Iain Banks - The Algebraist

He left in the false dawn of an albedo sunrise, Ulubis still well below the horizon but lighting up half the facing hemisphere of Nasqueron, flooding the Northern Tropical Uplands of ’glantine with a soft, golden-brown light. A small yellow auroral display to the north added its own unsteady glow. He’d already said various goodbyes to friends and family in the Sept the night before and left messages for those, like his mother, he couldn’t contact immediately. He’d left Jaal asleep.

Slovius, somewhat to Fassin’s surprise, came to see him off at the house port, a hundred-metre circle of dead flat granite coldmelt a kilometre downslope from the house, near the river and the gently rising edge of the Upland forest. Light rain fell from high, thin clouds moving in from the west. A sleek, soot-black Navarchy craft, maybe sixty metres long, sat on a tripod of struts at the centre of the circle, radiating heat and bannered by drifting steam.

They stopped and looked at it. “That’s a needle ship, isn’t it?” Fassin said.

His uncle nodded. “I do believe it is. You will be going to Pirrintipiti in some style, nephew.” Slovius’s own suborb yacht, a streamlined yet stubbier machine, half the size of the black Navarchy ship, lay on a circular parking pad just off the main circle. They walked on, Fassin in his thin one-piece gee-suit, worn under his light Sept robe, feeling as if he was walking with a sort of warm gel extending from ankle to neck.

Fassin carried the grip holding his formal wear. A pony-tailed servant had his other bag and held a large umbrella over Fassin. Slovius’s chair-tub had extended a transparent cover above him. Another servant held the sleeping form of Fassin’s niece Zab in her arms; the child — up scandalously late the evening before and somehow hearing of her uncle’s summons to Sepekte — had insisted she wanted to say goodbye to Fassin and wheedled her grandfather and parents into granting permission, but then had fallen back asleep almost as soon as they’d left the house in the little funicular which served the port.

“Oh, and my regards to my old friend Seer-Chief Chyne, of the Favrial,” Slovius said as they crossed to the Navarchy craft. “Should you see him. Oh, and most especially to Braam Ganscerel, of Sept Tonderon, naturally.”

“I’ll try to say hello to all who know you, uncle.”

“I should have come with you,” Slovius said absently. “No, maybe not.”

A grey-uniformed figure appeared from a drop-platform under the black ship and walked towards them. The officer, a fresh-faced, cheery-looking woman, took off her cap, bowed to Slovius, and to Fassin said, “Major Taak?”

Fassin stood looking at her for a moment, before recalling that officially he was now a major in the Shrievalty Ocula. “Ah, yes,” he said.

“First Officer Oon Dicogra, NMS 3304,” the young woman said. “Welcome. Please follow me.”

Slovius held out one flippery hand. “I shall try to remain alive until your return, Major Nephew.” He made a wheezing noise that was probably a laugh.

Fassin gripped Slovius’s finger stubs awkwardly. “I’m rather hoping this is a false alarm and I’ll be back in a few days.”

“In any event, take care. Goodbye, Fassin.”

“I shall. Goodbye.” He kissed the still-sleeping Zab lightly on the cheek, avoiding waking her, then followed the Navarchy officer to the platform, stepped up onto it and waved as the curve-bottomed slab raised them into the ship.

“We’ll be pulling about 5.2 Earth gees most of the way,” Dicogra said as Fassin’s robe and his luggage were secured in a brace-cabinet. “Are you happy with that? The physio profile we got on you says yes, but we have to check.”

Fassin looked at her. “To Pirrintipiti?” he asked. The local shuttles and suborbs accelerated a lot less sharply than that, and they did the trip in less than an hour. How tight was this schedule?

“No, to Borquille city,” Dicogra said. “Going straight there.”

“Oh,” Fassin said, surprised. “No, 5.2 is fine.”

The planet-moon ’glantine’s gravity was about a tenth of that, but Fassin was used to more. He thought about pointing out that his day job involved spending years at a time in a gravity field of over six Earth gees, but of course that was in a Dwellerine arrowship, pickled in shock-gel, and didn’t really count.

First Officer Dicogra smiled, wrinkled her nose and said, “Good for you. That physio report said you were quite a toughie. Still, we’ll spend nearly twenty hours at that acceleration, with only a few minutes weightless right in the middle, so do you need to visit the heads? You know, the toilet?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She gestured at his groin, where a bulge like a sports box was the only place on his body where the grey, centimetre-thick gee-suit didn’t hug the contours of his flesh. “Any attachments required?” she asked, smiling.

“No, thanks.”

“Drugs to let you sleep?”

“Not necessary.”

The ship’s captain was a whule, a species that always looked to Fassin like a cross between a giant grey bat and an even more scaled-up praying mantis. She greeted Fassin briefly via a screen from the bridge and he was settled into a steep-sided, semi-reclined couch in a gimballed ball pod near the centre of the ship by First Officer Dicogra and a fragile-seeming but dexterous whule rating who smelled, to the human nose, of almonds. The whule rating levered himself out with a snapping sound of wing membranes and Dicogra settled into the only other couch in the pod. Her preparations for a day of five gees continuous consisted of tossing her cap into a locker and adjusting her uniform underneath her.

The ship lifted slowly at first and Fassin watched on a screen on the curved wall opposite as the port’s circular landing ground fell away, the little figures there lifting their heads as the Navarchy craft rose. Zab might have waved one tiny arm, then the haze of clouds intervened, the view tilted and swung and the ship accelerated — the gimballed pod keeping him and Dicogra level in their seats — towards space.

Was that screaming? His eyes flicked open. His neck hairs were standing on end, his mouth was dry. Dark. Still inside the ruined alien ship, his back resting against the dimly lit flier. Taince gone, away to the gap to check for comms reception. Oh shit, those were screams, from behind. Maybe shouting, too. He scrambled to his feet, looking around. Little to see; just the faint traces of the warped landscape of destruction and collapse that was the interior of the wrecked ship, the tilted decks and bulkheads, the huge hanging strips of whatever-the-hell hanging from the invisibly dark and distant ceiling. The screams were coming from forward, from the interior, from the direction that Saluus and Ilen had walked in. He stood staring into that darkness, holding his breath to listen better. Sudden silence, then maybe a voice — Sal’s shouting, the words indistinct. Help? Taince? Fass?

What do I do? Run to help? Wait for Taince? Look for another torch, another gun if there is one?

A clattering noise behind him made him spin round.

Taince, bounding down from one gnarled level of the buckled wall. “You okay?”

“Yes, but—”

“Stay with me. Keep a few steps behind. Say if you can’t keep up.” She went past him at a slow run, her gun high in one hand. Later, he would remember that there was a grim sort of smile on her face.

They ran up the shallow slope leading deeper into the ship, over increasingly large ripples in the material beneath their feet until they were leaping from ridge to ridge, then jumped down through a tear in the floor and ran slightly uphill on a half-giving surface like thin rubber over iron, vaulting one-handed over enormous, thigh-high cables strung in an irregular net across the space. Fassin followed Taince as best he could, guided by the glow patches on her fatigues. She ran and leapt more fluidly with one hand filled with pistol than he did pumping both arms. The floor pitched up more steeply, then down.