Surface Detail

Back aboard the Messenger Of Truth, powering its way back to Vebezua, Veppers sat at an impressively large round table with Bettlescroy, the rest of the GFCF people who had first greeted him when he’d arrived, and several projections — holograms of those unable to be physically present. Even these weren’t being beamed in; they were present aboard the ship in some form, their personalities housed in the vessel’s substrates. This made for better security; increased deniability in other words. All but one were GFCFian, each as small and beautiful as the other.

The only exception was a hologram of another pan-human, a uniformed male called Space-Marshal Vatueil. He was a big, grizzled-looking creature, both unmistakably alien and entirely pan-human. To Veppers he looked barrel-chested with too long a head and freakishly small features. A hero who’d worked his way up through the ranks in the great War in Heaven, allegedly. Veppers had never heard of the guy, though admittedly he’d never taken much notice of the war at all. It had always sounded to him like just a particularly long-winded multi-player war game. He had nothing against long-winded multi-player war games — they were how his ancestors had made the first family mega-fortune — he just didn’t think that anything that happened inside them should qualify as news.

He hoped the GFCF knew what they were doing and who they were dealing with here. One of them had wittered on at the start of the meeting, singing Vatueil’s praises, describing him as a fully accredited member of something called the Trapeze group of the Strategic Operational Space (or something) and saying how they’d had extensive preparatory dealings with this, or that, or him. Like this was meant to set his mind at ease.

“To restate, then,” Bettlescroy said, waving one decorously attenuated limb at Vatueil, “the space-marshal here, on behalf of those forces known as the anti-Hell side, now taking part in the current confliction being overseen by the Ishlorsinami, requests that we — the Veprine Corporation and the currently constituted and here configured sub-section of the Geseptian-Fardesile Cultural Federacy, Special Contact Division — use the facilities of the Tsungarial Disk to build a fleet of warships — currently estimated as numbering between sixty and one hundred million, though that is subject to revision — for the purpose of attacking the processing cores running the virtual realities which house the aforementioned Hells.

“The Veprine Corporation will provide the AI operating systems and navigational software sub-complexes for the vessels, suitably groomed to make them appear stolen and modestly improved in a distinctly Culture style by our good selves. We also undertake to transport a modest proportion of the vessels as rapidly as possible to more distant parts of the galaxy to be deployed where required, if necessary. The anti-Hell forces will provide the expendable combat personalities for the fleet’s leadership hierarchy, these command vessels to make up one sixty-fifth of the total. Similar virtual specialists will also make up the direct hacking teams emplaced on certain designated ships which will attempt to disrupt the inter-Hell information traffic by, where possible, temporarily occupying the substrate housings and support systems and physically interfacing with them, preself-destruct.”

There were nods, their equivalents, and other appropriate gestures and noises of assent.

Bettlescroy went on. “We, the GFCF, will undertake to present to our friends the Culture — in the shape of the Restoria mission presently working in the Tsungarial Disk — what will appear to be a sudden and violent outbreak of the currently abated smatter infection infesting certain components of the Disk. Initially this will distract and tie up the Culture assets which we know are present, as well as drawing out and sucking in any other nearby forces within practical rush-in distance. Come the inevitable post-incident investigations, the smatter eruption will begin to look like something the Culture itself staged to allow it to take on an aggressively operational role in what transpires subsequently.”

“You are sure you can keep your own fingerprints off this, are you?” Vatueil asked.

“We are,” Bettlescroy said. “We have done this before, without detection.” The little alien smiled winningly. “The trick is to do something that the Culture would actually quite like to have done itself anyway. That way, any subsequent investigations tend to be more cursory than they might otherwise have been.”

“Have you taken any actions like this on such a scale before?” Vatueil asked.

Bettlescroy blushed, looked down. “Absolutely not. This is a significantly greater interference than any we have attempted before. However, we remain extremely confident that it will succeed.”

Vatueil looked unconvinced, Veppers thought. Maybe; always hard to tell with aliens.

“If the Culture decides it’s been tricked, used, manipulated,” the space-marshal said, slowly and deliberately, with the air of a man imparting a great and serious certitude, “it will move Afterlives to get to the truth, and it will not stop until it thinks it’s got to the bottom of it, no matter what. And,” he said, looking round them all, “there will always be forces within the Culture who will exact revenge. Again, no matter what.” Vatueil paused, looked grim. “I think we all know the saying: ‘Don’t fuck with the Culture.’”

Bettlescroy smiled, blushing once again. “Sir,” it said, “some of the incidents to which I suspect you are referring, the ones which have reinforced that famous saying which I shall not repeat…?”

“Yes?” Vatueil said, realising it was expected.

Bettlescroy paused, as though wondering to say what it was about to say or not. Eventually the little alien said, “Those were us, not them.”

Vatueil definitely looked dubious now. “Really?”

Bettlescroy looked down modestly again. “Really,” it said, extremely quietly.

Vatueil frowned. “Then… Do you ever wonder who might be using who?”

The little alien smiled, sighed. “We give it some consideration, sir.” It looked round the other GFCFians gathered round the table. They looked happy as zealots who’d just found a heathen to burn, Veppers thought. That was a little worrying.

Bettlescroy made a flowing, resigned gesture with its arms. “We are happy with our current situational analysis and pattern of behaviour.”

“And you’re happy you can keep the Flekke and the NR in the dark?” Veppers asked. “I’m pinned by my balls at the business end of a firing range if you don’t.”

“The NR are less concerned than you think,” Bettlescroy said reassuringly. “They approach their own Sublimation, more immediately than is known by all but us. The Flekke are an irrelevance; a legacy concern. They are our old mentors — as they are still yours, Mr. Veppers — their diverse and great achievements now in many ways eclipsed by those of the GFCF, even if as a species they remain theoretically our betters.” Bettlescroy paused for a little laugh. “At least according to the inflexible and quite arguably outmoded definitions of the Galactic Council’s currently accepted Recognised Civilisationary Levels framework!” The little alien paused again, and was rewarded with what was by GFCF standards a positive storm of rowdy agreement: deep nods, loud muttering and a lot of meaningful eye-contact. Veppers would have sworn some of them even thought about slapping their manicured little hands on the table. Glowing, Bettlescroy went on: “The Flekke will be quietly proud of anything we achieve, and the same vicarious sense of accomplishment will most doubtlessly be applied to the Sichultian Enablement in turn.” He beamed at Veppers. “In sum: in both cases, leave them to us.”

Veppers exchanged looks with Vatueil. Of course, you never entirely knew what an exchanged look really meant to an alien, pan-human or not, but it felt like somebody had to exercise a little realism here. Maybe even a little healthy cynicism.

On the other hand, they were pretty much agreed. There was little enough left to iron out. They were going to go ahead with this, doubts or not. The rewards were too great not to.

Veppers just smiled. “Your confidence is reassuring,” he told Bettlescroy.

“Thank you! So, we are all agreed, yes?” Bettlescroy said, looking around the table. The alien might as well, Veppers thought, have been asking whether they wanted to order out for sandwiches or dips for lunch. It was almost impressive.

Everybody looked at everybody else. No one raised any objections. Bettlescroy just kept on smiling.

“When do we begin?” Vatueil asked eventually.

“Directly,” Bettlescroy said. “Our little pretend-smatter squib will go off within the next half a day, a little more than an hour after we deliver Mr. Veppers back to Vebezua. We start the fabricaria running immediately we see that the Culture forces are fully engaged with the outbreak.” Bettlescroy sat back, looking very satisfied. “All we need then, of course,” it said thoughtfully, “is the location of the substrates to be targeted. We can’t do anything without that information.” It turned smoothly to Veppers. “Can we, Veppers, old friend?”

They were all looking at him now. Space-Marshal Vatueil was positively staring. For the first time in the meeting Veppers felt he was finally getting the attention and respect he normally took for granted. He smiled slowly. “Let’s get the ships built first, shall we? Then we’ll be ready to target them.”