Use of Weapons (49 page)

'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.

'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.'

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 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?
Spaceship?

Osom Emananish
, a voice from
his memory told him. Spaceship; clipper, bound for... somewhere near Impren
(whatever and wherever that was). Impren Habitats. He had to get Tsoldrin
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 transceiver hadn't relinquished its grip there without a struggle.
'You too, or just me?' he asked.

'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.'

'Land?'
He grunted, feeling the back of his head. Largish bruise. 'This ship can't
land; it's not built for in-atmosphere stuff.'

'Oh,'
Tsoldrin said. 'Well, perhaps they meant we wouldn't be able to go down to the
surface.'

'Hmm.
Must have some sort of orbiter; a space station, yes?'

Beychae
shrugged. 'I suppose so.'

He
looked round the cabin, making it obvious he was looking for something, 'What
do they know about you?' He gestured round the cabin with his eyes.

Beychae
smiled. 'They know who I am; I've talked to the captain, Cheradenine. They did
receive an order from the shipping company to turn back, though they didn't know
why. Now they know why. The captain had the choice of waiting for Humanist
naval units to pick us up, or heading for Murssay, and he chose the latter -
despite some pressure, I believe - from Governance, via the shipping company.
Apparently he insisted that the distress channel was used when he informed the
shipping line of both what had happened to the ship, and who I was.'

'So
now everybody knows?'

'Yes.
I imagine by now the whole Cluster knows exactly who both of us are. But the
point is that I think the captain might not be entirely unsympathetic to our
cause.'

'Yeah,
but what happens when we get to Murssay?'

'Looks
like we get rid of you, Mr Zakalwe.' said a voice from a speaker overhead.

He
looked at Beychae. 'I hope you heard that too.'

'I
believe that might be the captain,' Beychae said.

'It
is,' said the man's voice, 'And we just got informed that we part company
before we even get to Murssay station.' The man sounded peeved.

'Really,
captain?'

'Yes,
really, Mr Zakalwe; I have just received a military communication from the
Balzeit Hegemonarchy of Murssay. They want to uplift you and Mr Beychae before
we connect with the Station. As they're threatening to attack us if we don't
comply, I intend to do as they ask; technically under protest, but frankly it
will be a relief to be rid of you. I may add that the vessel they intend to
take you off with must be a couple of centuries old, and was not thought to be
space-worthy until now.
If
it
survives to make the rendezvous in a couple of hours, you ought to have an
eventful journey through Murssay's atmosphere. Mr Beychae; I believe if you
reasoned with the Balzeit people they might let you continue with us to Murssay
Station. Whatever you decide, sir, let me wish
you
a safe trip.'

Beychae
sat back on the small stool. 'Balzeit,' he said, nodding thoughtfully. 'I
wonder why they want us?'

'They
want
you
, Tsoldrin,' he said,
swinging his feet off the bed. He looked uncertain. 'They on the good-guys's
side? There's so damn many of these little wars...'

'Well,
in theory they are,' Beychae said. 'I think they believe planets and machines
can have souls.'

'Yeah,
I thought they were,' he said, getting slowly to his feet. He flexed his arms,
moved his shoulders. 'If this Murssay Station is neutral territory, you'd be
better going there, though I'd guess this Balzeit gang want you, not me.'

He
rubbed the back of his head again, trying to remember what the situation was on
Murssay. Murssay was just the sort of place that could start a full-scale war.
There was, in effect, a Consolidationist-Humanist war taking place between
relatively archaic military forces on Murssay; Balzeit was on the
consolidationist side, even though the high command was some sort of
priesthood. Why they wanted Beychae, he wasn't sure, though he vaguely recalled
that the priests were into hero-worship in a fairly serious way. Though, having
heard that Beychae was nearby, maybe they just wanted to hold him to ransom.

Six
hours later they rendezvoused with the ancient Balzeit spacecraft.

'They
want
me
?' he said.

They
stood by the airlock; him, Beychae, the
Osom
Emananish's
captain, and four suited figures with guns. The suited men wore
visored helmets, their pale brown faces visible inside, foreheads marked with a
blue circle. The circles actually seemed to glow, he thought, and he wondered
if they were there because of some generous religious principle, to help
snipers.

'Yes,
Mr Zakalwe,' the captain said. He was a rotund little man with a shaved head.
He smiled. 'They want you, not Mr Beychae.'

He
looked at the four armed men. 'What are they up to?' he asked Beychae.

'I
have no idea,' Beychae admitted.

He
waved his hands out, appealing to the four men. 'Why do you want
me
?'

'Please
come with us, sir,' one of the suited men said, via a suit speaker, in what was
obviously not his first language.

'"Please"?'
he said. 'You mean I have a choice?'

The
man looked uncomfortable in his suit. He talked for a while without any noise
coming from the speaker, then said, 'Sir Zakalwe, is very important you come. You
must. Is very important.'

He
shook his head. 'I must,' he repeated seemingly to himself. He turned to the
captain. 'Captain, sir; could I have my earring back, please?'

'No,'
the captain said, with a beatific grin. 'Now, get off my ship.'

The
craft was cramped and very low tech and the air was warm and smelled of
electrics. They gave him an old suit to put on and he was shown to a couch, and
belted in. It was a bad sign when they made you put a suit on
inside
a ship. The troopers who'd taken
him from the clipper sat behind him. The three-man crew - also suited up -
seemed suspiciously busy, and he had the disquieting impression that the manual
controls in front of them were not just for emergencies.

The
craft re-entered the atmosphere spectacularly; buffeted, creaking, surrounded
by gas glowing bright (seen through, he realised with a gut-wrenching shock,
windows; crystal or glass, not screens), and with a gradually increasing howl.
The air got even warmer. Flashing lights, hurried chatter between the crew, and
some hurried movements and more excited talk, did not make him feel any
happier. The glow disappeared and the sky turned from violet to blue; the
buffeting returned.

They
swept into the night, and plunged into cloud. The flashing lights all over the
control panels looked even more worrying in darkness.

It
was a rolling landing on some sort of runway, in a thunderstorm. The four
troopers who'd boarded the
Osom Emananish
cheered weakly from behind him as the landing gear - wheels, he supposed -
touched down. The craft trundled on for a worryingly long time, slewing twice.