“Meanwhile, we are continuing to deal with our pretend smatter outbreak, which has proved trickier than we anticipated, and are ourselves even having to destroy some of the fabricaria-built war fleet we worked so hard to create, just to make it look convincing to the Culture that we really are all just chums and allies fighting on the same jolly side.
“Oh! And I nearly forgot; an NR ship is causing havoc on/in/all over Vebezua! Yes! Another ship, possibly a Culture ship, possibly another Culture warship, was last heard of high-tailing it out of the Vebezua system, possibly having delivered some-thing or somebody, and possibly now departing there with the intention of joining in all the fun out here at the Disk and depleting our once-fine fleet of ships even quicker. And the NR themselves are making deeply suspicious noises, bordering on outright hostile noises, when it comes both to ourselves and you, Veppers, and are only not helping to destroy our short-lived war fleet because they want to see how fast and how ably the Culture vessel-fleet does so; valuable intelligence, we are given to understand. Though of course the presence and presumed hostility of the NR does mean that any of our ships that might escape from the vicinity of the Disk itself may well find themselves being picked off by the NR.
“There. That is the fucking situation. I face shame, humiliation, demotion, court martial and ruin, and – oh, please do believe me, dear Mr. Veppers – if such a fate befalls me I shall do everything I possibly can to make sure that you fall with me, cherished ally and co-conspirator.”
Bettlescroy took a deep breath, drew itself up and, collecting itself, it seemed, made a calm, expansive motion with its hands. “Now,” it said. “I can’t really imagine how many more of our ships have been laid waste while I have been speaking but I imagine the number comes to some several thousand. Please, Veppers, if we are to salvage anything, anything at all from what is increasingly looking like a calamitous venture and an utterly hopeless situation, tell us where the targets are. At least some of them, at least the nearest ones, given that we will have so few ships, so ill-equipped and so slow-moving, by the time you get round to finally telling us where …” Bettlescroy paused, “… the fucking …” it paused again, taking another deep breath, “… targets …” one last pause, “… are.”
Veppers sighed. “Thank you, Bettlescroy. That was really all I wanted to know.” He smiled. “One moment …” He clicked the sound off at the computer and turned to Jasken. On the screen, Bettlescroy appeared to be shouting, and striking the screen at its end with both hands. Jasken had to tear his gaze away.
“Sir?”
“Jasken, I’m absolutely famished. Would you mind seeing what we have in the kitchen here? Just a bite or two and some decent wine. Even water would do … but do look for some drinkable wine. Get something for yourself, too.” Veppers grinned, nodded at the comms unit, where Bettlescroy appeared to be trying to bite the edge of the screen. “I can manage here.”
“Sir,” Jasken said, and left the room.
Veppers watched the study door close, then turned back to the screen and switched the sound back on.
“… Where?” Bettlescroy shrieked.
“Ready?” Veppers asked calmly.
Bettlescroy sat staring at the screen, eyes wide, breathing hard. What might have been spittle disfigured its finely made chin.
“Good,” Veppers said, smiling. “The most important targets – the only ones really worth bothering with now – are easily reached and close by; they’re under the trackways on my estate of Espersium. In fact, come to think of it, somebody – possibly the NR, as you suggest – has already begun the task of destroying them, when they attacked my flier.
“Anyway, to reiterate: every trackway is underlain by what to the untutored eye looks like some sort of giant fungal structure. It isn’t. It’s substrate. Low-power, bio-based, not ultra-fast running, but high-efficiency, highly damage-resistant substrate; anything from ten to thirty metres thick under and amongst the roots, but adding up to over half a cubic kilometre of processing power spread throughout the estate. All the comms traffic to and from it is channelled through the phased array satellite links dotted round the mansion house itself. The ones that everyone still thinks just control the Virtualities and games.
“That’s what you have to hit, Bettlescroy. The under-trackway substrates contain over seventy per cent of the Hells in the entire galaxy.” He smiled again. “Of those we know of, anyway. Used to be slightly more, but very recently I sub-contracted the NR Hell, just to be on the safe side. I’ve been buying Hells up for over a century, Legislator-Admiral, taking the processing requirements and legal and jurisdictional implications off other peoples’ hands for most of my business life. The majority of the Hells are right here, in system, on planet. That is why I have always felt able to be so relaxed regarding the targeting details. Think you can get enough ships to Sichult to lay waste to my estate?”