The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks

recently established games indices whose editors, writers and correspondents regarded him and most of the other well-known players and authorities as some sort of constricting, over-privileged hierarchy; they thought too much attention was paid to too few players, and sought to discredit what they called the old guard (which included him, much to his amusement). They would love what Mawhrin-Skel had on him. He could deny it all, once it was out, and some people would doubtless believe him despite the hardness of the evidence, but the other top players, and the responsible, well-established and authoritative indices, would know the truth of it, and that was what he would not be able to bear. He would still be able to play, and he would still be allowed to publish, to register his papers as open for dissemination, and probably many of them would be taken up; not quite so often as before, perhaps, but he would not be frozen out completely. It would be worse than that; he would be treated with compassion, understanding, tolerance. But he would never be forgiven. Could he come to terms with that, ever? Could he weather the storm of abuse and knowing looks, the gloating sympathy of his rivals? Would it all die down enough eventually, would a few years pass and it be sufficiently forgotten? He thought not. Not for him. It would always be there. He could not face down Mawhrin-Skel with that; publish and be damned. The drone had been right; it would destroy his reputation, destroy him. He watched the logs in the wide grate glow duller red and then go soft and grey. He told Hub he was finished; it quietly returned the house to normal and left him alone with his thoughts.
He woke the next morning, and it was still the same universe; it had not been a nightmare and time had not gone backwards. 1I had all still happened. He took the underground to Celleck, the village where Chamlis Amalk-ney lived by itself, in an old-fashioned and odd approximation of human domesticity, surrounded by wall paintings, antique furniture, inlaid walls, fish-tanks and insect vivaria.
'I'll find out all I can, Gurgeh,' Chamlis sighed, floating beside him, looking out to the square. 'But I can't guarantee that I can do it without whoever was behind your last visit from Contact finding out about it. They may think you're interested.' 'Maybe I am,' Gurgeh said. 'Maybe I do want to talk to them again, I don't know.' 'Well, I've sent the message to my friends, but-' He had a sudden, paranoid idea. He turned to Chamlis urgently. 'These friends of yours are ships.' 'Yes,' Chamlis said. 'Both of them.' 'What are they called?' 'The Of Course I Still Love You and the Just Read The Instructions .' 'They're not warships?' 'With names like that? They're GCUs; what else?' 'Good,' Gurgeh said, relaxing a little, looking out to the square again. 'Good. That's all right.' He took a deep breath. 'Gurgeh, can't you - please - tell me what's wrong?' Chamlis's voice was soft, even sad. 'You know it'll go no further. Let me help. It hurts me to see you like this. If there's anything I can-' 'Nothing,' Gurgeh said, looking at the machine again. He shook his head. 'There's nothing, nothing else you can do. I'll let you know if there is.' He started across the room. Chamlis watched him. 'I have to go now. I'll see you again, Chamlis.'
He went down to the underground. He sat in the car, staring at the floor. On about the fourth request, he realised the car was talking to him, asking where he wanted to go. He told it. He was staring at one of the wall-screens, watching the steady stars, when the terminal beeped. 'Gurgeh? Makil Stra-bey, yet again one more time once more.' 'What?' he snapped, annoyed at the Mind's glib chumminess. 'That ship just replied with the information you asked for.' He frowned. 'What ship? What information?' 'The Gunboat Diplomat , our game-player. Its location.' His heart pounded and his throat seemed to close up. 'Yes,' he said, struggling to get the word out.