Surface Detail

patterned.

All you ever were was a little bit of the universe, thinking to itself. Very specific; this bit, here, right now. All the rest was fantasy. Nothing was ever identical to anything else because it didn’t share the same spacial coordinates; nothing could be identical to anything else because you couldn’t share the property of uniqueness. Blah blah; she was drifting now, remembering old lessons, ancient school stuff.

“What’s—?”

Pathetic last words.

She thought of Lan, her lover, her love, probably dying just like this, just like her, hundreds of thousands of klicks away in the suffocating heat, surrounded by the cold dark silence.

She thought she might cry again.

Instead, she could feel her skin trying to sweat, creating a prickling feeling all over her body. Pain management reduced it from extreme discomfort to mere sensation.

Her whole body, crying stickily.

Image to bow out on.

Thank you and good night…

“You the fella I need to talk to?”

“I’m not sure. Who exactly is it you wish to talk to?”

“Whoever’s in charge round here. That you?”

“I am Legislator-Admiral Bettlescroy-Bisspe-Blispin III. It is my privilege to command the GFCF forces in this volume. And you?”

“I’m the passing-for-human face of the Culture warship Falling Outside The Normal Moral Constraints.”

“You are the Torturer-class vessel we heard was in-bound? Thank goodness! We — the GFCF and our allies the Culture, here in the Tsungarial Disk — have come under heavy and sustained attack. All reinforcements are most welcome and urgently needed.”

“That was me, sort of. I was just pretending to be a Torturer class.”

“Pretending? I’m not sure I—”

“Thing is, short while ago, somebody jumped me. Whole squadron of craft: one capital ship, fourteen others plus ancillary units and slaved weapon platforms. Had to off them all.”

Bettlescroy stared at the face of the human-looking thing regarding him from the screen on the battle-bridge of the Vision Of Hope Surpassed, his flagship and one of the three Deepest Regrets-class craft under his command. Bettlescroy himself had given the order for the Abundance Of Onslaught and its flotilla of accompanying vessels to open fire on the incoming Torturer-class ship. Communication had been lost with all the craft during the engagement, which had seemed to be going well at first but then had obviously deteriorated. The ships had ceased communication so rapidly it seemed impossible that they had simply been destroyed, so the assumption Bettlescroy and his officers were working on was that some sort of comms blackout had taken place; feverish attempts to contact the ships were taking place even as he spoke.

If that wasn’t bad enough, they’d lost touch with Veppers, back on Sichult. The last thing they’d heard — minutes before this unwanted call had come in — had been was an unconfirmed report of a large explosion taking place on Veppers’ estate, possibly on the route his aircraft would have taken back to his house. Bettlescroy had been trying to keep calm and not think about what that might imply; now it looked like he had something else to keep calm and not think about.

“‘Off’ them all?” Bettlescroy said carefully. That couldn’t possibly mean what he dreaded, could it? “I’m sorry, I’m not cognisant of that term’s official weight, as it were. Obviously we were aware there had been some sort of engagement a little way beyond the system’s outer limit…”

“I was attacked, without provocation,” the human-looking thing on the screen said. “I retaliated. By the time I’d finished retaliating, fifteen ships were gone. Offed. Deleted. Blown to smithereens. Thing is, they looked remarkably like GFCF ships. In every way, really. The biggest and most capable presented as almost exactly like that one you’re on. A Deepest Regrets class, unless I’m mistaken. Weird eh? How do you account for that?”

“I confess, I cannot. No GFCF craft would ever knowingly attack a Culture vessel.” Bettlescroy could feel his guts churning and his face burning. He was this close to cutting the comms, to give himself time to think if nothing else. Had this… thing just casually obliterated nearly a third of his war fleet? Was it trying to get him to confess something, blurt something out, enrage him with its off- hand attitude? Bettlescroy was very aware of his officers on the bridge keeping extremely quiet; he could feel their gazes on him.

The human on the screen was talking again: “… Excuse they had was something about deeming me to be a hostile, just pretending to be a Culture vessel.”

It was still sinking in. He’d lost a Deepest Regrets-class ship!

Dear Gods of Old! The faction within the GFCF High Command which had authorised this high-risk strategy had known they risked losing vessels and materiel, but no one had so much as hinted they might lose one of their capital ships; not a pride of the fleet, not a Deepest Regrets class. This whole thing would all have to go fabulously well from this point on if he was to be forgiven for that.

“I see. Well, indeed. Yes, I see,” Bettlescroy said, stalling while he got himself under control. “Of course, I have to point out that, as you have said, you are — or were — pretending to be a Torturer class, so—”

“Ah, I get it. You think that might have been the source of the misunderstanding?”

“Well, you can see how it might be.”

“Sure. So, were they your ships, or not?”

Bettlescroy wanted to weep, to scream, to fold himself into a little ball and never talk to anyone ever again. “The operational status of the fleet I was given to command here within the Disk comprises one medium-level, non-military vessel and a screen of eighteen smaller ships. The vessel which you find me on, ah, has just been delivered to us, in recognition of the seriousness of the threat we are facing.”

“Wow. That’s incredibly fast work. Congratulate your simming/planning/dispositioning people.”

“Thank you. More than that I am not at liberty to say, I regret.”

“So what you’re saying is you can’t confirm or deny those were your ships? The ones that attacked me.”

“Effectively. Though if they were ours and they did attack you, it could only have been a mistake.”

“Fine. Just thought I’d check. Also, to let you know; I’m still on my way in. Currently braking hard; due with you guys in the Disk in twelve and a half minutes. Just wanted to keep you informed, so there wouldn’t be any more misunderstandings.”

“Quite. Well, yes, of course. And you are…?”

“The Falling Outside The Normal Moral Constraints, like I said. And definitely a Culture ship. That’s the main thing. Feel free to check my provenance and references. Here to help. One of your allies. All in this together. So. Understand things are a bit awkward in there; happy to get stuck in alongside your good selves. Going to let me have an interface situational with your tactical substrates so I can get a head start on the task in hand?”

“Ah… yes, of course. Relevant protocols agreeing, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“But I meant your class, if you’re not a Torturer?”

“Picket ship. Glorified night-watchman, that’s me.”

“Picket Ship. Picket Ship. Picket Ship. Yes, I see. Well, welcome aboard, if I may make so bold.”

“Cheers, person. With you in twelve minutes.”

Bettlescroy signed to cut the connection. He turned to his Security chief. “We are supposed to be presenting as the Messenger Of Truth. How the fuck could that thing tell we’re actually on a Deepest Regrets class?”

“I have no idea, sir.”