"Very pretty," he wheezed. "What is it?"
Leffid smiled. He tapped the rightmost symbol. "First, it's an Elench signal because it's base eight and arranged in that pattern. This first symbol is an emergency distress mark. The other six are probably — almost certainly, by convention — a location."
"Really?" Lellius did not sound especially impressed. "And the location of this location?"
"About seventy-three years into the Upper Swirl from here."
"Oh," Lellius said with a sort of rumbling noise that probably meant he was surprised. "Just six digits to define such a precise point?"
"Base two-five-six; easy," Leffid said, shrugging his wings. "But what's interesting is where I saw this signal."
"Mm-hmm?" Lellius said, momentarily distracted by something happening on the race track. He took another drink then returned his attention to the other man.
"It was on an Affronter light cruiser," Leffid said quietly. "Burned into its scar-hull. Very lightly, very shallowly; at an angle across the blades-"
"Blades?" Lellius asked.
Leffid waved one hand. "Decoration. But it was there. If I hadn't been very close to the ship — in a yacht — as it was approaching Tier I'd never have seen it. And the intriguing possibility exists, of course, that the ship doesn't know it bears this message."
Lellius stared at the napkin for a moment. He sat back. "Hmm," he said. "Mind if I turn on my lace?"
"Not at all," Leffid said. "I already know the ship's called the Furious Purpose and it's back here unscheduled, in Dock 807b. If it's a mechanical problem it's got, I can't imagine it's anything to do directly with the scarring. As for the location in the signal; it's about half way between the stars Cromphalet I/II and Esperi… slightly closer to Esperi. And there's nothing there. Nothing that anybody knows about, anyway."
Leffid tapped at the pocket terminal and after some experimentation got the beam to brighten until it ignited the napkin he'd written on. He let it burn and was about to sweep the ashes into the table's disposal slot when Lellius — who was slumped back in the seat, looking blank — reached out one red hand and absently ground the ashes under his palm before scattering them to the breeze; they fell floating away from the carousel in an insubstantial cloud, towards the seats and private boxes stacked below.
"Some minor running-gear problem," Lellius said. "The Affronter ship." He was silent a moment longer. "The Elench may have had a problem," he said, nodding slowly. "A clan-fleet — eight ships — left here a hundred days ago to investigate the Swirl."
"I remember," Leffid said.
"There have been," Lellius paused, "… indications — barely even rumours — that not all has been right with them."
"Well," Leffid said, placing his palms flat on the table and making to rise from his seat, "it may be nothing, but I just thought I'd mention it."
"Kind," Lellius wheezed, nodding. "Not sure what the Tendency can do with it; last ship we had coming here went Sabbatical on us, ungrateful cur, but we might be able to trade it to the Mainland."
"Yes, the dear old Mainland," Leffid said. It was the term the AhForgetlt Tendency usually employed to refer to the Culture proper. He smiled. "Whatever." He held his wings away from the seat-back as he stood.
"Sure you won't stay?" Lellius said, blinking. "We could have a betting competition. Bet you'd win."
"No thanks; this evening I'm playing host to a lady who needs two place settings at a time and I have to go polish my cutlery and make sure my flight feathers are fettled for ruffling."
"Ah. Have armfuls of fun."
"I suspect I shall."
"Oh, damn," Lellius said sadly, as a great shout went up from below and to most sides; the race was over.
Lellius leant over and scratched out another couple of numbers on the wax tablet.
"Never mind," Leffid said, patting the vice-consul on his ample shoulder as he headed for the swaying cable bridge that would take him back to the main trunk of the huge artificial tree.
"Yes," Lellius sighed, looking at the smudge of ash on his hand. "I'm sure there'll be another race starting in a while."
III
The black bird Gravious flew slowly across the re-creation of the great sea battle of Octovelein, its shadow falling over the wreckage-dotted water, the sails and decks of the long wooden ships, the soldiers who stood massed on the decks of the larger vessels, the sailors who hauled at ropes and sheets, the rocketeers who struggled to rig and fire their charges, and the bodies floating in the water.
A brilliant, blue-white sun glared from a violet sky. The air was crisscrossed by the smoky trails of the primitive rockets and the sky seemed supported by the great columns of smoke rising from stricken warships and transports. The water was dark blue, ruffled with waves, spattered with the tall feathery plumes of crashing rockets, creased white at the stem of each ship, and covered in flames where oils had been poured between ships in desperate attempts to prevent boarding.
The bird flew over the edge of the sea scene, where the water ended like a still, liquid cliff and the unadorned floor of the general bay resumed, just five metres below, its surface also covered with what looked like wreckage — as though the tide had somehow gone out in this part of the bay but not the other — but which on closer inspection proved to be objects — parts of ships, parts of people — which had been in the process of construction. The incomplete sea battle filled less than half of the bay's sixteen square kilometres. This would have been the Sleeper Service's master-work, its definitive statement. Now it might never be finished.
The black bird flew on, passing a few of the ship's drones on the surface of the bay, gathering the construction debris and loading it onto an insubstantial conveyor belt which appeared to consist of a thin line of shady air. It kept beating. Its goal lay on the far end of the doubled general bay, between this internal section and the bay that opened to the rear of the ship. Damn the woman for choosing to stay at the bows, nearest to where the tower had been. Bad luck the place it had to be was so close to the stern.
It had already flown through twenty-five kilometres of interior space, down the gigantic, dark internal corridor in the centre of the ship, between closed bay doors where a few dim lights glowed and utter silence reigned, a kilometre of air below its gently flapping wings, another above and one to each side.
The bird had looked about it, taking in the huge, gloomy volumes and supposing it ought to feel privileged; the ship had kept it out of these places for the last forty years, restricting it to the upper kilometre of its hull which housed the old accommodation areas and the majority of its Storees. Gravious had senses beyond those normally available to an ordinary animal, and it had employed a couple of them in an attempt to probe the bay doors and find out what lay behind them, if anything. As far as it could tell, the thousands of bays were empty.
That had only taken it as far as the general bay engineering space, the biggest single volume in the ship with the divisions down; nine thousand metres deep, nearly twice that across and filled with noise and flickering lights and blurringly fast motion as the ship created thousands of new machines to do… who-knew-what.
Most of the engineering space wasn't even filled with air; the material, components and machines could move faster that way. Gravious was flying down a transparent traveltube set into the ceiling. Nine kilometres of that took it to a wall which led into the relative serenity — or at least, stillness — of the sea battle tableau. It was halfway across that now; just another four thousand metres to go. Its wing muscles ached.