The Player of Games c-2

by Iain M. Banks

  "Yes," he said. "I'll go."

  "Good!" The drone said. It placed a small container about half its own size down on one of the padded car seats. "Gas-giant flora," it explained.

  "I hope I didn't unduly curtail your expedition."

  "Not at all. Let me offer you my congratulations; I think you've made a wise, even brave choice. It did cross my mind that Contact was only offering you this opportunity to make you more content with your present life. If that's what the big Minds were expecting, I'm glad to see you confounding them. Well done."

  "Thank you." Gurgeh attempted a smile.

  "Your ship will be prepared immediately. It should be on its way within the day."

  "What kind of ship is it?"

  "An old «Murderer» class GOU left over from the Idiran war; been in deep storage about six decades from here for the last seven hundred years. Called the Limiting F actor. It's still in battle-trim at the moment, but they'll strip out the weaponry and emplace a set of game-boards and a module hanger. I understand the Mind isn't anything special; these warship forms can't afford to be sparkling wits or brilliant artists, but I believe it's a likeable enough device. It'll be your opponent during the journey. If you want, you're free to take somebody else along with you, but we'll send a drone with you anyway. There's a human envoy at Groasnachek, the capital of Eä, and he'll be your guide as well… were you thinking of taking a companion?"

  "No," Gurgeh said. In fact he had thought of asking Chamlis, but knew the old drone felt it had already had enough excitement — and boredom — in its life. He didn't want to put the machine in the position of having to say no. If it actually wanted to go, he was sure it wouldn't be afraid to ask.

  "Probably wise. What about personal possessions? It could be awkward if you want to take anything larger than a small module, say, or livestock larger than human size."

  Gurgeh shook his head. "Nothing remotely that large. A few cases of clothes… perhaps one or two ornaments… nothing more. What sort of drone were you thinking of sending?"

  "Basically a diplomat-cum-translator and general gofer; probably an old-timer with some experience of the empire. It'll have to have a comprehensive knowledge of all the empire's social mannerisms and forms of address and so on; you wouldn't believe how easy it is to make gaffes in a society like that. The drone will keep you clear as far as etiquette goes. It'll have a library too, of course, and probably a limited degree of offensive capability."

  "I don't want a gun-drone, Worthil," Gurgeh said.

  "It is advisable, for your own protection. You'll be under the protection of the imperial authorities, of course, but they aren't infallible. Physical attack isn't unknown during a game, and there are groups within the society which might want to harm you. I ought to point out the Limiting Factor won't be able to stay near by once it's dropped you on Eä; the empire's military have insisted they will not allow a warship to be stationed over their home planet. The only reason they're letting it approach Eä at all is because we're removing all the armament. Once the ship has departed, that drone will be the only totally reliable protection you have."

  "It won't make me invulnerable, though, will it?"

  "No."

  "Then I'll take my chances with the empire. Give me a mild-mannered drone; positively nothing armed, nothing… target-oriented."

  "I really do strongly advise—"

  "Drone," Gurgeh said, "to play this game properly I'll need to feel as much as possible like one of the locals, with the same vulnerability and worries. I don't want your device bodyguarding me. There won't be any point in my going if I know I don't have to take the game as seriously as everybody else."

  The drone said nothing for some time. "Well, if you're sure," it said eventually, sounding unhappy.

  "I am."

  "Very well. If you insist." The drone made a sighing sound. "I think that settles everything. The ship ought to be here in a—"

  "There is a condition," Gurgeh said.

  "A… condition?" the drone said. Its fields became briefly visible, a glittering mixture of blue and brown and grey.

  "There is a drone here, called Mawhrin-Skel," Gurgeh said.

  "Yes," Worthil said carefully. "I was briefed that that device lives here now. What about it?"

  "It was exiled from Special Circumstances; thrown out. We've become… friends since it came here. I promised if I ever had any influence with Contact, I'd do what I could to help it. I'm afraid I can only play Azad on condition that the drone's returned to SC."

  Worthil said nothing for a moment. "That was rather a foolish promise to have made, Mr Gurgeh."

  "I admit I didn't ever think I would be in a position to have to fulfil it. But I am, so I have to make that a condition."

  "You don't want to take this machine with you, do you?" Worthil sounded puzzled.

  "No!" he said. "I just promised I'd try to get it back into service."

  "Uh-huh. Well, I'm not really in a position to make that sort of deal, Jernau Gurgeh. That machine was civilianised because it was dangerous and refused to undergo reconstruction therapy; its case is not something that I can decide on. It's a matter for the admissions board concerned."

  "All the same; I have to insist."

  Worthil made a sighing noise, lifted the spherical container it had placed on the seat and seemed to study its blank surface. "I'll do what I can," it said, a trace of annoyance in its tone, "but I can't promise anything. Admissions and appeal boards hate being leant on; they go terribly moralistic."

  "I need my obligation to Mawhrin-Skel discharged somehow," Gurgeh said quietly. "I can't leave here with it able to claim I didn't try to help it."

  The Contact drone seemed not to hear. Then it said, "Hmm. Well, we'll see what we can do."

  The underground car flew across the base of the world, silent and swift.

  "To Gurgeh; a great game-player, a great man!" Hafflis stood on the parapet at one end of the terrace, the kilometre drop behind him, a bottle in one hand, a fuming drug-bowl in the other. The stone table was crowded with people who'd come to wish Gurgeh goodbye. It had been announced that he was leaving tomorrow morning, to journey to the Clouds on the GSV Little Rascal, to be one of the Culture's representatives at the Pardethillisian Games, the great ludic convocation held every twenty-two years or so by the Meritocracy Pardethillisi, in the Lesser Cloud.

  Gurgeh had, indeed, been invited to this tournament, as he had been invited to the Games before that, just as he was to several thousand competitions and convocations of various sizes and complexions every year, either within the Culture or outside it. He'd refused that invitation as he refused them all, but the story now was that he'd changed his mind and would go there and play for the Culture. The next Games were to be held in three and a half years, which made the need to leave at such short notice somewhat tricky to explain, but Contact had done a little creative timetabling and some bare-faced lying and made it appear to the casual inquirer that only the Little Rascal could get Gurgeh there in time for the lengthy formal registration and qualifying period required.

  "Cheers!" Hafilis put his head back and the bottle to his lips. Everybody round the great table joined in, drinking from a dozen different types of bowl, glass, goblet and tankard. Hafflis rocked further and further back on his heels as he drained the bottle; a few people shouted out warnings or threw bits of food at him; he just had time to put the bottle down and smack his wine-wet lips before he overbalanced and disappeared over the edge of the parapet.

  "Oops," came his muffled voice. Two of his younger children, sitting playing three-cups with a thoroughly mystified Styglian enumerator, went to the parapet and dragged their drunken parent back over from the safety field. He tumbled on to the terrace and staggered back to his seat, laughing.

  Gurgeh sat between Professor Boruelal and one of his old flames; Vossle Chu, the woman whose hobbies had in the past included iron-foundry. She had crossed from Rombree, on Chiark's farside from Gevant, to come and see
Gurgeh off. There were at least ten of his former lovers amongst the crowd squeezed around the table. He wondered fuzzily what the significance might be that out of that ten, six had chosen to change sex and become — and remain — men over the past few years.

  Gurgeh, along with everybody else, was getting drunk, as was traditional on such occasions. Hafflis had promised that they would not do to Gurgeh what they had done to a mutual friend a few years earlier; the young man had been accepted into Contact and Hafflis had held a party to celebrate. At the end of the evening they'd stripped the fellow naked and thrown him over the parapet… but the safety field had been turned off; the new Contact recruit had fallen nine hundred metres — six hundred of them with empty bowels — before three of Hafflis's pre-positioned house drones rose calmly out of the forest beneath to catch him and take him back up.

  The (Demilitarised) General Offensive Unit Limiting Factor had arrived under Ikroh that afternoon. Gurgeh had gone down to the transit gallery to inspect it. The craft was a third of a kilometre long, very sleek and simple looking; a pointed nose, three long blisters like vast aircraft cockpits leading to the nose, and another five fat blisters circling the vessel's waist; its rear was blunt and flat. The ship had said hello, told him it was there to take him to the GSV Little Rascal, and asked him if he had any special dietary requirements.

  Boruelal slapped him on the back. "We're going to miss you, Gurgeh."

  "Likewise," Gurgeh said, swaying, and felt quite emotional. He wondered when it would be time to throw the paper lanterns over the parapet to float down to the rainforest. They'd turned the lights on behind the waterfall, all the way down the cliff, and an inflatible dirigible, seemingly crewed largely by game-fans, had anchored above the plain level with Tronze, promising a firework display later. Gurgeh had been quite touched by such shows of respect and affection.

  "Gurgeh," Chamlis said. He turned, still holding his glass, to look at the old machine. It put a small package into his hand. "A present," it said. Gurgeh looked at the small parcel; paper tied up with ribbon. "Just an old tradition," Chamlis explained. "You open it when you're under way."

  "Thank you," Gurgeh said, nodding slowly. He put the present into his jacket, then did something he rarely did with drones, and hugged the old machine, putting his arms round its aura fields. "Thank you, very very much."

  The night darkened; a brief shower almost extinguished the coals in the centre of the table, but Hafflis got supply drones to bring crates of spirits and they all had fun squirting the drink on to the coals to keep them alight in pools of blue flame which burned down half the paper lanterns and scorched the nightflower vines and made many holes in clothes and singed the Styglian enumerator's pelt. Lightning flashed in the mountains above the lake, the falls glowed, backlit and fabulous, and the dirigible's fireworks drew applause and answering fireworks and cloud-lasers from all over Tronze. Gurgeh was dumped naked into the lake, but hauled out spluttering by Hafflis's children. He woke up in Boruelal's bed, at the university, a little after dawn. He sneaked away early.

  He looked around the room. Early morning sunlight flooded the landscape outside Ikroh and lanced through the lounge, streaming in from the fjord-side windows, across the room and out through the windows opening on to the uphill lawns. Birds filled the cool, still air with song.

  There was nothing else to take, nothing more to pack. He'd sent the house drones down with a chest of clothes the night before, but now wondered why he'd bothered; he wouldn't need many changes on the warship, and when they got to the GSV he could order anything he wanted. He'd packed a few personal ornaments, and had the house copy his stock of still and moving pictures to the Limiting Factor's memory. The last thing he'd done was burn the letter he'd written to leave with Boruelal, and stir the ashes in the fireplace until they were fine as dust. Nothing more remained.

  "Ready?" Worthil said.

  "Yes," he said. His head was clear and no longer sore, but he felt tired, and knew he'd sleep well that night. "Is it here yet?"

  "On its way."

  They were waiting for Mawhrin-Skel. It had been told its appeal had been re-opened; as a favour to Gurgeh, it was likely to be given a role in Special Circumstances. It had acknowledged, but not appeared. It would meet them when Gurgeh left.

  Gurgeh sat down to wait.

  A few minutes before he was due to leave, the tiny drone appeared, floating down the chimney to hover over the empty fire grate.

  "Mawhrin-Skel," Worthil said. "Just in time."

  "I believe I'm being recalled to duty," the smaller drone said.

  "You are indeed," Worthil said heartily.

  "Good. I'm sure my friend, the LOU Gunboat Diplomat, will follow my future career with great interest."

  "Of course," Worthil said. "I would hope it would."

  Mawhrin-Skel's fields glowed orange-red. It floated over to Gurgeh, its grey body shining brightly, fields all but extinguished in the bright sunshine. "Thank you," it said to him. "I wish you a good journey, and much luck."

  Gurgeh sat on the couch and looked at the tiny machine. He thought of several things to say, but said none of them. Instead, he stood up, straightened his jacket, looked at Worthil and said, "I think I'm ready to go now."

  Mawhrin-Skel watched him leave the room, but did not try to follow.

  He boarded the Limiting Factor.

  Worthil showed him the three great game-boards, set in three of the effector bulges round the vessel's waist, pointed out the module hangar housed in the fourth blister and the swimming pool which the dockyard had installed in the fifth because they couldn't think of anything else at such short notice and they didn't like to leave the blister just empty. The three effectors in the nose had been left in but disconnected, to be removed once the Limiting Factor docked with the Little Rascal. Worthil guided him round the living quarters, which seemed perfectly acceptable.

  Surprisingly quickly, it was time to leave, and Gurgeh said goodbye to the Contact drone. He sat in the accommodation section, watching the small drone float down the corridor to the warship's lock, and then told the screen in front of him to switch to exterior view. The temporary corridor joining the ship to Ikroh's transit gallery retracted, and the long tube of the ship's innard-hull slotted back into place from outside.

  Then, with no notice or noise at all, the view of the Plate base withdrew, shrinking. As the ship pulled away, the Plate merged into the other three on that side of the Orbital, to become part of a single thick line, and then that line dwindled rapidly to a point, and the star of Chiark's system flashed brilliantly from behind it, before the star too quickly dulled and shrank, and Gurgeh realised he was on his way to the Empire of Azad.

  2. Imperium

  Still with me?

  Little textual note for you here (bear with me).

  Those of you unfortunate enough not to be reading or hearing this in Marain may well be using a language without the requisite number or type of personal pronouns, so I'd better explain that bit of the translation.

  Marain, the Culture's quintessentially wonderful language (so the Culture will tell you), has, as any schoolkid knows, one personal pronoun to cover females, males, in-betweens, neuters, children, drones, Minds, other sentient machines, and every life-form capable of scraping together anything remotely resembling a nervous system and the rudiments of language (or a good excuse for not having either). Naturally, there are ways of specifying a person's sex in Marain, but they're not used in everyday conversation; in the archetypal language-as-moral-weapon-and-proud-of-it, the message is that it's brains that matter, kids; gonads are hardly worth making a distinction over.

  So, in what follows, Gurgeh is quite happily thinking about the Azadians just as he'd think about any other (see list above)… But what of you, O unlucky, possibly brutish, probably ephemeral and undoubtedly disadvantaged citizen of some unCultured society, especially those unfairly (and the Azadians would say under-) endowed with only the mean number of genders?!

&nb
sp; How shall we refer to the triumvirate of Azadian sexes without resorting to funny-looking alien terms or gratingly awkward phrases not-words?

  …. Rest at ease; I have chosen to use the natural and obvious pronouns for male and female, and to represent the intermediates — or apices — with whatever pronominal term best indicates their place in their society, relative to the existing sexual power-balance of yours. In other words, the precise translation depends on whether your own civilisation (for let us err on the side of terminological generosity) is male or female dominated.

  (Those which can fairly claim to be neither will of course have their own suitable term.)

  Anyway, enough of that.

  Let's see now: we've finally got old Gurgeh off Gevant Plate, Chiark Orbital, and we have him fizzing away at quite a clip in a stripped down military ship heading for a rendezvous with the Cloudbound General Systems Vehicle Little Rascal.

  Points To Ponder:

  Does Gurgeh really understand what he's done, and what might happen to him? Has it even begun to occur to him that he might have been tricked? And does he really know what he's let himself in for?

  Of course not!

  That's part of the fun!

  Gurgeh had been on cruises many times in his life and — on that longest one, thirty years earlier — travelled some thousands of light years from Chiark, but within a few hours of his departure aboard the Limiting Factor he was feeling the gap of light years the still accelerating ship was putting between him and his home with an immediacy he had not anticipated. He spent some time watching the screen, where Chiark's star shone yellow-white and gradually diminishing, but nevertheless he felt further away from it than even the screen showed.

  He had never felt the falseness of such representations before, but sitting there, in the old accommodation social area, looking at the rectangle of screen on the wall, he couldn't help feeling like an actor, or a component in the ship's circuitry: like part of, and therefore as false as, the pretend-view of Real Space hung in front of him.