Consider Phlebas

by Iain M. Banks

  The Culture was different. Horza could see no end to its policy of continual and escalating interference. It could easily grow for ever, because it was not governed by natural limitations. Like a rogue cell, a cancer with no ‘off’ switch in its genetic composition, the Culture would go on expanding for as long as it was allowed to. It would not stop of its own accord, so it had to be stopped.

  This was a cause he had long ago decided to devote himself to, Horza told himself, listening to Fwi-Song droning on. Also, a cause he would serve no more, if he didn’t get away from the Eaters.

  Fwi-Song talked for a little longer, then – after a word from Mr First – had his litter turned round so that he could address his followers. Most of them were either being very ill or looking it. Fwi-Song switched to the local language Horza didn’t understand, and gave what was evidently a sermon. He ignored the occasional bout of vomiting from his flock.

  The sun dipped lower over the ocean, and the day cooled.

  The sermon over, Fwi-Song sat silently on his litter as, one by one, the Eaters came up to him, bowed and spoke earnestly to him. The prophet’s dome-like head wore a large smile, and every now and again it would nod with what looked like agreement.

  Later, the Eaters sang and chanted while Fwi-Song was washed and oiled by the two women who had helped officiate at Twenty-seventh’s death. Then, his vast body gleaming in the rays of the falling sun, Fwi-Song was carried, waving cheerfully, off the beach and into the small forest beneath the island’s single stunted mountain.

  Fires were stoked and wood was brought. The Eaters dispersed to their tents and camp fires, or set off in small groups with crudely made baskets, apparently to gather fresh debris they would later try to eat.

  At about sunset, Mr First joined the five quiet Eaters who sat around the fire Horza was by now tired of facing. The emaciated humans had taken little or no notice of the Changer, but Mr First came and sat near the man tied to the post. In one hand he held a small stone, in the other some of the artificial teeth Fwi-Song had used on Twenty-seventh earlier that day. Mr First sat grinding and polishing the teeth while he talked to the other Eaters. After a couple of them had gone to their tents, Mr First went behind Horza and undid the gag. Horza breathed through his mouth to get rid of the stale taste, and exercised his jaw. He shifted, trying to ease the accumulating aches in his arms and legs.

  ‘Comfortable?’ Mr First said, squatting down again. He continued to sharpen the metal fangs; they flickered in the firelight.

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ Horza said.

  ‘You’ll feel worse, too . . . friend.’ Mr First made the last word sound like a curse.

  ‘My name’s Horza.’

  ‘I don’t care what your name is.’ Mr First shook his head. ‘Your name doesn’t matter. You don’t matter.’

  ‘I had started to form that impression,’ Horza admitted.

  ‘Oh, had you?’ Mr First said. He got up and came closer to the Changer. ‘Had you really?’ He lashed out with the steel teeth he held in his hand, catching Horza across the left cheek. ‘Think you’re clever, eh? Think you’re going to get out of this, do you?’ He kicked Horza in the belly. Horza gasped and choked. ‘See – you don’t matter. You’re just a hunk of meat. That’s all anybody is. Just meat. And anyway,’ he kicked Horza again, ‘pain isn’t real. Just chemicals and electrics and that sort of thing, right?’

  ‘Oh,’ Horza croaked, his wounds aching briefly, ‘yes. Right.’

  ‘OK,’ Mr First grinned. ‘You remember this tomorrow, OK. You’re just a piece of meat, and the prophet’s a bigger one.’

  ‘You . . . ah, don’t believe in souls, then?’ Horza said diffidently, hoping this wouldn’t lead to another kick.

  ‘Fuck your soul, stranger,’ Mr First laughed. ‘You’d better hope there’s no such thing. There’s people that are natural eaters and there’s those that are always going to get eaten, and I can’t see that their souls are going to be any different, so as you’re obviously one of those that are always going to get eaten, you’d better hope there isn’t any such thing. That’s your best bet, believe me.’ Mr First brought out the rag he had taken from Horza’s mouth. He tied it back there, saying, ‘No – no soul at all would be the best thing for you, friend. But if it turns out you have got one, you come back and tell me, so I can have a good laugh, right?’ Mr First pulled the knotted rag tight, hauling Horza’s head against the wooden stake.

  Fwi-Song’s lieutenant finished sharpening the sets of gleaming metal teeth, then rose and spoke to the other Eaters sitting around the fire. After a while they went to some of the small tents, and soon they were all off the beach, leaving only Horza to watch the few dying fires.

  The waves crashed softly on the distant surf-line, stars arced slowly above, and the dayside of the Orbital was a bright line of light overhead. Shining in the starlight and the O-light, the silent, waiting bulk of the Culture shuttle sat, its rear doors open like a cave of safe darkness.

  Horza had already tested the knots restraining his hands and feet. Shrinking his wrists wouldn’t work; the rope, twine or whatever they had used was tightening very slightly all the time; it would just take up the slack as quickly as he could produce it. Perhaps it shrank when drying and they had wet it before tying him. He couldn’t tell. He could intensify the acid content in his sweat glands where the rope touched his skin, and that was always worth a try, but even the long night of Vavatch probably wouldn’t give enough time for the process to work.

  Pain isn’t real, he told himself. Crap.

  He awoke at dawn, along with several of the Eaters, who walked slowly down to the water to wash in the surf. Horza was cold. He started shivering as soon as he woke, and he could tell that his body temperature had dropped a long way during the night in the light trance required for altering the skin cells on his wrists. He strained at the ropes, testing for some give, the slightest tearing of fibres or strands. There was nothing, just more pain from the palms of his hands where some sweat had run down onto skin unchanged and therefore unprotected from the acid his sweat glands had been producing. He worried about that for about a second, recalling that if he was ever to impersonate Kraiklyn properly he would need to lift the man’s finger and palm prints and so would need his skin in perfect Changing condition. Then he laughed at himself for worrying about that when he wasn’t even likely to see the day out.

  He vaguely considered killing himself. It was possible; with only a little internal preparation, he could use one of his own teeth to poison himself. But, while there was still any chance, he could not bring himself to think of it seriously. He wondered how Culture people faced the war; they were supposed to be able to decide to die, too, though it was said to be more complicated than simple poison. But how did they resist it, those soft, peace-pampered souls? He imagined them in combat, auto-euthanising almost the instant the first shots landed, the first wounds started to appear. The thought made him smile.

  The Idirans had a death trance, but it was only for use in cases of extreme shame and disgrace, or when a life’s work was completed, or a crippling disease threatened. And unlike the Culture – or the Changers – they felt their pain to the full, undampened by genofixed inhibitors. The Changers regarded pain as a semi-redundant hangover from their animal evolution; the Culture was simply frightened of it; but the Idirans treated it with a sort of proud contempt.

  Horza looked across the beach, over the two big canoes towards the open rear doors of the shuttle. A pair of brightly coloured birds were strutting around on its top, making little ritualised movements. Horza watched them for a while, as the Eaters’ camp gradually woke up and the morning sun brightened. Mist rose from the thin forest and there were a few clouds, high up in the sky. Mr First came yawning and stretching out of his tent, then took the heavy projectile pistol out from under his tunic and fired it in the air. This seemed to be a signal for all the Eaters to wake and set about their daily business if they hadn’t already done so.

 
The noise of the crude weapon frightened the two birds on the roof of the Culture shuttle; they took to the air and flew away over the trees and shrubs, around the island. Horza watched them go, then let his eyes drop, staring at the golden sand and breathing slow and deep.

  ‘Your big day, stranger,’ Mr First said with a grin, coming up to the Changer. He put the pistol into the string holster under his tunic. Horza looked at the man, but said nothing. Another feast in my honour, he thought.

  Mr First walked around Horza, looking down at him. Horza followed him with his eyes where he could and waited for the man to spot whatever damage the acid-sweat had succeeded in inflicting on the rope round his wrists, but Mr First didn’t notice anything, and when he reappeared in Horza’s view he was still smiling slightly, nodding his head a little, seemingly satisfied that the man tied to the stake was still well enough restrained. Horza did his best to stretch, straining at the bonds at his wrists. There was not even a hint of give. It hadn’t worked. Mr First left, to supervise the launching of a fishing canoe.

  Fwi-Song was brought out of the forest on his litter not long before noon, as the fishing canoe was returning.

  ‘Gift of the seas and air! Tribute of the great Circlesea’s vast wealth! See what a wondrous day awaits you now!’ Fwi-Song had himself brought up to Horza, and was put down to one side of the fire. He smiled at the Changer. ‘All the night you have had time to think of what the day now holds; for all the darkness you have been able to look into the fruits of the Vacuum. You have seen the spaces between the stars, seen how much there is of nothing, how little there is of anything. Now you can appreciate what an honour lies in store for you; how lucky you are to be my sign, my offering!’ Fwi-Song clapped his hands with delight, and his enormous body shook up and down. The chubby hands went to his mouth as he spoke, and the folds of flesh over his eyes lifted momentarily to reveal the whites within. ‘Ho-hoo! What fun we all shall have!’ The prophet made a sign, and his litter carriers took him down to the sea to be washed and anointed.

  Horza watched the Eaters prepare their food; they gutted the fish, throwing away the meat and keeping the offal and skins, heads and spikes. They removed the shells from the animals inside and threw the animals away. They ground up the shells with the weeds and some brightly coloured sea slugs. Horza watched all this happen in front of him, and saw just how run-down the Eaters really were; the scabs and sores, the deficiency diseases and general weakness. The colds and coughs, peeling skin and partly deformed limbs all spoke of a very gradually fatal diet. The dead meat and animals from the sea were returned to the waves via great blood-soaked baskets. Horza watched as closely as his gag and the distance would allow, but none of the Eaters seemed to take a surreptitious bite of the raw meat as they threw it from the baskets into the waves.

  Fwi-Song, being dried on the sand just up the beach from the line of breakers, watched the food being thrown into the sea and nodded with approval, speaking quiet words of encouragement to his flock. Then he clapped his hands, and the litter was slowly carried along the beach to the fire and the Changer.

  ‘Offertory thing! Benefaction! Prepare yourself!’ Fwi-Song warbled, settling down in his litter with little movements which sent ripples all over the great folds and sweeps of his massive body. Horza started to breathe harder, felt his heart pound. He swallowed, and strained again at the rope holding his hands. Mr First and the two women were digging at the sand for the thin robes in their buried sacks.

  All the Eaters gathered round the fire, facing Horza. Their eyes looked black or vaguely interested, nothing more. There was a listlessness about their actions and expressions which Horza found even more depressing than outright hatred or sadistic glee would have been.

  The Eaters began to chant and sing. Mr First and the two women were twisting the dull lengths of cloth around their bodies. Mr First looked at Horza and grinned.

  ‘Oh happy moment in the ending days!’ Fwi-Song said, raising his voice and hands, his choked tones ringing out towards the centre of the island. The smells of the Eaters’ foul cooking drifted past the Changer again. ‘Let this one’s unmaking and making be a symbol for us!’ Fwi-Song continued, letting his arms drop back in enormous rolls of white flesh. The golden-brown surfaces gleamed in the sunlight as the prophet clasped his fat fingers together. ‘Let his pain be our delight, as our unmaking shall be our joining; let his flaying and consummation be our satisfaction and delectation!’ Fwi-Song raised his head and spoke loudly in the language the others understood. Their chanting altered and grew louder. Mr First and the two women approached Horza.

  Horza felt Mr First take the gag from his mouth. The pale-skinned man spoke to the two women, who went to the bubbling vats of stinking liquid. Horza’s head was feeling very light; there was a taste he knew too well at the back of his throat, as though some of the acid from his wrists had somehow found its way to his tongue. He strained again at his bonds behind him, feeling the muscles shake. The chanting went on; the women were ladling the foul broth into bowls. His empty stomach was churning already.

  There are two main ways to escape bonds apart from those open to non-Changers [the Academy’s lecture notes said]: by acid-sweat pulse on a sustained level where the binding material is susceptible to such an attack, and by malleable preferential tapering of the limb-point involved.

  Horza tried to coax a little more strength from his tired muscles.

  Excessive acid-sweating can damage not only the adjacent skin surfaces, but also the body as a whole through dangerously altered chemical imbalances. Over-much tapering poses the risk of the muscles being so wasted and the bone so weakened that their subsequent use may be severely restricted in the short- and long-term escape attempt.

  Mr First was approaching with the wooden blocks he would fit into Horza’s mouth. A couple of the larger Eaters had stood up near the front of the crowd and advanced slightly, ready to assist Mr First. Fwi-Song was reaching behind his back. The women started forward from the bubbling vats.

  ‘Open wide, stranger,’ Mr First said, holding out the two wooden blocks. ‘Or do we use a crowbar?’ Mr First smiled.

  Horza’s arms strained. His upper arm moved. Mr First saw the movement and halted momentarily. One of Horza’s hands jerked free. It shot round in an instant, nails ready to rake Mr First’s face. The pale-skinned man drew back, not quickly enough.

  Horza’s nails caught Mr First’s robe and tunic as they flapped out from his dodging body. Already straining as far out from the stake as he could, Horza felt his clawed hand rip through the two layers of material without connecting with the flesh underneath. Mr First staggered back, bumping into one of the women carrying the bowls of stinking gruel, knocking it from her hands. One of the wooden wedges sailed from Mr First’s hand and landed in the fire. Horza’s arm completed its swing just as the two Eaters in the front of the crowd came forward quickly and caught the Changer by the head and arm.

  ‘Sacrilege!’ Fwi-Song screamed. Mr First looked at the woman he had bumped into, at the fire, at the prophet, then back with a furious look at the Changer. He lifted one arm to look at the tears in his robe and tunic. ‘The gift-filth desecrates our vestments!’ Fwi-Song shouted. The two Eaters held Horza, pinning his arm back where it had been and his head to the stake. Mr First started towards Horza, taking the gun out from under his tunic and holding it by the barrel, like a club. ‘Mr First!’ Fwi-Song snapped, stopping the pale-skinned man in his tracks. ‘Shtand gack! Hold gat am out; ee’ll show gish naught goy how we geel wish hish short!’

  Horza’s free arm was straightened out in front of him. One of the Eaters holding him put his leg round the back of the post, bracing himself there and trapping Horza’s other hand where it was. Fwi-Song had a set of gleaming steel teeth in his mouth, the holed ones. He glared at the Changer while Mr First stepped back, still holding the projectile pistol. The prophet nodded to another two Eaters in the crowd; they took Horza’s hand and prised the fingers apart, tying that wrist to a pole.
Horza felt his whole body shake. He cut off all feeling in that hand.

  ‘Naughty, naughty gisht ’rom the shee!’ Fwi-Song said. He leant forward, buried Horza’s index finger in his mouth, closed the stripper teeth over them, cutting into the flesh, and then pulled quickly back.

  The prophet chewed and swallowed, watching the Changer’s face as he did so, and frowning. ‘Not gery tashty, genegiction ’rom the oceansh currentsh!’ The prophet licked his lips. ‘An’ not shore enush ’or you, eisher, sho it wood sheen? Letch shee ’ot elsh nee can . . .’ Fwi-Song was frowning again. Horza looked past the Eaters holding him to the hand stretched out over the pole, one finger stripped bare, the bones limp, blood dripping from the thin tip.

  Beyond that, Fwi-Song sat frowning on his litter on the sand, Mr First near his side, still glaring at Horza and holding the gun barrel. As Fwi-Song’s silence continued, Mr First looked at the prophet. Fwi-Song said, ‘. . . not elsh nee can . . . nee can . . .’ Fwi-Song reached up and took the stripper teeth with some difficulty from his mouth. He laid them in front of him with the rest on their rag, and put one pudgy hand to his throat, the other onto the vast hemisphere of his belly. Mr First looked on, then back at Horza, who did his best to smile. The Changer opened his teeth glands and sucked poison.

  ‘Mr First . . .’ Fwi-Song began, then put out the hand on his belly towards the other man. Mr First seemed uncertain what to do. He transferred the gun from one hand to the other, and took the prophet’s offered hand with his free one. ‘I think I . . . I . . .’ Fwi-Song said, as his eyes started to open from slits to small ovals. Horza could see his face changing colour already. Soon the voice, as the vocal cords react. ‘Help me, Mr First!’ Fwi-Song took hold of a lump of fat round his throat as though trying to undo a scarf tied too tightly; he stuck his fingers into his mouth, down his throat, but Horza knew that wouldn’t work; the prophet’s stomach muscles were already paralysed – he couldn’t vomit the poison up. Fwi-Song’s eyes were wide now, glaring white; his face was going grey-blue. Mr First was goggling at the prophet and still holding his huge hand; his own was buried somewhere inside the great golden fist of Fwi-Song’s. ‘He-ll-p!’ squeaked the prophet. Then nothing but choking noises. The white eyes bulged, the vast frame shook, the dome-head went blue.