Against a Dark Background

by Iain M. Banks

  As soon as her back pressed into the snow her tongue started to slip down her throat, but then the young man turned her over on her side and she could breathe again.

  “Don’t go away, now,” she heard him say. His footsteps sounded in the snow, fading behind her.

  He had lain her down where she could see Miz’s face. She wanted to look at it for just a little longer.

  Then the one squatting by Miz took out a long viblade knife and put it to his neck. She closed her eyes.

  When the humming noise stopped and a few more seconds had passed, she opened her eyes again to see the second young man walk past her, carrying a bag.

  The noise of the jets was suddenly very close. Their engines shrieked and a great bustling, tumbling cloud of dusty white rolled across the stone square.

  Miz’s beheaded body leaked blood onto the snow.

  Her tears trickled onto the snow, too. The paralysis meant that she couldn’t sob.

  They put her on a stretcher and carried her toward the bomb-hold of one of the two heavy VTOL bombers, along with their loot from the tower and the equally paralyzed body of Feril.

  She was still lying on her side when they carried her across the square, so she was the first to see Dloan sitting at the edge of the trees not far from where she, Miz and the android had emerged a quarter of an hour earlier.

  Dloan sat observing the scene, out in the open where he was easily visible and apparently unarmed. Even from that distance she thought she saw in the way he sat there, in his posture and bearing, something hopeless and terrified and alone.

  She watched him watching them all, with no tears left to cry.

  Somebody saw Dloan; she heard shouts. Guns were turned toward him. Dloan stood slowly, as though weary. He took something from his pocket and aimed deliberately at the men on the stone square.

  He didn’t have to fire; Sharrow heard projectile rifles and lasers crack and snap all around her, and she saw Dloan jerk and shake and fall in a small storm of kicked-up flurrying snow.

  The firing stopped quickly and he lay still.

  They carried her into the belly of the great dark aircraft.

  23

  All Castles Made Of Sand

  “Of course, I personally—the two of us—bore Mister Kuma no personal ill-will. But you know how it is; orders are orders, eh? Shame about the old Solipsists, too, but such is life; they got involved beyond their depth. We only hired them to attack the Land Car but then they went and got ideas about beating you to the Gun. They should have backed out when they were told to. But, hey, there I go; I don’t want to anticipate whatever Molgarin may choose to tell you. That’s where we’re heading now, my lady, to Molgarin’s Keep in the cold desert beyond the Embargoed Areas, in Lantskaar!” he said, pronouncing the word with a kind of hammy relish. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

  There were sixteen people secured within the brightly lit bomb-hold of the leading bomber, strapped tightly against its walls in bucket seats: Sharrow, Feril, the two identical young emissaries in their smart red-brown uniforms and twelve efficiently anonymous men in blanked camouflage suits, mostly armed with lasers and micro rifles. One carried a stun rifle; presumably that was what they had turned on her. She could see properly only because she was so tightly strapped in, her head held back against the bulkhead behind her by a harness. This was not a special security measure for her; the rest of the hold’s passengers were similarly tied down. Only she and Feril did not have a quick-release handle clenched in their hands.

  The booty from the tower sat webbed and tensioned in front of them in the center of the hold. The boxes and various indecipherable pieces of apparatus bounced and jiggled against their restraints as the airframe around them bucked and swerved and sank and rose, all accompanied by an enormous tearing, screaming noise.

  The young emissary had to shout above the racket. “Don’t worry about being intercepted by the Rebel States forces or the Security Franchisers; we have an understanding with the former and the latter can’t track us.” He rolled his eyes to indicate the aircraft. “We’re currently doing over three times the speed of sound at little more than tree-top height. They tell me traveling at this speed so close to the ground is such a terrifying experience for pilots—and the chances of them being able to correct a mistake by the terrain-following automatics so remote—that it’s considered kinder to black out the cockpit screens altogether!”

  He was silent for a moment, then chuckled as a particularly violent maneuver rammed him and Sharrow hard back against the metal wall. The equipment from the tower seemed to hang above her and the young emissary; she could see the webbing holding it in place going taut and starting to stretch. “Gosh,” the young man said, his voice sounding strained as he fought to speak against the pressing g-force. A roaring noise louder than the bomber’s engines was drowning him out anyway. “Hope that stuff’s properly secured. Eh, Lady Sharrow? Or we’re both meat paste!”

  She was still trying to work out if this meant he wasn’t an android after all, or if it was just an attempt to deceive her, when she blacked out.

  She awoke to open air and the jangling sensation of feelings returning; her flesh sparkled with pain, like a million tiny pinpricks. Even her teeth hurt. She was being carried by two soldiers; one held her under the knees, the other under her armpits. One of the young emissaries was at her side, taking deep breaths and slapping himself on the chest, then rubbing his hands together.

  She was carried out from beneath the shadow of the bomber. It had landed on a gritty, dusty desert; the air felt powder-dry and bitterly cold. There were low, ash-gray mountains a few kilometers off, forming a bowl round the clinker-dark plain, which was empty save for the two sleek, black aircraft and a few trucks and other vehicles. She saw other, smaller shapes curving through the heavy gray skies above the encircling mountains.

  The emissary saw her trying to move her head, and beamed a broad smile at her as the two soldiers heaved her into a small open car.

  “Back with us again, Lady Sharrow?” He held his arms out wide and spun round, boot heels grinding on the grit. “Welcome to Lantskaar!” he said. He leaned on the side of the little open car. “And to Molgarin’s Keep.”

  He watched her trying to look around the featureless desert and the barren hills around it. He laughed. “It’s all underground,” he said, climbing in beside her. She saw Feril being carried out of the bomber’s hold by a quartet of soldiers. “Though there are,” the young emissary said, waggling his eyebrows at her, “some incredibly ancient force-field projector-walls which can spring up to trap the unwary in the event of an attack.” The car jerked and rolled forward, heading for a long rectangular hole in the plain. “Believe me,” the young man said, “you don’t want to be standing astride one of those when they power up, let me tell you.”

  He chuckled again as the car angled down a ramp into a dully lit tunnel. The tunnel curved, spiraling down into the ground; a series of huge, meter-thick doors swung or irised open for them. The car’s motor whined; behind, she could hear the deeper notes of what she guessed were the trucks. After a while her ears popped. The young emissary started to whistle.

  There was a huge, echoing underground vehicle park, full of cars, trucks, light-armored transports and tanks. She was carried to an elevator that descended to what looked like the foyer of a hotel. Her skin still tingled and her muscles felt like jelly as they put her in a wheelchair, secured her and pushed her along a gently lit corridor to what smelled like a clinic.

  A male nurse rose from a desk and nodded to the emissary, who patted her on the head and said, “She’s all yours, matey.”

  She was pushed into a surgery. Her heart thudded as she saw an operating table through a glass screen. A female doctor and two female orderlies appeared, pulling on gloves.

  The doctor put something cold to the back of her neck, muttered something, then came round and squatted on her haunches in front of her. “I think you can hear me,” she said, talking quite loudly
. “We’re just going to get you washed and cleaned, do a proper check-up and then let you sleep for a while. All right?”

  She stared at the woman; middle-aged, a little plump, hair bunned; brown eyes. She had no idea whether what she’d just been told was the truth or a lie.

  The two orderlies stripped her, removed the bandage on her hand, cleaned the wound and put a temporary dressing on it before they washed her in a warm pool. They dried her with towels; efficiently, neither gently nor roughly. They helped her to stand, then slipped a plain white shift over her head. They supported her from either side and made her take a few unsteady steps, then took her through to a couch. The doctor she’d seen earlier ran nerve-response tests which tingled but did not hurt. She re-dressed the hand-wound and took a small sample of blood in a vial, which she slotted into an analyzer. The doctor asked Sharrow to speak. She tried but only drooled. The doctor patted her arm.

  “Never mind; you should be all right in the morning.” She prepared a gas-syringe and put it to Sharrow’s neck.

  The last thing she remembered was the gentle jolting of the wheelchair being trundled along an unseen corridor that seemed to go on forever.

  She awoke in a snug bed. She saw a time display in the darkness that indicated it was early evening. A glowing patch alongside proved to be a light switch.

  She was in a small room furnished like a cabin. She was lying on her side, curled up in an alcoved bed with a shallow wooden panel down half the open side. She was wearing the shift they had dressed her in earlier. She tried moving her arms and legs, then sat up and after a pause swung her legs out of the bed, holding on to the wall as she stood.

  The carpet beneath her feet was deep and rich. The air was warm. The room held a recessed bookcase full of repro books, a desk and chair, a screen that didn’t work and a wardrobe full of clothes all of which were her size. Attached was a bathroom with various toiletries, though nothing that could cut.

  There were no windows; air came silently from porous tiles in the ceiling. It was so quiet she could hear her heart beat. A lump of black glass the size of an eyeball was wedged in a top corner of the room, from where it would have a view of everything except the bathroom.

  She tried the door; it was locked. She felt weak and sat down on the bed, then lay down and fell asleep again.

  The Lazy Gun came to her in her dreams. It looked like a man, but she knew it was the Lazy Gun. They were sitting in the small cabin in Molgarin’s Keep where she was sleeping.

  Hello.

  . . . Hello.

  So, what would you like to know? said the Gun.

  What do you mean?

  What would you like to know? the Gun repeated patiently.

  She looked around. Where is Cenuij? she asked it.

  Dead, of course, it said. What else?

  What about the others?

  They’re dead, too.

  I know, but where are they?

  The dead aren’t anywhere. Unless you count the past.

  Won’t I see them again?

  Only in your dreams. Or recordings.

  She started to cry.

  You are the last one, the Gun told her.

  What?

  You are the last one. You are the last of the eight. You are just like me; I am the last of the eight as well. You are me and I am you. We are one.

  No I’m not, I’m me.

  Yes, you are you, the Gun agreed. But you are me, too. And I am you.

  She kept crying, not knowing what to say. She wanted to wake up but didn’t know how to.

  Listen, said the Gun. Is there anything I can do?

  What?

  Is there anything I can do? Just tell me.

  What can you do?

  Destroy things. All I can do is destroy things. It’s the only thing I’m any good at. Would you like me to destroy something?

  I want you to destroy everything! she screamed. Every fucking thing! All the evil men and compliant women, all the armies and companies and cults and faiths and orders and every stupid fucker in them! All of them! EVERYTHING!

  I can’t destroy all of everything, but I could destroy a lot of it.

  You’re being stupid.

  I’m not; I could destroy lots of things and people, but not all of them.

  You’re mad, she said, wanting very much to wake up now.

  Neither of us is mad, Lady Sharrow, the Gun said.

  The man got up to leave the cabin.

  Anyway, we’ll see what we can do.

  What do you mean? she said.

  About destroying everything. We’ll see what we can do.

  She clenched her injured hand, trying to wake herself with the pain, but it wasn’t sore enough.

  What are you? she asked it.

  The man was at the door. I’m you, the Gun said. I’m the last of the eight.

  It winked at her.

  We’ll see what we can do.

  Now go to sleep.

  She awoke to a smell of food and saw a laden tray sitting on the desk. She just missed seeing whoever had left it; the room’s door clicked shut with a solid, massive sound and sucked itself tightly closed.

  She lay there, thinking about the dream she had had, and shivered. Then the smell wafting from the tray dragged her back to the immediate.

  The tray contained a breakfast sufficient for two hungry people; she ate all of it. It was mid-morning. The screen was working, so she watched the news.

  The Huhsz were in trouble because they’d irradiated senior officials on Golter, Miykenns and Nachtel’s Ghost; the World Court was under severe pressure to allow the terminally afflicted bureaucrats access to wartime restricted medical technology. The Court in turn was leaning heavily on the Huhsz for apologies, scapegoats, financial recompense and guarantees of future behavior, all of which the Order seemed comprehensively unwilling to give. The World Shrine was virtually under siege and there was talk of force being used; Huhsz cantonment defenses and Lay Reserves Martial throughout the system had been mobilized.

  There was a news blackout around the Embargoed Areas and the Security Franchise, with rumors of an air clash between the Franchise forces and the Rebel States. Travel in the far south of Caltasp was restricted.

  People were apparently still talking about and commenting on the attempted assassination—seen live on screen on Nachtel’s Ghost and still being repeated and re-repeated throughout the system—of some new philosopher-guru from the Ghost called Girmeyn.

  She sat closer to the screen, dialed up a news archive and found the filed item from a couple of days earlier; a studio, a live debate; politicians and religious representatives arguing against Girmeyn, and he winning charmingly but decisively.

  Girmeyn looked as she remembered him; black hair and dark eyes, and that strange sense of empowered calmness. Then a figure lunging from the audience, stretching over a table, swinging something. Confusion and shouts and a sequence of brief, wild camera angles, most with people getting in the way; a shot of a vicious-looking sacrificial knife lying bloody on a desk with security officers waving guns behind; Girmeyn bleeding from a head-wound, holding one hand up to it, motioning aides and others out of the way with the other hand and talking to the man being held down.

  Then came a silent shot from behind glass of Girmeyn, head discreetly bandaged, in a room with the same man; just the pair of them sitting in two small seats facing each other, talking, and the man breaking down, putting his head in his hands, and Girmeyn hesitating, then putting his own hand out, touching the man on the shoulder.

  She watched it again, then a third time. The last word on Girmeyn had him in retreat on some asteroid habitat.

  She returned to the current news. The usual small wars and civil conflicts, minor and major disasters and the occasional heartwarming filler item.

  She sat back in the seat, watching the main news items again. She felt dizzy, the way she had when she’d seen the Lazy Gun and looked into that storehouse of ancient treasure under the stone tower.r />
  After a while she shook her head and switched the screen off.

  She showered, and afterward caught sight of herself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror as she toweled behind her back. She stopped and looked at herself. An artificially bald woman in early middle-age. A dressing on one hand. The skin under her eyes dark. A face that had aged recently.

  Alone, she thought. Alone.

  She wondered what was behind the mirror, looking back at her.

  She dressed in a dark suit of trousers and jacket and a pair of heavy, sensible shoes. In the course of dressing she effectively searched the room, but found nothing that would serve as a weapon.

  She sat down eventually and watched some screen; an old fast-paced slapstick comedy that kept her from thinking too much. The smartly uniformed young emissaries came calling at her door half an hour later and invited her to an audience with Molgarin.

  The two young men walked on either side of her. Two guards followed a few paces behind. An elevator took them even further down, pausing occasionally while muffled whirring and thudding noises announced what were probably blast shutters opening and closing.

  Finally a short corridor walled with roll-doors brought them to a shallow ramp leading up to darkness. The guards stayed at the foot of the incline. She walked up between the two young emissaries; they took one of her arms each, gently but firmly. A rumbling noise behind them closed off the light.

  The space they arrived in was a giant circular bunker, black-dark save for a series of twenty or so slit-like projections spaced regularly round the walls, apparently looking out across the cold gray desert to the distant ring of ash-colored mountains she had seen the day before. She wondered if the projections were recorded images, but guessed they were real-time. The sky above the mountains looked clear and thin and blue.

  Distance was hard to estimate, but as they marched her toward the center of the bunker she guessed it wasn’t less than forty meters in diameter. The darkness made the encircling desert views shine, hurting her eyes.