Use of Weapons

by Iain M. Banks

  Dragged through the corridors, socked feet sliding over the tiles; men on either side. They went to one of the hangars, and somebody went to the lift controls, and he still could only dimly see the floor in front of him and could not raise his head. But he could smell flowers, from the man on his right.

  The clamshell doors opened overhead, cracking; he heard the noise of the storm, shrieking from the darkness. They dragged him over to the lift.

  He tensed, swung round, grabbed at Thone's collar; saw the man's face; appalled, full of fear. He felt the man on the other side of him grab at his free arm; he wriggled, got his other arm free from Thone, saw the pistol in the CO's holster.

  He got the gun; he remembered shouting, getting away but falling; he tried to shoot but the gun would not work. Lights flickered on at the far side of the hangar. It's not loaded! It's not loaded! Thone shouted to the others. They looked over to the far side of the hangar; there were planes in the way, but there was somebody there, shouting about opening the hangar doors at night with the lights on.

  He never saw who shot him. A sledgehammer hit the side of his head and the next thing he saw was the white chair.

  The snow boiled wildly beyond the floodlit windows.

  He watched it until dawn, remembering and remembering.

  'Talibe; will you send a message to Captain Saaz Insile. Tell him I need to see him, urgently; please send a message to my squadron, will you?'

  'Yes, of course, but first your medication.'

  He took her hand in his. 'No, Talibe; first phone the squadron.' He winked at her. 'Please, for me.'

  She shook her head. 'Pest.' She walked away through the doors.

  'Well, is he coming?'

  'He's on leave,' she told him, taking up the clipboard to check off the medication he was receiving.

  'Shit!' Saaz hadn't said anything about leave.

  'Captain, tut tut,' she said, shaking a bottle.

  'The police, Talibe. Call the military police; do it now. This really is urgent.'

  'Medication first, Captain.'

  'Well as soon as I've taken it, you promise?'

  'Promise. Open wide.'

  'Aaaah...'

  Damn Saaz for being on leave, and damn him twice for not mentioning it. And Thone; the nerve of the man! Coming to see him, to check him out, to see if he remembered.

  And what would have happened if he had?

  He felt under the pillow again, for the scissor. It was there, cool and sharp.

  'I told them it was urgent; they say they're on their way,' Talibe said, coming in, not with the chair this time. She looked at the windows, where the storm still blew. 'And I've to give you something to keep you awake; they want you perky.'

  'I am perky; I am awake!'

  'Quiet, and take these.'

  He took them.

  He fell asleep clutching the scissor under the pillow, while the whiteness outside the windows went on and on and eventually penetrated the glass, layer by layer, by a process of discrete osmosis, and gravitated naturally to his head, and spun slowly in orbit round him, and joined with the white torus of bandages and dissolved them and unwound them and deposited the remains in one corner of the room where the white chairs gathered, muttering, plotting, and slowly pressed in against his head, tighter and tighter, whirling in the silly snow-flake dance, faster and faster as they came closer and closer until eventually they became the bandage, cold and tight about his fevered head, and - finding the treated wound - slunk in through his skin and his skull, coldly and crisply and crystally into his brain.

  Talibe unlocked the ward doors and let the officers in.

  'You sure he's out?'

  'I gave him twice the usual dose. If he isn't out he's dead.'

  'Still got a pulse. You take his arms.'

  'Okay... Hup! Hey: look at this!'

  'Huh.'

  'My fault. I wondered where those had got to. Sorry.'

  'You did fine, kid. You better go. Thanks. This won't be forgotten.'

  'Okay...'

  'What?'

  'It... it will be quick, yes? Before he wakes up?'

  'Sure. Oh, sure; yeah. He won't ever know. Won't feel a thing.'

  ... And so he awoke in the cold snow, roused by the freezing blast inside him coming to the surface, piercing his skin at every pore, shrieking out.

  He woke, and knew he was dying. The blizzard had already numbed one side of his face. One hand was stuck to the hard-packed snow beneath him. He was still in the standard-issue hospital pyjamas. The cold was not cold; it was a stunning sort of pain, eating into him from every direction.

  He raised his head, looking around. A few flat metres of snow, in what might have been morning light. The blizzard a little quieter than it had been, but still fierce. The last temperature he'd heard quoted had been ten below, but with the wind-chill, it was much, much worse than that. His head and hands and feet and genitals all ached.

  The cold had woken him. It must have. It must have woken him quickly or he would already be dead. They must just have left him. If he could find which way they'd gone, follow them...

  He tried to move, but could not. He screamed inside, to produce the most awesome surge of will he had ever attempted... and succeeded only in rolling over, and sitting up.

  The effort of it was almost too much; he had to put his hands behind him to steady himself. He felt them both freeze there. He knew he would never stand up.

  Talibe... he thought, but the blizzard swept that away in an instant.

  Forget Talibe. You're dying. There are more important things.

  He stared into the milky depths of the blizzard as it swept towards and past him, like tiny soft stars all packed and hurrying. His face felt pierced by a million tiny hot needles, but then started to go numb.

  To have come all this way, he thought, just to die in somebody else's war. How silly it all seemed now. Zakalwe, Eleth-iomel, Staberinde; Livueta, Darckense. The names reeled off, were blown away by the sapping cold of the howling wind. He felt his face shrivel, felt the cold burrow through skin and eyeballs to his tongue and teeth and bones.

  He ripped one hand away from the snow behind him; the cold already anaesthetising the flayed palm. He opened the jacket of the pyjamas, tore off buttons, and exposed the puckered little mark on his chest over his heart to the cold blast. He put his hand on the ice behind him, and tipped his head up. The bones in his neck seemed to grate, clicking as his head moved, as though the cold was seizing up his joints. 'Darckense...' he whispered to the boiling chill of the blizzard.

  He saw the woman walking calmly towards him through the storm.

  She walked on the surface of the hard-packed snow, dressed in long black boots and a long coat with a furry black collar and cuffs, and she wore a small hat.

  Her neck and face were exposed, as were her gloveless hands. She had a long, oval face, and deep dark eyes. She walked easily up to him, and the storm behind her seemed to part at her back, and he felt himself in the lee of something more than just her tall body, and something like warmth seemed to seep through his skin, wherever it faced her.

  He closed his eyes. He shook his head, which hurt a little, but he did it all the same. He opened his eyes again.

  She was still there.

  She had half knelt in front of him, her hands folded on one skirted knee, her face level with his. He peered forward, wrenched one hand free from the snow again (it was numb, but when he brought the hand round, he saw the raw flesh he'd torn from the snow). He tried to touch her face, but she took his hand in one of hers. She was warm. He thought he had never felt such glorious warmth in all his life.

  He laughed, as she held his hand and the storm parted round her and her breath clouded the air.

  'Goddamn,' he said. He knew he sounded groggy with the cold and with the drug. 'An atheist my entire fucking life, and it turns out the credulous assholes were right all along!' He wheezed, coughed. 'Or do you surprise them too by not turning up?'

&nb
sp; 'You flatter me, Mr Zakalwe,' the woman said, in a superbly deep and sexy voice. 'I am not Death, or some imagined Goddess. I am as real as you...' She stroked his torn, bleeding palm with one long, strong thumb. 'If a little warmer.'

  'Oh, I'm sure you're real,' he said. 'I can feel you're rea...'

  His voice faded; he looked behind the woman. There was a huge shape appearing inside the whirling snow. Grey-white like the snow, but a single shade darker, it floated up behind the woman, quiet and huge and steady. The storm seemed to die, just around them.

  'That's called a twelve person module, Cheradenine,' the woman said. 'It's come to take you away, if you want to be taken away; to the mainland, if you like. Or further afield, away with us if you'd prefer that.'

  He was tired of blinking and shaking his head. Whatever insane part of his mind wanted to play this bizarre game out would just have to be humoured for as long as it took. What it had to do with the Staberinde and the Chair, he couldn't tell yet, but if that was what it was all about - and what else could it be about? - then there was still no point, in this weakened, dying state, trying to fight it. Let it happen. He had no real choice. 'With you?' he said, trying not to laugh.

  'With us. We'd like to offer you a job.' She smiled. 'But let's talk somewhere a little warmer, shall we?'

  'Warmer?'

  She made a single tossing motion with her head. 'The module.'

  'Oh; yeah,' he agreed. 'That.' He tried to pull his other hand away from the packed snow behind, failed.

  He looked back at her; she had taken a small flask from her pocket. She reached round behind him, slowly poured the flask's contents over his hand. It warmed, and came away steaming gently.

  'Okay?' she said, taking his hand, gently helping him up. She pulled some slippers from her pocket. 'Here.'

  'Oh.' He laughed. 'Yeah; thanks.'

  She put her arm under one of his, her hand under his other shoulder. She was strong. 'You seem to know my name,' he said. 'What's yours, if that isn't an impertinent question?'

  She smiled as they walked through the few flakes of gently falling snow, towards the slab-sided bulk of the thing she'd called a module. It had got so quiet - despite the snow nearby, streaking past - that he could hear their feet making the snow creak.

  'My name,' she said. 'Is Rasd-Coduresa Diziet Embless Sma da' Marenhide.'

  'No kidding!'

  'But you may call me Diziet.'

  He laughed. 'Yeah; right. Diziet.'

  She walked, he stumbled, into the orange warmth of the module interior. The walls looked like highly polished wood, the seats like burnished hide, the floor like a fur rug. It all smelled like a mountain garden.

  He tried to fill his lungs with the warm, fragrant air. He swayed and turned, stunned, to the woman.

  'This is real!' he breathed.

  With enough breath, he might have screamed it.

  The woman nodded. 'Welcome aboard, Cheradenine Zakalwe.'

  He fainted.

  Twelve

  He stood in the long gallery and faced into the light. The tall white curtains billowed softly around him, quiet in the warm breeze. His long black hair was lifted only slightly by the gentle wind. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked pensive. The silent, lightly clouded skies over the mountains, beyond the fortress and the city, threw a blank, pervasive light across his face, and standing there like that, in plain dark clothes, he looked somehow insubstantial, like some statue, or a dead man propped against the battlements to fool the foe.

  Somebody spoke his name.

  'Zakalwe. Cheradenine?'

  'Whaa...?' He came to. He looked into the face of an old man who looked vaguely familiar. 'Beychae?' he heard himself say. Of course; the old man was Tsoldrin Beychae. Older-looking than he remembered.

  He looked around, listening. He heard a hum and saw a small, bare cabin. Seaship? Spaceship?

  Osom Emananish, a voice from his memory told him. Spaceship; clipper, bound for... somewhere near Impren (whatever and wherever that was). Impren Habitats. He had to get Tsoldrin Beychae to the Impren Habitats. Then he remembered the little doctor and his wonderful field machine with the cutting blue disc. Digging deeper, in a way that would not have been possible without the Culture's training and subtle changes, he found the little running loop of memory that took over from what his brain had already stored. The room with the fibre optics; blowing a kiss because it was just what he'd wanted; the explosion, sailing across the bar into the lounge; crashing, hitting his head. The rest was very vague; distant screams, and being picked up and carried. Nothing sensible from the voices he'd registered while he'd been unconscious.

  He lay for a moment, listening to what his body was telling him. No concussion. Slight damage to his right kidney, lots of bruises, abrasions on both knees, cuts on right hand... nose still mending.

  He raised himself up, looked again at the cabin; bare metal walls, two bunks, one small stool Beychae was sitting on. 'This the brig?'

  Beychae nodded. 'Yes; the prison.'

  He lay back. He noticed he was wearing a disposable crew jumpsuit. The terminal bead had gone from his ear, and the lobe was raw and sore enough to make him suspect the transceiver hadn't relinquished its grip there without a struggle. 'You too, or just me?' he asked.

  'Just you.'

  'What about the ship?'

  'I believe we are heading for the nearest stellar system, on the vessel's back-up drive.'

  'What's the nearest system?'

  'Well, the one inhabited planet is called Murssay. There's a war going on in part of it; one of those brush-fire conflicts you mentioned. Apparently the ship may not be allowed to land.'

  'Land?' He grunted, feeling the back of his head. Largish bruise. 'This ship can't land; it's not built for in-atmosphere stuff.'

  'Oh,' Tsoldrin said. 'Well, perhaps they meant we wouldn't be able to go down to the surface.'

  'Hmm. Must have some sort of orbiter; a space station, yes?'

  Beychae shrugged. 'I suppose so.'

  He looked round the cabin, making it obvious he was looking for something, 'What do they know about you?' He gestured round the cabin with his eyes.

  Beychae smiled. 'They know who I am; I've talked to the captain, Cheradenine. They did receive an order from the shipping company to turn back, though they didn't know why. Now they know why. The captain had the choice of waiting for Humanist naval units to pick us up, or heading for Murssay, and he chose the latter - despite some pressure, I believe - from Governance, via the shipping company. Apparently he insisted that the distress channel was used when he informed the shipping line of both what had happened to the ship, and who I was.'

  'So now everybody knows?'

  'Yes. I imagine by now the whole Cluster knows exactly who both of us are. But the point is that I think the captain might not be entirely unsympathetic to our cause.'

  'Yeah, but what happens when we get to Murssay?'

  'Looks like we get rid of you, Mr Zakalwe.' said a voice from a speaker overhead.

  He looked at Beychae. 'I hope you heard that too.'

  'I believe that might be the captain,' Beychae said.

  'It is,' said the man's voice, 'And we just got informed that we part company before we even get to Murssay station.' The man sounded peeved.

  'Really, captain?'

  'Yes, really, Mr Zakalwe; I have just received a military communication from the Balzeit Hegemonarchy of Murssay. They want to uplift you and Mr Beychae before we connect with the Station. As they're threatening to attack us if we don't comply, I intend to do as they ask; technically under protest, but frankly it will be a relief to be rid of you. I may add that the vessel they intend to take you off with must be a couple of centuries old, and was not thought to be space-worthy until now. If it survives to make the rendezvous in a couple of hours, you ought to have an eventful journey through Murssay's atmosphere. Mr Beychae; I believe if you reasoned with the Balzeit people they might let you continue with us to Mu
rssay Station. Whatever you decide, sir, let me wish you a safe trip.'

  Beychae sat back on the small stool. 'Balzeit,' he said, nodding thoughtfully. 'I wonder why they want us?'

  'They want you, Tsoldrin,' he said, swinging his feet off the bed. He looked uncertain. 'They on the good-guys's side? There's so damn many of these little wars...'

  'Well, in theory they are,' Beychae said. 'I think they believe planets and machines can have souls.'

  'Yeah, I thought they were,' he said, getting slowly to his feet. He flexed his arms, moved his shoulders. 'If this Murssay Station is neutral territory, you'd be better going there, though I'd guess this Balzeit gang want you, not me.'

  He rubbed the back of his head again, trying to remember what the situation was on Murssay. Murssay was just the sort of place that could start a full-scale war. There was, in effect, a Consolidationist-Humanist war taking place between relatively archaic military forces on Murssay; Balzeit was on the consolidationist side, even though the high command was some sort of priesthood. Why they wanted Beychae, he wasn't sure, though he vaguely recalled that the priests were into hero-worship in a fairly serious way. Though, having heard that Beychae was nearby, maybe they just wanted to hold him to ransom.

  Six hours later they rendezvoused with the ancient Balzeit spacecraft.

  'They want me?' he said.

  They stood by the airlock; him, Beychae, the Osom Emananish's captain, and four suited figures with guns. The suited men wore visored helmets, their pale brown faces visible inside, foreheads marked with a blue circle. The circles actually seemed to glow, he thought, and he wondered if they were there because of some generous religious principle, to help snipers.

  'Yes, Mr Zakalwe,' the captain said. He was a rotund little man with a shaved head. He smiled. 'They want you, not Mr Beychae.'

  He looked at the four armed men. 'What are they up to?' he asked Beychae.

  'I have no idea,' Beychae admitted.

  He waved his hands out, appealing to the four men. 'Why do you want me?'

  'Please come with us, sir,' one of the suited men said, via a suit speaker, in what was obviously not his first language.

  '"Please"?' he said. 'You mean I have a choice?'