Surface Detail

“So the entire decades-long confliction was for nothing,” the blue bird said crisply, “putting it on the same level as the vows one assumes you must have taken at the start of the war renouncing resort to precisely the two courses you have just outlined.”

“That’s… a weighty thing to have done, Space Marshal,” the dummy said, hinged jaws clicking as it spoke.

“It was not a step we took lightly,” Vatueil agreed.

“Perhaps it was not a step you should have taken at all,” the blue bird said.

“I am not here to justify my actions or decisions or those of my comrades or co-conspirators,” Vatueil said. “I am here only to—”

“Try to implicate us?” the blue bird said. “Half the galaxy assumes we’re behind the anti-Hell forces anyway. Perhaps by coming here — and being allowed audience despite the earnest entreaties of some of us — you intend to persuade the other half?” Directly above the bird’s head, the little orange-red cloud had just started to rain, though no moisture seemed to reach the Scar Glamour’s avian avatar.

“I’m here to tell you that the anti-Hell forces came to an agreement with the GFCF and elements of the Sichultian Enablement — behind the backs of the NR and their allies, the Flekke and the Jhlupians — to build us our fleet using the Tsungarial Disk. However, we have received intelligence that the NR thought that they too had an agreement with the Sichultia, promising that they — the Sichultia — would refuse to help the anti-Hell side and would do whatever the NR wanted them to do to stop any war fleet being built.”

“The Sichultia sound as free with their agreements as you and your fellows are with your solemn undertakings, Space Marshal,” the blue bird representing SC said.

“Must you be quite so unpleasant to our guest?” the silver-skinned avatar asked the Scar Glamour’s avatar. The bird bristled its feathers and said:

“Yes.”

“We have also heard,” Vatueil said, “that the NR, the Culture and the GFCF are currently in some way engaged in the Sichultian Enablement, especially around the Tsungarial Disk. Assuming this is the case, it was thought important that you were informed — at the highest level — that the Sichultia are on the side which everyone assumes you wish to win in the confliction.”

“Difficult though it may be for you to imagine somebody keeping their word in any circumstances, Space Marshal,” the blue bird said, “what makes you think that the Sichultia will stick to the agreement they made with you rather than the one they made with the NR?”

“The agreement made with the NR basically meant doing nothing. The agreement made with us meant becoming involved with a conspiracy that would be largely under the control of others and that would proceed regardless of the Sichultians’ initial operational involvement, while exposing them to a substantial risk of being punished by the NR even if they changed their minds before their part in the conspiracy became crucial. It makes no sense for them to have entered into the agreement unless they were going to see it through.”

“That does make sense,” Zaive said, voice tinkling. “So,” the thin male avatar said, “we should do nothing to stop the Sichultia from doing whatever it is they are doing in and around the Tsungarial Disk?”

Vatueil shrugged. “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m not even going to make any suggestions. We just thought you should know what’s going on.”

“We understand,” Zaive said.

“I have some intelligence,” the blue bird announced.

Vatueil turned and looked levelly at it.

“My intelligence tells me that you are a traitor, Space Marshal Vatueil.”

Vatueil continued to look at the bird as it flapped lazily in front of him. The orange-red cloud above the Scar Glamour’s avatar had stopped raining. Vatueil turned to address Zaive. “I have no more to report. If I may be excused…”

“Yes,” the chandelier said. “Though there was no indication with the signal carrying you what was to be done with your mind-state following delivery of your message. I think we all assumed that you were to be returned to your war sim high command, but perhaps you had something else in mind?”

Vatueil smiled. “I’m to be deleted,” he said. “To avoid any further unseemly hint at complicity with the anti- Hell forces on your part.”

“How very thoughtful,” the silver-skinned vaguely female avatar said. Vatueil chose to assume that she meant it.

“I’m sure we can offer you the processing space to be housed within a Virtuality,” Zaive said. “Wouldn’t you rather—?”

“No, thank you. My original has been through more virtualities, downloads and re-incorporations than he cares to think about. Any selves he sends out such as myself are quite inured to the thought of personal deletion so long as we know our original persists somewhere.” The Space Marshal smiled, and knew that he looked resigned as he did so. “And even if not… this has been a very long war, and I am very tired, in all my iterations. Death no longer seems so terrible a thing, on any level.”

“That may,” the blue bird said, “be just as well.” For once though, its tone was less than cutting.

“Indeed,” Vatueil said. He looked round them all. “Thank you for listening. Goodbye.” He looked at the chandelier and nodded.

He winked out of existence.

“Well,” Zaive said.

“Do we take this at face value?” the silver-skinned avatar asked.

“It fits well with what we know,” the wooden dummy said. “Better than most sims.”

“And do we trust the Space Marshal?” Zaive asked.

The bird made a snorting sound. “That errant, ramshackled ghost?” it said scornfully. “He’s known of old; I doubt he even remembers who he used to be, let alone what he believes in or most recently promised.”

“We don’t need to trust it to incorporate the import of its information into our calculations,” the silver- skinned female said.

The thin male avatar looked at the chandelier. “You need to tell your accident-prone agent to stop wasting time and get to where she’s supposed to get to, preferably without, this time, getting any more innocent people killed. Stop the Y’breq woman killing Veppers.” The man turned to the blue bird with the orange-red cloud hanging over it. “Though of course that won’t be necessary if SC would just tell the Falling Outside The Normal Moral Constraints to stop indulging whatever bizarre fantasies of gallantry, vicarious revenge or just devilment it’s currently revelling in.”

“Don’t look at me,” the Scar Glamour’s avatar said, flapping indignantly. “That bastard excuse for a picket ship’s got nothing to do with me.” The bird cocked its head and looked up at the orange cloud. “You’d better be listening,” it squawked. “You’ve got the contacts; you talk to the GSV that spawned that particular Abomination; get it to try and bang some sense into the bug-fuck shrapnel that makes up what passes for a Mind in that demented machine.”

…good night, good night, good night.

A chill struck her skin. She wanted to shiver, but felt too lethargic; all swaddled, lost in a warm, baking fug.

What sounded like a real voice came clanging in, unwelcome. “Hello! Anybody in there?” it said. “Anybody alive?”

“Huh?” She heard herself say. Great; now she was hallucinating, hearing voices.

“Hello!”

“Yes? What? Hello to you too.” She was talking, not sending, she realised. That was weird. It took a few moments, but she got her eyes open, unsticking them. She blinked, waited for every-thing to swim into focus. Light. There was light. Dim, but it looked real. Face plate of helmet; internal visor screen, currently showing just static, but enough to reveal that both her inner and outer suits seemed to have expanded around her, and chilly draughts of air were flowing over her exposed body, raising goose-bumps. She could breathe! She took some deep, satisfying breaths, luxuriating in the feel of the cold air entering her mouth and nostrils, and her rib cage being able to expand as far as it could.

“Auppi Unstril, that right?” the voice said.