The State of The Art

story: a right side and a wrong side.'

The companion shook his head and threw the book over the side of the cart.

The road went ever on. The carter snuffled and snored, the sweating nag panted and struggled, while Mc9 smiled in his sleep and moaned a little. His companion passed the time by squeezing blackheads from his nose, and then replacing them.

…they had stopped at the ford through the shady brook, where the milkmaids were eventually persuaded to come for a swim, dressed only in their thin, clinging…

Actually, the horse-like beast pulling the cart was the famous poet-scribe Abrusci from the planet Wellit- isn’tmarkedonmychartlieutenant, and she could have told the bored companion any number of fascinating stories from the times before the Empire’s Pacification and Liberation of her homeworld.

She could also have told them that the City was moving away from them across the moor as fast as they moved towards it, trundling across the endless heath on its millions of giant wheels as the continuous supply of vanquished Enemies of the Empire provided more trophies to be cemented into place on the famous Road of Skulls…

But that, like they say, is another story.

A Gift from the Culture

Money is a sign of poverty. This is an old Culture saying I remember every now and again, especially when I’m being tempted to do something I know I shouldn’t, and there’s money involved (when is there not?).

I looked at the gun, lying small and precise in Cruizell’s broad, scarred hand, and the first thing I thought — after: Where the hell did they get one of those? — was: Money is a sign of poverty. However appropriate the thought might have been, it wasn’t much help.

I was standing outside a no-credit gambling club in Vreccis Low City in the small hours of a wet weeknight, looking at a pretty, toy-like handgun while two large people I owed a lot of money to asked me to do something extremely dangerous and worse than illegal. I was weighing up the relative attractions of trying to run away (they’d shoot me), refusing (they’d beat me up; probably I’d spend the next few weeks developing a serious medical bill), and doing what Kaddus and Cruizell asked me to do, knowing that while there was a chance I’d get away with it — uninjured, and solvent again — the most likely outcome was a messy and probably slow death while assisting the security services with their enquiries.

Kaddus and Cruizell were offering me all my markers back, plus — once the thing was done — a tidy sum on top, just to show there were no hard feelings.

I suspected they didn’t anticipate having to pay the final instalment of the deal.

So, I knew that logically what I ought to do was tell them where to shove their fancy designer pistol, and accept a theoretically painful but probably not terminal beating. Hell, I could switch the pain off (having a Culture background does have some advantages), but what about that hospital bill?

I was up to my scalp in debt already.

'What’s the matter, Wrobik?' Cruizell drawled, taking a step nearer, under the shelter of the club’s dripping eaves. Me with my back against the warm wall, the smell of wet pavements in my nose and a taste like metal in my mouth. Kaddus and Cruizell’s limousine idled at the kerb; I could see the driver inside, watching us through an open window. Nobody passed on the street outside the narrow alley. A police cruiser flew over, high up, lights flashing through the rain and illuminating the underside of the rain clouds over the city. Kaddus looked up briefly, then ignored the passing craft. Cruizell shoved the gun towards me. I tried to shrink back.

'Take the gun, Wrobik,' Kaddus said tiredly. I licked my lips, stared down at the pistol.

'I can’t,' I said. I stuck my hands in my coat pockets.

'Sure you can,' Cruizell said. Kaddus shook his head.

'Wrobik, don’t make things difficult for yourself; take the gun. Just touch it first, see if our information is correct. Go on; take it.' I stared, transfixed, at the small pistol. 'Take the gun, Wrobik. Just remember to point it at the ground, not at us; the driver’s got a laser on you and he might think you meant to use the gun on us… come on; take it, touch it.'

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think. I just stood, hypnotized. Kaddus took hold of my right wrist and pulled my hand from my pocket. Cruizell held the gun up near my nose; Kaddus forced my hand onto the pistol. My hand closed round the grip like something lifeless.

The gun came to life; a couple of lights blinked dully, and the small screen above the grip glowed, flickering round the edges. Cruizell dropped his hand, leaving me holding the pistol; Kaddus smiled thinly.

'There, that wasn’t difficult, now was it?' Kaddus said. I held the gun and tried to imagine using it on the two men, but I knew I couldn’t, whether the driver had me covered or not.

'Kaddus,' I said, 'I can’t do this. Something else; I’ll do anything else, but I’m not a hit-man; I can’t—'

'You don’t have to be an expert, Wrobik,' Kaddus said quietly. 'All you have to be is… whatever the hell you are. After that, you just point and squirt: like you do with your boyfriend.' He grinned and winked at Cruizell, who bared some teeth. I shook my head.

'This is crazy, Kaddus. Just because the thing switches on for me—'

'Yeah; isn’t that funny.' Kaddus turned to Cruizell, looking up to the taller man’s face'and smiling. 'Isn’t that funny, Wrobik here being an alien? And him looking just like us.'

'An alien and queer,' Cruizell rumbled, scowling. 'Shit.'

'Look,' I said, staring at the pistol, 'it… this thing, it… it might not work,' I finished lamely. Kaddus smiled.

'It’ll work. A ship’s a big target. You won’t miss.' He smiled again.

'But I thought they had protection against—'

'Lasers and kinetics they can deal with, Wrobik; this is something different. I don’t know the technical details; I just know our radical friends paid a lot of money for this thing. That’s enough for me.'

Our radical friends. This was funny, coming from Kaddus. Probably he meant the Bright Path. People he’d always considered bad for business, just terrorists. I’d have imagined he’d sell them to the police on general principles, even if they did offer him lots of money. Was he starting to hedge his bets, or just being greedy? They have a saying here: Crime whispers; money talks.

'But there’ll be people on the ship, not just—'

'You won’t be able to see them. Anyway; they’ll be some of the Guard, Naval brass, some Administration flunkeys, Secret Service agents… What do you care about them?' Kaddus patted my damp shoulder. 'You can do it.'

I looked away from his tired grey eyes, down at the gun, quiet in my fist, small screen glowing faintly. Betrayed by my own skin, my own touch. I thought about that hospital bill again. I felt like crying, but that wasn’t the done thing amongst the men here, and what could I say? I was a woman. I was Culture. But I had renounced these things, and now I am a man, and now I am here in the Free City of Vreccis, where nothing is free.

'All right,' I said, a bitterness of my mouth, 'I’ll do it.'

Cruizell looked disappointed. Kaddus nodded. 'Good. The ship arrives Ninthday; you know what it looks like?' I nodded. 'So you won’t have any problems,' Kaddus smiled thinly. 'You’ll be able to see it from almost anywhere in the City.' He pulled out some cash and stuffed it into my coat pocket. 'Get yourself a taxi. The underground’s risky these days.' He patted me lightly on the cheek; his hand smelt of expensive scents. 'Hey, Wrobik; cheer up, yeah? You’re going to shoot down a fucking starship. It’ll be an experience.' Kaddus laughed, looking at me and then at Cruizell, who laughed too, dutifully.

They went back to the car; it hummed into the night, tyres ripping at the rain-filled streets. I was left to watch the puddles grow, the gun hanging in my hand like guilt.

'I am a Light Plasma Projector, model LPP 91, series two, constructed in A/4882.4 at Manufactury Six in the