The Algebraist

by Iain M. Banks

  'And attempting to invade us helps them how?'

  'They think there may be something here which will make a difference. Some information. That's why I'm here, to look for it. But if they thought I was dead or not likely to succeed, the Mercatoria might intervene directly. Plus the invaders the Mercatoria is worried about might well think the same way with even less cause to hesitate. I get the impression the future contin­uance of Dweller Studies is kind of low on their set of priorities.'

  'Fassin, what sort of information could possibly make such a course of action seem sensible?'

  'Important information.'

  'More specifically?'

  'Very important information.'

  'You are not willing to tell me.' 'Willing or able. Best you don't know.' 'So you tell me.'

  'If I thought the specifics would help convince you, I'd let you know,' Fassin lied.

  He was talking to a Dweller called Setstyin. Setstyin liked to call himself an influence pedlar, which was a humble term for somebody with contacts extending as high as his went. Dweller society was remarkably flat in terms of social hierarchy - flat as the surface of a neutron star compared to the sheer verti-cality of the Mercatoria's baroque monstrosity - but to the extent that there was a top and bottom of society, the suhrl Setstyin was in touch with both.

  He was a society host and a part-time social worker, a hospital visitor and a friend to the great and good as far as either could be said to exist in Dweller terms; a sociable, clubbable creature intensely and genuinely interested in other people, more so even than in kudos (this made him very unusual, even strange, almost threatening). He was, in human terms, somewhere between a total geek and very cool. His geekiness was that bizarre failure to care about the one thing that everybody agreed really mattered: kudos, while his coolness came from the same source, because not caring about kudos - not obsessing about it, not chasing it down wher­ever it might be found, not constantly measuring one's own cool­ness against that of one's peers - was in itself kind of cool. As long as there was not the faintest shadow of a suspicion he was playing some weird back-game, deliberately pursuing kudos by pretending not to, so long as his lack of interest in it was seen as being the unaffected carelessness of a kind of wise naif, he was kudos-rich, though in a curiously unenviable way.

  (It had been Slovius who had first explained to Fassin how kudos worked. Fassin had thought it was a bit like money. Slovius had explained that even money wasn't like money used to be, but anyway kudos was sometimes almost an opposite. The harder you'd worked for your kudos, the less it was worth.) Setstyin was also one of the most sensible, level-minded Dwellers Fassin had ever encountered. And he treated a request by a mere human to wake up, speed up and converse over the phone with a degree of respect and seriousness that few other Dwellers would have.

  Fassin had told Hatherence he needed time to let his human brain and body sleep, and his arrowcraft self-repair and recharge itself. He'd retreated to the long spoke room he'd been allocated in Y'sul's house. This was a dark and dusty gallery littered with piles of discarded clothes, lined with ancient wardrobes and floored with out-of-favour paintings and crumpled wall hangings. There was a double-dent Dweller bed in there too and a treefoam-lined cubby by one wall, so it kind of constituted a bedroom, not that Fassin or his gascraft really needed such a thing.

  Fassin had secured the door, used the little arrowcraft's sonic senses to locate a removable ceiling panel and exited through the double skin roof into a breezy and relatively dark night.

  Like all Dweller cities, Hauskip was situated in a historically calm patch within its atmospheric volume, but cities still had weather. They experienced pressure differentials, squalls, fog, rain, snow, crosswinds, upwellings, down draughts, lateral force and spin, all depending on the state of the gas stream around them. Moderately buffeted, half-hidden by the shreds of thicker gas scudding across the lamplit night, Fassin had made his way up and out across the sheen of rooftops.

  Sky traffic had been relatively light - most travel would be within the spindles and spokes linking the city's main compo­nents - but there had been a few Dwellers roting about in the distance, and enough small craft - packet-delivery machines, mostly - for Fassin to hope he was going unremarked.

  Distant lightning had flickered deep below.

  Fassin had come to a dangling wave-guide cable a few centimetres thick, followed it up to a deserted public plaza like a vast, empty bowl circled with dim, attenuated lights, and found a public screen booth.

  Setstyin was also in the equatorial band, though on the other side of the planet. Fassin might therefore have hoped to find him awake at such a time, but Setstyin had been sleeping off the effects of an especially good party he'd hosted the night before. Dwellers could go for tens of their days without sleep but when they did sleep they tended to do so on a prodigious scale. Fassin had begged and pleaded with Setstyin's servant to have him woken and even then it had taken a while. Setstyin looked and sounded groggy, but it appeared that his mind was fully awake inside there somewhere.

  'And you would like me to do what?' Setstyin asked. He scratched at his gill fringe with one spindle arm. He was wearing a light sleep collar round his mid-hub, which was regarded as a polite minimum when addressing someone other than a close friend or family member over the phone. Dwellers were hardly self-conscious about showing their inner-hub mouth parts and pleasure organs, but there was a degree of decorum in such matters, especially when confronted with an alien. 'What shall I say, Fassin, and to whom?'

  A gust of wind made the arrowcraft's vanes purr to hold it in place as Fassin looked into the camerascreen. 'Convince whoever you can, preferably as high as you can reach, prefer­ably discreetly, that there really is a threat. Give them time to decide what they're going to do if there is a raid. It may be best just to let it happen. What you don't want to do is have an unthinking hostile reaction that leads to some maniac Quick nuking a city or two to try to teach you a lesson.'

  Setstyin looked confused. 'How would that benefit anybody?'

  'Please, just trust me - it's the sort of thing Quick species do.'

  'You want me to talk to politicians and military people, then, yes?'

  'Yes.' Politicians and military people in Dweller society were as much amateurs and dilettantes as gifted tailors or devout party-throwers like Setstyin - possibly a little less dedicated -but you had, Fassin reflected, to work with what you were presented with.

  Setstyin looked thoughtful. 'They're not going to go with an invasion.'

  This was true, Fassin supposed. In the full sense of the word an invasion was impossible. The Ulubis forces were hopelessly inadequate for the task of occupying a volume as great as Nasqueron or any other gas-giant, even if it had been inhab­ited by a congenitally peaceful, naturally subservient and easily cowed species rather than, well, Dwellers. Attempting to control the place with Dwellers around would be like peeing into a star. The danger was that, in carrying out a raid to secure a given volume for long enough to hunt down the information they were looking for, the Mercatoria would cause the Dwellers to react as though they were undergoing a full-scale invasion. It seemed to be part of Dweller psychology that if something was worth reacting to, it was even more worth overreacting to, and Fassin dreaded to think what that might imply for all sides.

  'Stress an extended raid and temporary site occupation with aggressive patrols that might be mistaken for an invasion.'

  'Whereabouts?' Setstyin asked. 'Or are you really going to tell me you have no idea?'

  'I understand we're going to be looking in or very near the new Formal War zone.'

  Setstyin let his hub arms droop down at his side. This was something like a human rolling their eyes. 'Well, of course, where else?'

  'I don't suppose there's the slightest possibility that the war might be cancelled or postponed?'

  'There is always a chance, but it certainly won't have anything to do with a mere party animal like myself having a word in even
the highest-placed ear. Think: there might be the possi­bility of genuine hostile action against us, an act of alien aggres­sion within the winds of Nasqueron itself and the suggestion is we call off a Formal War? More likely we'll start a few more to show how jolly fierce we are and get some practice in.'

  'Just thought I'd ask.'

  'When do you set off for the war zone?'

  'Tomorrow morning, Hauskip local time.'

  'There you are. In plenty of time for the war's opening cere­mony'

  'I may have other things on my mind.'

  'Hmm. You realise that me having a word on high may well result in you being tracked, watched by interested parties?'

  'Whereas that would never happen normally? But yes, I realise that.'

  'Well, I wish you well, Fassin Taak.'

  'Thanks.'

  Setstyin peered at the camerascreen, looking at Fassin's surroundings. 'Y'sul out of kudos with the phone operators?'

  'I have an additional Guard-mentor in the shape of an oerileithe Mercatoria military colonel. She might not understand my concern. I sneaked out to make the call.'

  'Very cloak, very dagger. Good luck with your quest, Fassin. Do keep in touch.'

  *

  'If you're watching this, Sal, then I'm dead. Obviously I don't know what the circumstances of that death may have been. Like to think I died bravely and honourably in combat. Kind of don't think you'll be watching this because my clogs were popped peacefully in my sleep because I don't mean for that to happen, at least not until something's happened that involves you. Dying peacefully . . . actually, hopefully, that would mean you're already dead.

  'The thing that involves you sort of involves Fass, too, though not in the same way. Involves you and me and Fass and Ilen. Poor dead Ilen. Ilen Deste, Sal. You remember her? Maybe you don't. It's been so long, for all of us, for all these strange different reasons that end up being just the same. You with your treat­ments, Fass with his slowtime, me all Einsteined out with too much time near light speed. Time hasn't ever caught up with any of us, has it, Sal?

  'But I'm thinking you probably do remember Ilen and what happened to her, because it was all so traumatic for us, wasn't it? You don't forget anything about something that dramatic and horrible, not really. How can you? You have nightmares about it, it sneaks up on you even in the day sometimes, too. Do you find that? I get that. Sometimes it's something really obvious, like seeing something on screen of somebody hanging by their fingertips over a drop, especially if it's a woman. Of course in the screen they usually get rescued. Not always, but usually. But then other times what happened just. . . ambushed me. I'll be doing something completely normal, with no ... cues, no ... stimulus that you can see any logical reason would trigger the memories, and suddenly I'm there, I'm back again, back in that big old motherfucker of a ship, with you and Fass and Ilen.

  'Do you get that? I get it still, even after all these years. You'd have thought it would have stopped happening by now, wouldn't you? Hell, even without all those stolen years near c, you'd have thought it should have, you know, withered, fallen away? Look at me; sixty-one years old, body-time, they tell me. Fitter than ever, still bedding guys a third my age, and - do I look sixty? Hope not. But I should have got over the whole thing by now, don't you think? Time a great healer and all that. Just hasn't happened.

  'So, do you get anything similar? Is this ringing any bells at all? Really, I'd like to know. Maybe we'll find out, one day. Maybe I'll have got to ask this and you'll never get to see this but we'll have found out together. Maybe somebody else will get to see this. It isn't really meant for anybody else, but, well, this is a high-risk occupation, and who knows what'll happen after this is made?

  'Anyway, point is: I know what happened, and I intend to kill you, Sal. Or, I did. As I say, if it is you who's watching this, I'm dead and you're still alive. But I want you to know it isn't going to end there. Got serious intentions of pursuing you from beyond the grave, Sal, old son. Won't be easy, realise that, but I've spent my entire career getting myself into a position of power. Making myself so powerful within the Navy that I can click my fingers and battleships power up, set course and ship out. Building networks, making friends, finding allies, taking lovers, taking exams, running risks, all so that I'll have the power one day to challenge a man who, oh, must nearly own the system by now. The portal collapse nearly threw me - put my plans back a long way - but I reckon you'll still be alive and loving life when I finally do get home, or when what's planned to happen in the event of my death starts happening.

  'Can't tell you too much, obviously. No reason to give you any sort of warning at all. And all the advantages are on your side already, aren't they? Well, maybe apart from surprise. You surprised now? If you're listening to this, watching this? Wondering what's going to happen?? Well, wonder away. Wonder away, Sal, and don't stop wondering, don't stop being frightened, because being frightened might keep you alive a bit longer. Not too long. Definitely not too long, but long enough.

  'I suppose that's enough now, don't you think? Definitely the longest speech either of us ever delivered even while we were together, way back when, wouldn't you say? Maybe almost more than we ever said to each other put together. Well, almost.

  'Let me explain, in case you still haven't got it: I saw the marks, Sal. I saw the three red lines on your neck, before you put your jacket collar up. Remember that? Remember pretending to shiver and saying, "C-collar," or whatever it was? Remember? Just one of those little false notes that you don't notice at the time because of all the fear and adrenalin, that doesn't start to nag at you until long afterwards. Kept that collar up afterwards, too, didn't you? Kept the jacket on like some sort of comfort blanket until you could get to a bathroom and a first-aid kit, didn't you? I remember. And when I was reaching down to Ilen, I saw her fingernails. With the blood under them. Saw them very distinctly. Fass didn't; still has no idea, even yet. But I saw them. I wasn't entirely sure about the marks on your neck, but then I checked. Remember that last farewell fuck, a couple of weeks later? Just checking. They were very faint by then, of course, but they were there all right.

  'You always wanted her, didn't you, Sal? Always so desired the beautiful Ilen. Did you think because she went into the ship with you she was saying yes? Did you? Did she, then changed her mind? Doesn't really matter, I suppose. I saw what I saw.

  'You know what's funny, too? I was there, even if you weren't. Ilen and I. Just the once, but that's something else I'll never forget, either. Oh, you'd have loved to have been there for that, wouldn't you? Bet you would. I slept with Fass, too, after­wards, just to complete the set. Much better than you, by the way.'

  The uniformed figure sat forward, right up to the camera, staring into it, voice going quiet and low.

  ‘Iwas coming to get you, Sal. If you're watching this then I didn't make it, not personally, but even from beyond the grave, I'm still fucking coming to get you.'

  The image froze, then faded. A hand, shaking only slightly, reached out and turned the viewer off.

  FOUR:

  EVENTS DURING WARTIME

  It was a truism that there was not just one galaxy, there were many. Every variety of widely spread sentient life - plus a few creat categories which were arguably non-sentient though still capable of interstellar travel - and sometimes even every indi­vidual species-type tended to have one galaxy to itself. The Faring - a trans-category that covered all such beings able and willing to venture beyond their own immediate first-habitats -were like the citizens of a vast, fully three-dimensional but mostly empty city with multitudinous and varied travel systems. The majority of people were content to walk, and made their slow progress by way of an infinitude of quiet, effectively sepa­rate deserted streets, quiet parks, vacant lots, remains of waste­land and an entire unmapped network of paths, pavements, alleys, steps, ladders, wynds and snickets. They almost never encountered anybody en route, and when they got to where they were going, it would be somewhere very sim
ilar to the place they had departed from, whether that place had been a star's photosphere, a brown dwarf's surface, a gas-giant's atmos­phere, a comet cloud or a region of interstellar space. Such species were generally called the Slow.

  The Quick were different. Mostly originating from rocky planets of one sort or another, they lived at a higher speed and

  could never be content forever plodding from place to place. That they had been forced to do so until a viable wormhole network had been established was regarded as quite bad enough. Wormhole access portals were the pinch-points of the worm-hole system - the city's underground stations - where people of varying species-types were forced to meet and to some extent mingle, though given the tiny amount of time one spent near a portal or within a wormhole, even this seemingly profound tying-together made very little difference to the ultimate unconnectedness of the many different life-strands, and both before they gathered and after they dispersed, the users of the system still tended to congregate at places specific to their own comfort criteria, usually quite different from those of all the others.

  Many people regarded the Cincturia as the equivalent of animals: birds, dogs, cats, rats and bacteria. They too lived in the city, but were not responsible for it or entirely answerable to it, and were often to a greater or lesser degree inimical to its smooth running.

  Accounting for the Rest - the non-baryonic Penumbrae, the 13-D Dimensionates and the flux-dwelling Quantarchs - was a little like discovering that the ground, the fabric of the city's buildings and their foundations plus the air itself were each home to another sort of life altogether.

  The Mercatoria - largely but not entirely made up the galaxy's current crop of oxygen breathers - inhabited its own galaxy, then, as did all the other categories of life, and all these different galaxies existed alongside every other one, each interpenetrating the rest, surrounded by and surrounding the others, yet hardly affecting or being affected by them, except, sometimes, through the inestimably precious and all too easily destroyed wormhole network.