Look to Windward

“Will you bugger off?”

There was some sort of break in the canopy ahead, and the animal’s pace increased as it went downhill. Pitched forward, Ziller had to lean way back towards the thing’s pounding shoulders to stop himself from being pitched over the animal’s head and trampled underfoot. Suddenly, through the trailing fronds of moss and pendulous leaves, there was a glint of sunlight from the forest floor. A broad river appeared; the Kussel’s Janmandresile thundered down the path and through the shallows in great kicking lines of spray, then threw itself into the deep water in the centre, ducking down and buckling its front knees as it went to throw Ziller off head first into the water.

He woke up spluttering in the shallows, being dragged on his back towards the river bank. He looked up and behind and saw Tersono pulling him with a maniple field coloured grey with frustration.

He coughed and spat. “Was I out for a bit there?” he asked the machine.

“A few seconds, Composer,” Tersono said, hauling him with what looked like enormous ease up onto a sandy bank and sitting him up. “It was probably just as well you went under,” it told him. “The Kussel’s Janmandresile was looking for you before it crossed to the far side. It probably wanted to hold you under or drag you to shore and stamp on you.” Tersono went behind Ziller and thumped his back while he coughed some more.

“Thank you,” Ziller said, bent over and spitting up some of the river water. The drone kept thumping away. “But don’t,” the Chelgrian continued, “think this means I’m going to go back to conduct the symphony in some fit of gratitude.”

“As if I would expect such graciousness, Composer,” the drone said in a defeated voice.

Ziller looked round, surprised. He waved away the machine’s field doing the thumping. He blew his nose and smoothed his face-fur down. “You really are upset, aren’t you?” he said.

The drone flashed grey again. “Of course I’m upset, Cr Ziller! You nearly killed yourself there! You’ve always been so dismissive, even contemptuous, of such dangerous pastimes. What is the matter with you?”

Ziller looked down at the sand. He’d torn his waistcoat, he noticed. Damn, he’d left his pipe at home. He looked around. The river flowed on past; giant insects and birds flitted over it, dipping, diving and zooming. On the far bank, something sizeable was making the deep fractaleaf sway and quiver. Some sort of long-limbed, big-eared furry thing was watching curiously from a branch high in the canopy. Ziller shook his head. “What am I doing here?” he breathed. He stood up, wincing. The drone put out thick maniple fields in case he wanted to lean on them, but did not insist on helping him up.

“What now, Composer?”

“Oh, I’m going home.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Ziller squeezed some water from his pelt. He touched his ear, where his terminal earring ought to be. He glanced out at the river, sighed and looked at Tersono. “Where’s the nearest underground access?”

“Ah, I do have an aircraft standing by, in case you don’t want to bother with the—”

“An aircraft? Won’t that take forever?”

“Well, it’s more of a little space craft, really.”

Ziller took a breath and drew himself up, brows furling. The drone floated back a little. Then the Chelgrian relaxed again. “All right,” he breathed.

Moments later a shape that looked like little more than an ovoid shimmer in the air swooped down between the trees overhanging the river, rushed towards the sandbank and came to an instant stop a metre away. Its camouflage field blinked off. Its sleek hull was plain black; a side door sighed open.

Ziller looked narrow-eyed at the drone. “No tricks,” he growled.

“As if.”

He stepped aboard.

The snow flew up against the windows in swirls and eddies that seemed sometimes to take on patterns and shapes. He was looking out at the view, at the mountains on the far side of the city, but every now and again the snow forced him to focus on it, just half a metre in front of his eyes, distracting him with its brief immediacy and taking his mind off the longer perspective.

~ So, are you going to go?

~ I don’t know. The polite thing would be not to go, so that Ziller will.

~ True.

~ But what is the point of politeness when some of these people will be dead at the end of the evening, and when I certainly will be?

~ It’s how people behave when they’re faced with death that shows you what they’re really like, Quil. You discover whether they really are as polite, and even as brave, as-

~ I can do without the lecture, Huyler.

~ Sorry.

~ I could stay here in the apartment and watch the concert, or just do something else, or I can go to hear Ziller’s symphony with a quarter of a million other people. I can die alone or I can die surrounded by others.

~ You won’t be dying alone, Quil.

~ No, but you will be coming back, Huyler.

~ No, only the me I was before all this will be coming back.

~ Even so. I hope you won’t think I’m being too sorry for myself if I regard the experience as being rather more profound for me than for you.

~ Of course not.

~ At least Ziller’s music might take my mind off it for a couple of hours. Dying at the climax to a unique concert, knowing you produced the final and most spectacular part of the light show, seems a more desirable context for quitting this life than collapsing over a cafe table or being found slumped on the floor here next morning.

~ I can’t argue with that.

~ And there’s another thing. The Hub Mind is going to be directing all the in-atmosphere effects, isn’t it?

~ Yes. There’s talk of aurorae and meteorite showers and the like.

~ So if the Hub’s destroyed there’s a good chance something could go badly wrong at the Bowl. If Ziller’s not there he’ll probably live.

~ You want him to?

~ Yes, I want him to.

~ He’s little better than a traitor, Quil. You’re giving your life for Chel and all he’s done is spit on all of us. You’re making the greatest sacrifice a soldier can make and all he’s ever done is whine, run away, soak up adulation and please himself. You really think it’s right that you go and he survives?

~ Yes I do.

~ That son-of-a-prey-bitch deserves… Well, no. I’m sorry, Quil. I still think you’re wrong about that, but you’re right about what happens to us tonight. It does mean more to you than me. I guess the least I can do is not try to argue the condemned male out of his last request. You go to the concert, Quil. I’ll take my satisfaction from the fact it’ll annoy the hell out of that scumbag.

“Kabe?” said a distinctive voice from the Homomdan’s terminal.

“Yes, Tersono.”

“I have succeeded in persuading Ziller to return to his apartment. I think there’s just the hint of a chance he might be wavering. On the other hand, I have just heard that Quilan is definitely going. Would you do me—all of us—the possibly incalculably enormous favour of coming here to help try and persuade Ziller to attend the concert nevertheless?”

“Are you sure I’d make any difference?”

“Of course not.”

“Hmm. Just a moment.”

Kabe and the avatar stood just in front of the main stage; a few technician drones were floating about and