Now I am a free citizen on Chel again, with a reasonable pension (in fact two) and the respect of my superiors (actually two sets of them, though only one lot know of the existence of the other bunch, and they would resist being called my superiors). I hope that I may never be needed again, but if I am, I will do my duty not for my old masters but for my new equals. For I am, by the definition I would have used up to a few years ago, a traitor.
The Chelgrian High Command thought that I might have been got at in some way—even turned—before the wreck of the ship was found, however I seemed to check out and I certainly made all the right responses.
They were both right and wrong. I was turned by the Culture while I was still in the substrate in the Institute on Aorme. They hadn’t thought of that, long before the Caste War.
The best way to turn an individual—person or machine—is not to invade them and implant some sort of mimetic virus or any such nonsense, but to make them change their mind themselves, and that is what they did to me, or rather what they persuaded me to do to myself.
They showed me all there was to be shown about my society and theirs and, in the end, I preferred theirs. Essentially I became a Culture citizen and at the same time an agent of Special Circumstances, which is the uncharacteristically coy name they employ for their combined intelligence, espionage and counter-espionage organisation.
I went along with everything else to keep Masaq’ and its people safe, not to ensure its destruction. I was SC’s insurance policy, their get-out clause, their parachute (I heard many colourful analogies). If I had been told to do so, I would have prevented Quilan from making his Displacements, not taken over and done them for him had he demurred. In the end it was decided that sufficient other safeguards had been put in place for the Displacements to go ahead, with the aim of back-tracking along the attempted wormhole link to discover and even attack the Involveds behind the attack (this failed and to the best of my knowledge it is still not known who those mysterious allies were, though I’m sure SC has its suspicions).
I spend most of my time on Masaq’ these days, often in the company of Kabe Ischloear; we have similar roles. I come back here to Chel on occasion, but I prefer my new home. Only recently Kabe pointed out that he had lived in the Culture for nearly a decade before he realised that when the Culture calls somebody from an alien society who lives amongst them “Ambassador”, what they mean is that that person represents the Culture to their original civilisation, the assumption being that the alien concerned will naturally consider the Culture better than their home and so worthy of promotion within it.
Such hubris!
Nevertheless.
I have met Mahrai Ziller. He was wary at first but eventually warmed to me. Lately we have been talking about him accompanying me back here, to Chel, for an informal visit, perhaps early next year. So I may yet accomplish the task that was only ever Quilan’s covering story.
They tell me that the Hub and Quilan went together into total oblivion, with no back-ups, no copies, no mind-states, no souls left behind.
I suppose it must have been what they both wanted. In the case of the Major, I believe I can understand, and I still feel deeply sorry for him and the effects of a loss he could neither mourn away nor stand, though—like a lot of people, I think—I find it hard to understand how something as fabulously complicated and comprehensively able intellectually as a Mind might also want to destroy itself.
Life never ceases to surprise.
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Look to Windward c-7 Page 39
