Read an extract from The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks

The New Scientist Book Club is currently reading Iain M. Banks's classic sci-fi novel The Player of Games. In this extract, we meet protagonist Gurgeh for the first time

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Read an extract from The Player of Games by Iain M. Banks

The New Scientist Book Club is currently reading Iain M. Banks's classic sci-fi novel The Player of Games. In this extract, we meet protagonist Gurgeh for the first time

By Iain M. Banks

28 November 2025

[New Scientist. Science news and long reads from expert journalists, covering developments in science, technology, health and the environment on the website and the magazine.]

“The man is a game-player called ‘Gurgeh’…”

diuno/iStockphoto/Getty Images

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? I’ll 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 he’d been lucky. The last time they’d been attacked had been a kilometer back, and now they were nearly out of range.

*[LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM - JUNE 16: Portrait of Iain M. Banks being interviewed by SFX Magazine/Future via Getty Images on June 16, 2010. (Photo by Joseph Branston/SFX Magazine/Future via Getty Images)]*

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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 Yay’s 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 Gurgeh’s 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 isn’t boring. You said you were bored; I thought you might enjoy a shoot.”

He dusted himself down and turned back toward the club house. Yay walked alongside. Recovery drones drifted past them, collecting the components of the destructed machines.

“It’s infantile, Yay. Why fritter your time away with this nonsense?”

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They stopped at the top of the dune. The low club house lay a hundred meters away, between them and the golden sand and snow-white surf. The sea was bright under the high sun.

“Don’t be so pompous,” she told him. Her short brown hair moved in the same wind which blew the tops from the falling waves and sent the resulting spray curling back out to sea. She stooped to where some pieces of a shattered missile lay half buried in the dune, picked them up, blew sand grains off the shining surfaces, and turned the components over in her hands. “I enjoy it,” she said. “I enjoy the sort of games you like, but . . . I enjoy this too.” She looked puzzled. “This is a game. Don’t you get any pleasure from this sort of thing?”

“No. And neither will you, after a while.”

She shrugged easily. “Till then, then.” She handed him the parts of the disintegrated machine. He inspected them while a group of young men passed, heading for the firing ranges.

“Mr. Gurgeh?” One of the young males stopped, looking at Gurgeh quizzically. A fleeting expression of annoyance passed across the older man’s face, to be replaced by the amused tolerance Yay had seen before in such situations. “Jernau Morat Gurgeh?” the young man said, still not quite sure.

“Guilty.” Gurgeh smiled gracefully and — Yay saw — straightened his back fractionally, drawing himself up a little. The younger man’s face lit up. He executed a quick, formal bow. Gurgeh and Yay exchanged glances.

“An honor to meet you, Mr. Gurgeh,” the young man said, smiling widely. “My name’s Shuro . . . I’m . . .” He laughed. “I follow all your games; I have a complete set of your theoretical works on file . . .”

[...]

*Original source*