The Algebraist by Iain M. Banks Read Free Book Online Page B

hoped that he looked as sceptical as he felt. ‘So what do I have to do?’
    ‘Present yourself to the Audience Chamber, top floor, at nineteen. Preferably a little before.’ They came to a Y-junction and a wider corridor, where red-uniformed technicians were trundling a pallet loaded with complicated-looking equipment towards a set of open double doors ahead.
    ‘I’d like Olmey to be there,’ Fassin said. Tchayan Olmey had been Fassin’s mentor and tutor in his youth, and - had she not become a pure academic in the household library, researching and teaching to the exclusion of undertaking any delves of her own - might have been the next familias and Chief Seer.
    ‘That will not be possible,’ Verpych said, ushering Fassin through the double doors into the room beyond, which was hot, crowded with more red-uniformed technicians and dished, like a small theatre. Dozens of opened cabinets displayed intricate machinery, cables hung from the tall ceiling, snaked across the floor and disappeared into ducts in the walls. The place smelled of oil, singed plastic and sweat. Verpych stood at the top and rear of the room, watching the activity, shaking his head as two techs collided, spilling cable.
    ‘Why not?’ Fassin asked. ‘Olmey’s here. And I rather wanted Uncle Slovius to be able to look in as well.’
    ‘That won’t be possible either,’ Verpych told Fassin. ‘You and you alone have to talk to this thing.’
    ‘I have no choice in this?’ Fassin asked.
    ‘Correct,’ the major-domo said. ‘None.’ He returned his attention to the milling techs. One of the senior ones had approached to within a couple of metres, waiting for an opportunity to speak.
    ‘But why not?’ Fassin repeated, aware as soon as he said it that he was sounding like a small child.
    Verpych shook his head. ‘I don’t know. To the best of my knowledge there is no technical reason. Perhaps whatever is to be discussed is too sensitive for other ears.’ He looked at the red-uniformed man waiting nearby. ‘Master Technician Imming,’ he said brightly. ‘Working on the principle that whatever can go wrong will, I have been weighing up the possibilities that our house automatics have rusted into a single unusable mass, crumbled to a fine powder or unexpectedly declared themselves sentient, necessitating the destruction by fusion warheads of our entire house, Sept and possibly planet. Which is it to be?’
    ‘Sir, we have encountered several problems,’ the technician said slowly, his gaze flicking from Fassin to Verpych.
    ‘I do so hope the next word is "But" or "However",’ Verpych said. He glanced at Fassin. ‘A "Happily" would be too much to ask for, of course.’
    The technician continued. ‘Thanks to our considerable efforts, sir, we believe we have the situation in hand. I would hope that we ought to be ready by the appointed hour.’
    ‘We have the capacity to absorb all that is being transmitted?’
    ‘Just, sir.’ Master Technician Imming gestured to the equipment on the pallet being manoeuvred through the double doors. ‘We are using some spare capacity from the utility systems.’
    ‘Is there any indication of the nature of the subject contained within the signal?’
    ‘No, sir. It will remain in code until activated.’
    ‘Could we find out?’
    Imming looked pained. ‘Not really, sir.’
    ‘Could we not try?’
    ‘That would be nearly impossible, in the time frame, major-domo. And illegal. Possibly dangerous.’
    ‘Seer Taak here is wondering what he is to be faced with. You can give him no clues?’
    Master Technician Imming made a small bow to Fassin. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Wish it were otherwise.’
    Verpych turned to Fassin. ‘We seem unable to help you, Seer Taak. I am so sorry.’
    *
    ‘Whose was this, anyway?’ Ilen asked, keeping her voice down. She looked up into the shadows high above. ‘Who did it belong to?’
    They had swung in through the single great jagged fissure in the ship’s left