Excerpt from Look To Windward by Iain M. Banks, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

They look like ghosts, thought Kabe, gazing around the humans. Many were still staring up at the star. Some were heading outside, to the open deck. A few couples and larger groups were huddled together, individuals comforting one another. I didn't think it would affect so many so deeply, the Homomdan thought. I thought they might almost laugh it off. I still don't really know them. Even after all this time.

"This is morbid," Ziller said, drawing himself up. "I'm going home. I have work to do. Not that tonight's news has exactly been conducive to inspiration or motivation."

"Yes," Tersono said. "Forgive a rude and impatient drone, but might I ask what you've been working on lately, Cr. Ziller? You haven't published anything for a while but you do seem to have been very busy."

Ziller smiled broadly. "Actually, it's a commissioned piece."

"Really?" the drone's aura rainbowed with brief surprise. "For whom?"

Kabe saw the Chelgrian's gaze flick briefly toward the stage where the avatar had stood earlier. "All in due course, Tersono," Ziller said. "But it's a biggish piece and it'll be a while yet before its first performance." "Ah. Most mysterious."

Ziller stretched, putting one long furred leg out behind him and tensing before relaxing. He looked at Kabe. "Yes, and if I don't get back to work on it, it'll be late." He turned back to Tersono. "You'll keep me informed about this wretched emissary?"

"You will have full access to all we know."

"Right. Good night, Tersono." The Chelgrian nodded to Kabe. "Ambassador."

Kabe bowed. The drone dipped. Ziller went softly bounding through the thinning crowd.

Kabe looked back up at the nova, thinking.

Eight-hundred-and-three-year-old light shone steadily down.

The light of ancient mistakes, he thought. That was what Ziller had called it, on the interview Kabe had heard just that morning. "Tonight you dance by the light of ancient mistakes!" Except that no one was dancing.

It had been one of the last great battles of the Idiran war, and one of the most ferocious, one of the least restrained, as the Idirans risked everything, including the opprobrium even of those they regarded as friends and allies, in a series of desperate, wildly destructive and brutal attempts to alter the increasingly obvious likely outcome of the war. Only (if that was a word one could ever use in such a context) six stars had been destroyed during the nearly fifty years the war had raged. This single battle for a tendril of galactic limb, lasting less than a hundred days, had accounted for two of them as the suns Portisia and Junce had been induced to explode.

It had become known as the Twin Novae Battle, but really what had been done to each of the suns had generated something more like a supernova on each. Neither star had shone upon a barren system. Worlds had died, entire biospheres had been snuffed out and billions of sentient creatures had suffered -- albeit briefly -- and perished in these twin catastrophes.

The Idirans had committed the acts, the gigadeathcrimes their monstrous weaponry, not that of the Culture, had been directed first at one star, then the other -- yet still, arguably, the Culture might have prevented what had happened. The Idirans had attempted to sue for peace several times before the battle started, but the Culture had continued to insist on unconditional surrender, and so the war had ground onward and the stars had died.

It was long over. The war had ended nearly eight hundred years ago and life had gone on. Still, the real space light had been crawling across the intervening distance for all these centuries, and by its relativistic standard it was only now that those stars blew up, and just at this moment that those billions died, as the outrushing shell of light swept over and through the Masaq' system.

Copyright © 2000 by Iain M. Banks