She thought about this. “Yes,” she said. She wasn’t sure she approved of somebody who just assumed it was all right to manhandle her, remove something that wasn’t his and just throw it away like it was something worthless.
His name was Admile. She told him her name was Led because she thought Lededje was too much of a mouthful.
“I am looking for a ship’s avatar,” she told him.
“Oh,” he said. “I thought you were, you know, cruising.”
“Cruising?”
“For sex.”
“Possibly that too,” she said. “Well, definitely, though…” She had been going to say definitely but possibly not with him, but then thought that might be too blunt.
“You want to have sex with a ship’s avatar?”
“Not necessarily. The two quests are separate.”
“Hmm,” Admile said. “Follow me.”
She frowned, then followed him. The place was busy, packed with people of a variety of body shapes, though mostly pan-human. Outside the sound fields it was very noisy with Chug, which she was starting to suspect was the type of music rather than anything more specific. Knots of people got in their way and they pushed through. Clouds of fragrant fumes created smoke-screens across the space; she nearly lost Admile twice. They passed one cleared circle where two naked men, hobbled by short ropes tied round their ankles, were bare-knuckle fighting, then another where a man and a woman, both wearing only masks, were fighting with long, curved swords.
They came to a sort of deep, sunken, wide alcove where, amongst a plethora of cushions, bolsters and other padded-looking bits of furniture, a startling variety of people, perhaps twenty in all, were indulging in enthusiastic sex. A semicircle of people were gathered around the perimeter, laughing, clapping, shouting comments and offering advice. One couple amongst those looking on were just getting undressed, apparently about to start taking part.
Lededje was not especially shocked; she had witnessed and been obliged to take part in orgies back on Sichult; Veppers had gone through a stage of enjoying them. She had not appreciated the experience, though she supposed that might have been more to do with the lack of choice involved than the surfeit of numbers. She hoped Admile wasn’t about to suggest that they, or even just she, ought to join in the group sex. She felt that a rather more romantic setting might be more appropriate for this body’s first sexual experience.
“There he is,” Admile said. Probably; it was noisy again.
She followed him to the far side of the semicircle of voyeurs, where a fat little man stood surrounded by mostly young people. He was dressed in what looked like a shiny, highly patterned dressing gown. His hair was thin and lank and his face was jowly and covered in sweat. He was, she realised when she thought about it, the fattest person she had seen since she’d been here, by some margin.
The fat little man was repeatedly spinning a coin in the air and catching it. Each time the coin landed on his pudgy palm its top surface flashed red. “It’s skill,” he kept saying as the people around him shouted and called out. “It’s skill, that’s all. Look. I’ll make it green this time.” This time when the coin landed it flashed green instead of red. “See? Skill. Muscle control, concentration: skill. That’s all.” He looked up. “Admile. Tell these people this is just skill, won’t you?”
“Anything riding on this?” Admile asked. “Any bets been taken?”
“Nothing!” the little fat man said, tossing the coin again. Red.
“Okay,” Admile said. “It’s just skill,” he told the people.
“See?” the little fat man said. Red.
“That doesn’t make it fair though,” Admile added.
“Oh, you’re no use,” the little fat man tutted. Red again.
“Led, this is Jolicci. He’s an avatar. You’re an avatar, aren’t you, Jolicci?”
“I’m an avatar.” Red. “Of the good ship Armchair Traveller.” Red. “A more than averagely peripatetic GCU of the…” Red. “Mountain class…” Red. “An avatar who I swear is using nothing…” Red. “But muscular skill to make this coin come up red.” Red. “Every…” Red. “… single…” Red. “… time!” Green. “Oh, fuck!”
There was jeering. He bowed — sarcastically, Lededje thought, if such a thing was possible. He tossed the coin one last time, watched it flip in the air and then held open the breast pocket of his extravagantly decorated dressing gown. The coin dropped into the pocket. He extracted a kerchief from it and mopped his face as some of the people who’d been watching started to drift away.
“Led,” he said, nodding to her. “Pleased to meet you.” He looked at her, toe to top. She had dressed very conservatively at first, then changed her mind and opted for a short sleeveless dress, deciding to revel in the freedom to do so without displaying her legally approved, Veppers-designed tattoo. Jolicci shook his head. “You don’t look like anything I have stored up here,” he said, tapping his head. “Excuse me while I consult my better half. Oh, you’re Sichultian, is that right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“She wants to have sex with a ship’s avatar,” Admile told him.
Jolicci looked surprised. “Really?” he asked.
“No,” she told him. “I am looking for a disreputable ship.”
“Disreputable?” Jolicci looked even more surprised.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
Perhaps, she thought — avatar or not — he was just one of those people who thought it the height of wit to constantly ask questions when they weren’t called for. “Would you know of one?” she asked.
“Many. Why do you want a disreputable ship?”
“Because I think the Sense Amid Madness, Wit Amidst Folly means to send me away on one that will be too well behaved.”
Jolicci scrunched up one eye, as though this answer had hit him with the force of a spit.
She had been flicking through various documents and presentations she had discovered through her room’s screen, looking at what the Culture knew about and thought of the Enablement, when the ship had called back. “Lededje, I’ve found you a ship,” the vessel’s neutral voice had told her straight out of the screen.
“Oh, thank you.”
The image of what she supposed must be a Culture spaceship had appeared on the screen, pasted over what she’d been looking at. It resembled a rather featureless skyscraper lying on its side. “It’s called The Usual But Etymologically Unsatisfactory.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t worry about the name. The point is, it’s heading in your direction and it’s agreed to take you. It’s setting off late tomorrow afternoon.”
“It will take me to Sichult?”
“Most of the way. It’ll drop you at a place called Bohme, a transfer station and dock complex just outside the Enablement itself. I’ll arrange local transport from there while you’re en route.”
“Won’t I need money to pay for that?”
“Leave that to me. Would you like to talk to the ship? Arrange when to board?”
“Okay.”
She’d talked to The Usual But Etymologically Unsatisfactory. It had sounded cheery but boring. She’d thanked it, thanked the GSV again and then had sat frowning at the screen once control of it was returned to her.
She’d started looking for document sites about Culture spaceships. They appeared to be almost without number; there were millions of ships, each seemed to have what was in effect its own public log book and its own fan club — often more than one — and there were innumerable documents/presentations on particular types and classes of ships or those which had been constructed by specific manufacturies or other ships. It was bewildering. She could understand why Culture people just asked their local AI or Mind for whatever information they wanted; trying to work your way down through all the detail yourself was daunting.