Against a Dark Background

by Iain M. Banks

  Subsequently a modest land boom on the nearby coastal strip, between the Snowy Mountains and the lagoon-dotted coast, pushed property prices up and Piphram’s historically punitive real-estate taxes exaggerated the effect. Then somebody—spotting a loophole in the tax status of the lagoons—thought of using a couple of old car ferries as temporary floating dormitories.

  The two down-at-stern ferries, or rather their marginal situation, had proved to be a seed-point; within the chaos of Golter’s furiously complicated economic ecology, finance—along with its relevant material manifestations—tended to concentrate and crystallize almost instantaneously around any region where the conditions for profit-making were even one shade more promising than elsewhere.

  Thus, the Log-Jam had grown from a few rusty hulks to a fully-fledged city in less than a hundred years; at first the ships were moored together in clumps and people moved between them on small craft, then later the vessels were joined together. Some were welded to each other and some had secondary housing, office and factory units built upon and between them until the individual identity of the majority of the ships began to disappear in the emerging topology of the conglomerative city.

  The Log-Jam now comprised many thousands of ships and a new one was added every few weeks; it had spread to the limits of the first lagoon, then spread out to sea and taken over three other lagoons along the coast, to become home to over two million people. Its main airport—which could be moved as one unit so that it was always on the outskirts of the city—was composed of forty old oil tankers joined side by side, their decks stripped, smoothed and strengthened to take the strats and transport aircraft. Its largely mothballed space port was a collection of ancient oil production platforms, towering at the southernmost end of the city; its docks were a few dozen dry docks, crane-carrying bulk carriers and militarily obsolete fleet auxiliary vessels.

  Eight old aircraft carriers, remnants of a commercial navy, jointly made up Carrier Field, where the V-winged executive jet landed.

  The little plane was quickly towed away and down-lifted to be stored in the bowels of one of the adjoining ex-supertankers which now served as supplementary hangars to the antique carriers.

  Sharrow, Zefla and Dloan looked around the deck of the old ship while a tall, stooped steward with a full beard loaded their baggage onto a whining trolley. The weather was warm and humid and the sun high in a slightly hazy sky.

  “Mornin t’yez,” wheezed the steward, nodding to them. “This your first time t’the Jam, hm?”

  “No,” said Sharrow, scowling.

  “It is mine,” Zefla said brightly.

  “Almost a crime, lovely lady like yerself not visitin the Jam till now, if ye don’t mind me sayin so, ma’am,” the steward told Zefla. He took the control stick at the front of the cart and started to walk away, the cart whining behind him. “Been a good few years an more since we ad the priv’lege of welcomin two such beautiful ladies such as yourselves to the old Jam. Makes the day a better one just seein two such enchantin zamples of the fair sex, it do, an it were a pretty fine day t’begin with. But made the better now with your presence, lovely ladies, like I says. An no mistake.”

  “You are too kind,” Zefla laughed.

  “And talkative,” muttered Sharrow.

  “Wha’s that, ma’am?”

  “Nothing,” Sharrow said.

  They followed the tall steward across the deck of the field toward the superstructure that had been one of the old carriers’ command island and was now the arrivals hall. A line of laden baggage carts blocked their way. Dloan was looking at them suspiciously.

  Zefla looked round, frowning. “I thought Miz said he’d—”

  A brassy, sonorous musical chord burst from beyond the baggage trolleys; a flock of white seabirds, undisturbed by the jet’s arrival, flew squawking from the superstructure as the sound echoed across the deck. The baggage trolleys jerked into motion as a small tractor unit at one end pulled them away, revealing a twenty-strong ceremonial band sitting behind, all dressed in bright red and gold uniforms and blowing on glittering and extremely noisy instruments.

  Sharrow recognized the tune, but couldn’t remember the name. She looked at Zefla, who shrugged. Dloan was kneeling, a large pistol in his hands, though it was pointed at the deck for the moment as he looked around. The band stood up and started walking toward them, still playing. Dloan had switched his attention to the tall, bearded steward, who was now no longer stooped, and who was taking off his jacket. He threw his hat away, ripped the beard off.

  He stepped forward, went down on one knee in front of Sharrow and took her hand in his.

  “My lady! Our leader!” he exclaimed, and kissed her hand.

  The band were surging round and past them, instruments swinging to and fro, up and down. Dloan had stood and was holstering his pistol. Zefla laughed, her hands over her ears. Sharrow smiled and shook her head as Miz reached into his shirt, produced a bunch of flowers and presented them to her. She accepted them, putting the blossoms to her nose while Miz jumped to his feet.

  He was tall, loose-limbed and his pale brown face—framed by long, straight fair hair—looked younger than it deserved to, and almost determinedly carefree. He had sparkling eyes cratered in a network of fine lines, a thin hook of a nose and a great, grinning mouth with generous lips and uneven teeth.

  “Idiot!” she shouted at him, laughing; the band blared and circled around them.

  He put his arms out, a questioning look on his face. She put the flower stems in her mouth, holding them with her teeth, then went to him, embracing him.

  “Hiya, beautiful!” he shouted over the noise of the band, and lifted her off her feet. He whirled her round once, winking broadly at Zefla and Dloan in turn as he did so. His smile sparkled in the sunlight and seemed to rival the carrier’s deck in extent.

  He set Sharrow back on her feet, still holding her; she pushed her head forward to deposit the flowers on his shoulder, in a curiously animal-like gesture that brought a brief tremor to his face; a sudden expression of something between desire and despair. It was gone in an instant, and only Zefla saw it. The flowers fell between Miz and Sharrow, nestling against their chests.

  “Good to see ya, youngster!” he shouted.

  “Not so young any more,” Sharrow told him.

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Well, I never could hide much from you.”

  “There was a lot you never wanted to,” he leered. He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Oh,” she tutted, pushing him away. The flowers fell toward the deck; he scooped them up easily and with a look of pretended hurt clutched them to his chest. His eyes closed, then he swiveled to bow very formally to Zefla and present them to her instead. Zefla took them and threw them to Sharrow, and while Miz was still watching their trajectory, stepped forward and hugged him, lifting him off his feet and whirling him round, all in the middle of the bellowing, glittering, encircling band.

  “Waaaa!” Miz wailed, as Zefla spun faster.

  Dloan smiled; Sharrow laughed.

  “Ah, Lady Sharrow.”

  “Brother Seigneur.”

  “Doubtless you wish to know the result of our deliberations concerning your proposal.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I am happy to say that the Brethren have agreed. When the property is delivered, your sister will be released.”

  “ Half-sister. And the expenses?”

  “On what is called Commercial Scale Two, I believe. Will that be acceptable?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “We shall have a business agency draw up the contract itself; they will sort out the details with you or your lawyer. Their number will be tagged to this message record.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call them now.”

  “Indeed. Your servant, my lady.”

  The broad face in the holo smiled insincerely.

  A fresh warm wind blew, making the lines of bunting flutter and rustle in gay lines acr
oss the shock of cloudless blue sky. The sea quivered, spangling, and across the sharp, glittering creases of the waves the small yachts came skimming like flat stones, their sails bosoming out and flourishing vivid stripes and bright patterns at the massed spectators. The crowd lining the rails of the ships or seated on the choicer barges roared into the breeze and waved hats and scarves; they threw streamers and let off noisy fireworks.

  The yachts rounded the stand-turn buoy, heeling until their gunwales touched the water, then righted, reset their sails for the new reach and raced off toward the next buoy with the wind directly behind them. Spinnakers blossomed, one by one, snapping and filling like the chests of exotic displaying birds. A few of the yacht crews found time to wave back at the crowd; the people roared again, as though trying to fill the gaudy sails with their breath.

  Miz guided Sharrow through the groups of chattering people on the barge, nodding to faces he recognized and occasionally exchanging greetings but not stopping to make introductions. He was dressed in achingly bright shorts and a short-sleeved shirt only a fraction quieter than the cheers of the crowds on the spectator barges. Sharrow wore a long gauzy dress of pale green; she sported dark glasses and held a parasol; Miz carried her satchel for her.

  Several of the people they passed turned and looked after them, wondering who Miz’s new companion was. Nobody seemed to know, though a few thought she looked vaguely familiar. Miz lifted a couple of drinks from a waiter’s tray, leaving a coin behind, then he nodded toward a pontoon bar where little shell-boats were moored like buds on branches, paid for one and strode down the ramp to the floating deck—again nodding to the parties filling some of the other shell-boats—and set the drinks down on the central table of the boat. He helped Sharrow aboard.

  They sat watching all the bustle of the regatta for a while, drinking their drinks and sampling the sweetmeats and savories the waiters brought round; freshmenters in cat-canoes and sampans glided amongst the shell-boats, selling their own wares.

  She had outlined the situation over dinner at his hotel the previous night, asking him to sleep on it. They and the Francks had dined in the circular funnel restaurant of the old cruise ship, watching the lights of the Log-Jam as they seemed to revolve beneath them.

  They had danced, gone for a last few drinks and inhalants in Miz’s impressively large suite looking out over a floodlit marina, then while the Francks went for a walk on deck, he had walked her to her room, kissing her cheek and leaving, backing off, blowing kisses. She had half expected him to try and stay, or ask her to come back to his suite, but he hadn’t.

  Sharrow looked from the gaudy regatta to Miz’s tanned, grinning face and twirled her parasol.

  “So what have you decided, Miz? Will you come with us?”

  “Yes,” he told her, nodding quickly. He adjusted the shell-boat’s sunshade then took off his own dark glasses. “I do have a little business to attend to here first, however.” He smiled widely, steel-blue eyes scintillating.

  She laughed at his expression; it was so childishly roguish.

  He looked young and healthy and handsome as ever, she thought. There was an energy in him, as though his life held a momentum greater than that of others; the poor kid from the barrios of Speyr come up from nothing and heading higher still, brimming with ideas and schemes and general mischief.

  “What sort of business? Will it take long?” she asked, twirling her parasol to watch the pattern of light and shade it cast on his open, eager face.

  He bit his lips, put one hand over the side of the little shell-boat and dabbled his fingers in the water. “It’s just a little lifting operation,” he said, glancing at her. “Actually, I might be able to expedite it, now you lot are here; bring it forward a bit, if you’ll help.”

  She frowned at the water where his hand trailed. “A lifting operation?” she said. “You gone into the marine salvage business?” She sounded confused.

  He laughed. “No, not that sort of lifting,” he said, and sounded almost embarrassed.

  She nodded. “Oh…that sort of lifting.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What is it you’re going for?”

  He slid along the circular seat to her side, making the shell-boat list. He put his chin on her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear, which was revealed under the mass of swept-back black hair. He breathed her perfume in, closing his eyes, then sensed her moving away from him. He sighed and opened his eyes. She was angled away from him, staring at him over the top of her dark glasses, her huge eyes wide.

  “Say that again,” she said. He looked beyond where she sat, then mouthed the words without actually speaking them.

  She mouthed the words back, and he watched her lips.

  The Crownstar Addendum? her lips said. Her eyes became wider still. He nodded. Sharrow pointed at his chest and mouthed: You Are Fucking Crazy.

  He shrugged and sat back.

  She dropped the parasol to the seat and set the dark glasses on the table, then put one hand under her armpit and the other over her eyes. “This must be the silly season for Antiquities,” she breathed.

  “Don’t you admire my ambition?” Miz laughed.

  She looked at him. “I thought we were going for something difficult. I thought the…article you’re talking about was supposed to be unstealable.”

  “Whisper when you say that last word,” he said quietly, looking around the other shell-boats. “It’s only applied to one thing round here.”

  “What are you going to do with it once you’ve got it?”

  “Well, it started when I was contacted by an anonymous buyer,” Miz said breezily. “But I think I’ll ransom it back to the relevant authorities. That might be safer.”

  “Safer!” she laughed. He looked hurt. “Why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this? I thought you were doing all right here?”

  “I am,” he said, looking insulted. He waved around. “I’m rich; I don’t need to do it.”

  “So don’t!” she said through her teeth.

  “It’s too late to back out now,” he told her. “I have a tame official who’s going to help; he’s terribly excited about it all.”

  “Oh, good grief,” she groaned.

  “It’s so easy,” he said, leaning close to her again. “I thought it was crazy too, when it was first suggested, but the more I looked into it, and found out the truth of where and how it’s stored, the easier I realized it was going to be. It’d be crazy not to do it.”

  “In other words,” she said. “You got bored.”

  “Na,” he said, waving with one hand and looking flattered.

  “So,” she said. “How do you propose to set about this probably suicidal task?”

  “Hey, kid,” he said, beaming a smile at her and putting his arms wide. “Am I the Tech King, or not?”

  “You are, after all, the Tech King, Miz, of course,” she said, a dubious expression on her face. “But—”

  “Look; it’s all set up,” he dropped his voice again and sat closer. “The technical part of it’s over, really; it’s just putting the final human bits of it together that I’ve been working on.” He looked at her carefully, to see how he was doing. “Look,” he said, putting on his most winning smile, “it’ll be fine. I’m serious; there won’t even be a fuss, dammit. They won’t even know the thing’s actually gone until I tell them; this is a totally beautiful plan I have here and you’ll thank me later for letting you become a part of what is not so much a theft but more of a work of art in itself, really. Honestly. And like I say, I can even bring it forward now you guys are here so it’ll all be over by the time we have to start out-running the Huhsz. If you’ll help. Will you help?”

  She looked deeply suspicious. “If you can convince me this plan’s viable and we won’t all spend the rest of our lives on the hand-pumps in some prison-hulk eating plankton, yes.”

  “Ah,” Miz laughed, slapping her knee. “No danger of that.”

  “No?”

  “Na.�
�� He shook his head adamantly. “They’d kill us three and turn you over to the Huhsz for the reward.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  He looked instantly stricken with contrition. “Wo, sorry. That wasn’t very funny, was it?”

  “Am I laughing?” She put her dark glasses back on and sipped her drink.

  Miz pursed his lips. “This stuff about the Huhsz,” he said. “There no other way out?”

  “I stay ahead of them for a year, or get them their Lazy Gun.” She shrugged. “That’s it.”

  “They can’t be bought off?”

  “Certainly they can; by giving them the Gun.”

  “But not with, like, money?”

  “No, Miz. It’s a matter of dogma; faith.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “So?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

  “The answer is no,” Sharrow said patiently. “They can’t be bought off.”

  “Anyway,” Miz said, and tapped her on the shoulder with one finger, a knowing look on his face. “The Tech King has thought up a way of slowing the bad guys down.” He winked at her.

  “Oh yes?”

  “Ever been to the K’lel desert?”

  She shook her head.

  “Or Aïs city?” Miz asked, grinning.

  “Too arid for my taste.” Sharrow smiled, rubbing her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. “I’m a moist kind of girl really, deep down.”

  Miz crossed his eyes for a moment. “Please,” he said, sighing theatrically. He cleared his throat. “I’m serious.” He leaned close again. “These Passports are the World Court extra-specials, aren’t they? The unloseable ones with this weird sort of warp-type hole thingy in them?”

  She frowned. “You’re losing me with all this technical jargon, Tech King.”

  He slapped her thigh gently. “You know what I mean; the nano-event holes left over after the AIT Accident. Each Passport’ll incorporate one of them, won’t it?”