Look to Windward (37 page)

It was a frustrating process. He kept on putting down the stylo—the same damn stylo that had led to him being here now waiting on an alien spaceship that might never come—and tried to work out what had happened to Sansemin, why the Culture agent—if that
was truly what he or she had been—had been here in the first place, whether there really was a plot of the sort that had been described to him, and what he ought to do if it transpired that the whole thing was some sort of joke, hallucination or figment of a mad and tormented creature's mind.

He had napped twice, scrubbed six attempts at the poeglyph and (having come to the tentative conclusion that it was marginally more likely that he had gone mad than that the events of the last few days had been real) was debating with himself the relative merits of suicide, Storage, transcorporation into a group entity or a request to return to Yoleus and resume his studies—suitably physically altered and with the elongated lifespan he'd been considering earlier—when the Jhuvuonian Trader ship, an unlikely arrangement of tubes and spars, hove to on the far side of the Portal.

Jhuvuonian Traders were not at all what he imagined. For some reason he had expected squat, rough-looking hairy humanoids wearing skins and furs, when in fact they resembled collections of very large red feathers. One of them floated through the Portal, encased within a mostly transparent bubble itself held inside a finger-like intrusion of air forming a tunnel reaching back to the Portal and the tubular vessel outside. He met it on a terrace of the mega fruit husk. 46 Zhun grasped the parapet at his side, watching the encased alien approach with the air of a creature sizing up potential nest-building material.

“You are the Culture person?” the creature in the bubble said, once it was hovering level with him. The voice was faint, the Marain accent tolerable.

“Yes. How do you do?”.

“You will pay the worth of our ship to be taken to your destination?”.

“Yes.”

“It is a very fine ship.”

“So I see.”

“We would have another identical.”

“You shall.”

The alien made a series of clacking noises, talking to the Interpreter at Uagen's side. 46 Zhun clacked back.

“What is your destination?” the alien said.

“I need to send a signal to the Culture. Just get me in range to do that, initially, then take me to wherever I might meet with a Culture ship.”

It had crossed Uagen's mind that the ship might be able to do this from here, without having to take him anywhere, though he doubted he would be so lucky. Still, in the next few moments he experienced a frisson of hope and nervousness until the creature said, “We could travel next to the Beidite entity Critoletli, where such communication and congregation might both be accomplished.”

“How long would that take?”.

“Seventy-seven standard Culture days.”

“There is nowhere closer?”.

“There is not.”

“Could we signal ahead to the entity on our approach?”.

“We could.”

“How soon would we be in range to do that?”.

“In about fifty standard Culture days.”

“Very well. I'd like to set off immediately.”

“Satisfactory. Payment to us?”.

“From the Culture upon my safe delivery. Oh. I should have mentioned.”

“What?” the alien said, its assemblage of red filaments fluttering inside the bubble.

“There may be an additional reward involved, beyond the payment we have already agreed.”

The creature's feathery body rearranged itself again. “Satisfactory,” it repeated.

The bubble floated up to the parapet. There was a second bubble forming beside the one enclosing the alien. It was, Uagen reflected, just like watching a cell divide. “Atmosphere and temperature are adjusted for Culture standard,” the alien told him. “Gravity within ship will be less. This is acceptable to you?”.

“Yes.”

“You can provide your own sustenance?”.

“I'll manage,” he said, then thought. “You do have water?”.

“We do.”

“Then I'll survive.”

“You will come aboard, please.”

The twinned bubble bumped against the parapet. Uagen stooped, picked up his bags and looked at 46 Zhun. “Well, goodbye. Thank you for your help. Wish Yoleus all the best.”

“The Yoleus wishes me to wish you a safe journey and a subsequent life which is pleasing to you.”

Uagen smiled. “Tell it thank you, from me. I hope to see it again.”

“This will be done.”

13
Some Ways of Dying

T
he ship lift sat underneath the falls; when it was needed, its counter-weighted cradle swung slowly up and out from the swirling pool at the foot of the torrent, trailing veils and mists of its own. Behind the plunging curtain of water, the giant counter-weight moved slowly down through its subterranean pool, balancing the dock-sized cradle as it rose until it slotted into a wide groove carved into the lip of the falls. Once home, its gates gradually forced themselves open against the current, so that the cradle presented a sort of balcony of water jutting out beyond the rivers kilometer-wide drop-off point.

Two bullet-shaped vessels powered upstream from either side like giant fish; they trailed long booms which stretched out to form a wide V that funnelled the oncoming barge toward the cradle. Once the gates had closed again and the barge was safely enclosed, the
booms retracted, the cradle opened its side caissons to the onrushing force of the water and the extra weight slowly overcame the balancing mass of the counterweight, now deep under the pool beneath.

Cradle and barge tipped slowly outward and down, descending amongst the thunder and mist toward the turmoil of waters below.

Ziller, dressed in a waistcoat and leggings that were thoroughly saturated, stood with the Hub avatar on a forward-facing promenade deck just below the bridge of the barge
Ucalegon,
on the River Jhree, Toluf Plate. The Chelgrian shook himself, unleashing spray, as the cradle's downstream gates opened and the barge made its way, thudding and bumping against the inflatable sides of the cradle, into the maelstrom of clashing waves and surging hummocks of water beyond.

He leaned over to the avatar and pointed up through the churning clouds of vapor toward the falls' lip, two hundred meters above. “What would happen if the barge missed the cradle up there?” he yelled over the sound of the waterfall.

The avatar, looking drenched but uncaring in a thin dark suit which clung to its silvery frame, shrugged. “Then,” it said loudly, “there would be a disaster.”

“And if the downstream gates opened while the cradle was still at the top of the falls?”.

The creature nodded. “Again, disaster.”

“And if the cradle's supporting arms gave way?”.

“Disaster.”

“Or if the cradle started to descend too soon?”.

“Ditto.”

“Or either set of gates gave way before the cradle reached the pool?”.

“Guess what”.

“So this thing does have an anti-gravity keel or something, doesn't it?” Ziller shouted. “As back-up, redundancy? Yes?”.

The avatar shook its head. “No.” Droplets fell from its nose and ears.

Ziller sighed and shook his head, too. “No, I didn't really think so.”

The avatar smiled and leaned toward him. “I take it as an encouraging sign that you're beginning to ask that sort of question after the experience concerned is past the dangerous stage.”

“So I'm becoming as thoughtlessly blasé about risk and death as your inhabitants.”

The avatar nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Encouraging, isn't it?”.

“No. Depressing.”

The avatar laughed. It looked up at the sides of the gorge as the river funnelled its way onward to join Masaq' Great River via Ossuliera City. “We'd better get back,” the silver-skinned creature said. “Ilom Dolince will be dying soon, and Nisil Tchasole coming back.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn't want to miss either of your grotesque little ceremonies, would we?”.

They turned and walked around the corner of the deck. The barge powered its way through the chaos of waves, its bows smacking into surging piles of white and green water and throwing great curtains of spray into the air to land like torrential squalls of rain across
the decks. The buffeted vessel tipped and heaved. Behind it, the cradle was slowly and steadily submerging itself again in the raging currents.

A lump of water crashed onto the deck behind them, turning the promenade into a surging river half a meter deep. Ziller had to drop to all threes and use one hand on the deck rail to steady himself as they made their way through the torrent to the nearest doors. The avatar walked sloshing through the stream surging around its knees as though indifferent. It held the doors open and helped Ziller through.

In the foyer, Ziller shook himself again, spattering the gleaming wooden walls and embroidered hangings. The avatar just stood and the water fell off it, leaving its silvery skin and its matte clothes completely dry while the water drained away from its feet across the decking.

Ziller dragged a hand through his face fur and patted his ears. He looked at the immaculate figure standing smiling opposite him while he dripped. He wrung some water out of his waistcoat as he inspected the avatar's skin and clothing for any remaining sign of moisture. It appeared to be perfectly dry. “That is a very annoying trait,” he told it.

“I did offer earlier to shelter both of us from the spray,” the avatar reminded him. The Chelgrian pulled one of his waistcoat pockets inside out and watched the resulting stream of water hit the deck. “But you said you wanted fully to appreciate the experience with all your senses including that of touch,” the avatar continued. “Which I have to say I did think was a little casual at the time.”

Ziller looked ruefully at his sodden pipe and then at the silver-skinned creature. “And that,” he said, “is another one.”

A small drone carrying a very large, neatly folded white towel of extreme fluffiness banked around a corner and sped along the passage toward them, coming to a sudden stop at their side. The avatar took the towel and nodded to the other machine, which dipped and raced away again.

“Here,” the avatar said, handing the Chelgrian the towel.

“Thank you.”

They turned to walk down the passageway, passing saloons where small groups of people were watching the tumbling waters and roiling mists of spray outside.

“Where's our Major Quilan today?” Ziller asked, rubbing his face in the towel.

“Visiting Neremety, with Kabe, to see some sworl islands. It's the first day of the local school's Tempt Season.”

Ziller had seen this spectacle himself on another Plate six or seven years earlier. Tempt Season was when the adult islands released the algal blooms they'd been storing to paint fabulous swirling patterns across the craterine bays of their shallow sea. Allegedly the display persuaded the sea-floor-dwelling calves of the year before to surface and blossom into new versions of themselves.

“Neremety?” he asked. “Where's that?”.

“Half a million klicks away if it's a stride. You're safe for now.”

“How very reassuring. Aren't you running out of
places to distract our little message-boy with? Last I heard you were showing him around a factory.” Ziller pronounced the last word through a snorting laugh.

The avatar looked hurt. “A starship factory, if you please,” it said, “but yes, a factory nevertheless. Only because he asked, I might add. And I've no shortage of places to show him, Ziller. There are places on Masaq' you haven't even heard of you'd love to visit if only you knew about them.”

“There are?” Ziller stopped and stared at the avatar.

It halted too, grinning. “Of course.” It spread its arms. “I wouldn't want you to know all my secrets at once, would I?”.

Ziller walked on, drying his fur and looking askance at the silver-skinned creature stepping lightly at his side. “You are more female than male, you know that, don't you?” he said.

The avatar raised its brows. “You really think so?”.

“Definitely.”

The avatar looked amused. “He wants to see Hub next,” it told him.

Ziller frowned. “Come to think of it, I've never been there myself. Is there much to see?”.

“There's a viewing gallery. Good outlook on the whole surface, obviously, but no better than most people get when they arrive, unless they're in a terrible hurry and fly straight up to the undersurface.” It shrugged. “Apart from that, not much to see.”

“I take it all your fabulous machinery is just as boring to look at as I imagine it to be.”

“If not more so.”

“Well, that ought to distract him for a good couple
of minutes.” Ziller towelled under his arms and—rising to walk, stooped, on his hind legs alone—around his midlimb. “Have you mentioned to the wretch that I may well not appear at the first performance of my own symphony?”.

“Not yet. I believe Kabe might be raising the subject today.”

“Think he'll do the honorable thing and stay away?”.

“I really have no idea. If the suspicions we share are correct, E. H. Tersono will probably try and talk him into going.” The avatar flashed Ziller a wide smile. “It will employ some sort of argument based on the idea of not giving in to what it will probably characterize as your childish blackmail, I imagine.”

“Yes, something as shallow as that.”

“How fares
Expiring Light?”
the avatar asked. “Are the primer pieces ready yet? We're only five days away and that's close to the minimum time people are used to.”

“Yes, they're ready. I just want to sleep on a couple of them one more night, but I'll release them tomorrow” The Chelgrian glanced at the avatar. “You're quite sure this is the way to do it?”.