"Success," the slave-drone said.
The view was changing again as the ship was drawn slowly backwards towards the single opened bay.
Genar-Hofoen frowned. "We're going inside?" he asked the slave-drone.
It swivelled to face him, paused just long enough for the human to form the impression he was being treated like some sort of cretin. "… Well, yes…" it said, slowly, as one might to a particularly dim child.
"But I was told-"
"Welcome aboard the Sleeper Service," said a voice behind them. They turned to see a tall, angular, black-dressed creature walking into the lounge. "My name is Amorphia."
III
The drone returned to the Appeal To Reason and was taken back aboard. Seconds passed.
— Well? the Fate Amenable To Change asked.
There was a brief pause. A microsecond or so. Then: ~ It's empty, the Appeal To Reason sent.
— Empty?
— Yes. It didn't record anything. It's like it never went anywhere.
— Are you sure?
— Take a look for yourself.
A data dump followed. The Fate Amenable To Change shunted into a memory core it had set up for just such a purpose the mem it had realised what the Excession was, almost a month earlier. It was the equivalent of a locked room, an isolation ward, a cell. More information poured out of the Appeal To Reason; a gushing river of data trying to flood in after the original data dump. The Culture ship ignored it. Part of its Mind was listening to the howling, thumping noises coming out of that locked room.
Information flickered between the Appeal To Reason and the Sober Counsel, an instant before the Fate sent its own warning signal. It cursed itself for its procrastination, even if its warning would almost certainly have gone unheeded anyway.
It signalled the distant, war-readied Elench craft instead, begging them to believe the worst had happened. There was no immediate reply.
The Appeal To Reason was the nearer of the two Elencher ships. It turned and started accelerating towards the Fate. It broadcast, tight-beamed, lasered and field-pulsed vast, impossibly complicated signals at the Culture craft. The Fate squirted back the contents of that locked room, evacuating it. Then it swivelled and powered up its engines. So I am going somewhere, it thought, and moved off, away from the Appeal To Reason, which was still signalling wildly and remained on a heading taking it straight, for the Culture ship.
The Fate raced outwards, powering away from the Elencher vessel and heading out on a great curve that would take it rolling over the invisible sphere that was the closest approach limit it had set. The Sober Counsel was moving off on an opposite course from the Appeal To Reason, which was still following the Culture ship. A direction which would turn into an intercept course if they all held these headings. Oh, shit, the Fate thought.
They were still close enough to each other to just talk, but the Fate thought it ought to be a little more formal, so it signalled.
xGCU Fate Amenable To Change (Culture)
oExplorer Ship Sober Counsel (Whoever)
Whatever you are, if you advance on an intercept course on the far side of the closest approach limit, I'll open fire. No further warnings.
No reply. Just the blaze of multi-band mania from the Appeal To Reason, following behind it. The Sober Counsel's course didn't alter.
The Fate concentrated its attention on the last known locations of the three other Elench craft; the trio which the Break Even had said were all war-configured. The other two couldn't be ignored, but the new arrivals had to constitute the greatest threat for now. It scanned the data it had on the specifications of the Elench craft, calculating, simulating; war-gaming. Grief, to be doing this with ships that were practically Culture ships! The simulation runs came out equivocal. It could easily deal with the two craft, even staying within range of the Excession (as though that was a wise limitation anyway!), but if the other three joined in the fun, and certainly if they attacked, it could well find itself in trouble.
It signalled the Break Even again. Still nothing.
The Fate was starting to wonder what the point was of sticking around here. The big guns would start arriving in a day or two; it looked like it was going to be in some sort of ludicrous continual chase with the two Elencher ships until then, which would be tiresome (with the possibility that the other three, war-ready Elencher ships might join in, which would be downright dangerous) and, after all, there was that war fleet on its way. What more was it usefully going to be able to do here? Certainly, it could keep a watch on the Excession, see if it did anything else interesting, but was that worth the risk of being overwhelmed by the Elench? Or even by the Excession itself, if it was as invasive as it now appeared to be? Enough of its drones, platforms and sensor platforms might be able to evade the Elenchers for the time it took until the other craft got here; they could keep watch on the situation, couldn't they?
Ah, to hell with this, it thought to itself. It dodged unexpectedly along the surface of the closest-approach limit, producing corresponding alterations in the headings of the two Elencher ships. It speeded up for a while, then slowed until it was stopped relative to the Excession.
The position it held now was such that if you drew a line between the Excession and the direction it was expecting the MSV Not invented Here to arrive from, it would be on that line too.
The Fate signalled the two Elencher ships once more, trying to get sense from the Appeal To Reason and any reply at all from the Sober Counsel. It was careful to target the last known positions of the Break Even and its two militarily configured sister ships as well, still trying to elicit a response. None was forthcoming. It waited until the last possible moment, when it looked like the Appeal To Reason was about to ram it in its enthusiasm to overwhelm it with signals, then broke away from it, heading straight out, directly away from the Excession.
The Fate Amenable To Change's avatars began the task of telling the human crew what was happening. Meanwhile the ship turned onto a course at a right-angle to its initial heading and powered away at maximum acceleration. The Appeal To Reason targeted its effector on the fleeing Culture ship as it curved out trying to intercept it, but the attack — configured more as a last attempt to communicate — was easily fended off. That wasn't what the Fate was concerned about.
It watched that imaginary line from the Excession to the MSV Not Invented Here, focusing, magnifying its attention on that line's middle distance.
Movement. Probing filaments of effector radiations. Three foci, clustered neatly around that line.
The Elencher ship Break Even and its two militarily configured sister craft had been awaiting it.
Congratulating itself on its perspicacity, the GCU headed on out, leaving the immediate vicinity of the Excession for the first time in almost a month.
Then its engines stopped working.
IV
"I was told," Genar-Hofoen said in the traveltube, to the blank-faced and cadaverous ship's avatar, "that I'd be off here in a day. What do I need quarters for?"
"We are moving into a war zone," the avatar said flatly. "There is a good chance that it will not be possible to off-load the Grey Area or any other ship between approximately sixteen and one hundred plus hours from now."
A deep, dark gulf of the Sleeper Service's cavernous interior space was briefly visible, sliding past, then the tube car zipped into another tunnel. Genar-Hofoen stared at the tall, angular creature. "You mean I might be stuck on here for four days?"
"That is a possibility," the avatar said.
Genar-Hofoen glared at the avatar, hoping he looked as suspicious as he felt. "Well, why can't I stay on the Grey Area?" he asked.
"Because it might have to leave at any moment."
The man looked away, swearing softly. There was a war on, he supposed, but even so, this was typical SC. First the Grey Area was allowed on board the Sleeper Service when he'd been told it wouldn't be, and now this. He glanced back at the avatar, which was looking at
him with what could have been curiosity or just gormlessness. Four days on the Sleeper. He'd thought earlier, stuck on the module, that he'd be grateful when he could leave Ulver Seich and her drone behind on the GCU while he came aboard the Sleeper Service, but as it turned out, he wasn't.
He shivered, and imagined that he could still feel Ulver's lips on his, from when they'd kissed goodbye, just a few minutes earlier. The flash-back tremor passed. Wow, he thought to himself, and grinned. That was like being an adolescent again.
Two nights, one day. That was all he and Ulver had spent together as lovers. It wasn't remotely long enough. And now he'd be stuck aboard here for up to four nights.
Oh well. It could be worse; at least the avatar didn't look like it was the one he'd slept with. He wondered if he was going to see Dajeil at all. He looked at the clothes he was wearing, standard loose fatigues from the Grey Area. Wasn't this how he'd been dressed when he and Dajeil had last parted? He couldn't recall. Possibly. He wondered at his own subconscious processes.
The tube car was slowing; suddenly it was stopped.
The avatar gestured to the door that rolled open. A short corridor beyond led to another door. Genar-Hofoen stepped into the corridor.
"I trust you find your quarters acceptable," he heard the avatar say quietly, behind him. Then a soft rrrng noise and a faint draught on his neck made him look back in surprise. The traveltube had gone, the transparent tube door was closed and the corridor behind him was empty" He looked about but there was nowhere the avatar could have gone. He shrugged and continued on to the door ahead. It opened onto a small lift. He was in it for a couple of seconds, then the door rotated open and he stepped out, frowning, into a dimly lit space full of boxes and equipment that somehow looked vaguely familiar. There was a strange scent in the air… The lift door snicked closed behind him. He saw some steps over to one side in the gloom, set into a curved stone wall. They really did look familiar.
He thought he knew where he was. He went to the steps and climbed them.
He came up from the cellar into the short passageway which led to the main door on the ground storey of the tower. The door was open. He walked down the passageway to it and stood outside.
Waves beat on the shining, sliding shingle of the beach. The sun stood near noon. One moon was visible, a pale eggshell half hidden in the fragile blueness of the sky. The smell he'd recognised earlier was that of the sea. Birds cried from the winds above him. He walked down the slope of beach towards the water and looked about. It was all pretty convincing; the space couldn't really be all that big — the waves were perhaps a little too uncomplicated, a little too regular, further out — but it certainly looked like you were seeing for tens of kilometres. The tower was just the way he remembered it, the low cliffs beyond the salt marsh equally familiar.
"Hello?" he called. No answer.
He pulled out his pen terminal. "Very amusing…" he said, then frowned, looking at the terminal. No tell-tale light. He pressed a couple of panels to institute a systems check. Nothing happened. Shit.
"Ah hah," said a small, crackly voice behind him. He turned to see a black bird, folding its wings on the shelf of stones behind him. "Another captive," it cackled.
V
The Fate Amenable To Change let its engine fields race for a moment, running a series of tests and evaluation processes. It was as if its traction fields were just sinking through the energy grid, as if it wasn't there. It tried signalling, telling the outside universe of its plight, but the signals just seemed to loop back and it found itself receiving its own signal a picosecond after it had sent it. It tried to create a warp but the skein just seemed to slide out of its fields. It attempted Displacing a drone but the wormhole collapsed before it was properly formed. It tried a few more tricks, finessing its field structures and reconfiguring its senses in an attempt at least to understand what was going on, but nothing worked.
It thought. It felt curiously composed, considering.
It shut everything down and let itself drift, floating gradually back through the four-dimensional hypervolume towards the skein of real space, propelled by nothing more than the faint pressure of radiations expelled from the energy grid. Its avatars were already starting to explain the change in the situation to its human crew. The ship hoped the people would take it calmly.
Then the Excession seemed to swell, bulging as though under an enormous lens, reaching out towards the Culture ship with a vast enclosing scoop of presence.
Well, here we go, the ship thought. Should be interesting…
VI
"No."
"Please," the avatar said.
The woman shook her head. "I've thought about it. I don't want to see him."
The avatar stared at Dajeil. "But I brought him all this way!" it cried. "Just for you! If you knew…" Its voice trailed off. It brought its feet up onto the front of the seat, and put its arms round its legs, hugging them.
They were in Dajeil's quarters, inside another version of the tower's interior housed within the GCU Jaundiced Outlook. The avatar had come straight here after leaving Genar-Hofoen in the Mainbay where the original copy of the tower — the one Dajeil Gelian had spent forty years living in — had been moved to when the ship had converted all its external spare mass to engine. It had thought she would be pleased that the tower had not had to be destroyed, and that Genar-Hofoen had finally been persuaded to return to her.
Dajeil continued watching the screen. It was a replay of one of her dives amongst the triangular rays in the shallow sea that was now no more, as seen from a drone which had accompanied her. She watched herself move amongst the gracefully undulating wings of the great, gentle creatures. Swollen, awkward, she was the only graceless thing in the picture.
The avatar didn't know what to say next.
The Sleeper Service decided to take over. "Dajeil?" it said quietly, through its representative. The woman looked round, recognising the new tone in Amorphia's voice.
"What?"
"Why don't you want to see him now?"
"I…" she paused. "It's just been too long," she said. "I think… I suppose for the first few years I did want to see him again; to… to-" she looked down, picking at her fingernails. "-I don't know. Oh, to try and make things all right… grief, that sounds so lame." She sniffed and looked upwards at the translucent dqme above her. "I felt there were things we needed to have said that we never did say to each other, and that if we did get together, even for a little while, we could… work things out. Draw a line under all that happened. Tie up loose ends; that… that sort of thing. You know?" she said, looking bright-eyed at the avatar.
Oh, Dajeil, thought the ship. How wounded about the eyes. "I know," it said. "But now you feel that too much time has passed?"
The woman smoothed her hand over her belly. She nodded slowly, looking at the floor. "Yes," she said. "It's all too long ago. I'm sure he's forgotten all about me." She glanced up at the avatar.
"And yet he is here," it said.
"Did he come to see me?" she asked it, already sounding bitter.
"No, and yes," the ship said. "He had another motive. But it is because of you he is here."
She shook her head. "No," she said. "No; too much time…"
The avatar unfolded itself from the seat and crossed to where Dajeil sat; it knelt down before her, and hesitantly extended one hand towards her abdomen. Looking into her eyes, it gently placed its palm on Dajeil's belly. Dajeil felt dizzy. She could not recall Amorphia ever having touched her before, either under its own control or under the Sleeper Service's. She put her own hand on top of the avatar's. The creature's hand was steady, soft and cool. "And yet," it said, "in some ways, no time has passed." Dajeil gave a bitter laugh. "Oh yes," she said. "I've been here, doing nothing except growing older. But what about him?" she asked and suddenly there was something fierce about her voice. "How much has he lived in forty years? How many loves has he had?"
"I don't believe that signifies, Daje
il," the ship told her quietly. "The point is that he is here. You can talk to him. The two of you can talk. Some resolution might be achieved." It pressed very lightly on her belly. "I believe it can be achieved."
She sighed heavily. She looked down at her hand. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know. I need to think. I can't… I need to think."
"Dajeil," the ship said, and the avatar took her hand in both of its. "Were it possible, I would give you as long as you could desire, but I am not able to. There is some urgency in this. I have what might be termed an urgent appointment near a star called Esperi. I cannot delay my arrival and I would not want to take you with me there; it is too dangerous. I would like you to leave in this ship as soon as possible."
She looked hurt, the Sleeper thought.
"I won't be forced into this," she told it.
"Of course not," it said. It attempted a smile and patted her hand. "Why not sleep on it? Tomorrow will be soon enough."
VII
The Attitude Adjuster watched the attacking craft fall amongst the founding shield of ships; they had no time to move more an fractionally from their original positions. Their weaponry did their moving for them, focusing on the incoming target it plunged into their midst. A scatter of brightly flaring missiles preceded the Killing Time, a hail of plasma bubbles accompanied it and CAM, AM and nanohole warheads cluster munitions burst everywhere around it like a gigantic firework, producing a giant orb of scintillations. Many of the individual motes themselves detonated in a clustering hyperspherical storm of lethal sparks, followed sequentially by another and another echelon of explosions erupting amongst the wave of ships in a layered hierarchy of destruction.
The Attitude Adjuster scanned the real-time reports coming back from its war flock. One was caught by a nanohole, vanishing inside a vast burst of annihilation; another was damaged beyond immediate repair by an AM munition and dropped behind, engines crippled. Fortuitously, neither were crewed by Affronters. Most of the rest of the warheads were dealt with; the fleet's own replies were fended, detonated or avoided by the attacker. No sign of the craft using its effectors to do more than cause interference; flittingly interrogating and probing amongst the collected mass of ships. The focus of its attention had begun near the centre of the third wave of craft and was spirally erratically outwards, occasionally flicking further out towards the other waves.
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