Consider Phlebas (59 page)

‘Drone,’ she said, trying to stop the man from falling back into the water again, ‘help me with him.’ She held Horza’s arm with her one good hand, grimacing with pain as she used her other shoulder to roll him further over. ‘Unaha-Closp, damn you; help me.’

‘Bla bala bal. Ho the hey. Here am are, am here are. How do you don’t? Ceiling, roof, inside outside. Ha ha bala bala,’ the drone warbled, still fast against the tunnel roof. Balveda finally got Horza onto his back. The false rain fell on his gashed face, cleaning the blood from his nose and mouth. One eye, then the other, opened.

‘Horza,’ Balveda said, moving forward, so that her own head blocked out the falling water and the overhead light. The Changer’s face was pale save for the thin tendrils of blood leaking from mouth and nostrils. A red tide came from the back and side of his head. ‘Horza?’ she said.

‘You won,’ Horza said, slurring the words, his voice quiet. He closed his eyes. Balveda didn’t know what to say; she closed her own eyes, shook her head.

‘Bala bala . . . the train now arriving at platform one . . . ‘

‘ . . . Drone,’ Horza whispered, looking up, past Balveda’s head. She nodded. She watched his eyes move back, trying to look over his own forehead. ‘Xoxarle . . . ‘ he whispered. ‘What happened?’

‘I shot him,’ Balveda said.

‘ . . . Bala bala throw your out arms come out come in, one more once the same . . . Is there anybody in here?’

‘With what?’ Horza’s voice was almost inaudible; she had to bend closer to hear. She took the tiny gun from her pocket.

‘This,’ she said. She opened her mouth, showing him the hole where a back tooth had been. ‘Memoryform. The gun was part of me; looks like a real tooth.’ She tried to smile. She doubted the man could even see the gun.

He closed his eyes. ‘Clever,’ he said quietly. Blood flowed from his head, mingling with the purple wash from Xoxarle’s dismembered body.

‘I’ll get you back, Horza,’ Balveda said. ‘I promise. I’ll take you back to the ship. You’ll be all right. I’ll make sure. You’ll be fine.’

‘Will you?’ Horza said quietly, eyes closed. ‘Thanks, Perosteck.’

‘Thanks bala bala bala. Steckoper, Tsah-hor, Aha-Un-Clops . . . Ho the hey, hey the ho, ho for all that, think on. We apologise for any inconvenience caused . . . What’s the where’s the how’s the who where when why how, and so . . . ‘

‘Don’t worry,’ Balveda said. She reached out and touched the man’s wet face. Water washed off the back of the Culture woman’s head, down onto the Changer’s face. Horza’s eyes opened again, flicking round, staring at her, then back towards the collapsed trunk of the Idiran; next up at the drone on the ceiling; finally around him, at the walls and the water. He whispered something, not looking at the woman.

‘What?’ Balveda said, bending closer as the man’s eyes closed again.

‘Bala,’ said the machine on the ceiling. ‘Bala bala bala. Ha ha. Bala bala bala.’

‘What a fool,’ Horza said, quite clearly, though his voice was fading as he lost consciousness, and his eyes stayed closed. ‘What a bloody . . . stupid . . . fool.’ He nodded his head slightly; it didn’t seem to hurt him. Splashes sent red and purple blood back up from the water under his head and onto his face, then washed it all away again. ‘The Jinmoti of - ‘ the man muttered.

‘What?’ Balveda said again, bending closer still.

‘Danatre skehellis,’ Unaha-Closp announced from the ceiling, ‘ro vleh gra’ampt na zhire; sko tre genebellis ro binitshire, na’sko voross amptfenir-an har. Bala.’

Suddenly the Changer’s eyes were wide open, and on his face there appeared a look of the utmost horror, an expression of such helpless fear and terror that Balveda felt herself shiver, the hairs on the back of her neck rising despite the water trying to plaster them there. The man’s hands came up suddenly and grabbed her thin jacket with a terrible, clawing grip. ‘My name!’ he moaned, an anguish in his voice even more awful than that on his face. ‘What’s my name?’

‘Bala bala bala,’ the drone murmured from the ceiling.

Balveda swallowed and felt tears sting behind her eyelids. She touched one of those white, clutching hands with her own. ‘It’s Horza,’ she said gently. ‘Bora Horza Gobuchul.’

‘Bala bala bala bala,’ said the drone quietly, sleepily. ‘Bala bala bala.’

The man’s grip fell away; the terror ebbed from his face. He relaxed, eyes closing again, mouth almost smiling.

‘Bala bala.’

‘Ah yes . . . ‘ Horza whispered.

‘Bala.’

‘ . . . of course.

‘La.’

Consider Phlebas

Balveda faced the snowfield. It was night. The moon of Schar’s World shone brightly in a black, star-scattered sky. The air was still, sharp and cold, and the Clear Air Turbulence sat, partly submerged in its own snowdrift, across the white and moonlit plain.

The woman stood in the entrance to the darkened tunnels, looked out into the night, and shivered.

The unconscious Changer lay on a stretcher she had made from plastic sheets salvaged from the train wreck and supported with the floating, babbling drone. She had bandaged his head; that was all she could do. The medkits, like everything else on the pallet, had been swept away by the train crash and buried in the cold, foam-covered wreckage which filled station seven. The Mind could float; she had found it hanging in the air over the platform in the station. It was responding to requests, but could not speak, give a sign or propel itself. She had told it to stay weightless, then pulled and shoved it and the drone-stretcher with the man on it to the nearest transit tube.

Once in the small freight capsule the trip back took only half an hour. She had not stopped for the dead.

She had strapped her broken arm up and splinted it, trance-slept for a short while on the journey, then manhandled her charges from the service tubes through the wrecked accommodation section to the unlit tunnels’ entrance, where the dead Changers lay still in aspects of frozen death. She rested there a moment in the darkness before heading for the ship, sitting on the floor of the tunnel where the snow had drifted in.

Her back ached dully, her head throbbed, her arm was numb. She wore the ring she had taken from Horza’s hand, and hoped his suit, and perhaps the drone’s electrics, would identify them to the waiting ship as friends.

If not, quite simply, it would be the death of all of them.

She looked again at Horza.

The face of the man on the stretcher was white as the snow, and as blank. The features were there: eyes, nose, brows, mouth; but they seemed somehow unlinked and disconnected, giving a look of anonymity to a face lacking all character, animation and depth. It was as though all the people, all the characterisations, all the parts the man had played in his life had leaked out of him in his coma and taken their own little share of his real self with them, leaving him empty, wiped clean.

The drone supporting the floating stretcher babbled briefly in a tongue Balveda couldn’t recognise, its voice echoing down the tunnel; then it fell silent. The Mind floated, still and dull silver, its patchy, mirror-rainbow surface reflecting her, the dim light outside and the man and the drone from its ellipsoid shape.

She got to her feet and with one hand pushed the stretcher out over the moonlit snow towards the ship, her legs sinking into the whiteness up to her thighs. A steel-blue shadow of the struggling woman was thrown to one side in the silence, away from the moon and towards the dark and distant mountains, where a curtain of storm clouds hung like a deeper night. Behind the woman, her tracks led back, deep and scuffed, to the tunnels’ mouth. She cried quietly with the effort of it all and the numbing pain of her wounds.

A couple of times on her way, she raised her head to the dark form of the ship, a mixture of hope and fear on her face as she waited for the blast and splash of warning laser light which would tell her that the craft’s autoguard did not accept her; that the drone and Horza’s suit were both too damaged to be recognisable to the ship; that it was over, and she was doomed to die here, a hundred metres from safety and escape - but held from it by a set of faithful, automatic, unconscious circuits . . .

. . . The lift swung down when she applied the ring from Horza’s hand to the elevator controls. She put the drone and the man into the hold. The drone murmured; the man was quiet and motionless as a fallen statue.

She had intended to switch off the ship’s autoguard and go back immediately for the Mind, but the man’s icy stillness frightened her. She went for the emergency medical kit and turned up the heating in the hold, but when she got back to the stretcher, the cold, blank-faced Changer was dead.

Appendices: the Idiran-Culture war

(The following three pages have been extracted from A Short History of the Idiran War (English language/Christian calendar version, original text 2110 AD, unaltered), edited by Parharengyisa Listach Ja’andeesih Petrain dam Kotosklo. The work forms part of an independent, non-commissioned but Contact-approved Earth Extro-Information Pack.)

Reasons: the Culture

It was, the Culture knew from the start, a religious war in the fullest sense. The Culture went to war to safeguard its own peace of mind: no more. But that peace was the Culture’s most precious quality, perhaps its only true and treasured possession.

In practice as well as theory the Culture was beyond considerations of wealth or empire. The very concept of money - regarded by the Culture as a crude, over-complicated and inefficient form of rationing - was irrelevant within the society itself, where the capacity of its means of production ubiquitously and comprehensively exceeded every reasonable (and in some cases, perhaps, unreasonable) demand its not unimaginative citizens could make. These demands were satisfied, with one exception, from within the Culture itself. Living space was provided in abundance, chiefly on matter-cheap Orbitals; raw material existed in virtually inexhaustible quantities both between the stars and within stellar systems; and energy was, if anything, even more generally available, through fusion, annihilation, the Grid itself, or from stars (taken either indirectly, as radiation absorbed in space, or directly, tapped at the stellar core). Thus the Culture had no need to colonise, exploit or enslave.

The only desire the Culture could not satisfy from within itself was one common to both the descendants of its original human stock and the machines they had (at however great a remove) brought into being: the urge not to feel useless. The Culture’s sole justification for the relatively unworried, hedonistic life its population enjoyed was its good works; the secular evangelism of the Contact Section, not simply finding, cataloguing, investigating and analysing other, less advanced civilisations but - where the circumstances appeared to Contact to justify so doing - actually interfering (overtly or covertly) in the historical processes of those other cultures.

With a sort of apologetic smugness, Contact - and therefore the Culture - could prove statistically that such careful and benign use of ‘the technology of compassion’ (to use a phrase in vogue at the time) did work, in the sense that the techniques it had developed to influence a civilisation’s progress did significantly improve the quality of life of its members, without harming that society as a whole by its very contact with a more advanced culture.

Faced with a religiously inspired society determined to extend its influence over every technologically inferior civilisation in its path regardless of either the initial toll of conquest or the subsequent attrition of occupation, Contact could either disengage and admit defeat - so giving the lie not simply to its own reason for existence but to the only justificatory action which allowed the pampered, self-consciously fortunate people of the Culture to enjoy their lives with a clear conscience - or it could fight. Having prepared and steeled itself (and popular opinion) through decades of the former, it resorted eventually, inevitably, like virtually any organism whose existence is threatened, to the latter.

For all the Culture’s profoundly materialist and utilitarian outlook, the fact that Idir had no designs on any physical pan of the Culture itself was irrelevant. Indirectly, but definitely and mortally, the Culture was threatened . . . not with conquest, or loss of life, craft, resource or territory, but with something more important: the loss of its purpose and that clarity of conscience; the destruction of its spirit; the surrender of its soul.

Despite all appearances to the contrary, the Culture, not the Idirans, had to fight, and in that necessity of desperation eventually gathered a strength which - even if any real doubt had been entertained as to the eventual result - could brook no compromise.

Reasons: the Idirans

The Idirans were already at war, conquering the species they regarded as inferior and subjugating them in a primarily religious empire which was only incidentally a commercial one as well. It was clear to them from the start that their jihad to ‘calm, integrate and instruct’ these other species and bring them under the direct eye of their God had to continue and expand, or be meaningless. A halt or moratorium, while possibly making at least as much sense as continued expansion in military, commercial and administrative terms, would negate such militant hegemonisation as a religious concept. Zeal outranked and outshone pragmatism; as with the Culture, it was the principle which mattered.

The war, long before it was finally declared, was regarded by the Idiran high command as a continuation of the permanent hostilities demanded by theological and disciplinary colonisation, involving a quantitative and qualitative escalation of armed conflict of only a limited degree to cope with the relatively equivalent technological expertise of the Culture.

While the Idirans universally assumed that having made their point the people in the Culture would back down, a few of the Idiran policy-makers anticipated that, should the Culture prove as determined as a ‘worst possible’ scenario projected, a politically judicious settlement might be arrived at which would save face and have advantages for both sides. This would involve a pact or treaty in which the Idirans would effectively agree to slow or limit their expansion for a time, thus allowing the Culture to claim some - but not too much - success, and provide the Idirans with (a) a religiously justifiable excuse for consolidation which would both let the Idiran military machine draw breath and cut the ground from beneath those Idirans who objected to the rate and cruelty of Idiran expansion, and (b) a further reason for an increase in military expenditure, to guarantee that in the next confrontation the Culture, or any other opponent, could be decisively out-armed and destroyed. Only the most fervent and fanatical sections of Idiran society urged or even contemplated a war to the finish, and even so merely counselled continuing the fight against the Culture after and despite the back-down and attempt to sue for peace which they too believed the Culture must inevitably make.

Having drawn up these ‘no-lose’ formulations of the likely course of events, the Idirans joined battle with the Culture without qualm or hesitation.

At worst, they perhaps considered that the war was being begun in an atmosphere of mutual incomprehension. They could not have envisaged that while they were understood almost too perfectly by their enemy, they had comprehensively misapprehended the forces of belief, need - even fear - and morale operating within the Culture.

The war, briefly (abstract of main text)

The first Idiran-Culture dispute occurred in 1267 AD; the second in 1288; in 1289 the Culture built its first genuine warship for five centuries, in prototype form only (the official excuse was that the generations of Mind-generated warship models the Culture had kept in development had evolved so far from the last warcraft actually built that it was necessary to test the match of theory and practice). In 1307 the third dispute resulted in (machine) fatalities. War was publicly discussed in the Culture as a likelihood for the first time. In 1310 the Peace section of the Culture split from the majority population, while the Anchramin Pit Conference resulted in the agreed withdrawal of forces (a move which the more short-sighted Idirans and Culture citizens respectively condemned and acclaimed).

The fourth dispute began in 1323 and continued (with the Culture using proxy forces) until 1327, when the war officially began and Culture craft and personnel were directly involved. The Culture’s War Council of 1326 resulted in several other parts of the Culture splitting away, renouncing the use of violence under any circumstances.

The Idiran-Culture War Conduct Agreement was ratified in 1327. In 1332 the Homomda joined the war on the Idiran side. The Homomda - another tripedal species of greater galactic maturity than either the Culture or the Idirans - had sheltered the Idirans who had made up Holy Remnants during the Second Great Exile (1345-991 BC) following the Skankatrian-Idiran war. The Remnants and their descendants became the Homomdans’ most trusted crack ground-troops, and following the Idirans’ surprise return and retaking of Idir in 990 BC, the two tripedal species continued to co-operate, on terms that came closer to equality as Idiran power increased.

The Homomda joined with the Idirans because they distrusted the growing power of the Culture (they were far from alone in having this feeling, though unique in acting on it overtly). While having relatively few disagreements with the humans, and none of them serious, it had been Homomdan policy for many tens of thousands of years to attempt to prevent anyone group in the galaxy (on their technological level) from becoming over-strong, a point they decided the Culture was then approaching. The Homomda at no point devoted all their resources to the Idiran cause; they used part of their powerful and efficient space fleet to fill the gaps of quality left in the Idiran navy. It was made clear to the Culture that if the humans attacked Homomdan home planets, only then would the war become total (indeed, limited diplomatic and cultural relations were maintained, and some trade continued, between the Homomda and the Culture throughout the war).

Miscalculations: the Idirans thought they could win alone, and so with Homomdan support assumed they would be invincible; the Homomda thought their influence would tip the balance in the Idirans’ favour (though would never have been prepared to risk their own future to defeat the Culture anyway); and the Culture Minds had guessed that the Homomda would not join with the Idirans; calculations concerning the war’s duration, cost and benefits had been made on this assumption.

During the war’s first phase, the Culture spent most of its time falling back from the rapidly expanding Idiran sphere, completing its war-production change-over and building up its fleet of warships. For those first few years the war in space was effectively fought on the Culture side by its General Contact Units: not designed as warships, but sufficiently well armed and more than fast enough to be a match for the average Idiran ship. In addition, the Culture’s field technology had always been ahead of the Idirans’, giving the GCUs a decisive advantage in terms of damage avoidance and resistance. These differences to some extent reflected the two sides’ general outlooks. To the Idirans a ship was a way of getting from one planet to another, or for defending planets. To the Culture a ship was an exercise in skill, almost a work of art. The GCUs (and the warcraft which gradually replaced them) were created with a combination of enthusiastic flair and machine-orientated practicality the Idirans had no answer to, even if the Culture craft themselves were never quite a match for the better Homomdan ships. For those first years, nevertheless, the GCUs were vastly outnumbered.