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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 snuffedout 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.
    The Mind that was Masaq’ Orbital Hub had its own reasons for wanting to commemorate the Twin Novae Battle and had asked the indulgence of its inhabitants, announcing that for the interval between the first nova and the second it would be observing its own private term of mourning, although without affecting the execution of its duties. It had intimated there would be some sort of more upbeat event to mark the end of this period, though exactly what form this would take it hadn’t yet revealed.
    Kabe suspected he knew, now. He found himself glancing involuntarily in the direction Ziller had taken, just as the Chelgrian’s gaze had strayed towardthe stage earlier, when he’d been asked who had commissioned whatever he was working on.
    All in due course, Kabe thought. As Ziller had said.
    For tonight, all Hub had wanted was that people look up and see the sudden, silent light, and think; perhaps contemplate a little. Kabe had half expected the locals to take no notice whatsoever and just carry on with their busy little one-long-party lives as usual; however it appeared that, here at least, the Hub Mind’s wish had been granted.
    â€œAll very regrettable,” the drone E. H. Tersono said at Kabe’s side, and made a sighing sound. Kabe thought it probably meant to sound sincere.
    â€œSalutary, for all of us,” Kabe agreed. His own ancestors had been the Idirans’ mentors, and fought alongside the Idirans in the early stages of the ancient war. The Homomda felt the weight of their own responsibilities as keenly as the Culture did its.
    â€œWe try to learn,” Tersono said quietly. “But still we make mistakes.”
    It was talking now about Chel, the Chelgrians and the Caste War, Kabe knew. He turned and looked at the machine as the people moved away in the steady, ghostly light.
    â€œYou could always do nothing, Tersono,” he told it. “Though such a course usually brings its own regrets.”
    I am too glib, sometimes, Kabe thought, I tell them too exactly what they want to hear.
    The drone tipped back to make clear that it was looking up at the Homomdan, but said nothing.

2
Winter Storm
    T he hull of the ruined ship bowed away on all sides, curving out and then back, arcing overhead. They had fitted lights in the center of what had become the ceiling, directly above the curious, glazed-looking floor; reflections glowed from the glassily swirled, distorted surface itself, and from the few stumps of unidentifiable equipment that protruded above it.
    Quilan tried to find a place to stand where he thought he could distinguish what it was he was standing on, then switched off the suit’s field pack and let his feet touch the surface. It was hard to tell through his boots, but the floor seemed to have the