Another screen alongside showed an abstracted hyperspatial view of the same situation, indicating the two ships on different surfaces of the skein. A third screen showed a transparent abstract of Pittance itself, detailing its ship-filled caverns and surface and internal defence systems.
The Commander finished getting into his space suit and powering it up. He settled back into position. He reviewed the situation. He knew better than to try to conduct matters at a tactical level, but he appreciated the strategic influence he could wield here. He was dreadfully tempted, all the same, to take personal control and fire all the defence systems personally, but he was aware of the enormous responsibility he had been given in this mission and was equally conscious that he had been carefully selected for this task. He had been chosen because he knew when not to — what had the traitor ship called it? Go for glory. He knew when not to go for glory. He knew when to back off, when to take advice, when to retreat and regroup.
He flicked open the communicator channel to the traitor ship. "Did the warship stop exactly a light month out?" he asked.
— Yes.
"That's thirty-two standard Culture days."
— Correct.
"Thank you." He closed the channel.
He looked at the lieutenant at his side. "Set everything within range to open fire on the warship the instant it crosses the eight-point one days" limit." He sat back as the lieutenant's limbs flickered over the holo displays, putting his command into effect. Only just in time, the Commander noted. He'd been longer getting into his suit than he'd thought.
"Forty seconds, sir," the lieutenant said.
"… Give it just enough time to relax," the Commander said, more to himself than to anybody else. "If that is how these things work…"
Exactly eight and a tenth light days in from the position the Rapid Offensive Unit Killing Time had held while negotiating its permission to approach, space all around the blue dot on the screen scintillated abruptly as a thousand hidden devices of a dozen different types suddenly erupted into life in a precisely ordered sequence of destruction; in the real-space holo sphere it looked like a miniaturised stellar cluster suddenly bursting into existence all around the blue dot. The trace disappeared instantly inside a brilliant sphere of light. In the hyperspace holo sphere, the dot lasted a little longer; slowed down, it could be seen firing some munitions back for a microsecond or so, then it too disappeared in the wash of energies bursting out of the real-space skein and into hyperspace in twin bulging plumes.
The lights in the accommodation space flickered and dimmed as monumental amounts of power suddenly diverted to the rock's own long-range weaponry.
The Commander left the comm channel to the traitor ship open. Its own course had altered the instant the defence weaponry had been unleashed; now its course was hooked, changing colour from red to blue and curving up and round and vectoring in hyperspace too, looping round to the point where the slowly fading and dissipating radiation shells marked the focus of the system's annihilatory power.
A flat screen to the Commander's left wavered, as if some still greater power surge had sucked energy even from its protected circuits. A message flashed up on it:
— Missed, you fuckers! the legend read.
"What?" the Commander said.
The display flashed once and came clear again.
— Commander; the Attitude Adjuster here again. As you may have gathered, we have failed.
"What? But..!"
— Keep all defence and sensory systems at maximum readiness; ramp the sensor arrays up to significant degradation point in a week; we shall not need them beyond then.
"But what happened? We got it!"
— I shall move to plug the gap the attack left in our defences. Ready all the cleared ships for immediate awakening; I may have to rouse them within a day or two. Complete the tests on the Displacers; use a real ship if you have to. And run a total level-zero systems check of your own equipment; if the ship was able to insert a message into your command desk it may have been able to carry out more pertinent mischief therein.
The Commander slammed a limb end down on the desk. 'What is going on?" he roared. "We got the bastard, didn't we?"
— No, Commander. We «got» some sort of shuttle or module. Somewhat faster and better equipped than the average example such a ship would normally carry, but possibly constructed en route with such a ruse in mind. Now we know why its approach appeared so politely leisurely.
The Commander peered into the holo spheres, juggling with magnifications and field-depths. "Then where the hell is it?"
— Give me control of the primary scanner, Commander, just for a moment, will you?
The Commander fumed in his space suit for a moment, then nodded his eye stalks at the lieutenant.
The second holo sphere became a narrow, dark cone and swung so that the wide end was directed towards the ceiling. Pittance glowed at the very point of the other end of the projection, the screen of defence devices reduced to a tiny florette of coloured light, close in to the cone's point. At the far, wide end there was a tiny, fiercely, almost painfully red dot.
— There is the good ship Killing Time, Commander. It set off at almost the same time I did. Regrettably, it is both quicker and faster than I. It has already done us the honour of copying to me the signal it sent to the rest of the Culture the moment we opened fire on its emissary. I'll transmit you a copy too, minus the various, venomous unpleasantnesses directed specifically at myself. Thank you for the use of your control desk. You can have it back now.
The cone collapsed to become a sphere again. The traitor ship's last message scrolled off the side of the flat screen. The Commander and the lieutenant looked at each other. The small screen came up with another incoming signal.
— Oh, and will you contact Affront High Command, or shall I? Somebody had better tell them we're at war with the Culture.
III
Genar-Hofoen woke up with a headache it took minutes to calm down; performing the relevant pain-management inside his head took far too much concentration for somebody feeling this bad to perform quickly. He felt like he was a child on a beach, swinging a toy spade and building a sea wall all around him as the tide rushed in; waves kept over-topping and he was constantly shovelling sand up to small breaches in his defences, and the worst of it was the more sand he piled up the deeper he dug and higher he had to throw. Eventually water started seeping in from the bottom of his sea fort, and he gave in; he just blanketed all pain. If somebody started holding flames to his feet or he jammed his fingers in a door that'd just be too bad. He knew better than to shake his head, so he imagined shaking his head; he'd never had a hangover this bad.,
He tried opening one eye. It didn't seem too keen on cooperating. Try the other one. No, that one didn't want to face the world either. Very dark. Like being wrapped up inside a big dark cloak or some-
He jerked; both eyes tore open, making both smart and water.
He was looking at some sort of big screen, in-holo'd. Space; stars. He looked down, finding it difficult to move his head. He was held inside a large, very comfortable but very secure chair; it was made of some sort of soft hide, it was half reclined and it smelled very pleasant, but it had big padded hoops that had clamped themselves over his forearms and his lower legs. A similar hide-covered bar looped over his lower abdomen. He tried moving his head again. It was held inside some sort of open-face helmet which felt like it was attached to the headrest of the chair.
He looked to one side. Hide-covered wall; polished wood. A panel or screen showing what looked like an abstract painting. It was an abstract painting; a famous one. He recognised it. Ceiling black, light studded. In front just the screen. Floor carpeted. Looked much like the inside of a standard Culture module so far. Very quiet. Not that that meant anything. He looked to his right.
There were two more seats like his across the width of the cabin — it was probably a cabin and this was almost certainly a nine or twelve
person module; he couldn't see behind to tell. The seat in the middle, the one nearer him, was occupied by a bulky, rather antique-looking drone, its flat-topped bulk resting on the cushion of the seat. People always said drones looked a bit like suitcases but this one reminded Genar-Hofoen of an old-fashioned sledge. Somehow, it gave the impression that it was staring at the screen. Its aura field was flickering as though it was undergoing rapid mood-changes; mostly it displayed a mixture of grey, brown and white.
Frustration, displeasure and anger. Not an encouraging combination.
The seat on the far side of the cabin held a beautiful young woman who looked just a little like Dajeil Gelian. Her nose was smaller, her eyes were the wrong colour, her hair was quite different. It was hard to tell whether her figure bore any resemblance to the other woman because she was inside what looked like a jewelled space suit; a standard-ish Culture hard suit plated in platinum or silver and liberally plastered in gems that certainly glittered and flashed in the overhead lights as though they were things like rubies, emeralds, diamonds and so on. The suit's helmet, equally encrusted, rested on the arm of her seat. She wasn't shackled into place in the seat, he noticed.
The girl bore on her face a frown so deep and severe he imagined it would have made almost anybody else look quite supremely ugly. On her it looked rather fetching. Probably not the desired effect at all. He decided to risk a smile; the open-faced helmet he was wearing ought to let her see it.
"Umm, hello," he said.
The old drone rose and flicked round as if glancing at him. It thumped back into the seat cushion, its aura fields off. "It's hopeless," it announced, as though it hadn't heard what the man had said. "We're locked out. Nowhere to go."
The girl in the far seat narrowed her fiercely blue eyes and glared at Genar-Hofoen. When she spoke, her voice was like an ice stiletto. "This is all your fault, you ghastly piece of shit," she said.
Genar-Hofoen sighed. He was losing consciousness once more but he didn't care. He had absolutely no idea who this creature was, but he liked her already.
It went dark again.
IV
[stuttered tight point, M32, tra. @n4.28.882.4656]
xLSV Serious Callers Only
oEccentric Shoot Them Later
It's war! Those insane fucks have declared war! They're mad!
oo
[stuttered tight point, M32, tra. @4.28.882.4861]
xEccentric Shoot Them Later
oLSV Serious Callers Only
I was about to call. I just got the message from the ship I requested attend Pittance. This looks bad.
oo
Bad? It's a fucking catastrophe!
oo
Did your girl get her man?
oo
Oh, she got him all right, but then a few hours later the Affront High Command announced the birth of a bouncing baby war. The ship Phage sent to Tier was standing a day's module travel away; it decided it had better things to do than hang around on a mission it had never been very happy with even from the beginning. I think the declaration of war came almost as a relief to it. It promptly announced its position to the Steely Glint and was immediately asked to ship out at maximum speed on some desperate defence mission. Bastard wouldn't even tell me where. Took me real milliseconds to argue it out of confessing all to the Steely Glint and telling it exactly why it was anywhere near Tier in the first place. I was able to persuade it Phage's honour rested on it keeping quiet; I don't think it'll squeal. I let it know I give serious grudge.
oo
But it was Demilled. Hasn't it just gone back to Phage for munitioning?
oo
Ha! Demilitarised my backup. Fucker left Phage fully tooled. Phage's own idea, sneaky scumbag. Always was over-protective. What comes of being that geriatric I suppose. Anyway, the Frank Exchange Of Views is cannoned to the gunwales and itching for a brawl, apparently. Whatever; it has gone. Which leaves our lass and the captive Genar-Hofoen floating in a module nearly a day out of Tier with nowhere to go. Tier is requesting — make that insisting — all Culture and Affront craft and personnel leave it for the duration of the hostilities and nobody's being allowed in. I've tried to find somebody else within range to pick them up but it's hopeless.
A Tier deep-scan inventory has already identagged their module. The Meatfucker is skimming in a day away and the module can make, oh, all of two hundred lights… Guess what happens next. We've failed.
oo
So it would appear. Was this the aim and is this now the result of the conspiracy? War with the Affront?
oo
I believe so. The Excession is still the more important matter, but its appearance and the possibilities it may open up have been used by the conspiracy to tempt the Affront into initiating hostilities. Pittance is worse, though.
That Pittance has fallen implies entrapment. It points to treachery. The Killing Time believes there was another Culture or ex-Culture ship there; not one of the stored vessels but another craft, something no less old than the stored vessels, but wiser and more experienced; something that's been around as long as they, but awake all that time.
It believes that this ship was taking the part of the Pittance Mind when it communicated with it on its approach. I suspect it will prove to be a warship which apparently went Eccentric or Ulterior at some point in the last five hundred years and was — supposedly, not actually — demilitarised by one of the conspirators. I have a list of suspects.
The Killing Time suggests that this ship tricked its way beneath the Pittance Mind's guard and either destroyed it or took it over. The store was then turned over to the Affront. They now have a ready-made instant battle fleet of Culture warcraft tech generations of development beyond their own ships and just nine days" journey from the Excession. Nothing we can put in place in the time available can stop them.
For what it's worth, the Killing Time is making all speed for Esperi. Nine days from now we'll have the Not Invented Here and the Different Tan from the Gang there. The NIH has two operational Thug class ROUs it's in the process of cannoning-up, a Hooligan LOU and a Delinquent GOU. Another couple of GSVs should be there too if they aren't diverted because of the war, with a total of five OUs, two of them Torturer class. Eight of Phage's Psychopath ROUs are bound for the Excession but the rest are down for defensive duties elsewhere to cope with likely threats from Affront battle units. Even those eight won't get within punch-throwing range of the Excession until two days after the Affront can be there. Bottom line is there are a total of ten warships of various classes capable of making it to the Excession in time to make a stand against the Affront; enough to hold off the entire Affront navy if that was all we were going to be faced with, but simply not capable of holding back more than an eighth of the ships that could come out of Pittance. If they all go straight to the Excession, it will be theirs.
For the record, all the remaining ship stores are breaking themselves open, but the nearest is over five weeks" travel away. A gesture, that's all.
Oh, and a few other Involveds have offered help but they're all either too weak or too far away. A couple of other barbarics are probably going to declare for the Affront once they've stopped scratching their heads and worked out what they might be able to get up to with the Culture's attention diverted, but they're even less relevant.
And if we were expecting some well-disposed Elders to step into the nursery and confiscate all our toys and restore order, it doesn't look very likely so far; no notice taken, as far as anybody can tell.
oo
So. That just leaves our old friend, currently — possibly, probably, almost certainly — also en route. Wild card? Somehow part of the conspiracy? Have we any more thoughts? Come to that, have you had any reply from it?
oo
None, and no. No offence, but the SS is one of the more unfathomable Eccentrics. Perhaps it thinks the Excession requires Storing, perhaps it intends to ram it at that speed, or attempt to plunge into it and access other universes�
�� I don't know. There is some private issue being played out in this, I believe, and Genar-Hofoen fits in somewhere. I have almost given up thinking about this aspect of affairs. I shall continue my attempts to contact it but I don't think it's even looking at its signal files. The point is that the war itself takes precedence, with the Excession prioritised beyond that.
oo
No offence taken. So we are left with the Affront on the cusp of apotheosis or nemesis.
oo
Indeed. Quite how they intend to use these elderly but still potent warships to take control of the Excession one can only hazard at; perhaps they intend surrounding it and charging admission… But they have begun a war which — unless they can somehow gain control of the Excession and exploit it — they can only lose. They have a few hundred half-millennium-old warships; capable of inflicting untold damage let loose in a peaceable, un-militarised if relatively un-populated section of the galaxy, certainly, but only for a month or two at most. Then the Culture gathers the force to crush them utterly, and moves on to rip the Affront hegemony to shreds and impose its own peace upon it. There can be no other outcome. Unless the Excession does come into play. Which I doubt.
Maybe it is some sort of projection; maybe its appearance was not fortuitous but planned. This looks unlikely, I know, but everything else about this has been so cunningly put together… Whatever; the argument which everybody had thought was lost at the end of the Idiran War is about to be won. The agreement come to then is in the process of being overturned.
I for one am not going to stand for this. We may have failed to frustrate the conspiracy but it will still be possible to work towards the discovery of the guilty parties involved in its planning and implementation, both during and after the hostilities. I intend to copy all my thoughts, theories, evidence, communications and all other relevant documentation to every trusted colleague and contact I possess. If you have any intention of taking part in the course of action I am suggesting, I urge you to do the same and to relay this advice to The Anticipation Of A New Lover's Arrival.
Excession c-5 Page 31
