The Hydrogen Sonata

by Iain M. Banks

  “Dear Scribe’s piss,” Trime Yegres sighed, turning to Banstegeyn with his hand partially covering his mouth. “Gets the Ablate thing wrong twice and then barely remembers the name of the planet he’s fucking standing on. Worthy successor, eh?”

  The septame nodded, after a moment.

  Yegres frowned. “You all right, Banstegeyn?”

  “Just … shocked, Yegres,” he said. He looked at the mass of cameras, in case any were aimed at him. At least, in here, only hand-helds were allowed and you were free from the threat of a float-cam poking a lens up your nose. One or two cameras might have been trained on him and Yegres. He kept his blank, shocked, almost uncomprehending look going, gazed downwards again.

  “You, shocked?” Yegres sounded surprised. “Whatever next?”

  “Who knows whatever next?” Banstegeyn said.

  Yegres sighed. “This is very early for this sort of thing. I didn’t even manage breakfast. Too much to expect assassins to show more tact, I suppose. My belly’s empty as the new president’s head.” Yegres exhaled loudly. “And the old one’s, from the rumours of what the poison did to her. And that lovely girl, her AdC … Orpe, wasn’t it?”

  Banstegeyn nodded. Yegres looked at the septame, leaned in towards him and put his hand over his mouth again. “Always thought she might be a bit keen on you, you know. Was that … was I …?”

  “Septame,” a voice said from the other side of Banstegeyn, as the avatar of the Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In appeared suddenly. Banstegeyn took a deep breath. He’d have sworn the silver-skinned creature could slide through spaces it shouldn’t have been able to, insinuating itself through a press of bodies almost as though they weren’t there. Still, at least now he had an excuse not to answer Yegres. “We are deeply sorry,” Ziborlun continued, speaking very quiet and close to his ear, “to hear of the death of President Geljemyn and wish to extend both our sympathies and an offer of help – any help at all – to the Gzilt people. I do hope you and I can talk further, soon. I may have information that I can share only with you. Thank you, Septame,” the creature touched him once on the forearm, slipped away again.

  Yegres leaned out, looking across Banstegeyn. “I assume that was condolences,” he muttered, “but it looked more like a betting tip.”

  “… It is not known, at this moment in time,” the acting president was saying, “precisely and exactly who is responsible, beyond a … a reasonable belief that the Ronte, and their, ah, their agents and their, ah, abettors are, ahm, behind whoever that person or persons might be. So. There we are. Yes. You. What?”

  Banstegeyn sighed. “How did this moron get to be a trime? Or a degan? Or a thirty-second, for that matter?”

  Yegres cleared his throat. “You promoted him, old son.”

  The septame stared at the older man. “What?” he whispered.

  Yegres shrugged. “Oh, every available opportunity, maestro; gave him a helping hand whenever people wanted to kick him upstairs, which was often. Eventually you kicked him up above yourself, made the old duffer a trime.” Yegres looked at him blearily. “Fuck me, Banners, you’re not starting to forget which useful dipsticks you’ve supported over the years because they’ll always agree with you, are you? Prophet’s piss, you’ll be forgetting me next.” He shook his head, glanced at his time-to and muttered, “Wonder if the bars are serving yet …”

  “This is much more satisfactory,” Team Principal Tyun told Cultural Mission Director Keril. Jelwilin Keril had been invited back aboard the Liseiden flagship, the Collective Purposes vessel Gellemtyan-Asool-Anafawaya, to be congratulated for whatever part he might have played in the recent turn-around in the fortunes of the Liseiden.

  Keril floated in his transparent bubble within the ship’s command space, a genuine smile anchored on his face. He was sure that this expression, even if it was first-principles meaningless to the Liseiden – indeed, even if it was by some misfortune first-principles threatening to the Liseiden – would be suitably translated by the aquatic creatures’ AIs and its happy import transmitted to the Liseiden officers.

  “I am very glad, sir, that your faith in me – and my faith, in turn, in Ambassador Mierbeunes – has turned out not to be misplaced. We are your faithful agents and servants, Team Principal, and are glad to have been able to fulfil this part of the mission we undertook for you.”

  “Sir, is it true the Culture are suspected of having helped the Ronte?”

  “I … Well, I’m not, that is, ah …” the acting president said, with the glazed look of somebody listening to something being said on their earbud. He raised one hand and appeared to be about to press his earbud further into his ear, then seemed to change his mind. “Excuse me.” The acting president turned and consulted his staff. He turned to face the front again. “Well,” he said. “There are rumours, apparently. Ah. There has been help of one ship, Culture ship, helping the fleet that has been approaching Gzilt. It is just one ship, and I’m sure our own fleets, own ships are entirely, ah, capable.”

  “Sir, what about the GSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In, and the other Culture warships now stationed directly over Zyse itself?”

  “Well, I can’t, I don’t … Excuse me,” he said, turning away again.

  The screen cut to a different view, going back to the mass of media people again and zooming in on somebody shouting, “Sir, could this delay the Subliming?” while the acting president was talking urgently with his advisors.

  Somebody else shouted out, “Sir, will you be putting yourself forward as a candidate, and will there even be an election?” and yet another person yelled, “Has President Geljemyn’s back-up been woken up yet?” After that, more shouting made it difficult to hear individual questions.

  Berdle, sitting beside an open-mouthed Cossont, looked at her and said, “Well, this is interesting.”

  Cossont, not long woken, dressed in a loose, voluminous robe, just stared at the screen. “The president’s dead?” she said.

  “No,” Berdle told her, “that’s the new one. The avatar nodded at the old man on the screen. “Seems to work a bit like having a king; there always is one, no matter how many you bump off. Until you have a revolution or something.”

  “She’s dead?” Cossont repeated.

  “President Geljemyn is no more,” Berdle agreed. “And we – the Culture – appear to be in the frame somehow. That seems a bit unfair.”

  “I liked President Geljemyn,” Pyan said, draping itself round Cossont’s shoulders. “She had a nice smile. Who is this old person again?”

  “New president,” Berdle told it. “Acting President Int’yom.”

  “I see. No, he hasn’t got such a nice smile.”

  “You’re right,” Berdle said. “He hasn’t, has he?”

  “No! He just hasn’t, has he? It’s just not there for him.”

  “I know,” Berdle agreed, smiling.

  Cossont looked from the screen to Berdle. “What the fuck is going on?”

  The avatar shrugged, looked serious. “Long story. Power struggle, I suppose. Though that seems a little pointless, if everybody’s going to Sublime soon anyway. Though they might not be, now.” Berdle looked at Cossont. “And whether they do or not might come down to what happens when we get back to Xown and the Girdlecity, in about three days.” The avatar assumed a look of some thoughtfulness. “Bit of a responsibility, really.”

  Cossont shook her head, looked back at the screen. “Oh, fuck …”

  “‘Rescinded’! What can be “rescinded’? We had an agreement! We have done nothing! What have we done? Tell us what we have done! Prove anything!”

  The individuals of the Ronte delegation were being dragged, inert, out of the adapted house in the diplomatic quarter that had been their home. As many media trucks were present as security vehicles.

  The individual Rontes in their exo-suits had been covered in grapple nets by the security para-militaries after being effector-stunned in the early morning raid. The nets were supp
osed to disable their exo-suits and leave only basic life-support working, but while the aliens and their suits themselves were just dead weights being hauled out across the garden to the waiting police fliers, some sort of float-cam or drone device controlled by the aliens was still functioning, hovering over the scene and dodging attempts to shoot it by the security people.

  “This is a diplomatic mission! On what authority do you—?” A small Gzilt security drone succeeded in landing a bore charge on the Ronte device, which jerked, went silent, then fell trailing smoke to the ground and thudded into a flowerbed.

  The last exo-suited Ronte was bumped and dragged into the security flier. The ramp closed and the craft took off.

  “I am standing here with Ambassador Mierbeunes of the Liseiden,” a reporter said to a float-cam. “Ambassador Mierbeunes, are you surprised to find the Ronte being treated in this way, while your own clients have been declared the new allies of the Gzilt?”

  “Well, while I entirely understand the many and various pressures which are brought to bear on an alien delegation of this nature …”

  “Has the Culture helped the Ronte or not?”

  “Yes. Specifically, one of our ships helped a squadron of twelve of their vessels get from where they were to the Gzilt system outskirts. They’ve since turned about.”

  “Twelve ships? Is this an invasion force?”

  “Hardly, Mr … Kresele, isn’t it? No, their ships and weapons are quite primitive. Check the specs; freely available. And why would the Culture be helping anybody invade anybody else, let alone help anybody invade the Gzilt, who have been our friends for millennia? And why would anybody invade a people about to Sublime in the first place? Come now; at least try to make sense here. Yes, ma’am. Ms Aouse, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Hi. Have you helped the Ronte in any other way?”

  “Certainly not, as far as I know. And I would have been told.”

  “So you could have been helping them.”

  “To do what? Destroy the Fourteenth’s HQ? That’s ridiculous. That was not them. And it certainly wasn’t us.”

  “Who do you think was responsible, then?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s more likely that one of your own ships gone rogue, rather than the Ronte or the Culture, destroyed the Fzan-Juym, and I leave it to you to judge how absurd a proposition that is.”

  “Ziborlun! Was the Culture ship working in league with the Ronte acting on orders, and, if so, whose?”

  “Oh. So we’ve gone from ‘helping’ to ‘working in league with’, have we? I see. The ship – the Beats Working, a tiny ship with a crew of five humans – had no orders. It still has no orders. It was doing what it and its crew thought was the right thing, at all points, including when it offered to help the Ronte get here faster. And at that stage, let’s not forget, the Ronte still thought you were their friends and, apart from anything else, wanted to get here in time to help celebrate the Subliming.”

  “Somebody must have issued the orders.”

  “No, they didn’t. There were no orders. You have much work to do, Mr Diria, understanding how the Culture works. Yes, ma’am. Ms Zige, isn’t it?”

  “Has the Culture been spying on Gzilt?”

  “If we have, obviously not enough, because we seem to be as confused as everybody else about what the hell is going on here. Yes; gentleman at the back.”

  “Who’s that smart-arse?” Cossont asked, scowling at the screen from within the heavy robe. “Looks like a ship’s avatar.”

  “That’s right,” Berdle said. “Ziborlun. The avatar of the MSV Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In.” Berdle seemed to hesitate, then said, “Ah. I don’t think you’re going to like this.”

  “What?” she said.

  The image switched to yet another press conference and a senior policeman flanked by two First Regiment Intelligence and Security officers. Somebody’s face was shown on an insert on the screen. Cossont knew she knew the person for about half a second before she realised; it was her own face. “We would be very interested in interviewing Ms Cossont,” the head cop was saying. “And, yes, she is a contributory suspect in the matter of the destruction of the regimental headquarters of the Fourteenth Regiment, on Eshri.”

  “WHAT?” Cossont yelled, jumping to her feet. Pyan had to hang on tight to stay round her shoulders.

  “Told you you wouldn’t like it,” Berdle said.

  “Oh, Vyr, are you an outlaw?” Pyan said, sounding excited.

  “But I haven’t done anything!” Cossont shouted.

  Berdle looked at her, head tipped. “My, you really are naive, aren’t you?”

  The ship dance of triumph that had been ‘The Approaching Eclipsing of One Sun by Another’ was abandoned in mid-final formation. On confirmation of the humanoid treachery, all ships somersaulted about, went to full power and simultaneously began a maximally tight zooming loop, twisting as they turned so that at all points throughout the manoeuvre their drives were presented towards their earlier destination, the planet Zyse in the system of Gzilt.

  The drone Jonsker Ap-Candrechenat, representative of the Culture ship Beats Working, was accepted again within the command space of the Interstitial/Exploratory vessel Melancholia Enshrines All Triumph – arriving by the quicker though most alarming method of Displacement – and made a show of prostrating itself before the Swarmprince and Sub-Corporation Divisional Head.

  Ossebri 17 Haldesib regarded the Culture machine for some time before saying, “Device, there are those amongst my officers who would have us attack you, believing you to have been complicit in a deception upon us. They believe that you were both leading and hurrying us into a trap, and that, as such, neither you nor your ship should be suffered to live.”

  “If the Swarmprince so desires, I shall absent myself immediately, return to my ship and depart along with it. The Swarmprince should know, however, that we have engaged in no such deception at any point, and have at all times done all we could to cooperate with and to aid the Ronte fleet and squadron. Had we been engaged in any plot to deliver the squadron to a place of jeopardy, all those complicit would surely have brought the squadron further into the Gzilt system, where the threat to it would have been by that measure enhanced, before the trap was sprung, instead of timing matters such that the squadron has – happily – had time to deflect from its earlier course and instigate its current re-disposition.”

  “‘Deflect from its earlier course and instigate its current re-disposition’,” Ossebri 17 Haldesib quoted. “Does the Culture machine possess any other especially pretty ways of saying ‘run away’ or ‘escape like a shamed, pursued prey’?”

  “Swarmprince, we attempt to respect your customs and protocols and the ways that you express yourselves. If I fail to do so as well as I might, I apologise. Yes, we are running away. I run with you, being determined to stay with the squadron and fleet for as long as you wish me to. The instant you wish me gone, I shall be.”

  “You say you respect us, yet you ignore my earlier threat to attack you. Is that not an insult, even if disguised by ignorance?”

  “It is not, Swarmprince. It reflects my belief that I personally would probably be able to frustrate any attempt by you to harm, disable or imprison me, and that the Beats Working would similarly be able to escape unharmed should any hostile act be directed at it. We could, of course, be wrong on both counts, but we think not. To accept what we regard as this truth only reinforces our desire not to dwell on the unpleasantness of threats delivered by those who were so recently friends, whom we still value, and whom we hope will swiftly accept us as true and trustworthy friends again.”

  “Then kindly leave us, both personally and in the shape of your ship. We shall make our own way to a place of safety. If what you claim is true and you meant us no harm by delivering us so expeditiously into the jaws of our enemies, you may accept our apologies. If not, then know that the Ronte make implacable foes, and the memory of a betrayal against one group becomes part of the
memory of all. You are dismissed.”

  “May I—?”

  “Whatever it is, you may not. I said you are dismissed. Go.”

  The Culture machine dipped its front portion in what was supposed to be taken as a respectful bow, then the whole machine was enveloped by a silvery sphere of fields beyond the ken of the most sophisticated analytical devices the Collective Purposes vessel possessed, the sphere shrank to a point and disappeared, and the machine was gone.

  The Navigation and Targeting team reported that the Culture ship began to depart in the same instant, pulling slowly away and then, effectively, disappearing.

  “A signal from the Culture ship, sir,” the communications officer said. “From the drone Jonsker Ap-Candrechenat.”

  “Show.”

  The drone appeared on screen.

  “Swarmprince,” the drone said, “my apologies for intruding again so immediately; however, what I wished to say and still have to say is important: a five-ship formation of Gzilt war-craft including one capital ship has left Zyse, heading in your direction. Our initial simulations indicate that they intend to make a show of force and be seen to be seeing you off, rather than intending to offer battle. We believe similar though smaller Gzilt formations have been disposed to carry out similar actions wherever else Ronte forces have been en route to their destinations.

  “Of more concern for your own squadron are two forces of Liseiden ships, both consisting of four vessels, each at least as heavily armed as your squadron flagship. These are believed to be converging on your entry point into the Gzilt system. The Beats Working continues to pull away but remains at your disposal and will respond as quickly as possible to any signal from you. Thank you and good luck.”