Looking ahead, Uagen could see light again. He groaned, then saw that it was blue-white, not yellow this time.
“We approach the outside,” 974 Praf gasped.
They dropped from the belly of the dying behemothaur, falling not much faster than what was left of the vast creature itself as it burned and disintegrated and collapsed and descended all at once. Uagen held 974 Praf to him, smothering the flames eating at her wings, then used his ankle motors and balloon cape to halt their fall, and after an eternity of falling amongst flaming, fluttering wreckage and injured animals, brought the two of them round from underneath the massive, V-shaped ruin that was the dying behemothaur, into clear air space where the remains of the Yoleus’ expeditionary force of raptor scouts found them moments before an ogrine disseisor could swoop in to swallow them whole.
The dazed, silent Interpreter shivered in his arms, the smell of her burned flesh filling his nose as they rose slowly with the raptor scout troupe back to the dirigible behemothaur Yoleus.
“Go?”
“Yes; away. Go. Depart. Leave.”
“You wish to go away, depart, leave, now?”
“As soon as possible. When’s the next ship? Of anybody’s? Well, not, umm. Chelgrian. Yes; not Chelgrian.”
Uagen had never imagined that Yoleus’ interrogatory chamber would seem remotely homely, but it did now. He felt bizarrely safe here. It was just a pity he had to leave.
Yoleus was talking to him via a connecting cable and an Interpreter called 46 Zhun. The bulkier body of the nominally male 46 Zhun was perched on a ledge beside 974 Praf, who was stuck to the chamber wall looking singed and limp and dead but apparently beginning her reconstitution and recovery. 46 Zhun closed his eyes. Uagen was left standing there on the soft warm floor of the chamber. He could still smell the odour of burning coming off his clothes. He shivered.
46 Zhun opened his eyes again. “The next departing object is due to leave from the Second Tropic of Inclination Secessionary Portal in the Yonder lobe in five days,” the Interpreter said.
“I’ll take it. Wait; is it Chelgrian?”
“No. It is a Jhuvuonian Trader.”
“I’ll take it.”
“There is not from now sufficient time for you to journey to and arrive at the said Tropic of Inclination Secessionary Portal.”
“What?”
“There is not from now sufficient time for you to—”
“Well, how long would it take?”
The Interpreter closed its eyes again for a few moments, then opened them and said, “Twenty-three days would be the minimum time of requirement for a being such as you to journey to and arrive at the Second Tropic of Inclination Secessionary Portal from this point.”
Uagen could feel a terrible gnawing in his guts; it was a sensation he hadn’t felt since he was a very young child. He tried to remain calm. “When is the next ship after that?”
“That is not known,” the Interpreter replied immediately.
Uagen fought back the urge to cry. “Is it possible to signal from Oskendari?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“At beyond-light speed?”
“No.”
“Could you signal for a ship? Is there any way for me to get off in the near future?”
“The definition of near future. This would be what?”
Uagen suppressed a moan. “In the next hundred days?”
“There are no objects known to be arriving or departing within that time period.”
Uagen put his hands into his head-hair and pulled at it. He roared out of frustration, then stopped, blinking. He’d never done that. Never done either. Pulled at his hair or roared with frustration. He stared up at the blackened, crippled-looking body of 974 Praf, then dropped his head and stared at the chamber floor beneath his feet. His little ankle motors gleamed mockingly back up at him.
He raised his head. What had he been thinking of?
He checked what he knew about Jhuvuonian Traders. Only semi-Contacted. Fairly peaceful, quite trustworthy. Still in the age of scarcity. Ships capable of a few hundred lights. Slow by Culture standards, but sufficient. “Yoleus,” he said calmly. “Can you signal the Second Secessionary Tropic of Inclinatory Portal or whatever it’s called?”
“Yes.”
“How long would that take?”
The creature closed its eyes and opened them. “One day plus one quarter of a day would be required for the outward signal and a similar amount of time would be required for a replying signal.”
“Good. Where is the nearest Portal to where we are now and how long would it take for me to get there?”
Another pause. “The nearest Portal to where we are now is the Ninth Tropic of Inclination Secessionary Portal, Present lobe. It is two days plus one three-fifths of a day’s flying time from here by raptor scout.”
Uagen took a deep breath. I’m Culture, he thought to himself. This is what you’re meant to do in such a situation, this is what it’s all supposed to be about.
“Please signal the Jhuvuonian Trader vessel,” he said, “and tell them they will be paid an amount of money equivalent to the worth of their vessel if they will pick me up at the Ninth Tropic of Inclination Secessionary Portal, Present lobe, in four days’ time and take me to a destination I will disclose to them when they meet me there. Also mention that their discretion would be appreciated.”
He considered leaving it at that, but this ship sounded like his only chance and he couldn’t afford to risk its masters dismissing him as a crank. And if they were committed to that departure date then there wasn’t time to indulge in a conversation by signal to convince them, either. He took another deep breath and added, “You may inform them that I am a citizen of the Culture.”
He never did get a chance to say goodbye properly to 974 Praf. The Decider foliage-gleaner turned Interpreter was still unconscious and attached to the wall of the Interrogatory Chamber when he left, a day later.
He packed his bags, made sure that a record of his research notes, glyphs and all that had happened in the last couple of days was left in safe keeping with Yoleus, and made a particular point of finally preparing and drinking a glass of jhagel tea. It didn’t taste very good.
A flight of raptor scouts escorted him to the Ninth Tropic of Inclination Secessionary Portal. His last glimpse of the dirigible behemothaur Yoleus was looking back over his shoulder watching the giant creature fading away into the greeny-blue distance above the shadow of a cloud complex, still faithfully following below and beneath the bulk of its desired mate, Muetenive. He wondered if they would yet make their dash for the predicted upwelling still building somewhere through the haze horizon ahead, to claim their free ride upwards to the manifold splendours of the gigalithine globular entity Buthulne.
He felt a sort of sweet sadness that he would not be there to share either that ride or arrival with them, and experienced a pang of guilt at feeling even the hint of a wish that the Jhuvuonian Trader craft would reject his offer and not show up, so leaving him no real choice but to attempt to return to Yoleus.
The two behemothaurs disappeared in the airily cavernous shadows above the cloud system. He turned back to face forward again. His ankle motors whirred, the cloak adjusted itself minutely to accommodate his altered orientation, still tensed to make a wing. The wings of the raptor scouts beat the air around him in a syncopated rhythm of stuttering sound, creating a curiously restful effect. He looked over at 46 Zhun, clasped to the neck and back of the raptor scout troupe leader, but the creature appeared to be asleep.
The Ninth Tropic of Inclination Secessionary Portal proved a little short of facilities. It was just a patch about ten metres in diameter on the side of the airsphere’s fabric where the layers of containment material met and fused to produce a clear window into space. Around this circular area was clustered a handful of what looked like the mega fruit husks which grew on the behemothaurs and in one of which, until a day earlier, he had made his home. They provided
a place for the raptor scouts to perch and get their strength back and for him to sit and wait. There was some food, some water, but that was all.
He passed the time by looking out at the stars—the Portal patches were the only truly clear areas on the airsphere’s surface; the rest was only translucent in comparison—and composing a poeglyph trying to describe the sensation of terror he’d felt just the day before, trapped inside the dying body of the behemothaur Sansemin.
It was a frustrating process. He kept on putting down the stylo—the same damn stylo that had led to him being here now waiting on an alien spaceship that might never come—and tried to work out what had happened to Sansemin, why the Culture agent—if that was truly what he or she had been—had been here in the first place, whether there really was a plot of the sort that had been described to him, and what he ought to do if it transpired that the whole thing was some sort of joke, hallucination or figment of a mad and tormented creature’s mind.
He had napped twice, scrubbed six attempts at the poeglyph and (having come to the tentative conclusion that it was marginally more likely that he had gone mad than that the events of the last few days had been real) was debating with himself the relative merits of suicide, Storage, transcorporation into a group entity or a request to return to Yoleus and resume his studies—suitably physically altered and with the elongated lifespan he’d been considering earlier—when the Jhuvuonian Trader ship, an unlikely arrangement of tubes and spars, hove to on the far side of the Portal.
Jhuvuonian Traders were not at all what he imagined. For some reason he had expected squat, rough-looking hairy humanoids wearing skins and furs, when in fact they resembled collections of very large red feathers. One of them floated through the Portal, encased within a mostly transparent bubble itself held inside a finger-like intrusion of air forming a tunnel reaching back to the Portal and the tubular vessel outside. He met it on a terrace of the mega fruit husk. 46 Zhun grasped the parapet at his side, watching the encased alien approach with the air of a creature sizing up potential nest-building material.
“You are the Culture person?” the creature in the bubble said, once it was hovering level with him. The voice was faint, the Marain accent tolerable.
“Yes. How do you do?”
“You will pay the worth of our ship to be taken to your destination?”
“Yes.”
“It is a very fine ship.”
“So I see.”
“We would have another identical.”
“You shall.”
The alien made a series of clacking noises, talking to the Interpreter at Uagen’s side. 46 Zhun clacked back.
“What is your destination?” the alien said.
“I need to send a signal to the Culture. Just get me in range to do that, initially, then take me to wherever I might meet with a Culture ship.”
It had crossed Uagen’s mind that the ship might be able to do this from here, without having to take him anywhere, though he doubted he would be so lucky. Still, in the next few moments he experienced a frisson of hope and nervousness until the creature said, “We could travel next to the Beidite entity Critoletli, where such communication and congregation might both be accomplished.”
“How long would that take?”
“Seventy-seven standard Culture days.”
“There is nowhere closer?”
“There is not.”
“Could we signal ahead to the entity on our approach?”
“We could.”
“How soon would we be in range to do that?”
“In about fifty standard Culture days.”
“Very well. I’d like to set off immediately.”
“Satisfactory. Payment to us?”
“From the Culture upon my safe delivery. Oh. I should have mentioned.”
“What?” the alien said, its assemblage of red filaments fluttering inside the bubble.
“There may be an additional reward involved, beyond the payment we have already agreed.”
The creature’s feathery body rearranged itself again. “Satisfactory,” it repeated.
The bubble floated up to the parapet. There was a second bubble forming beside the one enclosing the alien. It was, Uagen reflected, just like watching a cell divide. “Atmosphere and temperature are adjusted for Culture standard,” the alien told him. “Gravity within ship will be less. This is acceptable to you?”
“Yes.”
“You can provide your own sustenance?”
“I’ll manage,” he said, then thought. “You do have water?”
“We do.”
“Then I’ll survive.”
“You will come aboard, please.”
The twinned bubble bumped against the parapet. Uagen stooped, picked up his bags and looked at 46 Zhun. “Well, goodbye. Thank you for your help. Wish Yoleus all the best.”
“The Yoleus wishes me to wish you a safe journey and a subsequent life which is pleasing to you.”
Uagen smiled. “Tell it thank you, from me. I hope to see it again.”
“This will be done.”
Some Ways of Dying
The ship lift sat underneath the falls; when it was needed, its counter-weighted cradle swung slowly up and out from the swirling pool at the foot of the torrent, trailing veils and mists of its own. Behind the plunging curtain of water, the giant counter-weight moved slowly down through its subterranean pool, balancing the dock-sized cradle as it rose until it slotted into a wide groove carved into the lip of the falls. Once home, its gates gradually forced themselves open against the current, so that the cradle presented a sort of balcony of water jutting out beyond the river’s kilometre-wide drop-off point.
Two bullet-shaped vessels powered upstream from either side like giant fish; they trailed long booms which stretched out to form a wide V that funnelled the oncoming barge towards the cradle. Once the gates had closed again and the barge was safely enclosed, the booms retracted, the cradle opened its side caissons to the onrushing force of the water and the extra weight slowly overcame the balancing mass of the counter-weight, now deep under the pool beneath.
Cradle and barge tipped slowly outwards and down, descending amongst the thunder and mist towards the turmoil of waters below.
Ziller, dressed in a waistcoat and leggings that were thoroughly saturated, stood with the Hub avatar on a forward-facing promenade deck just below the bridge of the barge Ucalegon, on the River Jhree, Toluf Plate. The Chelgrian shook himself, unleashing spray, as the cradle’s downstream gates opened and the barge made its way, thudding and bumping against the inflatable sides of the cradle, into the maelstrom of clashing waves and surging hummocks of water beyond.
He leant over to the avatar and pointed up through the churning clouds of vapour towards the falls’ lip, two hundred metres above. “What would happen if the barge missed the cradle up there?” he yelled over the sound of the waterfall.
The avatar, looking drenched but uncaring in a thin dark suit which clung to its silvery frame, shrugged. “Then,” it said loudly, “there would be a disaster.”
“And if the downstream gates opened while the cradle was still at the top of the falls?”
The creature nodded. “Again, disaster.”
“And if the cradle’s supporting arms gave way?”
“Disaster.”
“Or if the cradle started to descend too soon?”
“Ditto.”
“Or either set of gates gave way before the cradle reached the pool?”
“Guess what.”
“So this thing does have an anti-gravity keel or something, doesn’t it?” Ziller shouted. “As back-up, redundancy? Yes?”
The avatar shook its head. “No.” Droplets fell from its nose and ears.
Ziller sighed and shook his head, too. “No, I didn’t really think so.”
The avatar smiled and leant towards him. “I take it as an encouraging sign that you’re beginning to ask that sort of question after the experience concerned i
s past the dangerous stage.”
“So I’m becoming as thoughtlessly blasé about risk and death as your inhabitants.”
The avatar nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Encouraging, isn’t it?”
“No. Depressing.”
The avatar laughed. It looked up at the sides of the gorge as the river funnelled its way onwards to join Masaq’ Great River via Ossuliera City. “We’d better get back,” the silver-skinned creature said. “Ilom Dolince will be dying soon, and Nisil Tchasole coming back.”
“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want to miss either of your grotesque little ceremonies, would we?”
They turned and walked round the corner of the deck. The barge powered its way through the chaos of waves, its bows smacking into surging piles of white and green water and throwing great curtains of spray into the air to land like torrential squalls of rain across the decks. The buffeted vessel tipped and heaved. Behind it, the cradle was slowly and steadily submerging itself again in the raging currents.
A lump of water crashed onto the deck behind them, turning the promenade into a surging river half a metre deep. Ziller had to drop to all threes and use one hand on the deck rail to steady himself as they made their way through the torrent to the nearest doors. The avatar walked sloshing through the stream surging round its knees as though indifferent. It held the doors open and helped Ziller through.
In the foyer, Ziller shook himself again, spattering the gleaming wooden walls and embroidered hangings. The avatar just stood and the water fell off it, leaving its silvery skin and its matte clothes completely dry while the water drained away from its feet across the decking.
Ziller dragged a hand through his face fur and patted his ears. He looked at the immaculate figure standing smiling opposite him while he dripped. He wrung some water out of his waistcoat as he inspected the avatar’s skin and clothing for any remaining sign of moisture. It appeared to be perfectly dry. That is a very annoying trait,” he told it.
“I did offer earlier to shelter both of us from the spray,” the avatar reminded him. The Chelgrian pulled one of his waistcoat pockets inside out and watched the resulting stream of water hit the deck. “But you said you wanted fully to appreciate the experience with all your senses including that of touch,” the avatar continued. “Which I have to say I did think was a little casual at the time.”
Look to Windward c-7 Page 28
