Iain Banks - Surface Detail

The flier wasn’t there. He could see this twenty or more steps away from the doorway because there was a large open reception area with huge windows looking straight out at the courtyard, but he kept on running for the doors, not believing what he was seeing, and threw the doors open anyway, in time to see the flier pulling away overhead, as though it had just taken off from the roof of the mansion.

“ Jasken! ” he screamed, the force of it tearing at his throat.

He looked frantically round the circular courtyard. This couldn’t be happening. The flier couldn’t have gone. It just couldn’t; he needed it, he needed it to be here, needed it so he could get away. That must have been another, similar flier he’d just seen above the rooftops. It couldn’t have gone. It just wasn’t possible. He was depending on it, so it had to be here. It couldn’t disguise itself, could it? Go see-through or something freakish, could it? It was just a hired civilian flier; nothing military or alien. Best money could hire, built by one of his own companies, but it couldn’t turn fucking invisible . He stared round the courtyard, willing the aircraft still to be there. But all that he could see was a half-collapsed pile of paintings; nothing and nobody else. He glimpsed movement through the windows to one side, in the corridor he’d just run down.

He ran for the nearest archway leading through the house to the grounds. A gun. He needed a gun. An old fashioned chemical-explosion gun. What had happened to Jasken? Jasken had a gun. He always carried several weapons. He had a little hand-gun that had no sight or screen or electrics in it at all, just as a last resort. Dear fuck, it wasn’t Jasken chasing him, was it? He ran through the tall archway leading towards the outside, his steps echoing in the arch high overhead. He glanced back, saw the figure pursuing him, but stumbled and nearly fell as he did so. No, not Jasken. Too small and slim to be Jasken. And Jasken wouldn’t have missed, not twice.

It had to be the little bitch claiming to be Y’breq. She must have tricked Jasken, had an accomplice; maybe the Culture maniac who’d tried to arrest him. They’d be flying the aircraft. The fucking Culture! A gun. Where would he find a gun? He ran out onto the flagstone circle which encompassed the house.

The world was on fire; walls of smoke filled the sky, making a night lit up like hell, flames leaping from a hundred different places, trees and outbuildings all on fire or silhouetted against the fires beyond.

Gun. He needed a gun. There were old-fashioned, ancient, even antique guns splattered liberally over the walls of the house, just like there were swords and spears and shields, but none of them worked; none of them were any fucking use . Who the hell still used old-fashioned guns for fuck’s sake? Gamekeepers? They used lasers like everybody else, didn’t they? He wasn’t even sure where the gamekeepers’ cottages were; hadn’t they been moved when he’d had the raceball court put in?

He limped on, breath wheezing, knee aching, wondering if he could hide in the maze; maybe jump out on whoever was pursuing him, slit their throat using one of the two knives he still had. He sort of remembered the layout of the maze, he thought. He looked at where the maze ought to be and saw its central tower, on fire, flames waving wildly like orange banners from its wooden super-structure. He looked desperately around, searching for the flier, or another aircraft. He should have headed for the garages, he thought. Maybe some of the cars were still there and working. He patted the pocket where his antique watch had been, but it was gone.

Tall, skinny towers and linked, soaring arches stood out black against a distant roaring wall of yellow-orange flame, off to one side.

The fucking battleships. They had chemical guns. There were explosives, rockets, grenades, bullets; all that stuff, there. He couldn’t think of anything else. He ran for the battleship area. He looked back briefly. The figure sprinted out of the archway, heading towards him, then seemed to slow, looking about. Maybe they couldn’t see him. He was wearing mostly dark clothes, thank fuck.

Throat on fire, legs like jelly, knee like a spike had been driven into it, he scrabbled around inside the hide bag, found a soft, double sheath, pulled it out and stuck it and the pair of knives it held into his jacket. He threw the bag and everything else away.

She had never fired a gun before, never even held one. She used both hands, hoping this was right. The noise of the old explosive-based weapon going off was so great, and the kick against her arms so hard, she thought it had blown up in her hands; she half expected to find she’d lost fingers. She didn’t see where the bullet went, but now Veppers was on one knee, pointing something at her. The gun and her fingers were intact. She coughed on the acrid gas the gun had given off, fired it again. Another ear-ringing detonation. She couldn’t believe it was meant to be this noisy.

She’d missed again. At least she saw where this shot hit: well above Veppers, near the top of the great circular door of the strongroom. She knew these old reaction weapons had significant recoil but she’d always assumed it happened after the bullet had left the barrel, on its way to wherever it had been aimed. Maybe it didn’t work that way.

Veppers turned and ran, crashing through the doors to the stairs. She set off after him. When she got to the doors she kicked them open in case he was hiding just behind them. The stairwell was a little dimmer than the corridor, but she could see okay. Bits of a smashed-up torch were strewn across the first landing; on the first step up lay the antique watch Veppers had looked at in ambassador’s Huen’s office. She ran on up, seeing and hearing Veppers a handful of flights above.

Running along the corridor, she saw him hesitate in the court-yard, staring frantically about. Then he ran off through the main archway. And not running quite perfectly; limping.

Outside, once she’d exited the tall archway, she stopped for a moment, taken aback by the sheer apocalyptic scale of the fiery roaring chaos swirling around the mansion.

A ragged, tearing wind that seemed to have come out of nowhere howled beneath a cauldron of night-black, sky-obliterating smoke. Manically leaping, furiously rolling flames spilled everywhere; the air was full of whirling, burning debris, numerous as leaves in the first storm of autumn. The shock was almost physical, the heat on her face from the ubiquitous flames as strong as that from an equatorial sun; she slowed to a trot without realising.

She shook herself out of it, quickly looked around.

For a moment, she thought she’d lost him, then she saw him half running, half staggering in the direction of the water maze. He was silhouetted against flames for a moment and she aimed at him, nearly fired, but then decided he was too far away; the gun was for close range and she was anyway no marksman. Eight shots left.

Down a grassed bank, clattering against a chain-link fence, hidden from the mansion by the slope, running along the path, making for the gates that led to the network of channels around the lakes. The gates, the fucking gates; what if they were closed, locked? Then he saw something ahead, glinting in the flames, and running towards it found a crash-landed flier, one of the estate’s runabouts, snouted into the path and the fence at one end of a trough of ploughed-up earth; the fence had tipped, fallen, lay flat on the ground just beyond the crumpled nose of the craft. He leapt onto the flier’s stubby front canard, jumped over the fractured nose and was in the battleship ground, pumping and wheezing along the internal path beneath the towers and arches of the raised system of canals. The sheds where the ships were kept were on the far side of the grounds, away from the mansion, near the trees.