At that instant a skein wave passed around and through it; a sharp, purposeful ripple in space-time.
It stopped thinking for a nanosecond.
A few things produced such waves. Several were natural; collapsing stellar cores, for example. But this wave was compressed, tightly folded; not the massive, swell-long surge created when a star contracted into a black hole.
This wave was not natural; it had been made. It was a signal. Or it was part of a sense.
The drone Sisela Ytheleus 1/2 was helplessly aware of its body, the few kilos of mass it represented, resonating; producing an echoing signal that would transmit back along the radius of that expanding circular disturbance in the skein to whatever instrument had produced the pulse in the first place.
It felt… not despair. It felt sick.
It waited.
The reaction was not long in coming; a delicate, fanning, probing cluster of maser filaments, rods of energy seeming to converge almost at infinity, some distance off to one side from where it had guessed the artifact was, three hundred thousand or so kilometres away…
The drone tried to shield itself from the signals, but they overcame it. It started to shut down certain systems which might conceivably be corrupted by an attack through the maser signal itself, though the characteristics of the beam had not looked particularly sophisticated. Then suddenly the beam shut off.
The drone looked around. Nothing to be seen, but even as it scanned the cold, empty depths of the space around it, it felt the surface of space-time itself tremble again, all around it, ever so slightly. Something was coming.
The distant vibration increased slowly… The insect trapped in the surface tension of the pond would have gone still now, while the water quivered and whatever was advancing upon it — skating across the water's surface or angling up from underneath — approached its helpless prey.
III
The car zipped along, slung under one of the monorails that ran amongst the superconducting coils beneath the ceiling of the habitat. Genar-Hofoen looked down through the angled windows of the car at the clouded framescape below.
God'shole habitat (it was much too small to be called an Orbital according to the Culture's definitive nomenclature, plus it was enclosed) was — at nearly a thousand years old — one of the Affront's older outposts in a region of space most civilisations had long since agreed to call the Fernblade. The small world was in the shape of a hollow ring; a tube ten kilometres in diameter and two thousand two hundred long which had been joined into a circle; the superconducting coils and EM wave guides formed the inner rim of the enormous wheel. The tiny, rapidly spinning black hole which provided the structure's power sat where the wheel's hub would have been. The circular-sectioned living space was like a highly pressurised tyre bulging from the inner rim, and where its tread would have been hung the gantries and docks where the ships of the Affront and a dozen other species came and went.
The whole lot was in a slow, distant orbit about an otherwise satellite-less brown dwarf mass just too small to be a proper star but which had long had the honour of being in exactly the right place to further the continuing expansion and consolidation of the Affront sphere of influence.
The monorail car rushed towards a huge wall spread entirely across the view ahead. The rails disappeared into a small, circular door, which opened like a sphincter as the car approached, then closed again behind it. It was dim in the car for a while as it traversed a short tunnel, then another door ahead of it dilated and it shot out into a huge open, mist-filled space where the view just disappeared amongst clouds and haze.
The interior of God'shole habitat was sectioned off into about forty individually isolable compartments, most of them crisscrossed by a web-work of frames, girders and tubular members, partly to provide additional strength for the structure but partly because these created a multitude of places for the Affront to anchor the nest spaces that were the basic cellular building-block of their architecture. There were more open compartments every few sections along the habitat, filled with little more than layers of cloud, a few floating nest space bundles and a selection of flora and fauna. These were the sections which more closely mirrored conditions on the sort of mainly methane-atmosphered planets and moons the Affront preferred, and it was in these the Affront indulged their greatest passion, by going hunting. It was one of these immense game reserves that the car was now crossing. Genar-Hofoen looked downwards again, but he couldn't see a hunt in progress.
As much as a fifth of the whole habitat was devoted to hunting space, and even that represented a huge concession to practicality by the Affront; they'd probably have preferred the proportions to be about half-and-half hunting space and everything else, and even then have thought they were being highly responsible and self-sacrificing.
Genar-Hofoen found himself wondering again about the tradeoff between skill-honing and distraction that took place in the development of any species likely to end up as one of those in play in the great galactic civilisation game. The Culture's standard assessment held that the Affront spent far too much time hunting and not nearly enough time getting on with the business of being a responsible space-faring species (though of course the Culture was sophisticated enough to know that this was just its, admittedly subjective, way of looking at things; and besides, the more time the Affront spent dallying in their hunting parks and regaling each other with hunting tales in their carousing halls, the less they had for rampaging across their bit of the galaxy being horrible to people).
But if the Affront didn't love hunting as much as they did, would they still be the Affront? Hunting, especially the highly cooperative form of hunting in three dimensions which the Affront had evolved, required and encouraged intelligence, and it was generally — though not exclusively — intelligence that took a species into space. The required mix of common sense, inventiveness, compassion and aggression required was different for each; perhaps if you tried to make the Affront just a little less enraptured by hunting you would only be able to do so by making them much less intelligent and inquisitive. It was like play; it was fun at the time, when you were a child, but it was also training for when you became an adult. Fun was serious.
Still no sign of a hunt in progress, or even of any herds of prey animals. Just a few filmy mats and hanging verticals of floating plant life. Doubtless some of the smaller animals which a few species of the prey-creatures themselves predated would be hanging munching away on the membranes and gas sacs of the flora, but they were invisible from this distance with the haze preventing closer inspection.
Genar-Hofoen sat back. There was no seat to sit back on because the monorail car wasn't built for humans, but the gelfield suit was imitating the effects of a seat. He wore his usual gilet and holster. At his feet was his gelfield hold-all. He looked at it, then prodded it with a foot. It didn't look much to be taking on a round trip of six thousand light years.
— Bastards, the module said inside his head.
— What? he asked it.
— They seem to enjoy leaving everything to the last moment, the module said, sounding annoyed. ~ You know, we only just finished negotiating for the hire of the ships? I mean, you're due to leave in about ten minutes; how late can these maniacs leave things?
— Ships plural? he asked.
— Ships plural, the module said. ~ They insist we hire three of their ridiculous tubs. Any one of which could easily accommodate me, I might add; that's another point at issue. But three! Can you believe? That's practically a fleet by their standards!
— Must need the money.
— Genar-Hofoen, I know you think it amusing to be the cause of the transfer of funds to the Affront, but might I point out to you that where it is not to all intents and purposes irrelevant, money is power, money is influence, money is effect.
— "Money is effect', Genar-Hofoen mused. ~ That one of your own, Scopell-Afranqui?
— The point is that every time we donate the Affront extra means o
f exchange we effectively become part of their expansionist drive. It is not moral.
— Shit, we gave them Orbital-building technology; how does that compare with a few gambling debts?
— That was different; we only gave them that so they'd stop taking over so many planets and because they didn't trust the Orbitals we made for them. And I'm not talking about your gambling debts, however outrageous, or your bizarre habit of bidding-up the price of bribes. I'm talking about the cost of hiring three Affronter Nova Class Battle-Cruisers and their crews for two months.
Genar-Hofoen almost laughed out loud. ~ SC isn't putting that on your tab, is it?
— Of course not. I was thinking of the wider picture.
— What the fuck am I supposed to do? he protested. ~ This is the fastest way of getting me where SC wants me to be. Not my fault.
— You could have said No.
— Could have. And you'd have spent the next year or so biting my ear about not doing my duty to the Culture when I was asked.
— Your only motive, I'm sure, Scopell-Afranqui said sniffily as the monorail car slowed. The module went off-line with an ostentatious click.
Prick, Genar-Hofoen thought, unheard.
The monorail car passed through another couple of habitat section walls, exiting into a crowded-looking industrial section where the keel skeletons of newly begun Affronter ships rose out of the haze like oddly inappropriate collections of spines and ribs, ornate elaborations within the greater framework of buttresses and columns supporting the habitat itself. The monorail car continued to slow until it drew to a stop within a web-tube attached to one of the structural members. The car started to drop, almost in free-fall.
The car vibrated. In fact, it was rattling. Genar-Hofoen had grown up on a Culture Orbital where only sporting vehicles and things you built yourself for a laugh ever vibrated; normal transport systems rarely ever even made a noise unless it was to ask which floor you wanted or whether you'd like the on-board scent changed.
The monorail car flashed through a floor and into another gigantic hangar space where the towering shapes of half-finished craft rose like barbed pinnacles out of the mist-shrouded framework of slender girders below. The bladed hulls of the ships blurred past to one side.
— Wee-hee! said the gelfield suit, which thought Affronter free-fall was just a total hoot.
— Glad you're amused, Genar-Hofoen thought.
— I hope you realise that if this thing crashes now, even I won't be able to stop you breaking most of your major bones, the suit informed him.
— If you can't say something helpful, shut the fuck up, he told it.
Another floor rushed up to meet the car; it plummeted through to a vast, misty hall where almost-finished Affronter ships rose like jagged sky-scrapers. The car came juddering and screeching to a halt near the floor of the huge space — the suit clamped around him in support, but Genar-Hofoen could feel his insides doing uncomfortable things under the effects of the additional apparent gravity — then the car cycled through a pair of airlocks and rumbled down a dark tunnel.
It came out on to the edge of the underside of the habitat where, a succession of docks shaped like giant rib-cages disappeared away along the lazy curve of the little world; there was a lot of glare but a few bright stars shone in the darkness. About half the docks were occupied, some with Affronter ships, some with craft from a handful of other species. Dwarfing all the others were three huge dark craft, each of which looked vaguely as though it had been modelled by taking a free-fall aerial bomb from one age and welding onto it a profusion of broad swords, scimitars and daggers from an even earlier time and then magnifying the result until each was a couple of kilometres in length. They hung cradled in docks a few kilometres off; the car swung round and headed towards them.
— The good ships SacSlicer II, FrightSpear and Kiss The Blade, the suit announced as the car slowed again and the bulbous black bulks of the craft blotted out the stars.
— Charmed, I'm sure, thought Genar-Hofoen, picking up his hold-all. He studied the hulls of the three warships, looking for the signs of damage that would indicate the craft were veterans. The signs were there; a delicate tracery of curved lines, light grey on dark grey and black, spread out across the spines, blades and curtain hull of the middle ship indicated a probably glancing blow from a plasma blast (which even Genar-Hofoen, who found weapons boring, could recognise); blurred grey roundels like concentric bruises on that middle ship and the nearest vessel were the marks of another weapon system, and sharp, straight lines etched across the various surfaces of the third craft looked like the effects of yet another.
Of course, the Affront's ships were as self-repairing as any other reasonably advanced civilisation's, and the marks that had been left on the vessels were just that; they would be no thicker than a coat of paint and have negligible effect on the ships" operational capability. However, the Affront thought that it was only right that their ships should — like themselves — bear the scars of honour that battle brings, and so allowed their warships" self-repair mechanisms to stop just short of perfection, the better to display the provenance of their war fleets" glorious reputations.
The car stopped directly underneath the middle warcraft in the midst of a forest of giant pipes and tubes which disappeared into the belly of the ship. Crunches, thumps and hisses from outside the car announced all was being made safe. A wisp of vapour burst from a seal, and the car's door swung out and up. There was a corridor beyond. An honour guard of Affronters jerked to attention; not for him, of course, but for Fivetide and the Affronter at his side dressed in the uniform of a Navy Commander. Both of them were half floating, half walking along towards him, paddles rowing and dangling limbs pushing.
"And here's our guest!" Fivetide shouted. "Genar-Hofoen; allow me to present Commander Kindrummer VI of both the Blades-corner tribe and the Battle-Cruiser Kiss The Blade. So, human; ready for our little jaunt?"
"Yup," he said, and stepped out into the corridor.
IV
Ulver Seich, barely twenty-two, famed scholastic overachiever since the age of three, voted Most Luscious Student by her last five University years and breaker of more hearts on Phage Rock than anybody since her legendary great-great-great grandmother, had been summarily dragged away from her graduation ball by the drone Churt Lyne.
"Churt!" she said, balling her fists in her long black gloves and nodding her head forward; her high heels clicked along the inlaid wood of the vestibule floor. "How dare you; that was a deeply lovely young man I was dancing with! He was utterly, utterly gorgeous; how could you just drag me away like that?"
The drone, hurrying at her back, dived round in front of her and opened the ancient, manually operated double doors leading from the ballroom vestibule, its suitcase-sized body rustling against the bustle of her gown as it did so. "I'm sorry beyond words, Ulver," it told her. "Now, please let's not delay."
"Mind my bustle," she said.
"Sorry."
"He was gorgeous, " Ulver Seich said vehemently as she strode down a stone-flagged hallway lined with paintings and urn plants, following the floating drone as it headed for the traveltube doors.
"I'll take your word for it," it said.
"And he liked my legs," she said, looking down at the slashed front of the gown. Her long, exposed legs were sheathed in sheer blackness. Violet shoes matched her deep-cut gown; its short train hurried after her in quick, sinuous flicks.
"They're beautiful legs," the drone agreed, signalling ahead to the traveltube controls to hurry things up.
"Damn right they are," she said. She shook her head. "He was gorgeous."
"I'm sure."
She stopped abruptly. "I'm going back." She turned on her heel, just a little unsteadily.
"What?" yelped Churt Lyne. The drone darted round in front of her; she almost bumped into it. "Ulver!" the machine said, sounding angry. Its aura field flashed white. "Really!"
"Get out the way. He was gorgeou
s. He's mine. He deserves me. Come on; shift."
It wouldn't get out of the way. She balled her fists again and beat at its snout, stamping her feet. She hiccuped.
"Ulver, Ulver," the drone said, gently taking her hands in its fields. She stuck her head forward and frowned as hard as she could at the machine's front sensory band. "Ulver," it said again. "Please. Please listen; this is-"
"What is it, anyway?" she cried.
"I told you; something you have to see; a signal."
"Well, why can't you show it to me here? She looked round the hallway, at the softly lit portraits and the variegated fronds, creepers and parasols of the urn plants. "There isn't even anybody else around!"
"Because it just doesn't work that way," Churt Lyne said, sounding exasperated. "Ulver, please; this is important. You still want to join Contact?"
She sighed. "I suppose so," she said, rolling her eyes. "Join Contact and go exploring…"
"Well, this is your invitation." It let go of her hands.
She stuck her head forward at it again. Her hair was an artful tangle of masked black curls studded with tiny helium-filled globes of gold, platinum and emerald. It brushed against the drone's snout like a particularly decorative thundercloud.
"Will it let me go exploring on that young man?" she asked, trying to keep her face straight.
"Ulver, if you will just do as I ask there is every chance Contact will happily provide you with entire ships full of gorgeous young men. Now, please turn round."
She snorted derisively and went on tip-toes to look wobblingly over the machine's casing in the direction of the ballroom. She could still hear the music of the dance she'd left. "Yeah, but it was that one I was interested in…"
The drone took her hands again in fields coloured yellow green with calm friendliness, bringing her down off her toes. "Young lady," it said. "I shall never say anything more truthful to you than these two things. One; there will be plenty more gorgeous young men in your life. Two; you will never have a better chance of getting into Contact, even Special Circumstances, and with them owing you a favour; or two. Do you understand? This is your big chance, girl."
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