Iain M. Banks - The Player of Games

Copyright 1988 by Iain M. Banks

Excerpt from Matter copyright 2008 by Iain M. Banks

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: December 2009

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-0-316-09586-0

Banks is a phenomenon writing pure science fiction of a peculiarly gnarly energy and elegance.

William Gibson

There is now no British SF writer to whose work I look forward with greater keenness.

The Times

Poetic, humorous, baffling, terrifying, sexythe books of Iain M. Banks are all these things and more.

NME

Staggering imaginative energy.

Independent

Banks writes with a sophistication that will surprise anyone unfamiliar with modern science fiction.

New York Times

The Culture Books are not technological just-so stories. Theyre about faith in the future, about the belief that societies can make sense of themselves, can have fun doing so, can live by Good Works, and can do so in circumstances far removed from our own little circle of western civilization.

Wired

An exquisitely riotous tour de force of the imagination which writes its own rules simply for the pleasure of breaking them.

Time Out

Pyrotechnic, action-filled, satiric, outlandish, deep and frivolous all at once, these bravura space operas juggle galactic scale with a revelatory energy rarely matched in speculative fiction.

Science Fiction Weekly

Few of us have been exposed to a talent so manifest and of such extraordinary breadth.

New York Review of Science Fiction

By Iain M. Banks

Consider Phlebas

The Player of Games

Use of Weapons

The State of the Art

Against a Dark Background

Feersum Endjinn

Excession

Inversions

Look to Windward

The Algebraist

Matter

By Iain Banks

The Wasp Factory

Walking on Glass

The Bridge

Espedair Street

Canal Dreams

The Crow Road

Complicity

Whit

A Song of Stone

The Business

Dead Air

The Steep Approach to Garbadale

This is the story of a man who went far away for a long time, just to play a game. The man is a game-player called Gurgeh. The story starts with a battle that is not a battle, and ends with a game that is not a game.

Me? Ill tell you about me later.

This is how the story begins.

Dust drifted with each footstep. He limped across the desert, following the suited figure in front. The gun was quiet in his hands. They must be nearly there; the noise of distant surf boomed through the helmet soundfield. They were approaching a tall dune, from which they ought to be able to see the coast. Somehow he had survived; he had not expected to.

It was bright and hot and dry outside, but inside the suit he was shielded from the sun and the baking air; cosseted and cool. One edge of the helmet visor was dark, where it had taken a hit, and the right leg flexed awkwardly, also damaged, making him limp, but otherwise hed been lucky. The last time theyd been attacked had been a kilometer back, and now they were nearly out of range.

The flight of missiles cleared the nearest ridge in a glittering arc. He saw them late because of the damaged visor. He thought the missiles had already started firing, but it was only the sunlight reflecting on their sleek bodies. The flight dipped and swung together, like a flock of birds.

When they did start firing it was signaled by strobing red pulses of light. He raised his gun to fire back; the other suited figures in the group had already started firing. Some dived to the dusty desert floor, others dropped to one knee. He was the only one standing.

The missiles swerved again, turning all at once and then splitting up to take different directions. Dust puffed around his feet as shots fell close. He tried to aim at one of the small machines, but they moved startlingly quickly, and the gun felt large and awkward in his hands. His suit chimed over the distant noise of firing and the shouts of the other people; lights winked inside the helmet, detailing the damage. The suit shook and his right leg went suddenly numb.

Wake up, Gurgeh! Yay laughed, alongside him. She swiveled on one knee as two of the small missiles swung suddenly at their section of the group, sensing that was where it was weakest. Gurgeh saw the machines coming, but the gun sang wildly in his hands, and seemed always to be aiming at where the missiles had just been. The two machines darted for the space between him and Yay. One of the missiles flashed once and disintegrated; Yay shouted, exulting. The other missile swung between them; she lashed out with her foot, trying to kick it. Gurgeh turned awkwardly to fire at it, accidentally scattering fire over Yays suit as he did so. He heard her cry out and then curse. She staggered, but brought the gun round; fountains of dust burst around the second missile as it turned to face them again, its red pulses lighting up his suit and filling his visor with darkness. He felt numb from the neck down and crumpled to the ground. It went black and very quiet.

You are dead, a crisp little voice told him.

He lay on the unseen desert floor. He could hear distant, muffled noises, sense vibrations from the ground. He heard his own heart beat, and the ebb and flow of his breath. He tried to hold his breathing and slow his heart, but he was paralyzed, imprisoned, without control.

His nose itched. It was impossible to scratch it. What am I doing here? he asked himself.

Sensation returned. People were talking, and he was staring through the visor at the flattened desert dust a centimeter in front of his nose. Before he could move, somebody pulled him up by one arm.

He unlatched his helmet. Yay Meristinoux, also bare-headed, stood looking at him and shaking her head. Her hands were on her hips, her gun swung from one wrist. You were terrible, she said, though not unkindly. She had the face of a beautiful child, but the slow, deep voice was knowing and roguish; a low-slung voice.

The others sat around on the rocks and dust, talking. A few were heading back to the club house. Yay picked up Gurgehs gun and presented it to him. He scratched his nose, then shook his head, refusing to take the weapon.

Yay, he told her, this is for children.

She paused, slung her gun over one shoulder, and shrugged (and the muzzles of both guns swung in the sunlight, glinting momentarily, and he saw the speeding line of missiles again, and was dizzy for a second).

So? she said. It isnt boring. You said you were bored; I thought you might enjoy a shoot.