Iain Banks Culture 04 Use Of Weapons

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scouts, and - if they did shell - where they would target. They had a bet on
that.
About the only thing they agreed on was that what they were doing was a waste
of the one nuke their side - indeed either side - possessed, because even if
they had guessed correctly, and the invaders behaved as they'd anticipated,
the most they could hope to do was wipe out one army, and that would still
leave three more, any one of which could probably complete the invasion. So
the warhead, like the lives, would be wasted.
They radioed their superiors and with a code-word told them what they had
done.
After a little while they received the blessing of the high command, in the
form of another single word. Their masters didn't really believe the weapon
would work.
The older man was called Cullis, and he won the argument about where they
ought to wait, and so they settled into their high, grand citadel, and found
lots of weapons and wine and got drunk and talked and told jokes and swapped
outrageous stories of derring-do and conquest, and at one point one of them
asked the other what happiness was, and received a fairly flippant reply, but
later neither could remember which one had asked and which one had answered.
They slept and they woke and they got drunk again and they told more jokes and
lies, and a light shower of rain blew softly over the city at one point, and
sometimes the young man would move his hand over his shaved head, through
long, thick hair that was not there any more.
Still they waited, and when the first shells started to fall they found they'd
picked the wrong place to wait, and so went scrambling out of it, down the
steps and into the courtyard and into the half-track and then away, out into
the desert and the wasteland beyond, where they camped at dusk and got drunk
again and stayed up specially that night, to watch the flash.
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons
Zakalwe's Song
Watching from the room
As the troops go by.
You ought to be able to tell, I think, Whether they are going or coming back
By just leaving the gaps in the ranks.
You are a fool, I said, And turned to leave, Or maybe only mix a drink
For that deft throat to swallow
Like all my finest lies.
I faced into the shadows of things, You leant against the window, Gazing at
nothing.
When are we going to leave?
We could get stuck here, Caught
If we try to stay too long. (turning)
Why don't we leave
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?
I said nothing, Stroked a cracked glass, Exclusive knowledge in the silence;
The bomb lives only as it is falling.
-
Shias Engin.
Complete Collected Works (Posthumous Edition).
Month 18, 355th Great Year (Shtaller, Prophetican calendar).
Volume IX: 'Juvenilia and Discarded Drafts'
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons
STATES OF WAR
Prologue
The path up to the highest cultivation terrace followed an extravagantly
zig-zag route, to allow the wheelchairs to cope with the gradient. It took him
six and a half minutes of hard work to get to the highest terrace; he was
sweating when he got there, but he had beaten his previous record, and so he
was pleased. His breath smoked in the cold air as he undid the heavy quilted
jacket and wheeled the chair along to one of the raised beds.
He lifted the basket out of his lap and balanced it on the retaining wall,
took the cutters from his jacket pocket and looked carefully at the selection
of small plants, trying to gauge which cuttings had fared best since their
planting. He hadn't chosen the first one when some movement up-slope attracted
his attention.
He looked through the high fence, to the dark green forest. The distant peaks
were white against the blue sky above. At first he thought it was an animal,
then the figure moved out of the trees and walked over the frost-whitened
grass towards the gate in the fence.
The woman opened the gate, closed it behind her; she wore a thin-looking coat
and trousers. He was mildly surprised to see that she didn't have a rucksack.
Perhaps she had walked up through the grounds of the institute earlier, and
was now returning. A visiting doctor, maybe. He had been going to wave, if she
looked at him as she took the steps down to the institute buildings, but she
left the gate and walked straight towards him. She was tall; dark hair and a
light brown face under a curious looking fur hat.
'Mr Escoerea,' she said, extending a hand. He put down the cutters, shook her
hand.
'Good morning, Ms...?'
She didn't reply, but sat down on the wall, clapped un-gloved hands together,
looked around the valley, at the moun-tains and the forest, the river, and the
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Iain M. Banks - Use of Weapons institute buildings down-slope. 'How are you,
Mr Escoerea? Are you well?'
He looked down at what was left of his legs, amputated above the knees. 'What
is left of me is well, ma'am.' It had become his usual reply. He knew it might
sound bitter to some people, but really it was his way of showing he did not
want to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him.
She looked at the trousered stumps with a frankness he had only known before
from children. 'It was a tank, wasn't it?'
'Yes,' he said, taking up the clippers again. 'Tried to trip it up on the way
to Balzeit
City; didn't work.' He leant over, took a cutting and placed it in the basket.
He made a note of which plant he'd taken it from, and attached it to the twig.
'Excuse me...' He moved the wheelchair along a little, and the woman got out
of his way as he took another cutting.
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She stepped round in front of him again. 'Story I heard said you were dragging
one of your comrades out of its -'
'Yes,' he interrupted. 'Yes, that's the story. Of course I didn't know then
the price of charity is developing extremely strong arm muscles.'
'You get your medal yet?' She squatted down on her haunches, putting one of
her hands on a wheel of his chair. He looked at the hand, then at her face,
but she just grinned.
He opened his quilted jacket, showed the uniform tunic underneath, with all [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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