to the iron sky, tens of kilometres above. The effort made it feel like her muscles were on fire.

  She dropped back through the cloud, landed. Her feet, her legs, all hurt, protesting, as they took her weight. They always did. Her legs hurt when she was on the ground, her wings ached when she was flying, and her whole body grumbled distantly when she hung upside down to rest. She just tried not to think about it.

  There were some chopped-up bodies lying right beside the shimmering curtain of silver, where it met the ground. It looked as though they had been cut with a very sharp blade.

  She picked up a sliced-off leg lying on the ground, threw it at the silvery barrier. It bounced off, as though it had hit solid metal. She picked the leg back up, prodded the barrier. Felt solid. She touched it with one talon. Very solid; iron solid. To the touch, it was a little cold. Again, as cold as iron or steel would have felt.

  One cowering creature nearby squealed as she dragged it from the poison bush it had been trying to hide within. Its pelt was already starting to blister. The little male was emaciated; missing one tr
unk, one eye, his face badly scarred by tooth marks.

  “Did you see this happen?” she demanded, shaking him towards the silent mirror-barrier.

  “It just happened!” he wailed. “All of a sudden! Without warning! Please, ma’am; are you the one who releases us?”

  “Yes. Has anything like this happened here before?” she said, still not letting him go. She knew this area a little. She tried to recall its details. Cliffs; mountains. A munitions factory set into the cliffs … over there. She could see the road that had served it, lined with petrified, very quietly shrieking statues.

  “No! Never seen anything like it! Nobody here has! Please, sacred lady; take me; release me; kill me, please!”

  She looked round. There were a few others, she could see now, all cowering behind whatever cover they could find.

  She let the male go. “I can’t help you,” she told him. “I’ve already killed today.”

  “Tomorrow, then! I’ll wait here tomorrow!” He fell kneeling at her feet, supplicating.

  “I don’t make fucking appointments!” she roared.

  The male stayed where he was, quivering. She gazed up at the shimmering, reflecting curtain, wondering what to make of it.

  Still, she flew back there the next day.

  The mirror curtain was gone. So was the geography she remembered from before it had been there; a barren dusty plain, rising smoothly, replaced everything that had been within the boundary of the shimmering curtain. It joined as best it could with the cliffs and mountains beyond where the mirror-barrier had been, but it looked dropped-in, added-on somehow. A patch.

  She didn’t know what to make of it.

  The scarred male from the day before was still there, where she’d left him, pleading to be released. She sighed, landed, took him into her wings and let his spirit go, taking on yet another additional pain.

  Glitches in Hell. Fucking appointments in fucking Hell. Whatever fucking next?

  “This place is definitely coarsening me,” she muttered to herself as she flew off, clutching another torn-off haunch.