“Was that us?” Yime asked, starting to walk again, going hesi-tantly forward. “Did we cause that?” She stopped. “Did I cause that?” She shook her head. “There was something,” she said, “some issue, some … I antagonised it somehow. Something I said or did …” She knocked one set of knuckles on her temple, gently. “What the hell was it?”
“Possibly we bear some collective technical responsibility,” the drone said. “Though frankly, triggering an act of homicidal insta-bility in a Bulbitian is hardly proof by itself of any culpability. Still, we are certainly attracting the blame from those already-mentioned other species and civs who had people on the Bulbitian. That the entity itself is entirely to blame for an unprovoked attack and that we were its first victims – and, very nearly, its first fatal-ities – seems to matter little compared to the ease with which we may be blamed.”
“Oh, grief,” Yime said, sighing. “There’s going to be an Inquiry, isn’t there?”
“Many, probably,” the drone said, sounding resigned.
“Before we start thinking ahead to the aftermath,” Himerance said, after clearing his throat, “we might do well to contemplate our immediate course.”
“Ms. Y’breq is still our focus,” the Bodhisattva’s drone said. “The point may rapidly be approaching when the input or deci-sions of one person stops making much difference, but for the moment we might hope to influence events through her, if we can find her.”
“And of course,” Himerance said, “Mr. Veppers’ inputs and decisions almost certainly do matter, considerably.”
“So do Ms. Y’breq’s,” Yime said, turning at the far end of the lounge to head back the way she had come. There was no unsteadiness this time. “If she gets near him with a clear shot, or whatever.”
“The latest we have from Sichult places Veppers in a place called Iobe Cavern City, on the planet Vebezua, in the Chunzunzan Whirl,” the drone said.
“There, then,” Himerance said, then hesitated. An expression of surprise crossed his face. “The Culture Restoria mission dealing with the smatter outbreak just discovered more ships being built within the Tsungarial Disk,” he said.
“How many more?” Yime asked.
It was the Bodhisattva’s drone which answered. “One in every fabricaria they’ve looked in so far,” it told her.
Yime stopped. “How many have they looked in?” she asked, looking from the drone to the avatar.
“About seventy, so far,” Himerance said.
“As highly spread as they could manage, too,” the drone said. “Good representative sample.”
“Doesn’t that mean—?” Yime began.
“Could be all of them are making ships,” the drone said.
“All of them?” Yime felt her eyes widening.
“Certainly a very high proportion of the three hundred million fabricaria,” the drone said.
“In the name of grief,” Yime cried, “what do you do with three hundred million ships?”
“You could certainly start a war,” the drone said.
“With that many ships,” Himerance said, “you might end it, too.”
“Nevertheless,” the drone said, “we had best get there.”
“Time to hit sprint,” Himerance said. Then he nodded at the wall screen at the far end of the lounge as it lit up, showing the battered-looking remains of the Bodhisattva floating within the Me, I’m Counting’s field envelope. The crippled, wrecked ship didn’t look that badly damaged, from where they were looking. A little scratched, grazed, crumpled and dented, perhaps. The most serious damage was internal. “Last drone team’s ready to clear,” Himerance announced. “Suggest we forget about that anterior remote stressor.”
“Agreed,” said the drone. The little machine hung very still and steady in the air, giving every impression of staring at the wreck of its ship on the screen.
“Well, I think you should give the command,” Himerance said.
“Of course,” the little drone said.
The hazily shining wall of the field enclosure approached the stricken ship, moved smoothly over it and left it outside, exposed to the distant stars. The view switched to beyond the field enclo-sure, to where the lifeless body of the Bodhisattva floated naked, without any fields or shields about it at all. It was drawing slowly away, falling behind.
“Oh well,” the drone said.
The Bodhisattva convulsed, almost as though shaking itself awake after a long asleep, then started to come slowly apart as though it was an exploded diagram made real. A spherical mirror field appeared all about it for an instant, then, when it dropped, the ship was ablaze, light flaring from every part of it, burning brighter and brighter as they watched; flameless, orderly, still non-explosive but searing in its intensity, the pure fires raged until gradually they started to fade and go out, and when they had entirely gone, there was nothing left of the ship at all, save light-slow radiation, flowing out in every direction towards the distant suns.