Against a Dark Background

by Iain M. Banks

  The monowheel forded two rivers and swam three.

  Lady Sharrow woke with the dawn.

  The sky was a shroud of low cloud; light drizzle fell. They zipped along the tide-wet shore, leaving their single cryptic track behind on the winter beach. The sky ahead looked dark, solid and certain after the hollow blueness and the overcast’s gray indeterminacy.

  The beach went on into the distance, and she let the speed climb until the monowheel would go no faster. The cockpit closed right over and the noise was still colossal. The streaked sand and water flashed at them and beneath them to be pressed and flung, arcing and falling into the whirling vortex the vehicle left behind as it screamed along the shore, its whole body humming, vibrating like a tensed, quivering animal, their speed so great that its suspension was finally registering bumps and small shocks. She smiled. The dunes to her right were a blur. The velocity read-out indicated that they were traveling at about seventy percent of the speed of sound.

  Feril was hunched over the rear of the liquid glass. She risked a glance. The android’s expressionless face gave no hint of its emotions.

  The beach became uncomfortably bumpy and changed to a mixture of sand and gravel; drizzle sounded on the screen like blasted shot. She relaxed and slowed the car until the cockpit glass opened a hole above her head. The roaring noise was still terrific.

  “You okay?” she shouted.

  “Extremely!” Feril said loudly, and sounded as though it meant it. “What an exhilarating experience!”

  She drove on; three hundred kilometers an hour suddenly seemed terribly slow. Surf boomed to their left as the drizzle became rain and the cloud overhead thickened. She took the monowheel into the dunes in the cloud-dark noon.

  On the far side of a stinking marsh guarded by ancient, crumbling concrete monoliths and a series of weed-scummed lagoons, they came to the fence. It looked dilapidated but still strong. There was a guard tower nearby but it was unoccupied and strung with blow-weed.

  The cold wind moaned through the hexagons in the fence and the metal support legs of the tower.

  They got out of the vehicle. Feril could detect no surveillance devices. She considered using the cannon just for speed, but it would be noisy; she cut the fence’s steel mesh strand by strand with the laser instead. The monowheel curtsied through the hole and they rolled on through the chill levels of marshland beyond.

  She brought the vehicle splashing out of a greasy, polluted stream and charged it up the wet-dark sand to the bottom of a dip between two tall dunes.

  The Sea House lay in the rain-dulled distance, its dark bulk shrouded in squalls and cloud. Its top hundred meters were hidden, the spires and towers vanishing into the murk like the giant trunks of a petrified forest.

  The cold wind gusted; a stench of rotting seaweed flowed around the stationary vehicle like a slimy, stroking hand.

  “ Ah-ha,” said Feril.

  “Yes,” she said, tilting the wheel toward the slope of gravel beach beneath and squeezing the throttle. “ Ah-fucking-ha.”

  The monowheel skimmed easily across the weed and pools in the bay, climbed the greasy stones of the causeway’s steep sides without a pause and came to rest near the middle of the isthmus, facing the Sea House and standing absurdly on its single disc like a resting bird. She climbed out; Feril remained in the vehicle.

  She walked, limping, to the great iron door overhanging the incline at the end of the causeway. Her hands were empty; they shook. Her belly grumbled and she felt faint. The blood pumped and coursed within her, and with each beat of her heart the whole vast edifice seemed to quake and pulse and shiver, as though for all its mountainous solidity the Sea House was merely a projection, something held in the power of her blood-quickened eyes.

  There was no sign that anybody had noticed her approach. Clouds bundled round the House’s crenellated slopes, snagged there and were dragged away again. The rain was cold on her face. She reached the tilted gatehouse and found a heavy stone. She slammed the rock against the great iron door repeatedly. Chips of stone and rust fell together to the damp cobbles. Her muscles ached; the bones in her arms seemed to resonate with each quivering concussion.

  “All right! All right!” a voice said. She dropped the rock and stooped to the opened grille.

  “What do you want?” the voice said from the darkness.

  “In,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Let me in,” she said.

  “Who are you? What’s your name? Have you made an appointment?”

  “No. Let me in. Please let me in. It’s very important.”

  “What? No appointment? This is disgraceful. Certainly not, go away. And if that’s your car, you can’t park there.”

  “Stand away from the door,” she said, stepping slowly backward.

  “What?” said the small, scratchy voice.

  “Stand well away from the door if you want to live,” she called, still walking backward. “Stand back!”

  She turned and ran, waved to the android in the monowheel, then dived to the causeway’s flagstones, her arms over her head.

  The monowheel’s cannon boomed eight times in quick succession; immediately following the first blast there began an answering sequence of eight thunderous explosions. After the last, she got up and ran to the monowheel, which was already moving toward her. Feril put out a hand and hauled her easily into the cockpit.

  She took the controls as Feril leaned back, sending the monowheel curving down the causeway while debris was still falling from the wrecked gatehouse. As the monowheel splashed into the shallow pools among the weed at the bottom of the causeway, the Sea House’s great iron door fell forward in one vast, dusty, smoking piece and slammed into the slope, cracking the causeway and throwing flagstones and cobbles into the air. The rest of the gatehouse’s facade crumbled and slid, collapsing into a smoking pile around the fallen door and leaving a huge broil of dust above a ramp of rubble and a dark, gaping breach.

  The monowheel sped away, charging round the curve of the bay in front of the Sea House’s curtain wall and into the slack retreating waters of the old tide, wading to a point in the towering walls a third of the way round the structure from the wrecked gatehouse.

  “There,” Feril said.

  She turned the vehicle toward the scooped trench of a weed-draped tunnel in the towering granite walls.

  The monowheel crept up the stinking sewage outfall to a portcullis of corroded iron bars. A torrent of dirty water fell from a level halfway up the two-meter diameter grille. She picked up the laser.

  “It looks very rusty,” Feril said. “Try nudging it.”

  She sent the monowheel forward; the iron frame creaked then shifted. She reversed the monowheel quickly. The portcullis fell forward, splashing into the tunnel and releasing the dammed-up pond of sewage behind. She heard it flowing past them, and almost passed out with the smell.

  They traveled another twenty meters up the sewer before reaching a junction beyond which the pipes became too narrow for the monowheel. They looked up; gray light filtered down through a grating. Feril stood on the top of the vehicle and pushed the grating up and back.

  The android climbed out; she passed it the Lazy Gun, then Feril pulled her up to join it. She strapped the Gun to herself while Feril replaced the grating. She handed Feril the laser rifle and kept the pistol for herself.

  They were in a broad, damp gallery; tall windows on one side contained not a single intact pane. Rain gusted in. Moss grew on dulled mosaics underfoot as the woman and the android jogged along to the darkness of a doorway. They turned a corner and ran right into a small monk walking toward them, one iron-manacled hand chained to the wall at his side, his gaze fixed on the steaming bowl he was carrying.

  Sharrow bumped into the monk, splashing the gruel over his habit and the wall at his side. He looked angry for a moment, then his mouth fell open as he saw the android. His brows furrowed as he looked at their chainless hands. He had time to look fright
ened, briefly, before Sharrow cracked his head off the stones above his chain track; he slid unconscious down the wall.

  Feril looked back at the prone figure as they ran on.

  They climbed what seemed a never-ending spiral of steps rising out of a vast gallery, exiting at the top of a massive stone tower and crossing to the main House over a thin stone bridge, high over an ancient deserted dock where dilapidated cranes stood pierced with rust and coated with moss. Thigh-thick lengths of rope lay coiled on the rotting dock-sides like enormous worm-casts.

  They followed the chain system through drafty corridors and dark halls, turning each time the number of rails decreased. They had to hide twice as monks passed them in gloomy corridors. The second group carried rifles and were running in the direction of the distant gatehouse.

  The chain system’s inset hierarchy took them constantly upward and inward, ascending broad, shadowy flights of steps, ramps that spiraled and zigged and zagged higher and higher into the middle then upper levels of the House. Halls and balconies, tunnels and corridors filled the stone-space; their feet sounded off paving-slabs, wooden planks, ceramic tiles and pierced metal. The tracks on the walls were reduced to two, then one as they penetrated the vast building.

  Finally they found a corridor whose walls were quite smooth, with no rails whatsoever. They walked cautiously into a small, walled courtyard ceilinged with chill gray mist where bedraggled plants lay beaded and heavy with moisture. What appeared to be a well in the center of the courtyard looked down into a vast hall where they saw tiny figures moving to and fro. A rancid draft of air rose from the well, bringing the noise of small, alarmed voices.

  They looked round the windows facing onto the hidden garden. Feril nodded at a door in one corner.

  It wasn’t locked. They walked into a short corridor lined with pornographic holos. Feril stopped outside a door. She could hear voices now, too.

  They burst in. The girl in the bed gave a shriek and ducked under the bedclothes. The fat, naked man sitting at the screen whirled round, his eyes wide. A senior brother’s habit lay folded on a chair. She lasered the screen; it had been on sound only. The naked man put his arms up, sheltering himself from the debris of the exploded screen.

  “You have five minutes,” she told him, “to take us straight to any ‘Honored Guests’ who’ve arrived here in the last three days.” She looked at Feril. “Start counting.”

  The fat man sat up, trying to muster his dignity. He took a breath.

  “And you had better fucking know who I mean,” she told him, before he could speak, “or you’re cooked meat.”

  “Daughter,” the man said, standing, his voice confident and controlled. He pointed to the habit on the chair. “At least allow—”

  “Oh, at least nothing,” she said, suddenly angry. She fired the gun at the floor between his feet. Splinters burst from the varnished wood. There was a yelp from beneath the bedclothes and the fat man hopped on one foot, holding the other. His eyes had gone wide again. “Move!” Sharrow yelled.

  They walked through the apartments; the fat brother limped, leaving a trail of blood. She limped after him, frowning at the red spots they were leaving in a trail behind them. She kept looking back. They climbed steps, crossed a terrace underneath a roof of stained glass, and then the fat man pointed a shaking hand at a door.

  She stationed him two meters back from the door, a finger to her lips. “Keep him there,” she told Feril quietly. The android stood behind the naked man, gripping his quivering shoulders. She went to the wall at the side of the door and tested the handle. It turned and she pushed; the door swung open.

  “No!” the fat man screamed, an instant before his torso exploded open through a giant red crater in his midriff. Blood gushed from his mouth as his eyes rolled back and his entrails flooded out. She ducked and rolled across the bottom of the door, firing.

  Feril let go of the man and stepped to the side.

  Sharrow jumped up and stuck her head round the side of the door; Molgarin lay on the floor inside, screaming.

  “You?” she said, frowning.

  Molgarin was propped up on his elbows, howling. He was dressed in a dull habit; the HandCannon lay where he had dropped it. The laser had burned deep into one shin and shattered the other; blood pumped onto a dark carpet.

  He saw her. “Don’t kill me!” he screamed. “Don’t kill me! I’m not immortal! I’m an actor, not some warlord! My name’s Lefin Chrolleser! I worked in a rep company on Tront! I swear! For pity’s sake, please! He made me do it! He made me! I’ll take you to him! Please don’t kill me!” He put his head back, sobbing and spluttering. “God, my legs! My legs!” He looked back at her, eyes streaming, and wailed, “Oh, please don’t kill me, please…I promise I’ll take you to him…”

  Sharrow looked at Feril. “Could you carry him?” she asked.

  The android nodded. “I think so.”

  She burned the man’s leg wound with the laser to stop the blood. His screams echoed through the stained-glass rooms.

  They walked unhindered through the midst of the chained. Nobody followed them. Feril carried the moaning man. She limped in front, following his whispered directions.

  They took a creakingly ancient lift, descending into the bowels of the House down a circular shaft.

  * * *

  He watched the scene at the gatehouse on the monitor. Armed monks swarmed over the wreckage and ran along the walls. Ancient weapons were hauled out from under tarpaulins inside long-neglected towers; geriatric tanks were trundled out of storage and hauled into positions where their rusty cannons could cover the breach.

  He shook his head. He ought to have attended to this. He had been foolish to rely so much—as they had—on the reputation of the place keeping people away.

  He checked the bank of broadcast and subscription-beamed monitors again. Most stations local to southern Caltasp were blanked out. The rest of Golter was reporting on the small war that had broken out with the Rebel States. The Court was keeping a surprisingly firm grip on the relevant facts. His own information was that the war had already gone tactically nuclear, and larger weapons couldn’t be ruled out. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it was depressing and elating at the same time; another pointless war, another increase in Golter’s lamentably high background radiation level and yet more destruction…But this might be the beginning of the end for the World Court. The time might be coming.

  He looked at the House monitor screens. They really ought to have proper security surveillance. There wasn’t even any surviving record of exactly what had happened at the gate; the recording apparatus had been sited in the gatehouse itself.

  The chamber’s rear-interior door chimed. He checked the monitor.

  It was that fool Chrolleser…He started to look away.

  . . . and Sharrow.

  He looked back, stunned.

  Chrolleser looked feverish and sweaty; he held the HandCannon he’d asked to keep after the fiasco in the Keep. It was pointed at Sharrow’s head.

  “Sir!” he gulped. “Sir; look! I have her! And she has brought the Gun!”

  He closed his mouth; it must have fallen open. He pulled the monitor view back. The two were alone in the long corridor that led back to the old elevator shaft. The Gun was strapped to Sharrow’s side. Her eyes looked old and defeated, her face gray and wan. So that was who had wrecked the door! He should have guessed.

  “Come in!” he yelled, punching the door button. He buzzed the Restricted Library, switched the desk camera on and directed the transmission to the Library, then jumped up from his seat and ran across the chamber, up the flight of stone steps and along the balcony to the opening door.

  He skidded to a stop in front of it as Sharrow clicked a magazine back into place in the stock of the HandCannon, cocked the gun and pointed it at a spot between his eyes.

  Behind her Chrolleser seemed to have fainted, head lolling to one side, even though he was still standing up. Then something moved unde
rneath his bulky habit and he bent forward. The actor collapsed to the floor, moaning; the android the team had taken with them from Vembyr slid out from under the back of Chrolleser’s habit, holding a laser rifle.

  He was aware that his mouth had opened again. He stared from Sharrow to Chrolleser to the android, then back to Sharrow again.

  She smiled. “Hello, Geis,” she said. The HandCannon in her bandaged hand barely wavered as she punched him in the jaw with her other fist.

  “No! No, Sharrow! You’ve got the whole thing wrong! I captured Molgarin. He’s my prisoner. Look, I’m just glad you’re safe!” He laughed. “That’s quite a right jab you have there, but come on, this is ridiculous. Sharrow. Untie me.”

  The chamber was big, irregularly shaped on several levels and tall-ceilinged. It was so packed with treasures that it looked like nothing more than a giant junk shop. Geis sat tied to one seat, Molgarin or Chrolleser or whatever his name was to another. The android stood in front of them, the laser rifle in its hand. Geis had bled a little from one side of his mouth. He worked his chin now and again as he talked to her. The other man was mumbling, barely conscious.

  Sharrow walked round the big stone table that dominated the chamber’s central area and on which she had deposited the Lazy Gun. The enormous table was loaded to overflowing with a whole trove of treasures; the less valuable items were not quite priceless.

  She looked up from the casing of the Universal Principles to a rack of weapons she recognized from the undercroft of the tower in the fjord. A system of pulleys kept a load of jewel-encrusted harnesses suspended over the table. The harnesses looked about the right size for bandamyions. On the wall behind were a couple of giant diamond leaf ikons from the time of the Lizard Court. They were each the size of a house and she had read about them in school; they had been missing for three thousand years. There was a small door underneath the two ikons with wall tracks leading from it; the chain system extended even to here.

  She drew her hand over the ceramic cover of a book probably old enough to have predated the first millennium, and looked round the chamber again, rubbing her fingers together. She thought she recognized some of the more classical treasures from the old gold mine store, deep under the Blue Hills in Piphram.