Iain Banks: Look to Windward

The lift arrived on the surface and people walked out into a broad, open concourse beneath a colonnade of tall, straight-trunked trees. Soft lights shone against the dark blue of the evening sky. Smells of food filled the air and people thronged cafés, bars and restaurants at the sides of the concourse. The Bowl filled the sky at the end of the broad way, studded with lights.

“Major Quilan!” a tall, handsome man in a bright coat shouted, rushing up to him. He offered his hand and Quilan shook it. “Chongon Lisser. Lisser News; usual affiliations, forty per cent take-up and rising.”

“How do you do?” Quilan kept on walking; the tall male walked to one side and a little in front, keeping his head turned towards Quilan to maintain eye contact.

“I’m very well, Major, and I hope you are too. Major, is it true that Mahrai Ziller, the composer of tonight’s symphony here at the Stullien Bowl, Guerno Plate, Masaq’, has told you that if you attend the concert tonight then he won’t?”

“No.”

“It’s not true?”

“He hasn’t told me anything directly.”

“But would it be correct to say that you must have heard that he wouldn’t attend if you did?”

“That is correct.”

“And yet you have chosen to attend.”

“Yes.”

“Major Quilan, what is the nature of the dispute between you and Mahrai Ziller?”

“You would have to ask him that. I have no dispute with him.”

“You don’t resent the fact that he’s put you in this invidious position?”

“I don’t think it is an invidious position.”

“Would you say that Mahrai Ziller is being petty or vindictive in any way?”

“No.”

“So would you say he’s behaving perfectly reasonably?”

“I am not an expert on Mahrai Ziller’s behaviour.”

“Do you understand people who say you’re behaving very selfishly by coming here tonight, as that means Mahrai Ziller won’t be here to conduct the first performance of his new work, so reducing the experience for everybody concerned?”

“Yes, I do.”

By now they were near the end of the wide concourse, where what looked like a tall, broad wall of glowing glass extending over the breadth of the pavement was slowly alternately brightening and dimming. The crowds thinned out a little beyond here; the barrier was a field wall, set up to admit only those who’d won out in the ticket lottery.

“So you don’t feel that—”

Quilan had brought his ticket with him, though he’d been told it was really just a souvenir and not required for entry. Chongon Lisser obviously didn’t have a ticket; he bumped softly into the glowing wall and Quilan stepped around him and passed on through with a nod and a smile. “Good evening,” he said.

There were more news service people inside; he continued to answer politely but minimally and just kept on walking, following his terminal’s instructions, to his seat.

Ziller watched the news feeds following Quilan with an open mouth. “That son-of-a-bitch! He’s really going! He’s not bluffing! He’s actually going to take his seat and keep me away! From my own fucking concert! The stub-cocked son-of-a-prey-bitch!”

Ziller, Kabe and the avatar watched as several remotes followed Quilan to his seat, a specially prepared Chelgrian curl-pad. There was a Homomdan seat next to it, a space for Tersono, and a few other seats and couches. The camera platform showed Quilan sitting, looking around at the slowly filling Bowl, and calling up a function on his terminal which created a flat screen in front of him holding the concert programme notes.

“I think I see my seat,” Kabe said thoughtfully.

“And I mine,” Tersono said. Its aura field looked agitated. It turned to face Ziller, seemed about to say something, then did not. The avatar did not move, but Kabe had the impression that there had been some communication between Hub Mind and the Contact Section drone.

The avatar folded its arms and walked across the room to look out at the city. A cold clear cobalt sky arched over the jagged surround of mountains. The machine could see the bubble that was Aquime’s Dome Square. There was a giant screen there, relaying the scenes at the Stullien Bowl to a swelling crowd.

“I confess I didn’t think he’d go,” the avatar said.

“Well, he fucking has!” Ziller said, spitting. “The puss-eyed bollock-dragger!”

“I was under the impression he was going to spare you this too,” Kabe said, squatting on the floor near Ziller. “Ziller, I’m most terribly sorry if I misled you in any way, even if it was inadvertently. I am still convinced that Quilan strongly implied he would not be going. I can only assume that something has changed his mind.”

Again, Tersono seemed to be on the brink of saying something, its aura field altering and its casing rising a little in the air, and again it appeared to subside again at the last moment. Its field was grey with frustration.

The avatar turned from the window, arms still folded. “Well, if you don’t need me, Ziller, I’ll be getting back to the Bowl. Can’t have too many ushers and general helpers at something like this. Always some cretin who’s forgotten how to operate an automatic drinks dispenser. Kabe, Tersono? Can I offer you a Displace back?”

“Displace?” Tersono said. “Certainly not! I’ll take a car.”

“Hmm,” the avatar said. “You should still make it. I wouldn’t hang around, though.”

“Well,” Tersono said hesitantly, fields flickering. “Unless Cr Ziller wants me to stay, of course.”

They looked at Ziller, who was still watching the wall of screens. “No,” he said faintly, waving one hand. “Go. Go, by all means.”

“No, I think I ought to stay,” the drone said, floating closer to the Chelgrian.

“And I think you ought to go,” Ziller said sharply.

The drone stopped as though it had hit a wall. It flushed creamily rainbow with surprise and embarrassment, then bowed in the air and said, “Just so. Well, see you there. Ah… Yes. Goodbye.” It thrummed through the air to the doors, whisked them open and closed them quickly but silently behind it.

The avatar looked quizzically at the Homomdan. “Kabe?”

“Instantaneous travel appears to agree with me. I will be happy to accept.” He paused and looked at Ziller. “I too would be perfectly happy to stay here, Ziller. We don’t have to watch the concert. We could—”

Ziller leapt to his feet. “Fuck it!” he said through his teeth. “I’m going! That piece of wriggling vomit isn’t going to keep me from my own fucking symphony. I’ll go. I’ll go and I’ll conduct and I’ll even hang around and schmooze and be schmoozed at afterwards, but if that little turd Tersono or anybody else tries to introduce that selfish litter-fucker Quilan to me, I swear I’ll bite the shit-head’s throat out.”

The avatar suppressed most of a grin. Its eyes twinkled as it looked at Kabe. “Well, that sounds eminently reasonable, don’t you think, Kabe?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll get dressed,” Ziller said, bounding towards the internal doors. “Won’t take a moment.”

“We’ll have to Displace to give us enough time!” the avatar yelled.

“Fine!” Ziller called out.

“There’s a one in sixty—”

“Yes, yes, I know! Let’s just risk it, eh?”

Kabe looked at the broadly smiling avatar. He nodded. The avatar held out its arms and gave a little bow. Kabe mimed applause.

~ You guessed wrong.

~ What about?

~ About how Ziller would jump. He’s coming after all.

~ Is he?

Even as he thought the question, Quilan became aware of people around him starting to mutter, and heard the word “Ziller” mentioned a few times as the news spread. The Bowl was mostly full now, a gigantic buzzing container of sound and light and people and machines. The brightly lit centre, the empty stage where the various instruments glittered, looked still and silent and waiting, like the eye of a storm.