Surface Detail

It didn’t help that the fabricaria were soot black; they didn’t reflect, glint or really show up at all unless they got in the way of light coming from somewhere else, when they registered as, at best, a spatter of silhouettes. As Razhir itself was a fairly dull-coloured planet – mostly dark reds and browns with only a few lighter yellows at the poles – silhouetting the fabricaria against something wasn’t that easy either.

They looked much better and far more impressive in an enhanced image, their locations signalled by little spots of light superimposed onto the real view of the system. That gave you an impression of just how many of the fuckers there really were.

The GFCF Succour-Class ship Messenger Of Truth swung neatly out of hyperspace with the minimum of fuss just a few hundred klicks out from the Disk’s designated Initial Contact Facility, one of the Disk’s relatively rare habitats rather than a true factory unit. The little space port orbited slowly around Razhir at a distance of just over half a million klicks and so was about as far out as any part of the Disk ever got.

The Facility itself was a fat grey slightly flattened torus ten klicks across and one in diameter, its sides studded with lights and its outer surface barnacled with dock pits and mooring gantries; apparently only six of the Facility’s twenty-five docking points were in use, though that was still twice as many as Veppers had ever seen on previous visits.

Veppers sat in what he judged to be a rather cheesy, over-decorated lounge within the GFCF ship, sprawled within a recliner seat having a pedicure performed by two giggling, naked females who looked to represent a sort of halfway compromise between Sichultians and GFCFians. He’d been told their names but had lost interest in them after about the third giggle.

He sipped on a long drink with pretentious amounts of garnish and a little – allegedly entirely edible – fish swimming around inside. Bettlescroy-Bisspe-Blispin III sat in a smaller but otherwise similar recliner alongside. A roughly spherical floating robot device was gently combing the alien’s head-scales with a softly glowing, immaterial field.

“We are just checking in,” Bettlescroy explained, waving one elegantly formed hand at the screen filling their field of vision in front of them. “This is what is called the Disk Designated Initial Contact Facility, though we usually just call it Reception.”

“I have been here before,” Veppers said. He sort of drawled the remark, though he doubted the subtlety would be lost on the alien. “I own ninety-six of these factories, Bettlescroy, and I dislike being an absentee landlord.”

“Of course, of course,” the alien said, nodding wisely.

Veppers gestured at the screen, where the space station was rotating slowly. “Isn’t that a Culture ship? The one just coming into view?”

“Indeed. Well spotted. That is the Fast Picket, ex ‘Killer’ class Limited Offensive Unit, Hylozoist, of the Culture’s Restoria section. It has been stationed here for the last standard year or so, supporting the Restoria mission within the Disk.”

“Isn’t it likely to be checking us out as we are, as you put it, checking in?”

“That would be impolite,” the alien said with a charming, small smile. “In any event, rest assured that the Messenger Of Truth is one of our finest ships and easily capable of resisting any attempt by a craft like the Hylozoist to intrusively investigate us without our express permission and indeed active cooperation. We can both outgun and outrun the Hylozoist; it is no threat to us or to the actions that may need to be taken in the near future. It has been taken account of and its presence and indeed likely engagement fully factored in to our plans and sims. Plus, without giving too much away-” Bettlescroy’s pale facial skin flushed a little and it held up one delicate hand in modesty. “-I think it is no secret that the Messenger Of Truth is not here, in or near the Disk, alone. It is simply the nominal flagship of our fleet here, and indeed not even the most militarily capable of our immediately applicable assets.”

“Any other Culture ships around?” Veppers asked, eyeing the Fast Picket suspiciously as it moved slowly round in front of them, nested into its docking pit on the Facility’s outer surface.

“No,” Bettlescroy said.

Veppers looked at the alien. “You’re sure?”

It smiled beatifically back. “We’re sure.” It made a graceful, blossoming gesture with its hands. “There. We are registered, checked in. We have done the polite thing and may now go about our business.”

“I take it I haven’t been mentioned?” Veppers asked.

“Of course not. We are here ostensibly simply to carry out regular oversight and minor maintenance as required of our monitoring facilities distributed throughout the greater Disk. We may go where we please.”

“Useful.” Veppers nodded.

“Ship,” Bettlescroy said, “you may continue on to our destination.”