Excession c-5

by Iain M. Banks

  When, months later, she had suggested that they have a child, and later still, while they were still mulling this over, that they Mutual — for they had the time, and the commitment — he had been extravagant in his enthusiasm, as though through such loud acclaim he could drown out the doubts he heard inside himself.

  "Byr?" a soft voice said from the little cupola that gave access from the steps to the roof.

  She turned round. "Hello?"

  "Hi. Couldn't sleep either, eh?" Aist said, joining Byr at the parapet. She was dressed in dark pyjamas; her naked feet slap-slapped on the flagstones.

  "No," Byr said. She didn't need much sleep. Byr spent quite a lot of time by herself these days, while Dajeil slept or sat cross-legged in one of her trances or fussed around in the nursery they had prepared for their children.

  "Same here," Aist said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and leaning out over the parapet, her head and shoulders dangling over the drop. She spat slowly; the little fleck fell whitely through the moonlight and disappeared against the dark slope of the tower's bottom storey. She rocked back onto her feet and moved some of her medium-length brown hair off her eyes, while she studied Byr's face, a small frown just visible on her brow. She shook her head. "You know," she said, "I never thought you'd be one to change sex, let alone have a kid."

  "Same here," Byr said, leaning on the parapet and gazing out to sea. "Still can't believe it, sometimes."

  Aist leant beside him. "Still, it's okay, isn't it? I mean, you're happy, aren't you?"

  Byr glanced at the other woman. "Isn't it obvious?"

  Aist was silent for a while. Eventually she said, "Dajeil loves you very much. I've known her twenty years. She's changed completely too, you know; not just you. She was always really independent, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted to settle down with one person, not for a long time, anyway. Not until she was old. You've both changed each other so much. It's… it's really something. Almost scary, but, well, sort of impressive, you know?"

  "Of course."

  There was silence for another while. "When do you think you'll have your baby?" Aist asked. "How long after she has… Ren, isn't it?"

  "Yes; Ren. I don't know. We'll see." Byr gave a small laugh, almost more of a cough. "Maybe we'll wait until Ren is grown up enough to help us look after it."

  Aist made the same noise. She leant on the parapet again, lifting her feet off the flagstones and balancing, pivoting on her folded arms. "How's it been here, being so far away from anybody else? Do you get many visitors?"

  Byr shook her head. "No. You're only the third lot of people we've seen."

  "Gets lonely, I suppose. I mean I know you've got each other, but…"

  "The "Ktik are fun," Byr said. "They're people, individuals. I've met thousands of them by now, I suppose. There are something like twenty or thirty million of them. Lots of new little chums to meet."

  Aist sniggered. "Don't suppose you can get it off with them, can you?"

  Byr glanced at her. "Never tried. Doubt it."

  "Boy, you were some swordsman, Byr," Aist said. "I remember you on the Quietly, first time we met. I'd never met anyone so focused." She laughed. "On anything! You were like a natural force or something; an earthquake or a tidal wave."

  "Those are natural disasters," Byr pointed out with feigned frostiness.

  "Well, close enough then," Aist said, laughing gently. She glanced slyly, slowly, at the other woman. "I suppose I'd have found myself in the firing line if I'd stuck around longer."

  "I imagine you might," Byr said in a tired, resigned voice.

  "Yup, could all have turned out completely different," Aist said.

  Byr nodded. "Or it could all have turned out exactly the same."

  "Well, don't sound so happy about it," Aist said. "I wouldn't have minded." She leant over the parapet and spat delicately again, moving her head just so, flicking the spittle outward. This time it landed on the gravel path which skirted the tower's stone base. She made an approving noise and looked back at Byr, wiping her chin and grinning. She looked at Byr, studying his face again. "It's not fair, Byr," she said. "You look good no matter what you are." She put one hand out slowly towards Byr's cheek. Byr looked into her large dark eyes.

  One moon started to disappear behind a ragged layer of high cloud and a small wind picked up, smelling of rain.

  A test, for her friend, Byr thought, as the other woman's long fingers gently stroked her face, feather soft. But the fingers were trembling. Still a test; determined to do it but nervous about it. Byr put her hand up and held the woman's fingers lightly. She took it as a signal to kiss her.

  After a little while, Byr said, "Aist…" and started to pull away.

  "Hey," she said softly, "this doesn't mean anything, all right? Just lust. Doesn't mean a thing."

  A little later still Byr said, "Why are we doing this?"

  "Why not?" Aist breathed.

  Byr could think of several reasons, asleep in the stony darkness beneath them. How I have changed, she thought. But then again, not that much.

  VII

  Ulver Seich strolled through the accommodation section of the Grey Area. At least there was a bit more strolling to be done on the GCU; had she come here straight from the family house on Phage it would have seemed horribly cramped, but after the claustrophobic confines of the Frank Exchange of Views, it appeared almost spacious (she had spent so little time on Tier, and passed the small amount of time she had there in such a frenetic haste of preparation that it hardly counted. As for the nine-person module — ugh!).

  The Grey Area's interior — built to house three hundred people in reasonable if slightly compact comfort, and now home only to her, Churt Lyne and Genar-Hofoen — was actually pretty interesting, which was an unexpected plus on this increasingly disillusioning expedition. The ship was like a museum to torture, death and genocide; it was filled with mementoes and souvenirs from hundreds of different planets, all testifying to the tendency towards institutionalised cruelty exhibited by so many forms of intelligent life. From thumbscrews and pilliwinks to death camps and planet-swallowing black holes, the Grey Area had examples of the devices and entities involved, or of their effects, or documentary recordings of their use.

  Most of the ship's corridors were lined with weaponry, the larger pieces standing on the floor, others on tables; bigger items took up whole cabins, lounges or larger public spaces and the very biggest weapons were shown as scale models. There were thousands of instruments of torture, clubs, spears, knives, swords, strangle cords, catapults, bows, powder guns, shells, mines, gas canisters, bombs, syringes, mortars, howitzers, missiles, atomics, lasers, field arms, plasma guns, microwavers, effectors, thunderbolters, knife missiles, line guns, thudders, gravguns, monofilament warps, pancakers, AM projectors, grid-fire impulsers, ZPE flux-polarisers, trapdoor units, CAM spreaders and a host of other inventions designed for — or capable of being turned to the purpose of producing death, destruction and agony.

  Some of the cabins and larger spaces had been fitted out to resemble torture chambers, slave holds, prison cells and death chambers (including the ship's swimming pool, though after she'd pointedly mentioned that she liked to start each day with a dip, this was now being converted back to its original purpose). Ulver supposed these… stage-sets… were a little like the famous tableaux the Sleeper Service was supposed to contain, except that the Grey Area's had no bodies in them (something of a relief, in the circumstances).

  Like a lot of people, she had always wanted to see the real thing. She had asked if she and Churt Lyne might go aboard the GSV when Genar-Hofoen did, but her request had been turned down; they would have to stay on the Grey Area until the GCU could find somewhere both safe and unrestricted to deposit them. What made it all even more annoying in a way was that the Grey Area expected it would be keeping in close contact with the Sleeper Service; inside its field envelope, if it was allowed to. So near and yet so far and all that crap. Whatever; it looked l
ike she wouldn't get to see even the remnants of the famous craft's tableaux vivants, and would have to make do with the Grey Area and its tableaux mortants.

  She thought they might have been more effective if they had contained the victims or the victims and tormentors, but they didn't. Instead they contained just the rack, the iron maiden, the fires and the irons, the shackles and the beds and chairs, the buckets of water and acid and the electric cables and all the serried instruments of torture and death. To see them in action you had to stand before a nearby screen.

  It was a little shocking, Ulver supposed, but kind of aloof at the same time; it was like you could just inspect this stuff and get some idea of how it worked and what it did (though watching the screens wasn't really advisable; she watched one for a few seconds and nearly lost her breakfast; and it wasn't even humans who were being tortured) and you could sort of ride it out; you could accept that this had happened and feel bad about it all right, but at the end of it you were still here, it hadn't happened to you, stopping this sort of shit was exactly what SC, Contact, the Culture was about, and you were part of that civilisation, part of that civilising… and that sort of made it bearable. Just. If you didn't watch the screens.

  Still, just holding a little iron device designed to crush the sort of fingers that were holding it, looking at a knotted cord whose twin knots — once the cord was tightened behind the head — were set at just the right distance to compress and burst the sort of eyes that were looking at it… well, it was kind of affecting. She spent a fair bit of time shivering and rubbing the bits of her body that kept getting bumps.

  She wondered how many people had looked upon this grisly collection of memorabilia. She had asked the ship but it had been vague; apparently it regularly offered its services as a sort of travelling museum of pain and ghastliness, but it rarely had any takers.

  One of the exhibits which she discovered, towards the end of her wanderings, she did not understand. It was a little bundle of what looked like thin, glisteningly blue threads, lying in a shallow bowl; a net, like something you'd put on the end of a stick and go fishing for little fish in a stream. She tried to pick it up; it was impossibly slinky and the material slipped through her fingers like oil; the holes in the net were just too small to put a finger-tip through. Eventually she had to tip the bowl up and pour the blue mesh into her palm. It was very light. Something about it stirred a vague memory in her, but she couldn't recall what it was. She asked the ship what it was, via her neural lace.

  — That is a neural lace, it informed her. ~ A more exquisite and economical method of torturing creatures such as yourself has yet to be invented.

  She gulped, quivered again and nearly dropped the thing.

  — Really? she sent, and tried to sound breezy. ~ Ha. I'd never really thought of it that way.

  — It is not generally a use much emphasised.

  — I suppose not, she replied, and carefully poured the fluid little device back into its bowl on the table.

  She walked back to the cabin she'd been given, past the assorted arms and torture machines. She decided to check up on how the war was going, again through the lace. At least it would take her mind off all this torture shit.

  Affront Declare War On Culture.

  (Major events so far, by time/importance.

  (Likely limits.

  (Detailed events to date.

  (Greatest conflict since Idiran War?

  (Likely link with Esperi Excession.

  (The Affront — a suitable case for treatment?

  (So this is how the barbarians felt; the experience of war through the ages.

  Ship Store at Pittance taken over by Affront; hundreds of ships appropriated.

  (How could it happen?

  (Insurance policies or weak points?

  (Pundit paradise; placing their bets on what happens next.

  (The psychology of warships.

  Warcraft from other ship stores mobilised.

  (Partial mobilisation earlier — so who knew what when?

  (Technical stuff; lots of exciting figures for armamentaphiles.

  Peace initiatives.

  (Culture wants to talk — Affront just want to fight.

  (Galactic Council sends reps everywhere. They look busy.

  (Gosh, can we help? Have a laugh at the expense of sad superstitionists.

  In jeopardy: the hostage habitats, the boarded ships.

  (Five Orbitals, eleven cruise ships Affronted.

  (Schadenfreude time; who's all at risk at the moment.

  (Tier gets sniffy.

  Quick while they're not looking.

  (Primitives see exciting opportunities.

  What's in it for me?

  (Design your own war; sim details and handy hints.

  (Thinking positively; new tech, inspired art, heroic tales and better sex… war as hoot [for incurable optimists and people looking for party conversation stoppers only].

  Other news:

  Blitteringueh Conglo actuates Abuereffe Airsphere — latest.

  S3/4 ravaged by nova in Ytrillo.

  Stellar Field-Liners sweep Aleisinerih domain again.

  Cherdilide Pacters in Phaing-Ghrotassit Subliming quandary.

  Abafting Imorchi; sleaze, sleaze and more sleaze.

  Sport.

  Art.

  DiaGlyph Directory.

  Special Reports Directory.

  Index.

  Ulver Seich scanned the screen-set her neural lace threw across her left eye's field of vision as she walked, one half of her brain paying attention to the business of walking and the other half watching the virtual screen. Not a thing about her. She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or insulted. Let's try:

  (Tier gets sniffy… No, that was nothing but general stuff about the habitat throwing all Culture people and Affronters off. No names mentioned.

  Index. P… Ph… Phage Rock.

  (That war again; was PR a kind of minor ship store?

  (Tier over-rated anyway; PR turns tail. New heading, but where exactly?

  (Koodre wins IceBlast cup.

  (New Ledeyueng exhibition opens in T41.

  DiaGlyph subDirectory.

  subIndex.

  subIndex. S… Seich, Ulver.

  (Oh Ulver, Where Are You? — new Poeglyph by Zerstin Hoei.

  She stared at the entry. Grief, was that it? One lousy picture-poem by an irredeemable feeb she'd barely heard of (and even then only to discover he regularly changed his appearance to resemble her current boyfriend)? Ugh! She joggled the subIndex again, in the remote and forlorn chance there was some sort of ware glitch. There wasn't. That was it. If she wanted more she'd have to hit Records.

  Ulver Seich stopped in her tracks and stared at the nearest bulkhead, open mouthed.

  She was no longer News on Phage.

  VIII

  It should not have made the difference that it did, and yet it did. Their three visitors stayed for two nights, going swimming with the "Ktik during the second day. Byr met Aist again that night. The following day the visitors left, climbing into the module which the Unacceptable Behaviour sent down for them. The ship was heading off to loop round a proto-nova a few thousand years distant. It would be back in two weeks to drop off any further supplies they might need. Dajeil's baby would be born a couple of weeks after that. The next ship due to visit would be another year away, when they might have doubled the human population of the planet. They stood together on the beach. Dajeil held Byr's hand as the module climbed into the slate-coloured clouds.

  Later that evening Byr found Dajeil watching the recording in the tower's top room, where the screens were. Tears ran down her face.

  There were no monitor systems on the tower itself. It must have been one of the independent camera drones. This one must have landed on the tower that night, found two large mammals there, and started recording.

  Dajeil turned to look at Byr, her face streaked with the tears. Byr felt a sudden welling of anger. On the s
creen, she watched the two people embracing, caressing on the tower's moonlit roof, and heard the soft gasps and whisperings.

  "Yes," Byr said, smiling ironically as she pulled off the wet suit. "Old Aist, eh? Quite a lass. You shouldn't cry, you know. Upsets the body's fluid balance for baby."

  Dajeil threw a glass at her. It smashed behind Byr on the winding stair. A little servitor drone scurried past Byr's feet and windmilled down the carpeted steps on its little limbs, to start cleaning up the mess. Byr looked into her lover's face. Dajeil's swollen breasts rose and fell within her shirt and her face was flushed. Byr continued to peel off bits of the wet suit.

  "It was a bit of light relief, for grief's sake," she said, keeping her voice even. "Just a friendly fuck. A loose end sort of thing. It-"

  "How could you do this to us?" Dajeil screamed.

  "Do what?" Byr protested, still trying to keep her voice from rising. "What have I done?"

  "Screwing my best friend, here! Now! After everything!"

  Byr kept calm. "Does it count as screwing, technically, when neither of you has a penis?" She assumed a pained, puzzled expression.

  "You shit! Don't laugh about it!" Dajeil screamed. Her voice was hoarse, unlike anything Byr had heard from her before. "Don't you fucking laugh about it!" Dajeil was suddenly up out of her seat and dashing towards her, arms raised.

  Byr caught her wrists.

  "Dajeil!" she said, as the other woman struggled and sobbed and tried to shake her hands free. "You're being ridiculous! I always fucked other people; you were fucking other people when you were giving me all this shit about being my "still point"; we both knew, it wasn't like we were juveniles or in some dumb monogamy cult or something. Shit; so I stuck my fingers in your pal's cunt; so fucking what? She's gone. I'm still here; you're still here, the fucking kid's still in your belly; yours is in mine. Isn't that what you said is all that matters?"

  "You bastard, you bastard!" Dajeil cried, and collapsed. Byr had to support her as she crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.