Surface Detail

If that wasn’t bad enough, they’d lost touch with Veppers, back on Sichult. The last thing they’d heard – minutes before this unwanted call had come in – had been was an unconfirmed report of a large explosion taking place on Veppers’ estate, possibly on the route his aircraft would have taken back to his house. Bettlescroy had been trying to keep calm and not think about what that might imply; now it looked like he had something else to keep calm and not think about.

“‘Off’ them all?” Bettlescroy said carefully. That couldn’t possibly mean what he dreaded, could it? “I’m sorry, I’m not cognisant of that term’s official weight, as it were. Obviously we were aware there had been some sort of engagement a little way beyond the system’s outer limit…”

“I was attacked, without provocation,” the human-looking thing on the screen said. “I retaliated. By the time I’d finished retaliating, fifteen ships were gone. Offed. Deleted. Blown to smithereens. Thing is, they looked remarkably like GFCF ships. In every way, really. The biggest and most capable presented as almost exactly like that one you’re on. A Deepest Regrets class, unless I’m mistaken. Weird eh? How do you account for that?”

“I confess, I cannot. No GFCF craft would ever knowingly attack a Culture vessel.” Bettlescroy could feel his guts churning and his face burning. He was this close to cutting the comms, to give himself time to think if nothing else. Had this… thing just casually obliterated nearly a third of his war fleet? Was it trying to get him to confess something, blurt something out, enrage him with its off-hand attitude? Bettlescroy was very aware of his officers on the bridge keeping extremely quiet; he could feel their gazes on him.

The human on the screen was talking again: “… Excuse they had was something about deeming me to be a hostile, just pretending to be a Culture vessel.”

It was still sinking in. He’d lost a Deepest Regrets-class ship!

Dear Gods of Old! The faction within the GFCF High Command which had authorised this high-risk strategy had known they risked losing vessels and materiel, but no one had so much as hinted they might lose one of their capital ships; not a pride of the fleet, not a Deepest Regrets class. This whole thing would all have to go fabulously well from this point on if he was to be forgiven for that.

“I see. Well, indeed. Yes, I see,” Bettlescroy said, stalling while he got himself under control. “Of course, I have to point out that, as you have said, you are – or were – pretending to be a Torturer class, so-”

“Ah, I get it. You think that might have been the source of the misunderstanding?”

“Well, you can see how it might be.”

“Sure. So, were they your ships, or not?”

Bettlescroy wanted to weep, to scream, to fold himself into a little ball and never talk to anyone ever again. “The operational status of the fleet I was given to command here within the Disk comprises one medium-level, non-military vessel and a screen of eighteen smaller ships. The vessel which you find me on, ah, has just been delivered to us, in recognition of the seriousness of the threat we are facing.”

“Wow. That’s incredibly fast work. Congratulate your simming/planning/dispositioning people.”

“Thank you. More than that I am not at liberty to say, I regret.”

“So what you’re saying is you can’t confirm or deny those were your ships? The ones that attacked me.”

“Effectively. Though if they were ours and they did attack you, it could only have been a mistake.”

“Fine. Just thought I’d check. Also, to let you know; I’m still on my way in. Currently braking hard; due with you guys in the Disk in twelve and a half minutes. Just wanted to keep you informed, so there wouldn’t be any more misunderstandings.”

“Quite. Well, yes, of course. And you are…?”

“The Falling Outside The Normal Moral Constraints, like I said. And definitely a Culture ship. That’s the main thing. Feel free to check my provenance and references. Here to help. One of your allies. All in this together. So. Understand things are a bit awkward in there; happy to get stuck in alongside your good selves. Going to let me have an interface situational with your tactical substrates so I can get a head start on the task in hand?”

“Ah… yes, of course. Relevant protocols agreeing, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“But I meant your class, if you’re not a Torturer?”

“Picket ship. Glorified night-watchman, that’s me.”

“Picket Ship. Picket Ship. Picket Ship. Yes, I see. Well, welcome aboard, if I may make so bold.”

“Cheers, person. With you in twelve minutes.”

Bettlescroy signed to cut the connection. He turned to his Security chief. “We are supposed to be presenting as the Messenger Of Truth. How the fuck could that thing tell we’re actually on a Deepest Regrets class?”

“I have no idea, sir.”