Iain Banks: The Player of Games

He shook his head at his image in the glass. “Anyway; it’s over.” He turned back to Yay and Chamlis and the warm room. “What’s the gossip here?”

So they told him about Hafflis’s twins, both talking now, and Boruelal leaving to go GSV-ing for a few years, and Olz Hap — breaker of not a few young hearts — being more or less acclaimed/embarrassed/forced into Boruelal’s old post, and Yay fathering a child a year back — he’d get to meet mother and child next year probably, when they came for an extended visit — and one of Shuro’s pals being killed in a combat game two years back, and Ren Myglan becoming a man, and Chamlis still hard at work on the reference text for its pet planet, and Tronze Festival the year before last ending in disaster and chaos after some fireworks blew up in the lake and swamped half the cliffside terraces; two people dead, brains splattered over lumps of stonework; hundreds injured. Last year’s hadn’t been half so exciting.

Gurgeh was listening to all this as he wandered round the room, reacquainting himself with it. Nothing much seemed to have changed.

“What a lot I’ve miss—” he began, then noticed the little wooden plaque on the wall, and the object mounted on it. He reached out, touched it, took it down from the wall.

“Ah,” Chamlis said, making what was almost a coughing noise. “I hope you don’t mind… I mean I hope you don’t think that’s too… irreverent, or tasteless. I just thought…”

Gurgeh smiled sadly, touching the lifeless surfaces of the body that had once been Mawhrin-Skel. He turned back to Yay and Chamlis, walking over to the old drone. “Not at all, but I don’t want it. Do you?”

“Yes, please.”

Gurgeh presented the heavy little trophy to Chamlis, who went red with pleasure. “You vindictive old horror,” Yay snorted.

“This means a great deal to me,” Chamlis said primly, holding the plaque close to its casing. Gurgeh put his glass back on the tray.

A log collapsed in the fire, showering sparks up. Gurgeh crouched and poked at the remaining logs. He yawned.

Yay and the drone exchanged looks, then Yay reached out and tapped Gurgeh with one foot. “Come on, Jernau; you’re tired; Chamlis has to head back home and make sure its new fishes haven’t eaten each other. Is it all right if I stay here?”

Gurgeh looked, surprised, at her smiling face, and nodded.

When Chamlis left, Yay put her head on Gurgeh’s shoulder and said she’d missed him a lot, and five years was a long time, and he looked a lot more cuddleable than when he’d gone away, and… if he wanted… if he wasn’t too tired…

She used her mouth, and on her forming body Gurgeh traced slow movements, rediscovering sensations he’d almost forgotten; stroking her gold-dark skin, caressing the odd, almost comic unbuddings of her now concaving genitals, making her laugh, laughing with her, and — in the long moment of climax — with her then too, still one their every tactile cell surging to a single pulse, as though alight.

Still he didn’t sleep, and in the night got up out of the tousled bed. He went to the windows and opened them. The cold night air spilled in. He shivered, pulled on the trous, jacket and shoes.

Yay moved and made a small noise. He closed the windows and went back to the bed, crouching down in the darkness beside her. He pulled the covers over her exposed back and shoulder, and moved his hand very gently through her curls. She snored once and stirred, then breathed quietly on.

He crossed to the windows and went quickly outside, closing them silently behind him.

He stood on the snow-covered balcony, gazing at the dark trees descending in uneven rows to the glittering black fjord. The mountains on the far side shone faintly, and above them in the crisp night dim areas of light moved on the darkness, occluding star-fields and the farside Plates. The clouds drifted slowly, and down at Ikroh there was no wind.

Gurgeh looked up and saw, amongst the clouds, the Clouds, their ancient light hardly wavering in the cold, calm air. He watched his breath go out before him, like a damp smoke between him and those distant stars, and shoved his chilled hands into the jacket pockets for warmth. One touched something softer than the snow, and he brought it out; a little dust.

He looked up from it at the stars again, and the view was warped and distorted by something in his eyes, which at first he thought was rain.

… No, not quite the end.

There’s still me. I know I’ve been naughty, not revealing my identity, but then, maybe you’ve guessed; and who am I to deprive you of the satisfaction of working it out for yourself? Who am I, indeed?

Yes, I was there, all the time. Well, more or less all the time. I watched, I listened, I thought and sensed and waited, and did as I was told (or asked, to maintain the proprieties). I was there all right, in person or in the shape of one of my representatives, my little spies.

To be honest; I don’t know whether I’d have liked old Gurgeh to have found out the truth or not; still undecided on that one, I must confess. I — we — left it to chance, in the end.

For example; just supposing Chiark Hub had told our hero the exact shape of the cavity in the husk that had been Mawhrin-Skel, or Gurgeh had somehow opened that lifeless casing and seen for himself… would he have thought that little, disk-shaped hole a mere coincidence?

Or would he have started to suspect?

We’ll never know; if you’re reading this he’s long dead; had his appointment with the displacement drone and been zapped to the very livid heart of the system, corpse blasted to plasma in the vast erupting core of Chiark’s sun, his sundered atoms rising and falling in the raging fluid thermals of the mighty star, each pulverised particle migrating over the millennia to that planet-swallowing surface of blinding, storm-swept fire, to boil off there, and so add their own little parcels of meaningless illumination to the encompassing night… Ah well, getting a bit flowery there.

Still; an old drone should be allowed such indulgences, now and again, don’t you think?

Let me recapitulate.

This is a true story. I was there. When I wasn’t, and when I didn’t know exactly what was going on — inside Gurgeh’s mind, for example — I admit that I have not hesitated to make it up.

But it’s still a true story.

Would I lie to you?

As ever,

Sprant Flere-Imsaho Wu-Handrahen Xato Trabiti

('Mawhrin-Skel')

END