The Player of Games

'If,' he said slowly, 'anything goes wrong, if you're found out — I'm dead. I'll kill myself. Brain death; complete and utter. No remains.'

'Nothing is going to go wrong. For me, it is the simplest thing in the world to find out what's inside those shells.'

'What if you are discovered, though? What if there is an SC drone around here somewhere, or the Hub is watching?'

The drone said nothing for a moment. 'They'd have noticed by now. It is already done.'

Gurgeh opened his mouth to speak, but the drone quickly floated closer, calmly continuing. 'For my own sake, Gurgeh… for my own peace of mind. I wanted to know, too. I came back long ago; I've been watching for the past five hours, quite fascinated. I couldn't resist finding out if it was possible…. To be honest, I still don't know; the game is beyond me, just over-complicated for the way my poor target tracking mind is configured… but I had to try to find out. I had to. So, you see; the risk is run, Gurgeh; the deed is done. I can tell you what you need to know…. And I ask nothing in return; that's up to you. Maybe you can do something for me some day, but no obligation; believe me, please believe me. No obligation at all. I'm doing this because I want to see you — somebody; anybody — do it.'

Gurgeh looked at the drone. His mouth was dry. He could hear somebody shouting in the distance. The terminal button on his jacket shoulder beeped. He drew breath to speak to it, but then heard his own voice say, 'Yes?'

'Ready to resume, Jernau?' Chamlis said from the button.

And he heard his own voice say, 'I'm on my way.'

He stared at the drone as the terminal beeped off.

Mawhrin-Skel floated closer. 'As I said, Jernau Gurgeh; I can fool these adding machines, no problem at all. Quickly now. Do you want to know or not? The Full Web; yes or no?'

Gurgeh glanced round in the direction of Hafflis's apartments. He turned back, leant out over the drop, towards the drone.

'All right,' he said, whispering, 'just the five prime points and the four verticals nearest topside centre. No more.'

Mawhrin-Skel told him.

It was almost enough. The girl struggled brilliantly to the very end, and deprived him on the final move.

The Full Web fell apart, and he won by thirty-one points, two short of the Culture's existing record.

One of Estray Hafftis's house drones was dimly confused to discover, while cleaning up under the great stone table much later that morning, a crushed and shattered ceramic wafer with warped and twisted numbered dials set into its crazed and distorted surface.

It wasn't part of the house Possession set.

The machine's non-sentient, mechanistic, entirely predictable brain thought about it for a while, then finally decided to junk the mysterious remnant along with the rest of the debris.

When he woke up that afternoon, it was with the memory of defeat. It was some time before he recalled that he had in fact won the Stricken game. Victory had never been so bitter.

He breakfasted alone on the terrace, watching a fleet of sailboats cut down the narrow fjord, bright sails in a fresh breeze. His right hand hurt a little as he held his bowl and cup; he'd come close to drawing blood when he'd crushed the Possession wafer at the end of the Stricken game.

He dressed in a long coat, trous and short kilt, and went on a long walk, down to the shore of the fjord and then along it, towards the sea coast and the windswept dunes where Hassease lay, the house he'd been born in, where a few of his extended family still lived. He tramped along the coast path towards the house, through the blasted, twisted shapes of wind-misshapen trees. The grass made sighing noises around him, and seabirds cried. The breeze was cold and freshening under ragged clouds. Out to sea, beyond Hassease village, where the weather was coming from, he could see tall veils of rain under a dark front of storm-clouds. He drew his coat tighter about him and hurried towards the distant silhouette of the sprawling, ramshackle house, thinking he should have taken an underground car. The wind whipped up sand from the distant beach and threw it inland; he blinked, eyes watering.

'Gurgeh.'

The voice was quite loud; louder than the sound of sighing grass and wind-troubled tree branches. He shielded his eyes, looked to one side. 'Gurgeh,' the voice said again. He peered into the shade of a stunted, slanting tree.

'Mawhrin-Skel? Is that you?'

'The same,' the small drone said, floating forward over the path.

Gurgeh looked out to sea. He started down the path to the house again, but the drone did not follow him. 'Well,' he told it, looking back from a few paces away, 'I must keep going. I'll get wet if I—'

'No,' Mawhrin-Skel said. 'Don't go. I have to talk to you. This is important.'

'Then tell me as I walk,' he said, suddenly annoyed. He strode away. The drone flashed round in front of him, at face level, so that he had to stop or he'd have bumped into it.

'It's about the game; Stricken; last night and this morning.'

'I believe I already said thank you,' he told the machine. He looked beyond it. The leading edge of the squall was hitting the far end of the village harbour beyond Hassease. The dark clouds were almost above him, casting a great shadow.

'And I believe I said you might be able to help me one day.'

'Oh,' Gurgeh said, with an expression more sneer than smile. 'And what am I supposed to be able to do for you?'

'Help me,' Mawhrin-Skel said quietly, voice almost lost in the noise of the wind. 'Help me to get back into Contact.'

'Don't be absurd,' Gurgeh said, and put out one hand to swipe the machine out of his path. He forced his way past it.

The next thing he knew he'd been shoved down into the grass at the path-side, as though shoulder-charged by someone invisible. He stared up in amazement at the tiny machine floating above him, while his hands felt the damp ground under him and the grass hissed on each side.

'You little—' he said, trying to stand up. He was shoved back down again, and sat there incredulous, simply unbelieving. No machine had ever used force on him. It was unheard of. He tried to rise again, a shout of anger and frustration forming in his throat.

He went limp. The shout died in his mouth.

He felt himself flop back into the grass.

He lay there, looking up into the dark clouds overhead. He could move his eyes. Nothing else.

He remembered the missile shoot and the immobility the suit had imposed on him when it had been hit once too often. This was worse.

This was paralysis. He could do nothing.

He worried about his breathing stopping, his heart stopping, his tongue blocking his throat, his bowels relaxing.

Mawhrin-Skel floated into his field of view. 'Listen to me, Jernau Gurgeh.' Some cold drops of rain started to patter into the grass and on to his face. 'Listen to me…. You shall help me. I have our entire conversation, your every word and gesture from this morning, recorded. If you don't help me, I'll release that recording. Everyone will know you cheated in the game against Olz Hap.' The machine paused. 'Do you understand, Jernau Gurgeh? Have I made myself clear? Do you realise what I am saying? There is a name — an old name — for what I am doing, in case you haven't already guessed. It is called blackmail.'

The machine was mad. Anybody could make up anything they wanted; sound, moving pictures, smell, touch… there were machines that did just that. You could order them from a store and effectively paint whatever pictures — still or moving — you wanted, and with sufficient time and patience you could make it look as realistic as the real