Iain Banks - The Algebraist

Qua’runze was the other big gas-giant in Ulubis system — there were two smaller examples as well. All had Dweller populations too, though compared to Nasqueron’s they were negligible in size. Getting Ganscerel from Qua’runze to Nasqueron and the Third Fury base would take well over a week, Fassin suspected. The old guy liked his luxuries and anyway wouldn’t be physically able to cope with much more than one gee during the journey even if he wanted to.

Fassin, very much feeling his way in all this, suddenly caught up within organisations and power structures he never imagined having anything much to do with and having to cope with networks of rank and superiority he had only the vaguest working knowledge of, had been about to start banging the table — probably only figuratively — and complaining about not being able to start the job he’d been very clearly ordered to begin as soon as possible. Then they mentioned Ganscerel and his journey back from Qua’runze and he saw that there was prob-ably no way he was going to be able to move this forward faster than the pace that had already been decided.

Which, in a way, suited him fine. If the system really was under threat of imminent invasion and he was being asked to go on the most important delve of his life in the midst of it — and given the amount of time they were being told there was before the invasion took place, there was every likelihood he’d still be in-planet when it happened — then he wanted — needed — one last delve of his own, into Borquille’s underworld, its own hazy, clouded, turbulent and dangerous nether-environment. He suddenly had things to do and people, or at least one person, to meet. The delay caused by Ganscerel might work out quite usefully. Of course, they probably wouldn’t want to let him out of their sight, so he’d have to find a way round that.

He also suspected that they wanted the whole delve done at a distance, from Third Fury, with him and Ganscerel and Paggs Yurnvic all lying wired up in the base there and communicating with remotes down in Nasqueron itself. (Certainly Ganscerel wasn’t capable of jumping into a gascraft, breathing gillfluid and taking multiple gees, squished in shock-gel — he hadn’t even done any of that stuff when he was young.) Fassin would have to try and find a way round that, too.

He complained as crossly as he could pretend about not being allowed to get on with things, and then demanded some time off.

“You mean, leave?” Somjomion said, goggle-eyed. “I believe you have some very intense briefing and training ahead of you, Major Taak. Many days’ worth which will have to be crammed into hours. There is absolutely no time for leave.”

He explained about Ganscerel’s age, infirmity and therefore slow rate of travel. Somjomion looked indignant, but checked this, finally having another hurried conference with the Hierchon himself. “Indeed,” she said, sighing, “Chief Seer Ganscerel is profiled as being unable to withstand forces greater than 1.5 gee, and is already complaining at the prospect of that. It will be nine days before he can reach the Third Fury base.” Colonel Somjomion narrowed her eyes at Fassin. “We shall proceed with your fuller briefing first thing tomorrow, Major Taak. If there is any time left over, a day or two of leave may be granted. I guarantee nothing.”

“So. Another Emergency,” Saluus said. He smiled broadly. Tm told I have you to thank for this, Fass.” He held out a slim flute. Fassin accepted the glass. “Entirely my own work.” Sal was, he supposed, one of the few people in the system for whom the prospect of a War Emergency Plan coming into force was genuinely cause for celebration.

“Really?” Saluus said. “You’re even more eminent than I thought. And you still look about twenty, you dog.” Sal laughed the easy laugh of a man who could afford to be generous with his compliments. Sal chinked glasses. They were drinking champagne; some ancient Krug with a meaningless date all the way from Earth and probably worth as much as a small spaceship. It had a pleasant taste, though not many bubbles.

The two men stood on a balcony, looking out over the caldera. The surging waters beneath formed a great frothed slope spreading all around from underneath the house, a shallow cone of billows and hummocks of foam all furiously bunching and collapsing and rushing ever outwards to where the fractious turmoil settled slightly and became merely wildly charging waves. The balcony was just above the equatorial rim of the house so the column of water actually supporting the place was hidden from them, but the crater walls, a couple of kilometres distant, echoed with the tumult.

They had climbed up here after a modest reception and light lunch with a few of Sal and his wife’s friends — notables all — who were here for the afternoon. Fassin had secured an invitation to stay for a couple of days, until the Shrievalty needed him back in Borquille. He had changed out of his dark grey Shrievalty uniform into casual clothes.

Sal leaned back against the barrier. “Well, thank you for coming to visit.”

Fassin nodded. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“My pleasure. Just mildly surprised you asked.”

“They trust you, Sal.” Fassin gave a small shrug. “Ineeded to get away from all that military shit and they wouldn’t let me just skip out the door of the palace and into Boogeytown.” He looked out at the tumbling waters. “Anyway’ — a glance at Sal—”been too long.” He wanted to give the impression that this had been a good excuse to effect some sort of reconciliation he’d long wanted to make. He and Sal had met up only very occasionally over the two centuries since the wormhole’s destruction, usually at the sort of gigantic social events it was hard to get out of but easy to remain alone within. They hadn’t really talked.

Even now, meeting up, there were whole aspects of their lives that somehow didn’t need to be gone into. How and what they had each been doing was a matter of public record and it would almost be an insult to inquire. Fassin had recognised Sal’s wife from news and social images, hadn’t really needed introducing. There hadn’t been a single person at the reception below, alien or otherwise — servants apart, obviously — about whom Fassin, who was no great social observer, couldn’t have written a short biography. Saluus probably didn’t know as much about Fassin as vice versa, but he’d already congratulated him on his engagement to Jaal Tonderon, so he knew that much (or, more likely perhaps, he just had an efficient social secretary with a good database).

“So, what can you tell me, Fass?” Sal asked casually. He wrinkled his nose. “ Can you say anything?”

“About the Emergency?”

“Well, about whatever’s causing all the fuss.”

There was more than a fuss; there was low-level war. Starting the day after martial law was declared there had been a sequence of attacks, mostly on isolated and system-edge craft and settlements, though with some worrying assaults further in-system, including one on a Navarchy dock-habitat in Sepekte’s own trailing Lagrange that had killed over a thousand. Nobody knew whether it was Beyonders behind this resurgence of violence, or the E-5 Discon advanced forces, or a mixture of both.

More oddly, but for Fassin far more disturbingly, somebody had nuked the High Summer house of Sept Litibiti, back on ’glantine, just the day before; missiled it from space like it was a military facility. Bizarre and unprecedented. The place had been empty save for a handful of unlucky gardeners and cleaners, keeping the place ticking over until the appropriate season, but it made Seers throughout the system worried that they’d suddenly, for some reason, become targets. Fassin had sent a message to Slovius saying that maybe they should consider shifting the whole Sept elsewhere on ’glantine. Head for an out-of-season hotel, perhaps. He’d yet to receive a reply, which might be Slovius ignoring his advice, or just the authorities’ new message-traffic checking and censoring software struggling to cope. Neither would surprise.