"Very much so, Jemau Gurgeh. If you want to confirm all I've said, I can arrange for special access rights to be granted to you, direct from the GSV s and other Minds who've taken charge of this. You can have all you want on the empire of Azad, from the first sniff of contact to the latest real-time news reports. It's all true."
"And when did you first get that sniff of contact?" Gurgeh said, turning to the drone. "How long have you been sitting on this?"
The drone hesitated. "Not long," it said eventually. "Seventy-three years."
"You people certainly don't rush into things, do you?"
"Only when we've no choice," the drone agreed.
"And how does the empire feel about us?" Gurgeh asked. "Let me guess; you haven't told them all about the Culture."
"Very good, Jemau Gurgeh," the drone said, with what was almost a laugh in its voice. "No, we haven't told them everything. That's something the drone we'd be sending with you would have to keep you straight on; right from the start we've misled the empire about our distribution, numbers, resources, technological level and ultimate intentions… though of course only the relative paucity of advanced societies in the relevant region of the Lesser Cloud has made this possible. The Azadians do not, for example, know that the Culture is based in the main galaxy; they believe we come from the Greater Cloud, and that our numbers are only about twice theirs. They have little inkling of the level of genofixing in Culture humans, or of the sophistication of our machine intelligences; they've never heard of a ship Mind, or seen a GSV.
"They've been trying to find out about us ever since first contact, of course, but without any success. They probably think we have a home planet or something; they themselves are still very much planet-oriented, using planet-forming techniques to create usable ecospheres, or more usually just taking over already occupied globes; ecologically and morally, they're catastrophically bad. The reason they're trying to find out about us is they want to invade us; they want to conquer the Culture. The problem is that, as with all playground-bully mentalities, they're quite profoundly frightened; xenophobic and paranoid at once. We daren't let them know the extent and power of the Culture yet, in case the whole empire self-destructs… such things have happened before, though of course that was long before Contact itself was formed. Our technique's better these days. Still tempting, all the same," the drone said, as though thinking aloud, not talking to him.
"They do," Gurgeh said, "sound fairly…" — he'd been going to say "barbaric', but that didn't seem strong enough — "… animalistic."
"Hmm," the drone said. "Be careful, now; that is how they term the species they subjugate; animals. Of course they are animals, just as you are, just as I am a machine. But they are fully conscious, and they have a society at least as complicated as our own; more so, in some ways. It is pure chance that we've met them when their civilisation looks primitive to us; one less ice age on Eä and it could conceivably have been the other way round."
Gurgeh nodded thoughtfully, and watched the silent aliens move across the game-floor, in the reproduced light of a distant, alien sun.
"But," Worthil added brightly, "it didn't happen that way, so not to worry. Now then," it said, and suddenly they were back in the room at Ikroh, the holoscreen off and the windows clear; Gurgeh blinked in the sudden wash of daylight. "I'm sure you realise there's still a vast amount left to tell you, but you have our proposal now, in its barest outline. I'm not asking you to say «Yes» unequivocally at this stage, but is there any point in my going on, or have you already decided that you definitely don't want to go?"
Gurgeh rubbed his beard, looking out of the window towards the forest above Ikroh. It was too much to take in. If it really was genuine, then Azad was the single most significant game he'd ever encountered in his life… possibly more significant than all the rest put together.
As an ultimate challenge, it excited and appalled him in equal measure; he felt instinctively, almost sexually drawn to it, even now, knowing so little… but he wasn't sure he possessed the self-discipline to study that intensely for two years solid, or that he was capable of holding a mental model of a game so bewilderingly complex in his head. He kept coming back to the fact that the Azadians themselves managed it, but, as the machine said, they were submerged in the game from birth; perhaps it could only be mastered by somebody who'd had their cognitive processes shaped by the game itself…
But five years! All that time; not just away from here, but at least half, probably more, of that stretch spent with no time for keeping abreast of developments in other games, no time to read papers or write them, no time for anything except this one, absurd, obsessive game. He would change; he would be a different person at the end of it; he could not help but change, take on something of the game itself; that would be inevitable. And would he ever catch up again, once he came back? He would be forgotten; he would be away so long the rest of the game-playing Culture would just disregard him; he'd be a historical figure. And when he came back, would he be allowed to talk about it? Or would Contact's seven-decade-long embargo continue? But if he went, he might be able to buy Mawhrin-Skel off. He could make its price his price. Let it back in to SC. Or — it occurred to him there and then — have them silence it, somehow.
A flock of birds flew across the sky, white scraps against the dark greens of the mountain forest; they landed on the garden outside the window, strutting back and forth and pecking at the ground. He turned to the drone again, crossed his arms. "When would you need to know?" he said. He still hadn't decided. He had to stall, find out all he could first.
"It would have to be within the next three or four days. The GSV Little Rascal is heading out in this direction from the middle-galaxy at the moment, and will be leaving for the Clouds within the next hundred days. If you were to miss it, your journey would last a lot longer; your own ship will have to sustain maximum velocity right up to the rendezvous point, even as things stand."
"My own ship?" Gurgeh said.
"You'll need your own craft, firstly to get you to the Little Rascal in time, and then again at the other end, to travel from the GSV's closest approach to the Lesser Cloud into the empire itself."
He watched the snow-white birds peck on the lawn for a while. He wondered whether he ought to mention Mawhrin-Skel now. Part of him wanted to, just to get it over with, just in case they would say Yes immediately and he could stop worrying about the machine's threat (and start worrying about that insanely complicated game). But he knew he mustn't. Wisdom is patience, as the saying said. Keep that back; if he was going to go (though of course he wouldn't, couldn't, it was madness even to think of going), then make them think he had nothing he wanted in return; let it all be arranged and then make his condition clear… if Mawhrin-Skel waited that long before getting pushy.
"All right," he said to the Contact drone. "I'm not saying I will go, but I will think about it. Tell me more about Azad."
Stories set in the Culture in which Things Went Wrong tended to start with humans losing or forgetting or deliberately leaving behind their terminal. It was a conventional opening, the equivalent of straying off the path in the wild woods in one age, or a car breaking down at night on a lonely road in another. A terminal, in the shape of a ring, button, bracelet or pen or whatever, was your link with everybody and everything else in the Culture. With a terminal, you were never more than a question or a shout away from almost anything you wanted to know, or almost any help you could possibly need.
There were (true) stories of people falling off cliffs and the terminal relaying their scream in time for a Hub unit to switch to that terminal's camera, realise what was happening and displace a drone to catch the faller in mid-air; there were other stories about terminals recording the severing of their owner's head from their body in an accident, and summoning a medical drone in time to save the brain, leaving the de-bodied person with no more a problem than finding ways to pass the months it took to grow a new body.
A terminal was safety.
&nb
sp; So Gurgeh took his on the longer walks.
He sat, a couple of days after the drone Worthil's visit, on a small stone bench near the tree-line a few kilometres from Ikroh. He was breathing hard from the climb up the path. It was a bright, sunny day and the earth smelled sweet. He used the terminal to take a few photographs of the view from the little clearing. There was a rusting piece of ironware beside the bench; a present from an old lover he'd almost forgotten about. He took a few photographs of that, too. Then the terminal beeped.
"House here, Gurgeh. You said to give you the choice on Yay's calls. She says this is moderately urgent."
He hadn't been accepting calls from Yay. She'd tried to get in touch several times over the last few days. He shrugged. "Go ahead," he said, leaving the terminal to float in mid-air in front of him.
The screen unrolled to reveal Yay's smiling face. "Ah, the recluse. How are you, Gurgeh?"
"I'm all right."
Yay peered forward at her own screen. "What is that you're sitting beside?"
Gurgeh looked at the piece of ironware by the side of the bench. "That's a cannon," he told her.
"That's what I thought."
"It was a present from a lady friend," Gurgeh explained. "She was very keen on forging and casting. She graduated from pokers and fire grates to cannons. She thought I might find it amusing to fire large metal spheres at the fjord."
"I see."
"You need a fast-burning powder to make it work, though, and I never did get round to acquiring any."
"Just as well; the thing would probably have exploded and blown your brains out."
"That did occur to me as well."
"Good for you." Yay's smile widened. "Hey, guess what?"
"What?"
"I'm going on a cruise; I persuaded Shuro he needs his horizons broadened. You remember Shuro; at the shoot?"
"Oh. Yes, I remember. When do you go?"
"I've gone. We just undocked from Tronze port; the clipper Screw Loose. This is the last chance I had to call you real-time. The delay'll mean letters in future."
"Ah." He wished he hadn't accepted this call, too, now. "How long are you going for?"
"A month or two." Yay's bright, smiling face crinkled. "We'll see. Shuro might get tired of me before then. Kid's mostly into other men, but I'm trying to persuade him otherwise. Sorry I couldn't say goodbye before I left, but it's not for long; I'll s—"
The terminal screen went blank. The screen snapped back into the casing as it fell to the ground and lay, silent and dead, on the tree-needled ground of the clearing. Gurgeh stared at the terminal. He leant forward and picked it up. Some needles and bits of grass had been caught in the screen as it rolled back into the casing. He pulled them out. The machine was lifeless; the little tell-tale light on the base was off.
"Well. Jernau Gurgeh?" Mawhrin-Skel said, floating in from the side of the clearing.
He clutched the terminal with both hands. He stood up, staring at the drone as it sidled through the air, bright in the sunlight. He made himself relax, putting the terminal in a jacket pocket and sitting down, legs crossed on the bench. "Well what, Mawhrin-Skel?
"A decision." The machine floated level with his face. Its fields were formal blue. "Will you speak for me?"
"What if I do and nothing happens?
"You'll just have to try harder. They'll listen, if you're persuasive enough."
"But if you're wrong, and they don't?"
"Then I'd have to think about whether to release your little entertainment or not; it would be fun, certainly… but I might save it, in case you could be useful to me in some other way; one never knows."
"No, indeed."
"I saw you had a visitor the other day."
"I thought you might have noticed."
"Looked like a Contact drone."
"It was."
"I'd like to pretend I knew what it said to you, but once you went into the house, I had to stop eavesdropping. Something about travelling, I believe I heard you say?"
"A cruise, of sorts."
"Is that all?
"No."
"Hmm. My guess was they might want you to join Contact, become a Referer, one of their planners; something like that. Not so?"
Gurgeh shook his head. The drone wobbled from side to side in the air, a gesture Gurgeh was not sure he understood. "I see. And have you mentioned me yet?"
"No."
"I think you ought to don't you?"
"I don't know whether I'm going to do what they ask. I haven't decided yet."
"Why not? What are they asking you to do? Can it compare to the shame—"
"I'll do what I want to do," he told it, standing up. "I might as well, after all, drone, mightn't I? Even if l can persuade Contact to take you back, you and your friend Gunboat Diplomat would still have the recording; what's to prevent you doing all this again?"
"Ah, so you know its name. I wondered what you and Chiark Hub were up to. Well, Gurgeh; just ask yourself this: what else could I possibly want from you? This is all I want; to be allowed to be what I was meant to be. When I am restored to that state, I'll have all I could possibly desire. There would be nothing else you could possibly have any control over. I want to fight, Gurgeh; that's what I was designed for; to use skill and cunning and force to win battles for our dear, beloved Culture. I'm not interested in controlling others, or in making the strategic decisions; that sort of power doesn't interest me. The only destiny I want to control is my own."
"Fine words," Gurgeh said.
He took the dead terminal out of his pocket, turned it over in his hands. Mawhrin-Skel plucked the terminal out of his hands from a couple of metres away, held it underneath its casing, and folded it neatly in half. It bent it again, into quarters; the pen-shaped machine snapped and broke. Mawhrin-Skel crumpled the remains into a little jagged ball.
"I'm getting impatient, Jernau Gurgeh. Time goes slower the faster you think, and I think very fast indeed. Let's say another four days, shall we? You have one hundred and twenty-eight hours before I tell Gunboat to make you even more famous than you are already." It tossed the wrecked terminal back to him; he caught it.
The little drone drifted off towards the edge of the clearing. "I'll be waiting for your call," it said. "Better get a new terminal, though. And do be careful on the walk back to Ikroh; dangerous to be out in the wilds with no way of summoning help."
"Five years?" Chamlis said thoughtfully. "Well, it's some game, I agree, but won't you lose touch over that sort of period? Have you thought this through properly, Gurgeh? Don't let them rush you into anything you might regret later."
They were in the lowest cellar in Ikroh. Gurgeh had taken Chamlis down there to tell it about Azad. He'd sworn the old drone to secrecy first. They'd left Hub's resident anti-surveillance drone guarding the cellar entrance and Chamlis had done its best to check there was nobody and nothing listening in, as well as producing a reasonable impression of a quietfield around them. They talked against a background of pipes and service ducts rumbling and hissing around them in the darkness; the naked walls" rock sweated, darkly glistening.
Gurgeh shook his head. There was nowhere to sit down in the cellar, and its roof was just a little too low for him to stand fully upright. So he stood, head bowed. "I think I'm going to do it," he said, not looking at Chamlis. "I can always come back, if it's too difficult, if I change my mind."
"Too difficult?" Chamlis echoed, surprised. "That's not like you. I agree it's a tough game, but—"
"Anyway, I can come back," he said.
Chamlis was silent for a moment. "Yes. Yes, of course you can."
He still didn't know if he was doing the right thing. He had tried to think it through, to apply the same son of cold, logical analysis to his own plight that he would normally bring to bear in a tricky situation in a game, but he just didn't seem to be able to do so; it was as though that ability could look calmly only on distant, abstract problems, and was incapable of focusing on anything
so intricately enmeshed with his own emotional state.
He wanted to go to get away from Mawhrin-Skel, but — he had to admit to himself — he was attracted by Azad. Not just the game. That was still slightly unreal, too complicated to be taken seriously yet. The empire itself interested him.
And yet of course he wanted to stay. He had enjoyed his life, until that night in Tronze. He had never been totally satisfied, but then, who was? Looking back, the life he'd led seemed idyllic. He might lose the occasional game, feel that another game-player was unjustifiably lauded over himself, lust after Yay Meristinoux and feel piqued she preferred others, but these were small, small hurts indeed, compared both with what Mawhrin-Skel held on him, and with the five years" exile which now faced him.
"No," he said, nodding at the floor, "I think I will go."
"All right… but this just doesn't seem like you, Gurgeh. You've always been so… measured. In control."
"You make me sound like a machine," Gurgeh said tiredly.
"No, but more… predictable than this; more comprehensible."
He shrugged, looked at the rough rock floor. "Chamlis," he said, "I'm only human."
"That, my dear old friend, has never been an excuse."
He sat in the underground car. He'd been to the university to see Professor Boruelal; he'd taken with him a sealed, hand-written letter for her to keep, to be opened only if he died, explaining all that had happened, apologising to Olz Hap, trying to make clear how he'd felt, what had made him do such a terrible, stupid thing… but in the end he hadn't handed the letter over. He'd been terrified at the thought of Boruelal opening it, accidentally perhaps, and reading it while he was still alive.
The underground car raced across the base of the Plate, heading for Ikroh again. He used his new terminal to call the drone named Worthil. It had left after their last meeting to go exploring in one of the system's gas-giant planets, but on receiving his call had itself displaced by Chiark Hub to the base underside. It came in through the speeding car's lock. "Jernau Gurgeh," it said, condensation frosting on its casing, its presence entering the car's warm interior like a cold draught, "you've reached a decision?"
The Player of Games c-2 Page 10