Surface Detail

Lededje nodded. “Thank you. I shall.” She looked out at the view again. Behind them, on the path on the far side of the low wall, a small group of people passed. They were talking the Culture’s own language, Marain, which Lededje too could now speak and understand, though not without a certain deliberation; Sichultian Formal was still what came naturally to her and was what she and Sensia were speaking now. “You know that I need to get back to Sichult,” she said.

“Business to conclude,” Sensia said, nodding.

“When would I be able to leave?”

“How about tomorrow?”

She looked at the avatar’s brazen skin. It looked false, as though she was made of metal, not genuine flesh and bone. Lededje supposed that was the idea. Her own skin was not so different in tone – from a distance she and Sensia might have looked quite similar in colour – but from close up hers would appear natural, both to a Sichultian and even, she was sure, this motley assortment of strange-looking people.

“That would be possible?”

“Well, you could make a start. You’re some distance away. It’ll take a while.”

“How long?”

Sensia shrugged. “Depends on a lot of things. Many tens of days, I’d guess. Less than a hundred though, I’d hope.” She made a gesture with her hands Lededje guessed was meant to signal regret or apology. “Can’t take you myself; way off my course schedule. In fact, at the moment, we’re heading sort of tangentially away from the Enablement space.”

“Oh.” Lededje hadn’t realised this. “Then the sooner I get started the better.”

“I’ll put the word out to the ships, see who’s interested,” Sensia said. “However. There is a condition.”

“A condition?” She wondered if there was, after all, some form of payment expected.

“Let me be honest with you, Lededje,” Sensia said, with a quick smile.

“Please,” she said.

“We – I – strongly suspect that you may be returning to Sichult with murder in your heart.”

Lededje said nothing for as long as it took for her to realise that the longer she left it to respond, the more like agreement that silence seemed. “Why do you think that?” she asked, trying to imitate Sensia’s level, friendly, matter-of-fact tone.

“Oh, come now, Lededje,” the avatar chided. “I’ve done a little research. The man murdered you.” She waved one hand casually. “Perhaps not in cold blood, but certainly when you were completely helpless. This is a man who has had complete control over you since before you were born, who forced your family into servitude and had you marked for ever as a chattel, engraved like a high-denomination bank-note made out specifically to him. You were his slave; you tried to run, he hunted you like an animal, caught you and, when you resisted, he killed you. Now you are free of him, and free of the marks that identified you as his but with a free pass back to where he – probably imagining that you are entirely dead – still is, quite unsuspecting.” Sensia turned to Lededje at this point, swivelling not just her head but her shoulders and upper body, so that the younger woman could not pretend not to have noticed. Lededje turned too, less gracefully, as Sensia – still smiling – lowered and slowed her voice ever so slightly and said, “My child, you would not be human, pan-human, Sichultian or anything else if you didn’t positively ache for revenge.”

Lededje heard all this, but did not immediately react. There is more, she wanted to say. There is more; it is not just about revenge… but she couldn’t say that. She looked away, kept staring at the view. “What would the condition be, then?” she asked.

Sensia shrugged. “We have these things called slap-drones.”

“Oh yes?” She had vaguely heard of drones; they were the Culture’s equivalent of robots, though they looked more like items of luggage than anything else. Some of the tinier things floating in the great hazy view in front of them were probably drones. She already didn’t like the idea of a variety with the word “slap” in its title.

“They’re things that stop people doing something they probably ought not to do,” Sensia told her. “They… just accompany you.” She shrugged. “Sort of an escort. If it thinks you’re about to do something objectionable, like hit somebody or try to kill them or something, it’ll stop you.”

“Stop… how?”

Sensia laughed. “Well, just shout at you at first, probably. But if you persist, it’ll physically get in the way; deflect a blow or push aside a gun barrel or whatever. Ultimately, though, they’re entirely entitled to zap you; drop you unconscious if need be. No pain or damage, of course, but-”

“Who decides on this? What court?” Lededje asked. She felt suddenly hot, and was acutely aware that on her new, paler skin, a flush might show as a visible blush.

“The court of me, Lededje,” Sensia said quietly, with a small smile Lededje glanced at then looked away from.

“Really? On whose authority?”