When an Affronter went hunting for the artificially fattened treehurdlers, limbcroppers, paralice or skinstrippers that were their favoured prey, it was in a soar-chariot pushed by the animals called swiftwings which lived in a state of perpetual dread, their nervous systems and pheromone receptors painstakingly tuned to react with ever increasing levels of dread and the urge to escape as their masters became more and more excited and so exuded more of the relevant odours.
The hunted animals themselves were artificially terrified as well, just by the very appearance of the Affronters, and so driven to ever more desperate manoeuvres in their frantic urge to escape.
When an Affronters" skin was cleaned it was by the small animals called xysters, whose diligence had been vastly improved by giving them such a frenetic hunger for an Affronter's dead skin cells that unless they were overcome by exhaustion they were prone to bloating themselves literally to the point of bursting.
Even the Affront's standard domesticated food animals had long since been declared as tasting much more interesting when they betrayed the signs of having been severely stressed, and so had also been altered to such a pitch of highly strung anxiety — and husbanded in conditions diligently contrived to intensify the effect — that they inevitably produced what any Affronter worth his methylacetylene would agree was the most inspiringly tasty meat this side of an event horizon.
The examples went on; in fact, reviewing their society, it was more or less impossible to avoid manifestations of the Affronters" deliberate, even artistic use of genetic manipulation to produce through a kind of ebulliently misplaced selfishness — which to them was indistinguishable from genuine altruism — the sort of result it took most societies paroxysms of self-destructive wretchedness to generate.
Hearty but horrible; that was the Affront. "Progress through pain!" It was an Affronter saying. Genar-Hofoen had even heard Fivetide say it. He couldn't recall exactly, but it had probably been followed by a bellowed, "Ho ho ho!"
The Affront appalled the Culture; they appeared so unamendable, their attitude and their abominable morality seemed so secured against remedy. The Culture had offered to provide machines to do the kind of jobs the juvenile castrati did, but the Affront just laughed; why, they could quite easily build machines of their own, but where was the honour in being served by a mere machine?
Similarly, the Culture's attempts to persuade the Affront that there were other ways to control fertility and familial inheritance besides those which relied on the virtual imprisonment, genetic mutilation and organised violation of their females, or to consume vat-grown meat — better, if anything, than the real thing — or to offer non-sentient versions of their hunting animals all met with equally derisive if brusquely good-humoured dismissals.
Still, Genar-Hofoen liked them, and had come even to admire them for their vivacity and enthusiasm; he had never really subscribed to the standard Culture belief that any form of suffering was intrinsically bad, he accepted that a degree of exploitation was inevitable in a developing culture, and leant towards the school of thought which held that evolution, or at least evolutionary pressures, ought to continue within and around a civilised species, rather than — as the Culture had done — choosing to replace evolution with a kind of democratically agreed physiological stasis-plus-option-list while handing over the real control of one's society to machines.
It was not that Genar-Hofoen hated the Culture, or particularly wished it ill in its present form; he was deeply satisfied that he had been born into it and not some other humanoid species where you suffered, procreated and died and that was about it; he just didn't feel at home in the Culture all the time. It was a motherland he wanted to leave and yet know he could always return to if, he wanted. He wanted to experience life as an Affronter, and not just in some simulation, however accurate. Plus, he wanted to go somewhere the Culture had never been, and well, explore.
Neither ambition seemed to him all that much to ask, but he'd been thwarted in both desires until now. He'd thought he'd detected movement on the Affronter side of things before this Sleeper business had come up, but now, if all concerned were to be believed, he could more or less have whatever he wanted, no strings attached.
He found this suspicious in itself. Special Circumstances was not notorious for its desire to issue blank cheques to anyone. He wondered if he was being paranoid, or had just been living with the Affront for too long (none of his predecessors had lasted longer than a hundred days and he'd been here nearly two years already).
Either way, he was being cautious; he had asked around. He still had some replies to receive — they should be waiting for him when he arrived at Tier — but so far everything seemed to tally. He had also asked to speak to a representation of the Desert Class MSV Not Invented Here, the ship acting as incident coordinator for all this — again, this ought to happen on Tier — and he'd looked up the craft's own history in the module's archives and transferred the results to the suit's own AI.
The Desert Class had been the first type of General Systems Vehicle the Culture had constructed, providing the original template for the Very Large Fast Self-Sufficient Ship concept. At three-and-a-bit klicks in length it was tiny by today's standards — ships twice its length and eight times its volume were routinely constructed inside GSVs the size of the Sleeper Service and the whole class had been demoted to Medium Systems Vehicle status — but it certainly had the distinction of age; the Not Invented Here had been around for nearly two millennia and boasted a long and interesting career, coming as close as the Culture's distributed and democratic military command structure had allowed to being in advisory control of several fleets in the course of the Idiran War. It was now in that equivalent of serenely glorious senescence that affected some ancient Minds; no longer producing many smaller ships, taking relatively little to do with Contact's normal business, and keeping itself relatively sparsely populated.
It remained, nevertheless, a full Culture ship; it hadn't taken a sabbatical, gone into a retreat or become an Eccentric, nor had it joined the Culture Ulterior — the fairly recently fashionable name for the bits of the Culture that had split away and weren't really fully paid-up members any more. All the same, and despite the fact that the archive entry on the old ship was huge (as well as all the naked factual stuff, it contained one hundred and three different full-length biographies of the craft which it would have taken him a couple of years to read), Genar-Hofoen couldn't help feeling that there was a slight air of mystery about the old ship.
It also occurred to him that Minds wrote voluminous biographies of each other in order to cover the odd potentially valuable or embarrassing nugget of truth under a mountain of bullshit.
Also included in the archive entries were some fairly wild claims by a few of the smaller, more eccentric news and analyses journals and reviews — some of them one-person outfits — to the effect that the MSV was a member of some shadowy cabal, that it was part of a conspiracy of mostly very old craft which stepped in to take control of situations which might threaten the Culture's cozy proto-imperialist meta-hegemony; situations which proved beyond all doubt that the so-called normal democratic process of general policy-making was a complete and utter ultra-statist sham and the humans — and indeed their cousins and fellow dupes in this Mind-controlled plot, the drones — had even less power than they thought they had in the Culture… There was quite a lot of stuff like that. Genar-Hofoen read it until his head felt as if it was spinning, then he stopped; there came a point when if a conspiracy was that powerful and subtle it became pointless to worry about it.