Matter (Culture, #8)

by Iain M. Banks

“So am I. Some dully competent relations of mine will be in charge during our absence; the clan Girgetioni. I say dully competent; that may flatter them. My family has always been firmly of the opinion that if it is absolutely necessary to take leave of one’s responsibilities for a while, always be sure to leave surrogates in charge who will ensure your welcome on return will be both genuine and enthusiastic. Ha ha.”

She had pretended. She had pretended – to her father and the rest of the court – to be reluctant to go to the Culture, in just the way that a girl chosen to be a bride was expected to pretend to be reluctant to go to her new home and husband, and she had trusted that the Culture people would see that this was an act, for appearances’ sake, to observe the niceties. They had, and she’d duly gone with them when the time came. She had never regretted it for a moment.

Anaplian realised they had got rather rapidly to the point that all such conversations regarding the strategic intentions of the Culture tended to arrive at sooner or later, where it became clear that the issue boiled down to the question What Are The Minds Really Up To? This was always a good question, and it was usually only churls and determinedly diehard cynics who even bothered to point out that it rarely, if ever, arrived paired up with an equally good answer. The normal, almost ingrained response of people at this point was to metaphorically throw their hands in the air and exclaim that if that was what it really all boiled down to then there was no point in even attempting to pursue the issue further, because as soon as the motivations, analyses and stratagems of Minds became the defining factor in a matter, all bets were most profoundly off, for the simple reason that any and all efforts to second-guess such infinitely subtle and hideously devious devices were self-evidently futile. Anaplian was not so sure about this. It was her suspicion that it suited the purposes of the Minds rather too neatly that people believed this so unquestioningly. Such a reaction represented not so much the honest appraisal of further enquiry as being pointless as an unthinking rejection of the need to enquire at all.

“Do you think you’ll get away with this?” “Who can say? Worth a try.” “You might have thought to ask me.” “I did.” “You did? I appear to have lost more than I thought.” “I thought to ask you, but I didn’t. So as to protect you from potential blame.” “How kind.”

But he must not fall prey to such thoughts. A little caution, and some rough idea of what to do if things happened for the worst, that was excusable, but to wallow in doubt and presentiments of disaster only served to help bring about that which was most feared.

“Hmm. It does occur to me that, no matter how distant, she may have heard about your father and the other recent events from your home level, which of course includes the news of your supposed death.” “May she?” “As I say, news osmoses. And where news is concerned, the Culture is of a very low pressure.” “I fail to understand you, ma’am.” “They tend to hear everything.”

“I was telling you – excuse me.” Anaplian took another sip of her drink. “I was telling you I agree with what you say but not to the point of acting differently. One of the first things they teach you in SC, or . . .” She belched delicately. “Excuse me. Or get you to teach yourself, is not to be too sure, always to be prepared to acknowledge that there is an argument for not doing the things that we do.” “But you still do them.” “But we still do them.”

Even so, a proportion were known, or at least strongly suspected, to be using this state of self-imposed exile purely as a disguise, and were still fully committed to the Culture, allegedly adopting Absconder status as cover for being able to carry out actions the main part of the Culture might shrink from. The granddaddy, the exemplary hero figure, the very God of such vessels, was the GSV Sleeper Service, which had selflessly impersonated such eccentric indifference to the Culture for four decades and then, some twenty-plus years ago now, suddenly revealed itself as utterly mainstream-Culture-loyal and – handily – harbouring a secretly manufactured, instantly available war fleet just when the Culture most needed it, before disappearing again.

It seemed at first glance like utter madness, yet it also, when one thought about it, appeared somehow no less implausible than any other explanation of how things truly were, and it had a sort of completeness about it that stifled argument. Assuming that every branching fork on the universe map was taken randomly, all would still somehow be well; the likely things would always outnumber the unlikely and vastly outnumber the ludicrous, so as a rule things would happen much as one expected, with the occasional surprise and the very rare moment of utter incredulity. Pretty much as life generally was, in other words, in his experience. This was at once oddly satisfactory, mildly disappointing and strangely reassuring to Holse; fate was as fate was, and that was it. He immediately wondered how you could cheat.

He knew that there were levels of science and technology, and of understanding and wisdom, well above those he was privy to and he was not amongst those who chose simply to disbelieve in their existence. Nevertheless, the measure of the engineering behind Morthanveld Nestworlds – structures built on such a scale that engineering and physics started to become the same thing – quite defeated him.

“Are you all right, Ferbin?” she asked. “Perfectly well, thank you,” he told her. “So far so good, brother. We are still within the main sequence of our plan.” “Delighted to hear it.”

“By the way, Mr Hippinse,” Holse said, “is it really all right to wet oneself in these things?” “Absolutely!” Hippinse said, as though Holse had proposed a toast. “All gets used. Feel free.” Ferbin rolled his eyes, though he was glad that Holse, probably, could not see. “Oh, that’s better . . .”

“We’re fourteen hundred kilometres above the Deldeyn province of Sull,” Anaplian told him. “We ambient-drop, not using AG, through nearly a thousand klicks of near-vacuum and then hit the atmosphere. Then it’s an assisted glide to the Hyeng-zhar, again leaving suit antigravity off; it could show.” She looked at Ferbin and Holse. “You don’t have to do a thing; your suits will take care of everything. Just enjoy the view. We’re still in comms blackout, but don’t forget you can always talk to your suit if you need to ask any questions about what’s going on. Okay? Let’s go.” There had not – Ferbin reflected as his sister swung open the circular door – really been enough time between the “Okay?” and the “Let’s go” bits of that last sentence for anybody to say very much at all.

The Sarcophagus gave off, it seemed to him as he walked up to it, an aura of utter solidity; of settled, stolid, almost crushing containment and impassivity, of – indeed – timelessness, as though this thing had witnessed the passing of ages and epochs ungraspable by men, and yet still, somehow, was more of the future than of the past.

“But this thing must be ancient, ma’am, mustn’t it?” Holse protested. “It’s been under there for an eternity; everybody knows the Iln vanished millions of years ago. Whatever this thing is it can’t be that dangerous, not to more modern powers like the Optimae, the Culture and so on. Can it?” “It doesn’t work that way,” Anaplian said. “Would that it did.” She fell silent as they tore upwards into the air, spreading out. Hippinse cleared his throat and said, “The type of progress you guys are used to doesn’t scale into this sort of civilisational level; societies progress until they Sublime – god-like retirement, if you will – and then others start again, finding their own way up the tech-face. But it is a tech-face, not a tech-ladder; there are a variety of routes to the top and any two civs who’ve achieved the summit might well have discovered quite different abilities en route. Ways of keeping technology viable over indefinite periods of time are known to have existed aeons ago, and just because something’s ancient doesn’t mean it’s inferior. With workable tech from this thing’s time the stats show it’s about sixty-forty it will be less capable than what we have now, but that’s a big minority.”

“Under CREW attack, dorsal, above,” the suit informed him. “No immediate threat at present power and frequencies.” “That’s one hit each, two on me,” Anaplian said. “More have missed. I am reading a ceiling source, Nariscene tech, probably – tss! Three on me. Source probably comped.” “Ditto,” Hippinse said. “We can probably soak. Outrange in twenty.” “Yes, but maybe more ahead. I am sending Xuss to deal with. Practice if nothing else.” “My pleasure,” Turminder Xuss said. “Can I use AM too?” “Anything,” Anaplian said. “Leave to me,” Xuss purred. “I’ll get back ahead and anticipate similar?” “Feel free,” Anaplian said. “Kinetics would be a bigger worry; prioritise and warn.” “Of course.” “Regardless, shoot first.” “You spoil me.”

“Ah!” Holse shouted a moment later. “Faith, even my old man never hit me that hard.” “Should be this one’s last,” Xuss said. “There; straight up their collimator. Oh! Pretty.” “Firing not admiring,” Anaplian told it. “Oh, really,” Xuss said, somewhere between amused and annoyed. “Already on my way.”