The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Then, as she peered closer at the actuator components, bright light flashed across them. She turned just in time to see the last cascade of sparks drizzle down on the pile of sealant sheets stacked up in the corner of the flat’s lounge. Wisps of smoke began to wind upward. The bot juddered to a halt as the whole lower segment of its power arm darkened. As she watched, its pocked silvery casing tarnished rapidly from the heat inside.

  “Ozzie’s mother!” she yelped, and quickly started stamping on the sheets, trying to extinguish the glowing points the sparks had kindled. Her u-shadow could not get any access to the bot; it was completely dead, and now there was a definite hot-oil smell in the air. Another bot slid away and retrieved an extinguisher bulb from the kitchen. It returned and sprayed blue foam on the defunct bot’s arm. Araminta groaned in dismay as the bubbling fluid scabbed over and dripped onto the floorboards, soaking in. The whole wood look was coming back in vogue; that was was why she had ordered the bot to abrade the original floorboards down to the grain. As soon as they were done, she was going to spread the sealant sheets while the rest of the room was decorated and fitted; then she would finish the boards with a veneer polish to bring out the wavy gold and rouge pattern of the native antwood.

  Araminta scratched at the damp stain with her fingernail, but it did not seem too bad. She’d just have to get another bot to abrade the wood further. There were five of the versatile machines performing various tasks in the flat, all second- or thirdhand; again bought from Askahar’s Infinite Systems.

  Now that the immediate danger of fire was over, her u-shadow called Burt Renik, proprietor of Askahar’s Infinite Systems.

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do,” he explained after she told him what had happened.

  “I only bought it from you two days ago!”

  “Yes, but why did you buy it?”

  “Excuse me! You recommended it.”

  “Yes, the Candel 8038; it’s got the kind of power level you wanted for heavy-duty attachments. But you came to me rather than a licensed dealer.”

  “What are you talking about? I couldn’t afford a new model. The unisphere evaluation library said it was dependable.”

  “Exactly. And I sell a lot of refurbished units because of that. But the one you bought had a manufacturer’s decade warranty that expired over a decade ago. Now, with all the goodwill in Ozzie’s universe, I have to tell you that you get what you pay for. I have some newer models in stock if you need a replacement.”

  Araminta wished she had the ability to trojan a sensorium package past his u-shadow filters, one that would produce the painburst he would get from a good smack on the nose. “Will you take part exchange?”

  “I could make you an offer on any components I can salvage, but I’d have to bring the bot into the workshop to analyze what’s left. I can come out, oh … middle of next week, and there would have to be a collection charge.”

  “For Ozzie’s sake, you sold me a dud.”

  “I sold you what you wanted. Look, I’m only offering to salvage parts as a goodwill gesture. I’m running a business; I want return customers.”

  “Well, you’ve lost this one.” She ended the call and told her u-shadow never to accept a call from Burt Renik again. “Bloody hell!” Her u-shadow quickly revised her refurbishment schedule, adding an extra three days to the expected completion date. That assumed she would not buy a replacement for the 8038. It was a correct assumption. The budget was not working out as she’d originally planned. Not that she was overspending, but stripping out all the old fittings and démodé decorations was taking a lot longer than her first estimate.

  Araminta sat back on the floor and glared at the ruined bot. I’m not going to cry. I’m not that pathetic.

  The loss of the 8038 was a blow, though. She’d just have to trust that the remaining bots would hold out. Her u-shadow began to run diagnostic checks on them while she tried to detach the abrader mat from the 8038’s foam-clogged multisocket. The attachment was expensive and, unlike the bot, brand-new. Her mood was not helped by the current state of the flat. She had been working on it for five days solid now, stripping it down to the bare walls and gutting the ancient domestic equipment. The place looked terrible. Every surface was covered in fine particles, with sawdust enhancing the dilapidated appearance. Sounds echoed around the empty rooms. After tidying things today, she could start the refurbishment stage. She was sure that would refire her enthusiasm. There had been times over the last week when she had had moments of pure panic, wondering how she could have been so stupid as to have gambled everything on this ancient cruddy flat.

  The abrader attachment came free, and she pulled it out. With her u-shadow controlling them directly, two of the remaining bots hauled their broken sibling out of the flat and dumped it in the commercial refuse casket parked outside. She winced every time it bumped on the stairs, but the other occupants were out; they’d never know how the dents got there.

  With the abrader plugged into another bot—a Braklef 34B only eight years old—she turned her attention back to the balcony door actuator. She knew that if she started moping over the broken bot, she’d just wind up feeling sorry for herself and never get anything done. She could not afford that.

  The simplest thing, she decided, was to break the actuator down and clean the grime off manually; after that she could use the specialist tools to get the systems up to the required standard. Her other toolbox, the larger one, had a set of power keys. She set to with more determination than she had any right to without resorting to aerosols.

  As she worked, her u-shadow skimmed the news, local and intersolar, and summarized topics she was interested in, feeding them to her in a quiet neural drizzle. Now that she had bought the flat, she had canceled the daily review of city property. It would be too distracting, especially if something really good appeared on the market. Debbina, the firstborn daughter of the billionaire Sheldonite Likan, had been arrested once again for lewd conduct in a public place. Hansel Industries, one of Ellezelin’s top companies, was discussing opening a manufacturing district just outside Colwyn; the details were accompanied by economic projections. She could not help scanning the effect on property prices.

  As far as intersolar political news was concerned, the only item was the new Senate motion introduced by Marian Kantil, Earth’s Senator, that Living Dream desist from reckless action in respect to its Pilgrimage. Ellezelin’s Senator responded to the motion by walking out. He was followed by the Senators from Tari, Idlib, Lirno, Quhood, and Agra—the Free Trade Zone planets. Araminta was not surprised to find that Viotia’s Senator had abstained from the vote, as had seven other External worlds, all on the fringe of the zone and with large populations of Living Dream followers. The report went on to show the huge manufacturing yard on the edge of Greater Makkathran, where the Pilgrimage ships would be assembled. Araminta stopped cleaning the actuator to watch. An armada of civic construction machinery was laying down the field, flattening fifteen square miles of countryside to get it ready for its cladding of concrete. The Pilgrimage fleet was to be made up of twelve cylindrical vessels, each a mile long and capable of carrying two million pilgrims in suspension. Already Living Dream was talking about them being merely the “first wave.”

  Araminta shook her head in mild disbelief that so many people could be so stupid and switched to local reports of business and celebrities.

  Two hours later Cressida arrived. She frowned down at the prints her shiny leather pumps with their diamond-encrusted straps made in the thick layer of dirt coating the hall floor. Her cashmere fur dress contracted around her to save her skin from exposure to the dusty air. One hand was raised to cover her mouth, with gold-and-purple nail-print friezes flowing in slow motion.

  Araminta smiled up uncertainly at her cousin. She suddenly was very self-conscious standing there in her filthy overalls, hair wound up and tucked into a cap, hands streaked with black grease.

  “There’s a dead bot in your casket,” Cressida said.
She sounded annoyed.

  “I know,” Araminta sighed. “Price of buying cheap.”

  “It’s one of yours?” Cressida’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you want me to call the supplier and have it replaced?”

  “Tempting. Ozzie knows it wasn’t actually that cheap relative to my budget, but no, I’ll fight my own battles from now on.”

  “That’s my family. Stupidly stubborn to the last.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m here for two reasons. One, to look around. Okay, done that. Came a month too early, obviously. Two, I want all the frightful details of Thursday night. You and that rather attractive boy Keetch left very early together. And darling, I do mean all the details.”

  “Keetch is hardly a boy.”

  “Pha! Younger than me by almost a century. So tell your best cousin. What happened?”

  Araminta smiled bashfully. “You know very well. We went back to his place.” She proffered a limp gesture at the dilapidated hallway. “I could hardly bring him here.”

  “Excellent. And?”

  “And what?”

  “What does he do? Is he single? What’s he like in bed? How many times has he called? Is he yearning and desperate yet? Has he sent flowers or jewelry, or is he all pathetic and gone the chocolates route? Which resort bedroom are you spending the weekend in?”

  “Whoa, just stop there.” Araminta’s smile turned sour. In truth Keetch had been more than adequate in bed, and he had even tried to call several times since Thursday, calls she had no intention of returning. The thrill of liberation, of playing the field, of experimenting, of answering to no one, of making and taking her own choices, of just plain having fun—that was all she wanted right now. A simple life without commitments or attachments. Right now was what she should have been doing instead of being married. “Keetch was very nice, but I’m not seeing him again. I’m too busy here.”

  “Now I am impressed. Hump ’em and dump ’em. There’s quite a core of raw steel hidden inside that ingenue facade, isn’t there?”

  Araminta shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “If you ever want a career in law, I’ll be happy to sponsor you. You’ll probably make partner in under seventy years.”

  “Gosh, there’s an enticement.”

  Cressida dropped her hand long enough to laugh. “Ah, well, I tried. So are we on for Wednesday?”

  “Yes, of course.” Araminta enjoyed their girls’ nights out. Cressida seemed to know every exclusive club in Colwyn City, and she was on all their guest lists. “So what happened to you after I left? Did you catch anyone?”

  “At my age? I was safely tucked up in bed by midnight.”

  “Who with?”

  “I forget their names. You know, you really must go up a level and join an orgy. They can be fantastic, especially if you have partners who know exactly what they’re doing.”

  Araminta giggled. “No thanks. Don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet. What I’m doing is pretty adventurous for me.”

  “Well when you’re ready …”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Cressida inhaled a breath of dust and started coughing. “Ozzie, this place is bringing back too many memories of my early years. Look, I’ll call later. Sorry I’m not much practical help, but truthfully, I’m crap with design programs.”

  “I want to do this by myself. I’m going to do this by myself.”

  “Hell, make that partner in fifty years. You’ve got what it takes.”

  “Remind you of you?” Araminta asked sweetly.

  “No. I think you’re sharper, unfortunately. Bye, darling.”

  Lunch was a sandwich in her carry capsule as she flew across the city to the first of three suppliers on her list. The carry capsule, like her bots, had seen better days; according to the log, she was the fifth owner in thirty years. Perfectly serviceable, the sales manager had assured her. It did not have the speed of a new model, and if the big rear cargo compartment was filled to the rated load, it would not quite reach its maximum flight ceiling. But she had a lot more confidence in the capsule than in the 8038 bot; because of its age, it had to pass a strict Viotia Transport Agency flightworthiness test every year, and the last one had been two months before she bought it.

  The capsule settled on the lot of Bovey’s Bathing and Culinary-ware, one of eight macrostores that made up a small touchdown mall in the Groby district. She walked into the store, looking into the open display rooms that lined a broad aisle with many branches. Bathrooms and kitchens alternated, promoting a big range of sizes, styles, and prices, though the ones by the door tended to be elaborate. She looked enviously at the larger luxury units, thinking about the kind of apartment she would develop one day in which such extravagance was a necessity.

  “Can I help you?”

  Araminta turned around to see a man dressed in the store’s blue and maroon uniform. He was quite tall, with his biological age locked in around the late twenties, dark skin offset by sandy-blond hair. Nice regular features, she thought, without being too handsome. His eyes were light gray, revealing a lot of humor. If they were meeting in a club, she definitely would let him buy her a drink; she might even offer to buy him one first.

  “I’m looking for a kitchen and a bathroom. Both have to look and feel high-grade yet cost practically nothing.”

  “Ah, now that I can understand and provide for. I’m Mr. Bovey, by the way.”

  She was quite flattered the owner himself would come down on the floor and single her out to help. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Araminta.”

  He shook her hand politely. She thought he was debating with himself about whether he should try for a platonic greeting kiss. It was one of those times when she wished she had a connection to the gaiafield, which would enable her to gauge his emotions, assuming he would broadcast them, which, as the owner of the store and therefore a professional, he would not. Damn. Come on, girl. Focus.

  “What sort of dimensions can you give me to play with?” he asked.

  Araminta gave him a slightly cheeky grin, then stopped. Perhaps it wasn’t a double entendre; certainly sounded like one, though. “Here you go,” she told him as her u-shadow produced the blueprint file. “I would appreciate some help on price. This is my first renovation project. I don’t want it to be my last.”

  “Ah.” His eyes strayed to her hands, which still had lines of grime etched on the skin. “Boss and workforce. I can relate to that.”

  “Depleted workforce today, I’m afraid. One of my bots blew up. I can’t afford any more expensive mistakes.”

  “I understand.” He hesitated. “You didn’t get it from Burt Renik, did you?”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously. “Why?”

  “Okay, well, for future reference—and I didn’t tell you this—he’s not the most reliable of suppliers.”

  “I know he’s not the gold standard, but I checked on the evaluation library for that model. It was okay.”

  This time he did wince. “Next time you buy something in the trade, including anything from me, I’d recommend some research on Dave’s Coding.” His u-shadow handed over the address. “The evaluation library, all those ‘independent’ reports on how the product worked—well, the library is financed and managed by corporations; that’s why there’s never really a bad review. Dave’s Coding is truly autonomous.”

  “Thank you,” she said meekly as she filed the address in one of her storage lacunae. “I’ll take an access sometime.”

  “Glad to help. In the meantime, try aisle seven for a kitchen. I think we can supply your order from there.”

  “Thanks.” She walked off to aisle seven, more than a little disappointed that he did not accompany her. Perhaps he had a policy of not flirting with customers. Shame.

  The man waiting in aisle seven had an identical blue and maroon uniform. He was perhaps five years older than Mr. Bovey but even taller, with a slender marathon runner’s frame. His skin was Nordic pale with ginger hair cut short except for a sle
nder ridge right at the crest of his skull. Strangely, his green eyes registered the same kind of general amusement at the world as Mr. Bovey’s.

  “I’d recommend these two kitchen styles,” he said in greeting, and gestured at a small display area. “They’re a good fit to your dimensions, and this one is an end-of-the-line model. I’ve got two left in the warehouse, so I can give you a sweet deal.”

  Araminta was slightly nonplussed. Mr. Bovey obviously had passed on her file to this employee, but that was no reason for him to start off as if they already were on familiar terms. “Let’s take a look,” she said, lowering the temperature of her voice.

  It turned out the end-of-the-line model was quite satisfactory, and it was a good deal. As well as a midrange culinary unit with a range of multichem storage tanks, she got a breakfast bar and stools and ancillaries such as a fridge, a food prepper, a maidbot, shelving, and cupboards. The style was chaste white with black and gold trim. “If you throw in delivery, I’ll take it,” she told him.

  “Anytime you want it, I’ll get it to you.”

  She ignored the flirty overture and told her u-shadow to pay the deposit.

  “Bathrooms: aisle eleven,” he told her with unabashed enthusiasm.

  The salesman waiting for her in aisle eleven had allowed himself to age into his biological fifties, which was unusual even for Viotia. His ebony skin was just starting to crinkle, with his hair graying and thinning. “I’ve got four that I think will suit your aesthetics,” was his opening gambit.

  “Hello,” she snapped at him.

  “Ah … yes?”

  “I’m Araminta; pleased to meet you. And I’m looking for a bathroom for my flat. Can you help me?”