Iain M. Banks by The Algebraist

Author:The Algebraist
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-04-04T23:19:31+00:00

‘Over-kind. This alone is most sufficient.’

‘The GasClipper regatta?’ Captain Slyne said. He scratched his mantle. ‘I thought you wanted to go back to Munueyn?’

‘There was no reason to let our hosts know where we were really heading,’ Fassin told Slyne.

‘You are suspicious of them?’ Y’sul asked.

‘Just no reason to trust them,’ Fassin said.

‘The regatta takes place around the Storm Ultra-Violet 3667, between Zone C and Belt 2,’ the colonel said. ‘Starting in sixteen days. Have we time to get there, captain?’

They were in Slyne’s cabin, a fairly grand affair of flickering wall-screens and antique furniture, the ceiling hung with ancient ordnance: guns, blaster tubes and crossbows all swaying gently as the Poaflias powered away at half-throttle from Valseir’s old house. So far Fassin had told Hatherence where they were really going, though not why.

Slyne let himself tilt, looking as though he was about to fall over. He did some more mantle scratching. ‘Ithink so. I’d better change course, then.’

‘Leave the course change for a little longer, would you?’ Fassin asked. They were only a half-hour away from the bubble house. ‘Though you might go to full speed.’

‘Have to anyway, if we’re to get to that Storm in time,’ Slyne said, turning and manipulating a holo cube floating over his halo-shaped desk. The largest screen, just in front of him, lit up with a chart of the volume and quickly became covered in gently curved lines and scrolling figure boxes. Slyne peered at this display for a few moments, then announced: ‘Full speed, we can be there in eighteen days. Best I can do.’ Slyne gripped a large, polished-looking handle sitting prominently on his desk and pushed it, with a degree of obvious relish, if also a little embarrassment, to its limit. The tone of the ship’s engines altered and the vessel began to accelerate gradually.

‘We might contact Munueyn and hire a faster ship,’ Y’sul suggested. ‘Have it rendezvous with the Poaflias en route and transfer to it.’

Slyne rocked back, staring at the older Dweller with patterns of betrayal and horror (non-mild) spreading across his signal skin.

‘Eighteen days will have to do, captain,’ Fassin told Slyne. ‘I don’t think we need be there for the very start of the tournament.’

‘How long do these competitions last, in generality?’ Hatherence asked.

Slyne tore his gaze from an unconcerned-looking Y’sul and said, ‘Ten or twelve days, usually. They might cut this one a little short because of the War. We’ll be there in time for most of it.’

‘Good,’ Fassin said. ‘Stay on your current course for another half-hour, if you please, captain. Turn for the Storm then.’ Slyne looked happier. ‘Consider it done.’

Slyne took advantage of a WindRiver, a brief-lived ribbon of still faster current within the vast, wide jet stream of the whole rotating Zone, and they made good time. They were challenged twice by war craft but allowed to continue on their way, and slipped through a mine net, a wall of dark lace thrown across the sky, dotted with warheads. Dreadnought-catcher, nothing to worry them, Slyne assured them.

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