The Hydrogen Sonata

by Iain M. Banks

“Sir?”

  “Hmm?” Salvage and Reprocessing Team Principal Ny-Xandabo Tyun accepted the call in his private cabin. It was from his Sensors/Targeting officer. He had asked not to be disturbed unless something urgent came up. “What?” he said with deliberate gruffness, though secretly he was glad of the interruption. He was finding writing what he hoped would turn into one of the more exciting parts of his memoirs rather more difficult than he’d anticipated.

  “Sir, we have the Ronte fleet in sight at extended scanner range; thirteen targets.”

  “Thirteen. So the Culture ship is still with them.”

  “Appears so, sir.”

  “Are they aware of us?”

  “Doubtful, sir.”

  “I’d prefer a percentage applied to that doubt, officer.”

  “Sir. Ninety per cent certain they haven’t detected us, sir.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Also, sir, Comms coming on line with a signal from the Culture GSV Empiricist. Shall I—?”

  “Yes. Comms, what are they saying?”

  “There’s quite a lot of it, sir; I’ve patched it through. But it boils down to them telling us not to attack the Ronte.”

  “I bet it does. I’ll take a look shortly. You have followed my earlier orders and not acknowledged?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. S/T?”

  “Sir,” the Sensors/Targeting officer said.

  “How long until we have the Ronte fleet in range?”

  “A fraction over two hours at current velocities and courses, sir.”

  “Two hours? I thought we expected to have them in range forty minutes after contact.”

  “Their drive signatures are messier than anticipated, sir, plus the Culture ship with them appears to be hurrying them on; hard to tell from this far away – only about fifteen per cent certain – but it looks like it’s encased them in its own field enclosure, highly extended, and is acting like a sort of high-speed tug.”

  “I see. Engineering?”

  “Sir?”

  “Can you give us a little more power?”

  “Negative, sir. Another step-up from here would imply a seventy per cent chance of serious engine malfunction, probably in one or both of the two Jubunde-class ships.”

  “Hmm. Very well. Continue to close at current velocity. Combat?”

  “Sir?”

  “Go to full readiness in one hour, ship-wide. I’ll rejoin the bridge then.”

  “Sir.”

  “Proceed, all,” he said. He cut off the chorus of acknowledgements and resumed his compositional task with a watery sigh.

  The insectile drone Jonsker Ap-Candrechenat, representative of the Culture ship Beats Working, floated in front of the Swarmprince Ossebri 17 Haldesib, in the command space of the Ronte Interstitial/Exploratory vessel Melancholia Enshrines All Triumph.

  “This need not be your fight, machine,” Haldesib told the drone.

  “It feels like it is, Swarmprince. I led you into danger. I thought I might help you escape it, but it would appear we are discovered, so now the least I can do is try to make amends by coming between you and the enemies into whose reach I so foolishly delivered you.”

  Haldesib flicked one leg in a dismissive gesture. “For ourselves, we do not seek our end; but the hive, the swarm, the race will go on, no matter. You need not presume to share our fate through misplaced guilt.”

  “I feel I have no honourable choice, Swarmprince.”

  “You intend to attack the Liseiden ships?”

  “I intend to engage with them.”

  “The distinction might be lost on them. We have dealt with the Liseiden before. They will interpret any ‘engagement’ as an attack. Or at least claim to, afterwards. Be warned.”

  “Thank you. I am.”

  “This is the decision of your human crew?”

  “No. It is mine. I intend to get my human crew to safety before matters become critical.”

  “They concur with this?”

  “They have come to accept it. Two wanted to be heroes, and stay aboard. I argued them out of this course.”

  The Swarmprince flexed his wing plates. In a human, the equivalent might have been a shake of the head. “We may all die out here, machine, but – of all of us – you have some choice. Must you be a hero? Can you not argue yourself out of this course?”

  “I probably could, Swarmprince, but I’d regret it subsequently. I believe this is the right thing to do and so I am doing it.”

  “You may steal some of our glory.” The Swarmprince’s legs flexed as he said this, dipping his body briefly to indicate that it was said humorously, not aggressively.

  “I shall engage with them first, independently, Swarmprince, before any action between them and you. If I may, I’ll transmit to you whatever I can discover of their ships’ abilities, strengths and weaknesses. It may help, if I am unable to stop them.”

  “We are pleased to accept this kind offer. But what if you prevail? We shall be denied all chance to prove ourselves!”

  “Then you will have the benefit of my most profuse apologies, I shall accept any amount of inferred alien cachet value (negative), honorary, you care to bestow, and I shall be grateful subsequently for even the most demeaning and/or minor role in any ship dance within which you care to include me.”

  Leg-clicks indicated the Swarmprince was laughing. A few other Ronte in the command space joined in quietly. “It has been gratifying to us to witness the knowledge of and respect for our ways you have displayed, ship,” the Swarmprince said. “We can only wish you well with your ‘engagement’. Fight well. Live if you can, die well if you must.”

  “Thank you, Swarmprince. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “You look tired, Septame,” Chekwri told him as she entered his office in the parliament building.

  “I feel tired, Marshal.”

  “Never mind; not long to go now. You chosen your last outfit?”

  “What?”

  “Your clothing; whatever you’re going to wear for the Instigation. Have you decided how you’ll be dressed when you meet your glorious translation into the Enfolded?”

  “I … I think that’s all pre-decided for me. Ceremonial … Solbli. Yes, Solbli; she’ll be taking care of all that. Umm. You?”

  “Oh, I shall be resplendent in all my finery, Septame, medals gleaming,” Chekwri said, folding herself into a seat across from the septame. Banstegeyn had noticed that the marshal didn’t ask whether she might disturb him these days, or wait to be invited to sit. Before, he might have made some frosty comment and insisted on protocols being followed, but no more. People were going quietly crazy in these last couple of days – in fact some people were going noisily, boisterously, even dangerously crazy. Meanwhile, all across the Gzilt domain, those who had been Stored, some for less than a year, some for a couple of decades or more, were waking up for final reunions, last goodbyes, leaving parties and fare-thee-wells-in-what-comes-next …

  “I have buffed and polished my medals for decades of steady, dedicated watchfulness,” the marshal continued, clasping her hands behind her head as she leaned back and relaxed, legs crossed, “counted and re-counted my medals for outstanding work in simulations and exercises, carefully arranged my medals for heroic bravery under virtual fire, and even found room for my many, many medals for exemplary valour in the face of fellow officers coveting the same promotions as I.” She smiled at him without humour. “Shame we haven’t had time to strike any medals commemorating our latest exploits: jumping unarmed ships, wasting our own and setting naive aliens on each other. Still, one can have too much of a good thing, eh, Septame? And they do say there’s no guilt in the Sublime.”

  “You seem positively energised by the whole process, Chekwri.” He looked pointedly round the room. “And very confident that my office isn’t bugged.”

  “I had my own people make quite sure of that some time ago, Septame,” Chekwri said, smiling.

  “While planting you
r own?”

  The marshal’s smile broadened. “Have you always been so suspicious, Banstegeyn?”

  He looked at her, unsmiling. “No, I stumbled into a position of great power quite by accident.”

  Chekwri grinned, then shrugged. “Our troubles will soon be over, Septame,” she said, then frowned. “What?” she asked. Banstegeyn had just twitched and glanced to one side, like he’d seen something alarming from the corner of one eye.

  The septame shook his head and bent back to his desk, where he was signing documents on his desk screen. “Nothing,” he muttered, scrawling his signature. “Have you only come to discuss matters of ceremonial attire or is there some actual point to this visit?”

  Chekwri stood, walked to the window overlooking the stepped gardens and the city beyond the curve of river. “My, I do believe some people have started fires,” she said. “I thought that wasn’t our style.” She looked back at Banstegeyn. “One lot of aliens is about to trash another. The mighty Empiricist, no less, has signalled the miscreants telling them to play nicely but the rumour is it’s being ignored. I just wanted to be sure you were happy that we let things be and allow what might happen to happen. This is not to say that they’d take any notice of us, either, but in theory we might threaten to withdraw Scavenger cooperation. This has been suggested.”

  “By whom?”

  “Media, Culture, one or two politicos. There’d be more, but of course everybody’s distracted.”

  “You’re the brave space marshal. What would your advice be?”

  “I’d be indifferent; doesn’t affect us … save for the fact that our returned bad boy and what sounds like its entire marine force are just about to tangle with a Culture ship, out at Xown. That could get messy. Might require extraneous distractions to keep people from concerning themselves with it.” She crossed her arms. “Intelligence has crunched some more numbers and now thinks that particular side-show might all turn on this absurdly old Culture guy, and Cossont, the girl who survived Fzan-Juym and the fracas at Bokri. I think we take no chances and continue to let our assets around the Girdlecity do whatever’s needed; does that sound—?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does. Do whatever’s needed,” the septame said, not looking up. “Is that all?” he asked. “Lot of signing required, winding up an entire civilisation, and the president was only too happy to delegate to his trimes and septames. Then I’ve got the joy of back-to-back receptions for a variety of newly arrived aliens and recently de-Stored self-important political nonentities to attend.”

  “You should just tell them to fuck off,” Chekwri said cheerfully. “Go for a walk. Get laid. Start a fire.” She headed for the door. “Why not?”

  The door closed, leaving him alone. He brought his head up, gazing at the closed door for a moment. Then his eyes flicked to one side for an instant, he made a small keening noise and bent quickly back to his task, the nib of the stylo scratching drily at the desk screen.

  “Salvage and Reprocessing Team Principal, Ny-Xandabo Tyun?”

  “I have that honour. And you?” Tyun had been called back to the bridge from his private cabin half an hour early. It appeared the Culture ship wanted to talk and was falling back towards them, leaving the Ronte fleet to crawl on without it. Tyun watched the representation of the situation on a giant screen stretching right across the forward part of the bridge.

  “I am the Culture ship Beats Working,” the voice said, in perfect, unaccented Liseiden Formal.

  “Sir,” Tyun’s combat officer broke in, “a contact, registering less than ten metres in length and flagging as an unarmed civilian personnel craft, has left the Culture ship. Divergent course; peeling away. Slung and slowing.”

  Tyun could see the tiny trace, curving away from the approaching Culture ship; a thread from a speck. “Could it be a warhead?” he asked.

  “Technically possible, sir,” the combat officer said. “Something improvised. Big, though, for such a small craft. They’re not supposed to carry any weapons anywhere near—”

  “Deploy an HRMP to track it, slow approach. Keep the platform between the new contact and us.”

  “Heavy Remote Missile Platform launched, sir. Launch authority for the missiles?”

  “What would you recommend, officer?”

  “Zero automaticity, sir. Our direct positive command.”

  “That, then.”

  “Team Principal?” the Culture ship said.

  Tyun clicked back to speak to the Culture ship again. “Yes?”

  “I take it you’ve noticed that I have despatched my human crew in a small shuttle craft. Their identities and the craft’s course are appended. They and the shuttle are entirely unarmed.”

  “Why are your crew abandoning ship?”

  “I asked them to, and advised them that they ought to.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “In case there are any hostilities.”

  “Why should there be any hostilities?”

  “I believe you mean some harm to the Ronte.”

  “Not at all. You presume too much. I might as well assume that you mean harm to me and my ships because you have loosed what, for all I know, might be a warhead disguised as a shuttle.”

  “The shuttle craft is drawing further away from you all the time and its course is set. Also, it is demonstrably unarmed.”

  “Seven minutes until the Culture ship’s in range, sir,” the combat officer told him.

  “Are we in range of it yet?” Tyun asked. He checked the magnification the screen was using, shown as a logarithmically scaled bar on one side.

  “Shouldn’t be, sir; not a Scree class. They’re almost unarmed.”

  “And you,” Tyun asked, clicking back to talk to the Culture ship. “Are you unarmed, machine? And what are your intentions?”

  “I have only very limited military capability. My intention is to prevent you engaging with the Ronte ships ahead of you.”

  “What makes you think we wish to engage with them?”

  “You are pursuing them.”

  “Hmm. I would not care to define it as such. We are merely following them.”

  “You have targeted them.”

  “We have illuminated them the better to track their progress.”

  “This is not fully plausible. I believe you mean them harm.”

  “Not at all. We may ask them to heave to and submit to our inspection; we are entitled to do so under the terms of our agreement with the Gzilt, as long as the Ronte or any unauthorised military or semi-military forces are in Gzilt space. Which they are, of course.”

  “You know the Ronte will never permit such a thing.”

  “That’s their problem. Certainly they have proved treacherous in the past and gone back on their agreements with us, so we are unable, sadly, to take their word regarding any questions we may have for them regarding cargo, weaponry and intentions. As I say, our initial approach will be entirely non-violent, simply requesting them to halt and cooperate.”

  “Such an approach virtually guarantees there will be conflict. I believe you know this.”

  “I know no such thing, ship. I am acting within my rights according to the recently signed agreement between the Liseiden people and the Gzilt; an agreement which rescinds and cancels any previous agreements your … clients might have thought they’d inveigled the Gzilt into signing with them. And I wonder that a Culture ship appears so determined to ally itself with those barbaric ruffians, the Ronte. I wonder, are we suffering from a degree of guilt at having enabled your Ronte friends to encroach so far into Gzilt space? If so, ship, I understand that you might feel some shame, some wounded pride, but our … contention at this time is not with you. If it is with anyone, it is with them. I must ask you to break off what is beginning to look like an attack run on our – far superior – force before we are compelled to take defensive action, which may, I’m afraid to say, include interception munitions.”

  “I intend to continue on my present course, Team Principal.�
��

  On the giant screen, the Culture ship looked very close now. Tyun clicked out. “Navigation, prepare to split the squadron in two: three right, three left, to half a light second apart. On my order. We’ll let the Culture ship go straight through the gap between. All ships target and prepare to fire on any hostile action from the Culture ship. We can afford to ignore the Ronte for a short while, yes?”

  “Maybe five minutes, on present velocities,” his navigation officer said.

  “Fine. Then make good those orders. And – to be clear – only fire on actual, overt hostile action from the Culture ship; not just targeting. We all got that?”

  “Sir.”

  “Targeting,” the combat officer said.

  “Split the fleet,” Tyun ordered. He could hear and feel the ship around him hauling itself away from its earlier, straight course, starting to curve to one side along with two of the other ships. On the screen, the view swung, keeping the approaching Ronte fleet at one edge as the elongated dot that was the Beats Working swept past between the separated halves of the Liseiden squadron.

  “Fleet split as prescribed,” the navigation officer reported. “Culture ship maintaining – correction: target slowing, rapidly. Target … now stopped relative to us. Accelerating. Catching up. Level with us in four seconds.”

  The screen view swung slowly, keeping the smeared dot of the Culture ship at one edge. The view hazed oddly, as though they were running through a gas cloud.

  “Sir, the Quiatrea-Anang reports total loss of engine control.”

  “Sir, the Abalule-Sheliz reports total loss of power.”

  “What?” He had two junior officers from fleet control talking to him at once. The main screen hazed grey then blanked out entirely.

  “What the fuck—?” Tyun said, glancing at the display in his own helmet. The helmet display was still working but seemed to be having trouble locking on to his eyes to present a true holo image. A stray flash briefly dazzled him.

  “Main screen in shut-down,” the damage control officer said, sounding puzzled. “Cause unknown.” The screen flashed, shivered woozily, went blank again.

  The damage control officer broke in. “Effector attack, on us, targeting engine control and main sensors.”