Surface Detail

“We have also heard,” Vatueil said, “that the NR, the Culture and the GFCF are currently in some way engaged in the Sichultian Enablement, especially around the Tsungarial Disk. Assuming this is the case, it was thought important that you were informed – at the highest level – that the Sichultia are on the side which everyone assumes you wish to win in the confliction.”

“Difficult though it may be for you to imagine somebody keeping their word in any circumstances, Space Marshal,” the blue bird said, “what makes you think that the Sichultia will stick to the agreement they made with you rather than the one they made with the NR?”

“The agreement made with the NR basically meant doing nothing. The agreement made with us meant becoming involved with a conspiracy that would be largely under the control of others and that would proceed regardless of the Sichultians’ initial operational involvement, while exposing them to a substantial risk of being punished by the NR even if they changed their minds before their part in the conspiracy became crucial. It makes no sense for them to have entered into the agreement unless they were going to see it through.”

“That does make sense,” Zaive said, voice tinkling. “So,” the thin male avatar said, “we should do nothing to stop the Sichultia from doing whatever it is they are doing in and around the Tsungarial Disk?”

Vatueil shrugged. “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m not even going to make any suggestions. We just thought you should know what’s going on.”

“We understand,” Zaive said.

“I have some intelligence,” the blue bird announced.

Vatueil turned and looked levelly at it.

“My intelligence tells me that you are a traitor, Space Marshal Vatueil.”

Vatueil continued to look at the bird as it flapped lazily in front of him. The orange-red cloud above the Scar Glamour’s avatar had stopped raining. Vatueil turned to address Zaive. “I have no more to report. If I may be excused…”

“Yes,” the chandelier said. “Though there was no indication with the signal carrying you what was to be done with your mind-state following delivery of your message. I think we all assumed that you were to be returned to your war sim high command, but perhaps you had something else in mind?”

Vatueil smiled. “I’m to be deleted,” he said. “To avoid any further unseemly hint at complicity with the anti-Hell forces on your part.”

“How very thoughtful,” the silver-skinned vaguely female avatar said. Vatueil chose to assume that she meant it.

“I’m sure we can offer you the processing space to be housed within a Virtuality,” Zaive said. “Wouldn’t you rather-?

“No, thank you. My original has been through more virtualities, downloads and re-incorporations than he cares to think about. Any selves he sends out such as myself are quite inured to the thought of personal deletion so long as we know our original persists somewhere.” The Space Marshal smiled, and knew that he looked resigned as he did so. “And even if not… this has been a very long war, and I am very tired, in all my iterations. Death no longer seems so terrible a thing, on any level.”

“That may,” the blue bird said, “be just as well.” For once though, its tone was less than cutting.

“Indeed,” Vatueil said. He looked round them all. “Thank you for listening. Goodbye.” He looked at the chandelier and nodded.

He winked out of existence.

“Well,” Zaive said.

“Do we take this at face value?” the silver-skinned avatar asked.

“It fits well with what we know,” the wooden dummy said. “Better than most sims.”

“And do we trust the Space Marshal?” Zaive asked.

The bird made a snorting sound. “That errant, ramshackled ghost?” it said scornfully. “He’s known of old; I doubt he even remembers who he used to be, let alone what he believes in or most recently promised.”

“We don’t need to trust it to incorporate the import of its information into our calculations,” the silver-skinned female said.

The thin male avatar looked at the chandelier. “You need to tell your accident-prone agent to stop wasting time and get to where she’s supposed to get to, preferably without, this time, getting any more innocent people killed. Stop the Y’breq woman killing Veppers.” The man turned to the blue bird with the orange-red cloud hanging over it. “Though of course that won’t be necessary if SC would just tell the Falling Outside The Normal Moral Constraints to stop indulging whatever bizarre fantasies of gallantry, vicarious revenge or just devilment it’s currently revelling in.”

“Don’t look at me,” the Scar Glamour’s avatar said, flapping indignantly. “That bastard excuse for a picket ship’s got nothing to do with me.” The bird cocked its head and looked up at the orange cloud. “You’d better be listening,” it squawked. “You’ve got the contacts; you talk to the GSV that spawned that particular Abomination; get it to try and bang some sense into the bug-fuck shrapnel that makes up what passes for a Mind in that demented machine.”