Iain Banks - Against a Dark Background

“Breyguhn…” Sharrow said, opening her eyes and feeling suddenly very tired.

“How long have we had space travel?” Breyguhn shouted, smacking her fist into the table surface; the chain whipped down, scattering chips of granite. Breyguhn didn’t seem to notice. “Seven thousand years! Seven thousand years!” she roared, standing, throwing her arms wide, voice echoing from above. Sharrow heard a bell ringing somewhere.

“Seventy centuries, Sharrow! Seven millennia of footling about in the one miserable system, crawling from rock to rock, losing the gift twice and after all this time half of what we once achieved is like magic to us now!”

Flecks of spittle made little arcs in the air from Breyguhn’s lips; they shone in the thin yellow light then fell to spot the broad surface of the huge table. “Evolution has stopped! The weak and the halt breed, diluting the species; they drag us all down into the mire; we must cut ourselves free!”

Sharrow glimpsed movement in the distance behind the other woman, and heard a quick jingling noise.

“Brey-” she said, making a calming, sit-down motion with one hand.

“Can’t you see? The nebulae should be ours but we are left with the dust! Sweep it away!” Breyguhn screamed. “Sweep it all away! The slate is full; wipe it out and start again! The decamillenium approaches! Burn the chaff!”

Sharrow stood up as two burly monks dressed in grubby white habits appeared behind her half-sister; the first monk took one end of Breyguhn’s chain and with a practised flick looped it over her head and round her arms, encircling her; he pulled tight, jerking her away from the great stone seat-her eyes closed, an expression of sudden joy on her pallid face-while the second monk threw a glittering bag over her head; there was a noise like a sigh, the bag ballooned then collapsed, then was pulled from Breyguhn’s head just as she too collapsed, limp and slack into the arms of the first brother. They zipped her into a straitcoat the shape of a thin, much bestrapped sleeping bag, then dragged her away along the floor, chains rattling.

The whole operation had taken place in less than a dozen heartbeats, and without the pair of monks even glancing at Sharrow.

She watched them go, feeling numb.

The trio disappeared into the shadows and the rattling of their chains faded until all she could hear was a faint moaning noise of the wind in some flue, high above. She shivered, picked up her satchel and started back across the empty breadth of the dark hall.

Seigneur Jalistre smiled brightly from the holo screen in the dullness of the gatekeeper’s office. “Hmm; the Universal Principles for your reasonable expenses, and the freedom of your sister…”

“Half-sister.”

“Indeed, indeed,” the Seigneur said, slowly stroking his smoothly fat chin. “Well, I shall put your proposal to my brethren, Lady Sharrow.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course, you must understand that it is anything but a foregone conclusion that we shall accept your suggestion-we are not normally given to financing Antiquities contracts, and what with the upkeep of this magnificent but ancient building, we are far from being a rich order, as I’m sure you appreciate. But I feel certain your proposition will be treated seriously. Doubtless we shall be in touch.”

“It might be better if I call you,” she told the holo image.

“As you wish. Might I suggest you give us a few days to consider your proposal?”

“I’ll call in three or four days. Will that be all right?”

“That will be perfect, Lady Sharrow. I am only sorry your need for haste precluded a personal meeting.”

“Some other time, perhaps.”

“Indeed, indeed.” The Seigneur nodded slowly. “Hmm. Well, good-day then, Lady Sharrow. Pray tell brother gatekeeper he may resume possession of his office.”

“Certainly. Good-bye.”

She opened the door; the small gatekeeper stood outside by the postern in the main gate, scowling, the HandCannon held by the barrel in one grimy hand. The office hole-screen greyed as she descended the steps to where the small monk waited. She handed him the small plastic slip he’d given her earlier.

“Receipt,” she said.

“Gun,” replied the gatekeeper. “Take it and get out.”

The little monk swung open the postern and gestured to the outside world; a gust of rain and wind blew in, making his habit flap. “Hurry up, woman; get your filthy cloven body out of here!”

She took a step towards the door, then stopped and looked at the little monk. “You know,” she said, “for a greeter your attitude is somewhat suspect; I shall be sending a stiff note to the Udesten Hotel Guide.”

“Stuff your smart remarks where only a woman can, trollop.”

“And there really isn’t any need for that sort of language.”

“Out, menstruator!”

She stood on the threshold of the door. She shook her head. “I’m not menstruating.” She smiled brightly. “Are you a castrate?”

The gatekeeper’s eyes went wide. “No!” he barked.

She swung one foot, kicking him in the crotch through the weight of the thick black cassock; he doubled up and fell to the courtyard flagstones, wheezing, his chain clattering around him.

“No,” she said, stepping out through the small door to the cold and the rain. “I didn’t think so, somehow.”

She walked away down the broad grey curve of the causeway, the rain spattering her face while the evil-smelling wind whipped her hair, and realised with some surprise that, after nearly eight years of peaceful banality, that made two men she’d hit in less than twenty hours.

Life was becoming interesting again.

Roughly ten per cent of the land area of Golter was autonomous state; countries in the accepted sense. The rest was technically Free Land in the form of city states, beldand, commercial and industrial parks, farming collectives, ecclesiastical dependencies, bank franchises, sept reservations, leased and freeheld familial estates, Antiquarian societies’ digs, contract diplomatic services’ ambassadorial domains, pressure-group protectorates, charity parklands, union sanatoria, time-share zones, canal, rail and road corridors and protected drove-ways; United World enclaves of a score of different persuasions; hospital, school and college grounds, private and public army training counties, and landparcels-usually squatted on-the subject of centuries-old legal disputes which were effectively owned by the courts concerned.

The inhabitants of these multifarious territories owed their allegiance not to any geographically defined authority or administration, but to the guilds, orders, scientific disciplines, linguistic groups, Corporations, clans and other organisations which administered them.

The result was that while a physical map of Golter was a relatively simple depiction of the planet’s varied but unremarkable geography, political maps tended to resemble something plucked from the wreckage after an explosion in a paint factory.

So, although Udeste was a recognised area and the city of the same name was the province’s effective service capital, there was no necessary proprietorial, administrative or jurisdictional link between the city and the surrounding countryside. Similarly, the province of Udeste owed no tribute to any bodies representing the continent of Caltasp Minor or even Entire, save that of the Continental Turnpike Authority.

The CTA maintained an impressive, if expensive, network of toll roads extending from the Security Franchise in the south to Pole City in the north. On her way back from the Sea House, Sharrow used the turbiner’s head-up display to check on the bid prices for seats on the afternoon and evening strats from Udeste Transcontinental to Capitaller, six thousand kilometres to the north-east, and decided to hang onto the hired car.