Surface Detail

by Iain M. Banks

  “Or hit it with nukes, energy weapons and hyper-kinetics,” Jasken said, sounding tired, as the flier rocked through a tumbling wall of smoke.

  “Exactly,” Veppers said. “What’s happening here counts as force majeure; gets us off that contractual hook.” He paused, reached over and touched Jasken on one shoulder. “I have thought all this through, Jasken. This is the only way.”

  They had avoided most of the slow-drifting smoke until now; it was rising almost straight up, shifted only a little by faint and fitful breezes, though the fires now starting to take hold were creating their own winds. Outside, beneath, this close to the house, it was almost midnight dark, here at the centre of all the destroyed and still flaming remains of the strewn, cratered trackways.

  They crossed the circle of satellite plinths, where once domes had stood and now prone, stippled, phased array plates lay, processing the comms which linked the house and all that had been around it to the the rest of the world, the Enablement and everything beyond.

  Part of himself, Veppers realised, wanted to call a halt now; enough damage had been done, the trackways and the substrates they had hidden were gone or going. The comms didn’t matter without what they had to communicate. The Hells were erased, or so reduced they weren’t worthy of the name any more.

  But he knew that what had happened so far wouldn’t be enough. It was all about perception. When the smoke cleared, figuratively as well as literally, he needed to look like the victim here. It wouldn’t seem that way if the house got away unscathed and only the lands about it were hit. Some landscaping, bit of decontamination and then copious tree-planting; who’d give him any sympathy just for that?

  “Still,” Jasken said as they passed above game courts, lawns and the corner of the great maze – all mostly dark, lit only by a few bright embers that had drifted in from the burning lands all around

  – “they might have expected a little more, sir.” Another glance. “The people, I mean, sir. Your people. They’ve given—”

  “Yes, my people, Jasken,” Veppers said, watching as the flier’s landing legs deployed and the craft floated down through darkness, fire and confusion towards the flame-lit torus of Espersium house. “Who like you have always been well paid and looked after and known the kind of man I am.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He watched Jasken as they passed over the roofs of the mansion. The cladding was dotted with scattered bits of flaming twigs and small branches which a few of the staff were running around trying to put out. Rather pointless, Veppers thought; the roof was fire-proof. Still, people needed to do something, he supposed.

  The flier poised, ready to drop into the central courtyard of the house. “There isn’t anyone special to you that I don’t know about here, is there, Jasken?” Veppers asked. “On the estate, I mean. You’ve hidden it very well if there is.”

  “No, sir,” Jasken said, as the flier descended into the empty heart of the torus-shaped building. “No one special.”

  “Well, that’s as well.” Veppers glanced at the antique watch as the skids touched the flagstones of the courtyard and the craft settled. “We need to be back aboard in twenty-five minutes.” He pushed the seat restraints aside and stood. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ll stay with you if you want,” Demeisen said.

  “I don’t want,” Lededje told him. “Just go.”

  “Right. Guess I’d better. Stuff to shoot.”

  Ambassador Huen held up one hand. “Wait; you don’t think we need any extra protection when that second wave comes through?” she asked, looking sceptical.

  “I – another bit of me – might have run them all down before they can get here,” Demeisen said. “I strongly suspect I’ll account for a few myself in passing on the way back to the main event out at Tsung. Plus the Inner System and Planetary boys will be better prepared and have longer this time; this lot look like they’re preparing to crash-stop. Which also implies greater accuracy from them. Should be safe enough.” He nodded towards the city, where a little smoke was drifting, lessening all the time, from the summits of some of the towers and skyscrapers. “Last resort, that’s what your glitterage is for.” He looked quizzically at the ambassador, performed a curtsy. “By your leave, ma’am.”

  Huen nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Pleasure.” Demeisen turned grinning to Lededje. He winked at her. “You’ll get over it.”

  Then he was a silvery ovoid stood on its end. It vanished with a faint popping noise.

  Lededje felt herself let out a breath.

  Huen looked at the drone Olfes-Hresh, then closed her eyes for a moment as though tired. “Ah,” she said. “Finally we get the official version.” She looked at Lededje. “I’m told you are indeed Ms. Y’breq. In that case, I am glad to see you again, Lededje, though, given the circumstances of your death—”

  “Murder,” Lededje said, standing and going to the window looking over the park to the city, her back to the other woman and the drone floating at the ambassador’s shoulder. Beyond the city, in the dimming evening light, more flashes lit up distant dark clouds that had not been there before.

  “Murder, then,” Huen said. “The rest of what Demeisen alleged …”

  “All true.”

  Huen was silent for a few moments. “Then I am very sorry. I truly am, Lededje. I hope you realise we had little choice. To let Veppers go, I mean. And to treat with him.”

  Lededje stared at the distant buildings, watching the little wisps of smoke die, her eyes full of tears. She shrugged, flapped one hand in what she hoped looked like a sort of dismissal. She didn’t trust herself to say anything.

  In the reflection, she saw Huen turn her head fractionally towards the drone. “Olfes-Hresh,” the ambassador said, “tells me you are in possession of considerable funds, controlled by a card in one of your pockets. “I was going to ask what you intended to do now, but …”

  Then another silvery ovoid appeared, just where the one that had taken Demeisen had stood. It was gone in an instant, while Lededje was still turning round, and Demeisen was standing there again. Lededje almost yelped.

  “Suddenly busy round here,” Demeisen said to Huen. He spared Lededje the briefest of nods. “You’ve more visitors. I’d better stick around for a few moments; say hi.”

  Huen looked at the drone.

  “The ex-LOUMe, I’m Counting, of the Ulterior,” Olfes-Hresh announced. “Just arrived.”

  Two more silvery ellipsoids came and went, revealing two tall, pan-human but most certainly not Sichultian people: a man and an androgynous figure that looked slightly more female than male. The man was bald, and dressed in severe-looking dark clothes. Lededje recognised him, though he looked more alien than the last time they’d met. The other person wore a sort of suit, even more formal-looking, in grey.

  “Prebeign-Frultesa Yime Leutze Nsokyi dam Volsh,” the drone announced, “and Av Himerance, of the ex-LOU Me, I’m Counting.”

  “Ms. Y’breq,” Himerance said softly, bowing to her. “Good to see you again. Do you remember me?”

  Lededje swallowed, wished she’d had time to dry her eyes, and did her best to smile. “I do. Good to see you, too.”

  Himerance and Demeisen exchanged looks, then nods.

  Demeisen stared at Yime Nsokyi, gaze flicking over her from boot sole to high collar. “You know,” he said, “I’m sure I’ve seen somebody else in Quietus wearing exactly the same clothes as you’re wearing now.”

  “It’s called a uniform, Av Demeisen,” Yime told him patiently. “It is what we wear in Quietus.”

  “No!”

  “We feel it shows respect for those on whose behalf we work.”

  “Really?” Demeisen looked thunderstruck. “Fuck me, I had no idea the dead could be so demanding.”

  Yime Nsokyi smiled the tolerant smile of those long-used to such remarks and executed a sort of nodding-bow to Lededje. “Ms. Y’breq. I have come a long way to meet with you. Are you well?”

  L
ededje shook her head. “Not great.”

  Demeisen clapped his hands. “Well, riotous fun though this is, I really need to be putting some heliopauses between me and here. See you all around. Ambassador.”

  Huen held up one hand, delaying Demeisen, to his obvious annoyance. “Do you think Veppers told the truth earlier?” she asked. “When he implied he had yet to reveal the targets for this second wave of ships?”

  “Of course not. Can I go now? I mean, I’m going to go, but may I with your permission, given we seem to be observing excruciatingly correct protocol?”

  Huen smiled and gave a small nod.

  There was just about a delay between Huen nodding and the silvery ellipsoid forming and collapsing. The popping noise was more of a bang this time. Huen saw Lededje’s shoulders relax again.

  The girl shook her head, muttered, “Excuse me,” and went back to looking out of the window.

  “Are we clear, Olf?” Huen asked the drone.

  “We are, ma’am,” the machine told her.

  “Ms. Nsokyi, Av Himerance,” the ambassador said. “To what do we owe the honour?”

  “I have been sent by Quietus to check on Ms. Y’breq, as she is a recent reventee,” Yime Nsokyi said.

  “And I promised to bring Ms. Nsokyi here,” Himerance said. “Though I also thought it would be pleasant to pay my respects to Ms. Y’breq.”

  There was an anguished noise from near the window, where Lededje was staring at her reflection, her nose almost pressing against the glass, while the fingers of her right hand stabbed at the skin on the inside of her left wrist. They all looked.

  She whirled round. “Now the fucking tat’s stopped working!” She looked round all of them, meeting mostly blank looks.

  Huen sighed, looked at the drone. “Olfes, would you?”

  “Calling.”

  Demeisen’s image appeared, translucent, on the polished wooden floor, just bright enough to throw a reflection.

  “Now what?” the image said, waving its arms, gaze directed at Lededje. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of me?”

  “What’s happened to my tat?” she demanded.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s stopped working!”

  The image appeared to squint, staring at her. “Hmm,” it said. “See what you mean. Looks like it’s frozen. Well, that will happen. Probably from when I had to half-stun you to stop you ripping Veppers’ throat out; collateral damage. Sorry. My apologies.”

  “Well, fix it!”

  “Can’t. Heading fast for Tsung. Have to Displace you and the tat and I’m already too far away and getting further away too quickly. Ask the drone.”

  “Beyond my ken,” Olfes-Hresh said. “I’ve had a quick look. I can’t even see how it works.”

  “Come back!” Lededje wailed. “Fix it! It’s stuck the way it was!”

  The image nodded. “Okay. Will do. Not right now though. Day or two. Later.”

  The image had disappeared by the time the word “later” reached Lededje’s ears. She buried her face in her hands and roared.

  Huen looked at the drone, which made a shaking motion. “Not picking up,” it said quietly.

  “Is there anything I can do … we can do?” Yime said.

  Lededje collapsed onto her haunches, face still hidden in her hands.

  Huen looked thoughtfully at her, then raised her gaze to the Quietus agent and the avatar. “Perhaps,” she said, “there is. Let me explain the situation.”

  “Before you do that,” Demeisen’s voice said from Huen’s desk. “May I add something?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lededje breathed, taking her hands away from her face and rolling backwards to lie on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. “Is there no getting away from this fucking machine?”

  Huen was frowning at the drone. “I thought we were clear?” she said.

  “As did I,” the machine said, aura field purple-grey with embarrassment.

  “Well, couldn’t help overhearing,” Demeisen’s voice said.

  “Liar,” Huen muttered.

  “And I thought you might like to hear this. Just dropped into my in-box, at it were. Theoretically anonymous, but it definitely came from my new best chum, the bright and breezy NR Bismuth category ship 8401.00 Partial Photic Boundary. Slightly lo-fi after a lot of processing de-manglement, but I think you’ll forgive it that. It’s from about three hours ago, between Mr. V and Legislator-Admiral Bettlescroy-Bisspe-Blispin III, the bod in charge of the GFCF forces here in the Enablement. Here we go:”

  “Anyway,” Veppers’ voice said, also coming from whatever comms gear was hidden in Huen’s desk, “to reiterate: every trackway is underlain by what to the untutored eye looks like some sort of giant fungal structure. It isn’t. It’s substrate. Low-power, bio-based, not ultra-fast running, but high-efficiency, highly damage-resistant substrate; anything from ten to thirty metres thick under and amongst the roots, but adding up to over half a cubic kilometre of processing power spread throughout the estate. All the comms traffic to and from is channelled through the phased array satellite links dotted round the mansion house itself.

  “That’s what you have to hit, Bettlescroy. The under-trackway substrates contain over seventy per cent of the Hells in the entire galaxy. Of those we know of, anyway. Used to be slightly more, but very recently I sub-contracted the NR Hell, just to be on the safe side. I’ve been buying Hells up for over a century, Legislator-Admiral, taking the processing requirements and legal and jurisdictional implications off other peoples’ hands for most of my business life. The majority of the Hells are right here, in system, on planet. That is why I have always felt able to be so relaxed regarding the targeting details. Think you can get enough ships to Sichult to lay waste to my estate?”

  “Truly?” another voice said. “The targets are on your own estates? Why would you do that?”

  “Deniability, Bettlescroy. You’ll have to raze the trackways, wreck my lands, blast the satellite links and damage the house itself; maybe even destroy it. That house has been in my family for centuries; it and the estate are inestimably precious to me. Or at least so everybody assumes. Who’s going to believe I brought all that destruction on myself?”

  “And so on,” Demeisen’s voice told them. “Then there’s this really good bit:”

  “And the people?”

  “What people?”

  “The people on the estate when it is laid waste.”

  “Oh. Yes. I assume I have a few hours before any attack takes place.”

  “There’s a bit of blah-blah-blah here from our boy Bettlescroy,” Demeisen’s voice said, “then:”

  “So, bottom line,” they heard Veppers say, “I’d have time to get a few people out. Not too many, of course; it still has to look convincing. But I can always hire more people, Bettlescroy. Never a shortage of those, ever.”

  “… Fascinating, what?” Demeisen’s voice said from Huen’s desk. “Specially the bit about handing the NR’s theme-park of woe over to somebody else before all the other Hells got wasted. Bet he thought that was being clever, getting the NR off his back. Just like the GFCF thought they were being clever swiping all that NR comms knowledge, back in the whenever-when, never thinking it might come with trap-doors the NR could tap into and copy their comms any time they wanted. Don’t you think it’s hilarious when people think they’re being terribly clever? I know I do. Just as well some of us genuinely fucking are or we’d be in a hell of a fucking state. Well, my work here is done. Mostly, anyway; still more smatter-ships to smashify. Be seeing you!”

  There was silence in the room for a while.

  The drone Olfes-Hresh made a shaking motion. “Well,” it said to Huen, “again, I think we’re clear, and it’s gone, but then I thought that the last time.”

  On the floor, lying loosely spread, shaking her head, Lededje sighed.

  Huen looked up from her to Yime and Himerance.

  “Obviously,” she said, �
�there are things we ought not to be doing or taking part in here, either for first-principle moral reasons, or due to the regrettable exigencies of realpolitik.” She paused. “However.”

  Twenty-nine

  “The Scoudenfrast, I think. No, Jasken, that’s a Scundrundri.

  The Scoudenfrast is the one alongside, the purple one with the yellow splodges. I always did think Scundrundri was over-rated. Besides, with these gone, the rest I have in the town house will be worth more. Nolyen, give Mr. Jasken a hand with these out to the flier, would you?”

  “Sir.”

  “Quickly, both of you.”

  “Sir,” Jasken said. He lifted an armful of old masters and headed for the end of the long, curved gallery, followed by Nolyen, similarly laden. It was gloomy in the place; the house was relying on its emergency lighting, and not even all of that was functioning properly. Nolyen – a big, dim country lad from the kitchens – dropped one of the paintings he was carrying, and struggled to pick it up again; Jasken came back and used his foot to help lever the thing back up into the boy’s hands. Veppers watched all this, sighing.

  He was actually a little bit disappointed in his staff and their commitment. He’d expected to find more people here in the house, worried over the fate of their master – they still thought he might be dead, after all – and determined to help save the house from the surrounding and encroaching fires. Instead, he’d discovered that most of them had already fled the place.