Excession Page 11

  Equally, there was a possibility that the ship’s Mind had lost control but not integrity; perhaps - like a small garrison quitting the undefendable curtain wall of a great fortress to take refuge in an all-but-invulnerable central keep - the Mind had been forced to dissociate itself from all its subsystems and given up command to the invader, but succeeded in retaining its own personality in a Mind core as invulnerable to infiltration as the electronic core within the drone’s mind (where what was left of its twin now seethed) was proof against escape.

  Elencher Minds had been in such dire situations before and survived; certainly such a core could be destroyed (they could not have their power turned off, as the drone’s core could; Mind cores had their own internal energy sources) but even the most brutal aggressor would far rather lay siege to that keep-core in the knowledge that the information contained within must surely fall to it eventually, than just destroy it.

  There was always hope, the drone told itself; it must not give up hope. According to the specifications it had, the Displacer which had catapulted it out of the ill-fated ship had a range - with something the volume of Sisela Ytheleus 1/2 - of nearly a light second. Surely that was far enough to put it beyond range of detection? Certainly the Peace Makes Plenty’s sensors wouldn’t have had a hope of spotting something so small so far away; it just had to hope that neither could the artifact.

  Excession; that was what the Culture called such things. It had become a pejorative term and so the Elench didn’t use it normally, except sometimes informally, amongst themselves. Excession; something excessive. Excessively aggressive, excessively powerful, excessively expansionist; whatever. Such things turned up or were created now and again. Encountering an example was one of the risks you ran when you went a-wandering.

  So, now it knew what had happened to it and what the core 2/2 contained, the question was; what was to be done?

  It had to get word to outside; that was the task it had been entrusted with by the ship, that was what its whole life-mission had become the instant the ship came under such intensive attack.

  But how? Its tiny warp unit had been destroyed, its bom-com unit likewise, its HS laser too. It had nothing that worked at translight speeds, no way of unsticking itself or even a signal from the glutinous slowness that trapped anything unable to step outside the skein of space-time. The drone felt as if it was some quick, graceful flying insect, knocked down to a stagnant pond and trapped there by surface tension, all grace abandoned in its bedraggled, doomed struggle with a strange, cloyingly foreign medium.

  It considered again the sub-core where its self-repair mechanisms waited. But not its own repair systems; those of its turncoat twin. It was beyond belief that those too had not been subverted by the invader. Worse than useless; a temptation. Because there was a vanishingly small chance that in all the excitement they had not been taken over.

  Temptation . . . But no; it couldn’t risk it. It would be folly.

  It would have to make its own self-repair units. It was possible, but it would take forever; a month. For a human a month was not that long; for a drone - even one thinking at the shamefully slow speed of light on the skein - it was like a sequence of life sentences. A month was not a long time to wait; drones were very good at waiting and had a whole suite of techniques to pass the time pleasantly or just side-step it, but it was an abominably long time to have to concentrate on anything, to have to work at a single task.

  Even at the end of that month, it would just be the start. At the very least there would be a lot of fine tuning to be done; the self-repair mechanisms would need direction, amendment, tinkering with; some would doubtless dismantle where they were supposed to build, others would duplicate what they were meant to scour. It would be like releasing millions of potential cancer cells into an already damaged animal body and trying to keep track of each one. It could quite easily kill itself by mistake, or accidentally breach the containment around the core of its corrupted twin or the original self-repair mechanisms. Even if all went well, the whole process could take years.

  Despair!

  It set the initial routines under way all the same - what else could it do? - and thought on.

  It had a few million particles of anti-matter stored, it had some maniple-field capability left (somewhere between finger- and arm-strength, but down-scalable to the point of being able to work at the micrometer scale, and capable of slicing molecular bonds; it would need both capabilities when it came to building the prototype self-repairer constructs), it possessed two hundred and forty one-millimetre-long nanomissiles, also AM tipped, it could still put up a small mirror field about it, and it had its laser, which was not far off maximum potential. Plus it still had the thimbleful of mush that had been the final-resort back-up biochemical brain.

  ... Which might no longer be able to support thought, but could still inspire it . . .

  Well, it was one way to use the nasty gooey mess. Sisela Ytheleus 1/2 started to fashion a shielded reaction chamber and began working out both how best to bring the anti-matter and the cellular gunge together to provide itself with the most reaction mass and maximum thrust and how to direct the resulting exhaust plume so as to minimise the chances of attracting attention.

  Accelerating into the stars using a wasted brain; it had its amusing side, it supposed. It set those routines in motion too and - with the equivalent of a long sigh and the taking off of a jacket and the rolling up of sleeves - returned its attention to the self-repairer-building problem.

  At that instant a skein wave passed around and through it; a sharp, purposeful ripple in space-time.

  It stopped thinking for a nanosecond.

  A few things produced such waves. Several were natural; collapsing stellar cores, for example. But this wave was compressed, tightly folded; not the massive, swell-long surge created when a star contracted into a black hole.

  This wave was not natural; it had been made. It was a signal. Or it was part of a sense.

  The drone Sisela Ytheleus 1/2 was helplessly aware of its body, the few kilos of mass it represented, resonating; producing an echoing signal that would transmit back along the radius of that expanding circular disturbance in the skein to whatever instrument had produced the pulse in the first place.

  It felt . . . not despair. It felt sick.

  It waited.

  The reaction was not long in coming; a delicate, fanning, probing cluster of maser filaments, rods of energy seeming to converge almost at infinity, some distance off to one side from where it had guessed the artifact was, three hundred thousand or so kilometres away . . .

  The drone tried to shield itself from the signals, but they overcame it. It started to shut down certain systems which might conceivably be corrupted by an attack through the maser signal itself, though the characteristics of the beam had not looked particularly sophisticated. Then suddenly the beam shut off.

  The drone looked around. Nothing to be seen, but even as it scanned the cold, empty depths of the space around it, it felt the surface of space-time itself tremble again, all around it, ever so slightly. Something was coming.

  The distant vibration increased slowly.

  ... The insect trapped in the surface tension of the pond would have gone still now, while the water quivered and whatever was advancing upon it - skating across the water’s surface or angling up from underneath - approached its helpless prey.

  III

  The car zipped along, slung under one of the monorails that ran amongst the superconducting coils beneath the ceiling of the habitat. Genar-Hofoen looked down through the angled windows of the car at the clouded framescape below.

  God’shole habitat (it was much too small to be called an Orbital according to the Culture’s definitive nomenclature, plus it was enclosed) was - at nearly a thousand years old - one of the Affront’s older outposts in a region of space most civilisations had long since agreed to call the Fernblade. The small world was in the shape of a hollow ring; a tube ten kilometres in di
ameter and two thousand two hundred long which had been joined into a circle; the superconducting coils and EM wave guides formed the inner rim of the enormous wheel. The tiny, rapidly spinning black hole which provided the structure’s power sat where the wheel’s hub would have been. The circular-sectioned living space was like a highly pressurised tyre bulging from the inner rim, and where its tread would have been hung the gantries and docks where the ships of the Affront and a dozen other species came and went.

  The whole lot was in a slow, distant orbit about an otherwise satellite-less brown dwarf mass just too small to be a proper star but which had long had the honour of being in exactly the right place to further the continuing expansion and consolidation of the Affront sphere of influence.

  The monorail car rushed towards a huge wall spread entirely across the view ahead. The rails disappeared into a small, circular door, which opened like a sphincter as the car approached, then closed again behind it. It was dim in the car for a while as it traversed a short tunnel, then another door ahead of it dilated and it shot out into a huge open, mist-filled space where the view just disappeared amongst clouds and haze.

  The interior of God’shole habitat was sectioned off into about forty individually isolable compartments, most of them crisscrossed by a web-work of frames, girders and tubular members, partly to provide additional strength for the structure but partly because these created a multitude of places for the Affront to anchor the nest spaces that were the basic cellular building-block of their architecture. There were more open compartments every few sections along the habitat, filled with little more than layers of cloud, a few floating nest space bundles and a selection of flora and fauna. These were the sections which more closely mirrored conditions on the sort of mainly methane-atmosphered planets and moons the Affront preferred, and it was in these the Affront indulged their greatest passion, by going hunting. It was one of these immense game reserves that the car was now crossing. Genar-Hofoen looked downwards again, but he couldn’t see a hunt in progress.

  As much as a fifth of the whole habitat was devoted to hunting space, and even that represented a huge concession to practicality by the Affront; they’d probably have preferred the proportions to be about half-and-half hunting space and everything else, and even then have thought they were being highly responsible and self-sacrificing.

  Genar-Hofoen found himself wondering again about the trade-off between skill-honing and distraction that took place in the development of any species likely to end up as one of those in play in the great galactic civilisation game. The Culture’s standard assessment held that the Affront spent far too much time hunting and not nearly enough time getting on with the business of being a responsible space-faring species (though of course the Culture was sophisticated enough to know that this was just its, admittedly subjective, way of looking at things; and besides, the more time the Affront spent dallying in their hunting parks and regaling each other with hunting tales in their carousing halls, the less they had for rampaging across their bit of the galaxy being horrible to people).

  But if the Affront didn’t love hunting as much as they did, would they still be the Affront? Hunting, especially the highly cooperative form of hunting in three dimensions which the Affront had evolved, required and encouraged intelligence, and it was generally - though not exclusively - intelligence that took a species into space. The required mix of common sense, inventiveness, compassion and aggression required was different for each; perhaps if you tried to make the Affront just a little less enraptured by hunting you would only be able to do so by making them much less intelligent and inquisitive. It was like play; it was fun at the time, when you were a child, but it was also training for when you became an adult. Fun was serious.

  Still no sign of a hunt in progress, or even of any herds of prey animals. Just a few filmy mats and hanging verticals of floating plant life. Doubtless some of the smaller animals which a few species of the prey-creatures themselves predated would be hanging munching away on the membranes and gas sacs of the flora, but they were invisible from this distance with the haze preventing closer inspection.

  Genar-Hofoen sat back. There was no seat to sit back on because the monorail car wasn’t built for humans, but the gelfield suit was imitating the effects of a seat. He wore his usual gilet and holster. At his feet was his gelfield hold-all. He looked at it, then prodded it with a foot. It didn’t look much to be taking on a round trip of six thousand light years.

  ~ Bastards, the module said inside his head.

  ~ What? he asked it.

  ~ They seem to enjoy leaving everything to the last moment, the module said, sounding annoyed. ~ You know, we only just finished negotiating for the hire of the ships? I mean, you’re due to leave in about ten minutes; how late can these maniacs leave things?

  ~ Ships plural? he asked.

  ~ Ships plural, the module said. ~ They insist we hire three of their ridiculous tubs. Any one of which could easily accommodate me, I might add; that’s another point at issue. But three! Can you believe? That’s practically a fleet by their standards!

  ~ Must need the money.

  ~ Genar-Hofoen, I know you think it amusing to be the cause of the transfer of funds to the Affront, but might I point out to you that where it is not to all intents and purposes irrelevant, money is power, money is influence, money is effect.

  ~ ‘Money is effect’, Genar-Hofoen mused. ~ That one of your own, Scopell-Afranqui?

  ~ The point is that every time we donate the Affront extra means of exchange we effectively become part of their expansionist drive. It is not moral.

  ~ Shit, we gave them Orbital-building technology; how does that compare with a few gambling debts?

  ~ That was different; we only gave them that so they’d stop taking over so many planets and because they didn’t trust the Orbitals we made for them. And I’m not talking about your gambling debts, however outrageous, or your bizarre habit of bidding-up the price of bribes. I’m talking about the cost of hiring three Affronter Nova Class Battle-Cruisers and their crews for two months.

  Genar-Hofoen almost laughed out loud. ~ SC isn’t putting that on your tab, is it?

  ~ Of course not. I was thinking of the wider picture.

  ~ What the fuck am I supposed to do? he protested. ~ This is the fastest way of getting me where SC wants me to be. Not my fault.

  ~ You could have said No.

  ~ Could have. And you’d have spent the next year or so biting my ear about not doing my duty to the Culture when I was asked.

  ~ Your only motive, I’m sure, Scopell-Afranqui said sniffily as the monorail car slowed. The module went off-line with an ostentatious click.

  Prick, Genar-Hofoen thought, unheard.

  The monorail car passed through another couple of habitat section walls, exiting into a crowded-looking industrial section where the keel skeletons of newly begun Affronter ships rose out of the haze like oddly inappropriate collections of spines and ribs, ornate elaborations within the greater framework of buttresses and columns supporting the habitat itself. The monorail car continued to slow until it drew to a stop within a web-tube attached to one of the structural members. The car started to drop, almost in free-fall.

  The car vibrated. In fact, it was rattling. Genar-Hofoen had grown up on a Culture Orbital where only sporting vehicles and things you built yourself for a laugh ever vibrated; normal transport systems rarely ever even made a noise unless it was to ask which floor you wanted or whether you’d like the on-board scent changed.

  The monorail car flashed through a floor and into another gigantic hangar space where the towering shapes of half-finished craft rose like barbed pinnacles out of the mist-shrouded framework of slender girders below. The bladed hulls of the ships blurred past to one side.

  ~ Wee-hee! said the gelfield suit, which thought Affronter free-fall was just a total hoot.

  ~ Glad you’re amused, Genar-Hofoen thought.

  ~ I hope you realise that if this thing
crashes now, even I won’t be able to stop you breaking most of your major bones, the suit informed him.

  ~ If you can’t say something helpful, shut the fuck up, he told it.

  Another floor rushed up to meet the car; it plummeted through to a vast, misty hall where almost-finished Affronter ships rose like jagged sky-scrapers. The car came juddering and screeching to a halt near the floor of the huge space - the suit clamped around him in support, but Genar-Hofoen could feel his insides doing uncomfortable things under the effects of the additional apparent gravity - then the car cycled through a pair of airlocks and rumbled down a dark tunnel.

  It came out on to the edge of the underside of the habitat where a succession of docks shaped like giant rib-cages disappeared away along the lazy curve of the little world; there was a lot of glare but a few bright stars shone in the darkness. About half the docks were occupied, some with Affronter ships, some with craft from a handful of other species. Dwarfing all the others were three huge dark craft, each of which looked vaguely as though it had been modelled by taking a free-fall aerial bomb from one age and welding onto it a profusion of broad swords, scimitars and daggers from an even earlier time and then magnifying the result until each was a couple of kilometres in length. They hung cradled in docks a few kilometres off; the car swung round and headed towards them.

  ~ The good ships SacSlicer II, FrightSpear and Kiss The Blade, the suit announced as the car slowed again and the bulbous black bulks of the craft blotted out the stars.

  ~ Charmed, I’m sure, thought Genar-Hofoen, picking up his hold-all. He studied the hulls of the three warships, looking for the signs of damage that would indicate the craft were veterans. The signs were there; a delicate tracery of curved lines, light grey on dark grey and black, spread out across the spines, blades and curtain hull of the middle ship indicated a probably glancing blow from a plasma blast (which even Genar-Hofoen, who found weapons boring, could recognise); blurred grey roundels like concentric bruises on that middle ship and the nearest vessel were the marks of another weapon system, and sharp, straight lines etched across the various surfaces of the third craft looked like the effects of yet another.