Surface Detail

She was hanging in what looked like a sort of gigantic hollow fruit, all veined and organic-looking, but with a single massive iron bar running right across it, seemingly just so she could hang on it. She lifted first one foot off it, then the other, to make sure that she wasn’t shackled to it. Each foot and leg seemed easily capable of taking her whole weight. She was strong, she realised. Her wings folded back in; she hadn’t even realised that they’d extended again as she’d tried taking her feet off the bar. Some instinctual thing, she supposed.

Beneath her head, looking properly down, there was a sort of frilled opening that looked unpleasantly like a sphincter of some sort. Beyond, she could see what appeared to be drifting, redtinged cloud. She would need to half-fold her wings, she thought, as soon as she saw the aperture.

She felt a strange hunger, and a tremendous urge to fly.

She opened her feet and dropped.

Back aboard the Messenger Of Truth, powering its way back to Vebezua, Veppers sat at an impressively large round table with Bettlescroy, the rest of the GFCF people who had first greeted him when he’d arrived, and several projections – holograms of those unable to be physically present. Even these weren’t being beamed in; they were present aboard the ship in some form, their personalities housed in the vessel’s substrates. This made for better security; increased deniability in other words. All but one were GFCFian, each as small and beautiful as the other.

The only exception was a hologram of another pan-human, a uniformed male called Space-Marshal Vatueil. He was a big, grizzled-looking creature, both unmistakably alien and entirely pan-human. To Veppers he looked barrel-chested with too long a head and freakishly small features. A hero who’d worked his way up through the ranks in the great War in Heaven, allegedly. Veppers had never heard of the guy, though admittedly he’d never taken much notice of the war at all. It had always sounded to him like just a particularly long-winded multi-player war game. He had nothing against long-winded multi-player war games – they were how his ancestors had made the first family mega-fortune – he just didn’t think that anything that happened inside them should qualify as news.

He hoped the GFCF knew what they were doing and who they were dealing with here. One of them had wittered on at the start of the meeting, singing Vatueil’s praises, describing him as a fully accredited member of something called the Trapeze group of the Strategic Operational Space (or something) and saying how they’d had extensive preparatory dealings with this, or that, or him. Like this was meant to set his mind at ease.

“To restate, then,” Bettlescroy said, waving one decorously attenuated limb at Vatueil, “the space-marshal here, on behalf of those forces known as the anti-Hell side, now taking part in the current confliction being overseen by the Ishlorsinami, requests that we – the Veprine Corporation and the currently constituted and here configured sub-section of the Geseptian-Fardesile Cultural Federacy, Special Contact Division – use the facilities of the Tsungarial Disk to build a fleet of warships – currently estimated as numbering between sixty and one hundred million, though that is subject to revision – for the purpose of attacking the processing cores running the virtual realities which house the aforementioned Hells.

“The Veprine Corporation will provide the AI operating systems and navigational software sub-complexes for the vessels, suitably groomed to make them appear stolen and modestly improved in a distinctly Culture style by our good selves. We also undertake to transport a modest proportion of the vessels as rapidly as possible to more distant parts of the galaxy to be deployed where required, if necessary. The anti-Hell forces will provide the expendable combat personalities for the fleet’s leadership hierarchy, these command vessels to make up one sixty-fifth of the total. Similar virtual specialists will also make up the direct hacking teams emplaced on certain designated ships which will attempt to disrupt the inter-Hell information traffic by, where possible, temporarily occupying the substrate housings and support systems and physically interfacing with them, preself-destruct.”

There were nods, their equivalents, and other appropriate gestures and noises of assent.