Transition by Iain M. Banks Read Free Book Online

follows her gaze
     as it flicks to the man seated opposite and, sticking his free hand into his grey tunic, produces what looks like a cigar
     tube and hands it to Q’ands.
    He looks at it sadly and then places it in his chest satchel. “Also,” Q’ands says, “I am almost out of—”
    “There are supplies for a dozen journeys in there,” Madame d’Ortolan tells him. “We’re not stupid. We can count.”
    He shrugs. “My apologies for so obviously inconveniencing you.” He sounds hurt. He stands up and runs a hand through his wiry
     brown hair. As he turns to look out into the body of the salon, a sandwich-board man races past, clacking. The resultant breeze
     makes Q’ands’s salwar kameez flutter. “… See if I can intercept my coffee…”
    “Sit down!” she snaps.
    He turns back. “But you said—”
    “Sit!”
    He sits, looking still more wounded.
    “There are certain instructions specific to this matter which have not been written down,” she says. Q’ands looks appropriately
     surprised. She is already finding the way his expression seems to reflect his internal state so immediately and accurately
     extremely vexing. Worryingly unprofessional, too, if he’s like this with everybody. Has he finally gone off the rails? How
     vexing if her long campaign to destabilise the fellow has finally succeeded just when she needs him at his most implacably
     efficient.
    “Indeed?” he says. He looks mystified. Madame d’Ortolan half expects a cartoon thought-bubble bearing a big question mark
     to appear above his head.
    “Indeed,” she tells him. “The written orders mention some names and actions that you may find surprising. Nevertheless, these
     instructions have been subject to particularly careful scrutiny at the highest level, by not one or two but several sufficiently
     security-cleared individuals and you may be assured that there is no mistake. Regarding the final action you are instructed
     to pursue in each case, ignore that course of action as written in your orders. Each of the subjects concerned is
not
to be forcibly transitioned; they are all to be elided. Killed. Expeditiously. Do you understand?”
    Q’ands’s eyes widen. “I am to ignore my written orders?”
    “In that one detail, yes.”
    “
Detail?”
The fellow looks aghast, though probably more at the choice of word than the terminal severity of the action proposed.
    “In writing,” Madame d’Ortolan explains patiently, “you are instructed to find the individuals named, close with them and
     take them away. The spoken amendment I am giving you now is to do all the above, except you are to kill them rather than kidnap
     them.”
    “So that’s an order?”
    “Yes. That is an order.”
    “But—”
    “The written orders issue from my office,” Madame d’Ortolan tells him, her voice acidic. “This verbal order is also from me,
     has also been appropriately vetted and approved, and post-dates the written orders. What about this sequence of events is
     difficult for you to comprehend?”
    There is a hurt silence while the waiter delivers their order. When he goes, Q’ands says, “Well, I take it the verbal orders
     will be confirmed by written—”
    “Certainly not! Don’t be an idiot! There are reasons why this is being handled in this manner.” Madame d’Ortolan sits forward,
     lowers her voice and softens it a little. “The Council,” she tells him, head tipped towards him, drawing him in, “even the
     Concern itself, is under threat, don’t you see? This must be done. These actions must be carried out. They may seem extreme,
     but then so is the threat.”
    He looks unconvinced.
    She sits back. “Just obey your orders, Q’ands. All of them.” She watches as Christophe unseals her bottle of water, wipes
     her glass with a fresh handkerchief and pours. She drinks a little. Q’ands looks most unhappy, but drinks his espresso, finishing
     it with indecent haste in a couple of tossed-back gulps. She has