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not turning up?'
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons
'You flatter me, Mr Zakalwe,' the woman said, in a superbly deep and sexy
voice. 'I
am not Death, or some imagined Goddess. I am as real as you...' She stroked
his torn, bleeding palm with one long, strong thumb. 'If a little warmer.'
'Oh, I'm sure you're real,' he said. 'I can feel you're rea...'
His voice faded; he looked behind the woman. There was a huge shape appearing
inside the whirling snow. Grey-white like the snow, but a single shade darker,
it floated up behind the woman, quiet and huge and steady. The storm seemed to
die, just around them.
'That's called a twelve person module, Cheradenine,' the woman said. 'It's
come to take you away, if you want to be taken away; to the mainland, if you
like. Or further afield, away with us if you'd prefer that.'
He was tired of blinking and shaking his head. Whatever insane part of his
mind wanted to play this bizarre game out would just have to be humoured for
as long as it took. What it had to do with the Staberinde and the Chair, he
couldn't tell yet, but if that was what it was all about - and what else could
it be about? - then there was still no point, in this weakened, dying state,
trying to fight it. Let it happen. He had no real choice. 'With you?' he said,
trying not to laugh.
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'With us. We'd like to offer you a job.' She smiled. 'But let's talk somewhere
a little warmer, shall we?'
'Warmer?'
She made a single tossing motion with her head. 'The module.'
'Oh; yeah,' he agreed. 'That.' He tried to pull his other hand away from the
packed snow behind, failed.
He looked back at her; she had taken a small flask from her pocket. She
reached round behind him, slowly poured the flask's contents over his hand. It
warmed, and came away steaming gently.
'Okay?' she said, taking his hand, gently helping him up. She pulled some
slippers from her pocket. 'Here.'
'Oh.' He laughed. 'Yeah; thanks.'
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons
She put her arm under one of his, her hand under his other shoulder. She was
strong. 'You seem to know my name,' he said. 'What's yours, if that isn't an
impertinent question?'
She smiled as they walked through the few flakes of gently falling snow,
towards the slab-sided bulk of the thing she'd called a module. It had got so
quiet - despite the snow nearby, streaking past - that he could hear their
feet making the snow creak.
'My name,' she said. 'Is Rasd-Coduresa Diziet Embless Sma da' Marenhide.'
'No kidding!'
'But you may call me Diziet.'
He laughed. 'Yeah; right. Diziet.'
She walked, he stumbled, into the orange warmth of the module interior. The
walls looked like highly polished wood, the seats like burnished hide, the
floor like a fur rug. It all smelled like a mountain garden.
He tried to fill his lungs with the warm, fragrant air. He swayed and turned,
stunned, to the woman.
'This is real
!' he breathed.
With enough breath, he might have screamed it.
The woman nodded. 'Welcome aboard, Cheradenine Zakalwe.'
He fainted.
Twelve
He stood in the long gallery and faced into the light. The tall white curtains
billowed softly around him, quiet in the warm breeze. His long black hair was
lifted only slightly by the gentle wind. His hands were clasped behind his
back. He looked pensive. The silent, lightly clouded skies over the mountains,
beyond the fortress and the city, threw a blank, pervasive light across his
face, and standing there like
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons that, in plain dark clothes, he looked somehow
insubstantial, like some statue, or a dead man propped against the battlements
to fool the foe.
Somebody spoke his name.
'Zakalwe. Cheradenine?'
'Whaa...?' He came to. He looked into the face of an old man who looked
vaguely familiar. 'Beychae?' he heard himself say. Of course; the old man was
Tsoldrin
Beychae. Older-looking than he remembered.
He looked around, listening. He heard a hum and saw a small, bare cabin.
Seaship?
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Spaceship?
Osom Emananish
, a voice from his memory told him. Space-ship; clipper, bound for...
somewhere near Impren (whatever and wherever that was). Impren Habitats.
He had to get Tsol-drin Beychae to the Impren Habitats. Then he remembered the
little doctor and his wonderful field machine with the cutting blue disc.
Digging deeper, in a way that would not have been possible without the
Culture's training and subtle changes, he found the little running loop of
memory that took over from what his brain had already stored. The room with
the fibre optics; blowing a kiss because it was just what he'd wanted; the
explosion, sailing across the bar into the lounge; crashing, hitting his head.
The rest was very vague; distant screams, and being picked up and carried.
Nothing sensible from the voices he'd registered while he'd been unconscious.
He lay for a moment, listening to what his body was telling him. No
concussion.
Slight damage to his right kidney, lots of bruises, abrasions on both knees,
cuts on right hand... nose still mending.
He raised himself up, looked again at the cabin; bare metal walls, two bunks,
one small stool Beychae was sitting on. 'This the brig?'
Beychae nodded. 'Yes; the prison.'
He lay back. He noticed he was wearing a disposable crew jumpsuit. The
terminal bead had gone from his ear, and the lobe was raw and sore enough to
make him suspect the tran-sceiver hadn't relinquished its grip there without a
struggle. 'You too, or just me?' he asked.
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons
'Just you.'
'What about the ship?'
'I believe we are heading for the nearest stellar system, on the vessel's
back-up drive.'
'What's the nearest system?'
'Well, the one inhabited planet is called Murssay. There's a war going on in
part of it; one of those brush-fire conflicts you mentioned. Apparently the
ship may not be allowed to land.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]