Matter by Iain M. Banks
“So, Poatas,” Oramen said, louder now, so that all could hear again. “Show me what brought my little gathering to such an abrupt conclusion.”
“Of course, sir,” Poatas whispered, and hobbled off, staff echoing on the boards, to speak with a couple of the technicians.
“Sir, if you would,” one of the white-suited men said to Oramen. The fellow was middle-aged, pallid and nervous-looking, though he also seemed excited, energised. He indicated that Oramen should stand at a particular point on the platform in front of a panel on the Sarcophagus that looked a shade lighter than the rest of the visible structure.
“Sir,” Poatas said, “may I present Senior Technician Leratiy.” Another man bowed to Oramen. He was more fully built though just as pallid. He wore a set of overalls that looked better and more generously cut than those of his colleagues.
“Prince Regent. An honour, sir. I should warn you, however,” he said, “that the effect is one of . . . being read, somehow, and then having images of, well . . .” The fellow smiled. “I ought to let you see for yourself. I cannot tell you quite what to expect because everyone who has experienced this phenomenon thus far has encountered something rather different from everybody else, though common themes do seem to predominate in the results. It would be wrong of me, in any case, to prejudice your impressions. If you will only remember to attempt to recall what it is that you experience and then be willing to communicate whatever that may be to one of the technician-recorders, I should be most extremely grateful. Please step forward; the focus appears to be about here.”
There was a rough square marked on the boards beneath Oramen’s feet; he stepped into it. One of the technicians came forward with what looked like a small flat box, but Senior Technician Leratiy waved him away with one imperious hand. “The Prince Regent is of sufficient height,” he muttered. Then, checking that Oramen’s feet were within the square, he said, “Please, sir, merely stand there a little while, if you please.” The senior technician took out a large pocket watch and inspected it. “The process usually begins after approximately one half-minute. With your permission, sir, I shall time events.”
Oramen nodded. He looked quizzically at the patch of light grey in front of him.
For some few moments, there was nothing. Nothing happened at all except that he started to wonder if this was all some elaborate joke, or even a convoluted and over-organised attempt, again, to kill him. He was stood in one obviously very well-worked-out spot. Might this be where an assassin’s rifle shot was targeted, perhaps even through the grey curtains obscuring this part of the platform from the rest of the chamber?
The experience began as a tiny dizziness. He felt oddly imbalanced for a moment, then the dizziness itself seemed to steady him somehow, as though compensating for its own disruptive effects. He felt a strange sensation of weightlessness and carelessness all at once, and for an instant was utterly unsure where he was or when, and how long he had been wherever he was. Then he was fully aware once more, but could feel a sort of rushing in his head, and a cacophonous medley of everything he’d ever heard or felt or seen or known seemed to tear through him.
He felt like a man sitting in a sunlit room watching a gaudy parade that represented in some detail every aspect of his life since birth all rushing past outside, taking only a few seconds to pass and yet allowing him to see and recognise individual bursts and fragments of that long-stored, mostly forgotten life.
Then it was gone – how quickly over!
Then yearning. Yearning for a lost mother, a crown and a whole kingdom; craving the love of all and the return of a long-departed sister, mourning a dead brother and the unrecoverable love, respect and approval of a departed father . . .
He stepped out of the square, breaking the spell.
He took a couple of deep breaths then turned and looked at Senior Technician Leratiy. After some moments he said, “You may tell your technician-recorder I experienced a sense of loss and a sense of longing, both expressed in terms of personal experiences.” He looked round the others on the platform, all of them watching him. There were one or two smiles, nervous-seeming. Oramen nodded at Senior Technician Leratiy. “An interesting experience. I take it that what I felt was on a par with the sensations others had?”
“Loss, yearning,” Leratiy confirmed. “Those are indeed the emotions felt in common, sir.”
“You think this qualifies it as being in any way alive?” Oramen asked, glancing, frowning, at the grey surface.
“It is doing something, sir,” Poatas said. “To be doing anything after so long buried is perfectly astounding. No other object in the excavations has ever worked in this manner before.”
“It could be working as a waterwheel might work or a windmill might work, dug out of a similar caking of mud or dust,” Oramen suggested.
“We think it is something more than that, sir,” Leratiy said.
“Well then, what would be your next step?”
Leratiy and Poatas exchanged looks. “We believe, sir,” Senior Technician Leratiy said, “that the object is trying to communicate, but can only do so at the moment through crude images; the strongest ones the human soul experiences; those of loss and yearning amongst them. We believe that it may be possible to allow the object to communicate more fully by, quite simply, teaching it to speak a language.”
“What? Shall we talk baby-talk to it?” Oramen asked.
“If it could hear and speak, sir,” Leratiy said, “it probably would have tried to talk to us by now; a hundred or more labourers, engineers, technicians and other experts have been speaking in its vicinity since well before we discovered the curious property you have just experienced.”
“What, then?” Oramen asked.
Leratiy cleared his throat. “The problem facing us here, sir, is unique in our history but not that of others. It has been experienced many times before over many eons and by a multiplicity of peoples facing an uncounted number of similar relics and artifacts. There are established and highly successful techniques employed by peoples from the Optimae down which may be employed to establish communication with just such an object.”
“Indeed,” Oramen said. He looked from Leratiy to Poatas. “Have we access to such techniques?”
“At a remove, sir, yes,” Poatas said. “An Enabler machine can be ours to command.”
“An Enabler machine?” Oramen asked.
“We would rely on the Oct to provide and operate the equipment involved, sir,” Leratiy said, “though it would, of course,” he added quickly, “be under our most diligent and intense supervision. All would be noted, recorded, tabulated and filed. On any subsequent occasions it may well be that we would be able to employ the same techniques directly ourselves. Thus, our benefit would be twofold, or indeed of an even higher order.”
“We both,” Poatas began, glancing at the senior technician, “feel it is of the utmost importance—”
“Again,” Oramen interrupted, “is not this sort of technology transfer, this kind of help banned, though?” He looked at the two men in turn. They both looked awkward, glancing at each other.
Leratiy cleared his throat again. “The Oct claim that if they operate it, sir, then – as it is being directed at something that in effect already belongs to them – the answer is no, it is not banned.”
“Indeed,” Poatas said, lifting his chin defiantly.
“They claim this thing?” Oramen asked, glancing at the cube. This was a new development.
“Not formally, sir,” Leratiy replied. “They accept our prior claim. However, they believe it may form part of their ancient birthright, so take a particular and profound interest in it.”
Oramen looked around. “I see no Oct here. How do you know all this about them?”
“They have communicated through a special emissary by the name of Savide, sir,” Poatas said. “He has appeared within this chamber on a couple of occasions, and been of some consultant help.”
“I was not informed of this,?
“You were injured, confined to bed, sir,” Poatas said, studying the planking at his feet for a moment.
“That recently, I see,” Oramen said. Poatas and Leratiy both smiled at him.
“Gentlemen,” Oramen said, smiling back, “if it is your judgement we should allow the Oct to help us, then let them. Have them bring their wonderful techniques, their Enabler machines, though do what you can to find out how they work. Very well?” he asked.
The two men looked both surprised and delighted.
“Indeed, sir!” Senior Technician Leratiy said.
“Sir!” Poatas said, lowering his head.
Oramen spent the rest of the day organising what were in effect all the trappings of a small state, or at least looking on as others did the actual organising. Apart from anything else they were resurrecting a disbanded army, turning the men who had been soldiers and had become excavationers back into soldiers again. There was no shortage of men, only of weapons; most of the guns that had equipped the army were stored in armouries back in Pourl. They would have to do the best they could with what they had. The situation ought to improve a little; some of the workshops in the Settlement were already turning their forges and lathes to the production of guns, though they would not be of especially high quality.
The people he entrusted to oversee this were all from relatively junior ranks; almost his first action had been to gather together all the senior people tyl Loesp had put in place, including General Foise, and send them off to Rasselle, allegedly as a delegation to explain Oramen’s actions but in reality just to be rid of people he was no longer sure he could trust. Some of his new advisers had cautioned that he was sending able officers with a clear idea of the precise strengths and weaknesses of Oramen’s own forces straight to their enemy, but he was not convinced this was sufficient reason to let them stay, and was reluctant to attempt to intern or imprison them.
Foise and the others had departed, reluctant but obedient, on a train only a few hours earlier. Another train had followed half an hour behind. It was full of soldiers loyal to Oramen carrying plentiful supplies of blasting material, with instructions to mine and guard every bridge between the Falls and Rasselle that could be attained without opening hostilities.
Oramen made his excuses from the planning meeting as soon as he decently could and retired to his carriage for a much-needed nap; the doctors still wanted him to take more days off but he would not, could not. He slept for an hour and then visited Droffo, who was recovering in the principal hospital train.
“You’ve moved quickly then,” Droffo said. He was still bandaged and looked dazed. Various cuts had been cleaned on his face and left to heal in the air, though a couple on one cheek had needed stitches. “Foise went quietly?” He shook his head, then grimaced. “Probably off to plot with tyl Loesp.”
“You think they’ll attack us?” Oramen asked. He sat on a canvas chair drawn up beside Droffo’s bed in the private compartment.
“I don’t know, prince,” Droffo said. “Is there any news yet from tyl Loesp?”
“None. He is not even in Rasselle. He may not have heard yet.”
“I’d be wary of going to meet with him, I know that.”
“You think he himself is behind this?”
“Who else?”
“I thought perhaps . . . people around him.”
“Such as who?” Droffo said.
“Bleye? Tohonlo? People like that.”
Droffo shook his head. “They haven’t the wit.”
Oramen couldn’t think of anybody else by name, with the possible exception of General Foise. Surely not Werreber. Chasque he was not so sure about, but then the Exaltine was not connected between tyl Loesp and any further layers of underlings; he was, as it were, off to one side. Oramen was used to seeing tyl Loesp surrounded by other people – mostly army officers and civil servants – but no, now Droffo mentioned it, there were few regular, identifiable people around him. He had functionaries, lackeys, those who did his bidding, but no real friends or confidants that Oramen knew of. He’d assumed they existed but he just didn’t know them, but maybe they didn’t exist at all.
Oramen shrugged. “But tyl Loesp?” he said, frowning mightily. “I just can’t . . .”
“Vollird and Baerth were his men, Oramen.”
“I know.”
“Is there any news on Vollird?”
“None. Still missing; another ghost to haunt the diggings.”
“And tyl Loesp recommended Tove Lomma to you as well, didn’t he?”
“Tove was an old friend,” Oramen said.
“But one who owed tyl Loesp his advancement. Just be careful.”
“I am, belatedly,” Oramen told him.
“This thing, the Sarcophagus. Is it really all they say?”
“It seems to communicate. The Oct want to try and teach it to talk,” Oramen said. “They have a thing called an Enabler machine which the Optimae use to talk to such dug-up curiosities.”
“Perhaps it’s an oracle,” Droffo said, smiling lopsidedly, stretching his stitched cuts and grimacing again. “Ask it what’s going to happen next.”
What happened next was that, two shifts later, on what was in effect the following day, tyl Loesp sent word by telegraph from Rasselle that there must have been some terrible misunderstanding. Vollird and Baerth must themselves have been victims of a conspiracy and persons unknown were patently plotting to drive a wedge between the regent and the Prince Regent for their own ignoble ends. Tyl Loesp thought it best that he and Oramen meet in Rasselle to discuss matters, reassure themselves of their mutual love and respect and arrange all subsequent dealings in a manner such as would lead to no more rash actions nor unsubstantiated, hinted-at accusations.
Oramen, after discussing this signal with Droffo, Dubrile and the half-dozen or so junior officers who had become his advisers – all acclaimed by their men rather than owing their advancement to tyl Loesp – replied that he would meet tyl Loesp here at the Falls, and he must bring no more than a dozen men with him, lightly armed.
They were still waiting on a reply.
Then, in the middle of what most people were treating as the night, news came that the Sarcophagus was speaking, and the Oct had appeared in force in the chamber around it, arriving via submarine vessels which had found or created channels in the Sulpine river which were still liquid water rather than ice. There was some confusion over whether they had taken over the chamber or not – work was apparently continuing – but they were there in unprecedented numbers and they were demanding to see tyl Loesp or whoever was in charge.
“I thought they were just coming to use this language-teaching device,” Oramen said as he pulled on clothes, wincing with each stretch of arm and leg. Neguste held out his jacket and helped him into it.
Droffo, who was ambulatory if far from fully recovered and who had intercepted the messenger bringing the news, held Oramen’s ceremonial sword belt in his one good hand. His other arm was cradled by a sling. “Perhaps when the thing spoke it said something disagreeable,” he suggested.
“It might have chosen a more agreeable time, that’s sure,” Oramen said, accepting his sword belt.
“Dear WorldGod,” Oramen said when he saw the interior of the great chamber at the Nameless City’s heart. He and Droffo both stopped in their tracks. Neguste, following behind – determined to go wherever his master went to ensure he shared whatever fate awaited and never again be thought either frightened or disloyal – failed to stop in time and bumped into them.
“Begging pardon, sirs,” he said, then saw between them to the chamber. “Well, fuck me upside down,” he breathed.
There were hundreds and hundreds of Oct in the chamber. Blue bodies glistened under the lights, thousands of red limbs shone as though polished. They had entirely surrounded the Sarcophagus, arranging themselves on the cleared floor of the great space in concentric circles of what looked like prostrated devotion, even adoration.
Around Oramen, his personal guard, commanded by Dubrile, jostled into position, trying to leave no gap. They surround me, Oramen thought, while the Oct surround that. But why? The guards too were distracted by the sight of so many Oct, glancing nervously as they took up their positions around Oramen.
White-coated technicians still moved about the chamber and along the scaffolding levels, seemingly untroubled by the presence of the Oct. On the platform where Oramen had stood earlier and experienced the Sarcophagus seemingly trying to communicate with him, the covers had been drawn back so that it was possible to see what was going on. Two Oct were there, along with some white-suited human figures. Oramen thought he recognised both Leratiy and Poatas.
A guardsman was reporting to Dubrile, who saluted Oramen and said, “Sir, the Oct just appeared; their ships are somewhere behind the ice of the Falls; they melted their way through. They came in, some through here, others floating in from places up in the walls. The guards didn’t know what to do. We never thought to have orders to cover such a thing. The Oct seem unarmed, so I suppose we are still in control, but they refuse to move.”
“Thank you, Dubrile,” Oramen said. Poatas was waving wildly from the platform. “Let’s go and see what’s happening, shall we?”
“Oramen-man, prince,” one of the Oct said when Oramen arrived on the platform. Its voice was like dry leaves rustling. “Again. Like meetings meet in time and spaces. As our ancestors, the blessed Involucra, who were no more, to us always were, and now are again without denial, so we are met once more. Think you not?”