Look to Windward

You sound quite, ah, ascetic, and semi-trappist. I’m sure we’d all understand if you found our gibbering gaggle tiresome.”

~ Wonder just how much they were able to research.

“I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“Good for you. I’m supposed to be an old hand at this sort of thing but even I find it pretty damn tedious sometimes. Still, receptions and parties are pan-cultural, so we’re told. I’ve never been sure whether to be reassured or appalled by that.”

“I suppose both are appropriate, depending on one’s mood.”

~ Well said, son. Think I’ll go back to hovering. You concentrate on her; this one’s devious. I can feel it.

“Major Quilan, I do hope you appreciate how sorry we are for what happened to your people,” the woman said, looking at her feet, then up at him. “You may all be heartily fed up hearing this by now, in which case I can only apologise for that as well, but sometimes you feel you just have to say something.” She glanced away into the hazy depth of the view. “The war was our fault. We’ll make what amends and reparations we can, but for what it’s worth—and I realise it may not seem like very much—we do apologise.” She made a small gesture with her old, lined hands. “I think all of us feel that we owe you and your people a particular debt.” She looked down at her feet again for a moment, before catching his gaze once more. “Do not hesitate to call upon it.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your sympathy, and your offer. I’ve made no secret of my mission.”

Her eyes narrowed, then she gave a small, hesitant smile. “Yes. We’ll see what we can do. You’re not in too great a hurry, I hope, Major.”

“Not too great,” he told her.

She nodded and continued walking. In a lighter tone, she said, “I hope you like the house Hub’s prepared for you, Major.”

“As you say, my order is not renowned for its indulgence or its luxury. I’m sure you will have provided me with more than I need.”

“I imagine we probably have. Do let us know if there’s anything else you require, including less of anything, if you know what I mean.”

“I take it this house is not next door to Mahrai Ziller’s.”

She laughed. “Not even next Plate. You’re two away. But I’m told it has a very nice view and its own sub- Plate access.” She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You know what all this stuff means? The terminology, I mean?”

He smiled politely. “I have done my own research, Ms Lassils.”

“Yes, of course. Well, just let us know what sort of terminal or whatever you want to use. If you’ve brought a communicator of your own I’m sure Hub can patch you through, or it’s certainly prepared to put an avatar or some other familiar at your disposal, or… well, it’s up to you. What would you prefer?”

“I think one of your standard pen terminals would suffice.”

“Major, I strongly suspect by the time you get to your house there’ll be one there waiting for you. Ah ha.” They were approaching a broad upper deck scattered with wooden furniture, partially covered by awnings and dotted with people. “And it may well be a more welcome sight than this: a bunch of people all desperate to talk your ears off. Remember; bail out any time.”

~ Amen.

Everybody turned to face him.

~ We must join the fray, Major.

There were indeed about seventy people there to meet him. They included three from the General Board— whom Estray Lassils recognised, hailed and went into a huddle with as soon as was decent—various scholars of matters Chelgrian or whose speciality description included the word xeno—mostly professors—and a handful of other non-humans, none of whose species Quilan had even heard of, who coiled, floated, balanced or splayed about the deck, tables and couches.

The situation was complicated by various other non-human creatures which, but for the avatar, Quilan might easily have mistaken for other sentient aliens but that turned out to be no more than animal pets. All this was in addition to a bewildering variety of other humans who had titles that were not titles and job descriptions that had nothing to do with jobs.

~ Infra-cultural mimetic transcriptioneer? What the hell does that mean?

~ No idea. Assume the worst. File under Reporter.

The Hub’s avatar had introduced all of them; aliens, humans and drones, which really did seem to be treated as full citizens and people in their own right. Quilan nodded and smiled and nodded or shook hands and made whatever other gesture appeared appropriate.

~ I supposed this silver-skinned freak is just about the perfect host for these people. It knows all of them. And knows all of them intimately, too; foibles, likes, dislikes, everything.

~ Not what we were told.

~ Oh, yes; all it knows is your name and that you’re somewhere here within its jurisdiction. That’s the tale. It only knows what you want it to know. Ha! Don’t you find that just a little hard to believe?

Quilan didn’t know how close a watch on all its citizens a Culture Orbital Hub kept. It didn’t really matter. He did know a lot about such avatars, though, he realised, when he thought about it, and what Huyler had said about their social skills was perfectly true. Tireless, endlessly sympathetic, with a flawless memory and with what must seem like a telepathic ability to tell exactly who would get on with who, the presence of an avatar was understandably judged indispensable at every social occasion above a certain size.

~ With one of these silvery things and an implant people here probably never have to actually remember the name of a single other person.

~ I wonder if they ever forget their own.

Quilan talked, guardedly, to a lot of people, and nibbled from the tables loaded with food, all of it served on plates and trays which were image-coded to indicate what was suitable for which species.

He looked up at one point and realised that they had left the colossal aqueduct and were travelling across a great grassy plain punctuated by what looked like the frameworks of gigantically tall tents.

~ Dome tree stands.

~ Ah ha.

The river had slowed here and broadened to over a kilometre from bank to bank. Ahead, just starting to show above and through the haze, another sort of massif was beginning to make itself visible.

What he had earlier assumed were clouds in the far distance turned out to be the peaks of snow-covered mountains strung around the massif’s top. Deeply corrugated cliffs rose almost straight up, bannered with thin white veils that might be waterfalls. Some of these slender columns stretched all the way down to the base of the cliffs, while other, still thinner white threads faded and disappeared part-way down or vanished into and merged with layered clouds drifting slowly across the great serrated wall of rock.

~ Aquime Massif. Apparently this little creek of theirs goes round both sides and straight through. Aquime City, in the middle, on the shores of the High Salt Sea, is where our friend Ziller lives.

He stared at the great folded sweep of snow-settled cliff and mountain as it materialised out of the haze, becoming more real with each beat of his heart.

In the Grey Mountains was the monastery of Cadracet, which belonged to the Sheracht Order. He went there on a retreat once he was released from the hospital, becoming a griefling. He was taking extended furlough from the Army, which allowed such compassionate leave at his rank. The offer of de-enlistment and an honourable discharge, plus a modest pension, had been left open for him.

He already had a batch of medals. He was given one for being in the Army at all, one for being a combatant who’d held a gun, another for being a Given who could easily have avoided fighting in the first place, another for being wounded (with a bar because he had been seriously wounded), yet another for having been on a special mission and a last medal which had been decreed when it had been realised that the war had been the Culture’s