The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Are you blaming me for this?”

  Gore stood still, his fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to calm down. “No. It’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you. This is all because of the bastard Firstlifes who built the fucking abomination in the first place. The Raiel were right to try to destroy it. I wish they goddamn had; I really do.”

  “I can use the Silverbird to study as much as it can.”

  “No no, that’s not the answer to anything. We can’t go in there with ray guns blazing. I thought you’d realized that. You were right earlier; the mind is the key in the Void. It is geared up to manifest every thought. The physical environment can only be a tiny part of it. Think of it as an eight-dimensional onion.”

  Justine straightened her back and gave her father an exasperated look. “Thanks, Dad. That’s helpful. I always think in those terms; it really helps a lot.”

  Gore gave her a gruff smile. “All right, forget the eight dimensions; just picture the layers. They’re interlinked dimensionally, not figuratively, but you get the drift. Every layer has a different function. There’s the memory layer that captures everything that goes on in there. There’s the creator layer, which must organize the reset. There’s the interaction layer, which formats thoughts for the creator layer, which is what makes telepathy and all the rest of that mental shit happen.”

  “A layer to make souls work,” Justine said thoughtfully.

  “Yeah. This is all built around rationality and its evolution, the fulfillment your retard Skylord is fixated on. So maybe another layer that handles thought processes—maybe that’s the soul one, maybe not. That’s not the point. There’s a whole ton of layers, ones we can deduce from observation and stuff we can’t even guess at. And Christ knows what the nebulae are and why they’re singing. Doesn’t matter. What we have here is an enormously complex construction. But the nucleus is the center—again, not physically.”

  “So the nucleus does control it all.”

  “Who knows what the hierarchy is? What we have to do is find a route in, something we can rationalize and engage, just like you wanted.”

  “Why would the nucleus create Kazimir for me?”

  “It didn’t. I don’t believe you can think big enough to attract its attention. That confluence nest you have on board probably imprinted the Kazimir dream onto the creator layer. It was a thought more powerful than it’s accustomed to. Most of the layers don’t operate at a conscious sentient level; they just perform their task. And nobody ever took a confluence nest inside before. The one thing a confluence nest does above all else is hold a memory and repeat it ad infinitum. Your dream was the only one it received, and that warped reality. The creator layer simply responded in the way it was designed. Nothing personal.”

  Justine sat on the bed, trying to fit together what he was saying. “If my thoughts aren’t powerful enough, what’s the point of me trying to find the nucleus?”

  “This dream is being received by everyone who has a gaiafield connection. Understand?”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t try to find the nucleus, it’s a waste of time.”

  “But you just said—”

  Gore knelt in front of her, his hands gripping her upper arms. His eyes peered out intently from the gold skin mask that was his face. “You have to get to Makkathran.”

  “There’s nobody left there. The Skylord said the humans had all gone to the nucleus.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Get to Makkathran. It’s important. That’s where humans are centered in the Void.”

  “How? The Silverbird can’t fly.”

  “Wrong.” Gore grinned right at her. “You’re in the Void. You’ve got telepathic powers. The Silverbird can’t fly now.”

  “Oh.” She worked out what he was proposing. “Oh!”

  “That’s my girl; as smart as you are beautiful.”

  “But Dad, Kazimir won’t exist then. I’ll have killed him.”

  Gore let go of her arms. “I’m sorry; run that by me again.”

  “If I go back to then, he won’t exist.”

  “Oh, Jesus wept.” Gore slapped a hand theatrically across his brow. “Don’t you go all liberal on me now. Not now.”

  “I can’t wipe him out of existence. He’s real now, for better or worse. I have a responsibility.”

  “He is the equivalent of a re-life clone, one that has been stuffed with your recollections of his memories. How pitiful is that?”

  “He’s alive,” she said firmly.

  “And you’ve got the hots for him.”

  “I do not.”

  “Your own DNA test showed you he’s not Kazimir, just some poor doppelgänger the memory layer had in storage.”

  “Exactly. He’s human. I can’t do this to him.”

  Gore took her hands. “Listen to me, darling. This is the fundamental catastrophe that is the Void. He was a stored memory. Everybody who was ever in the Void is exactly the same; everyone who crashed there in the colony ship was copied, everyone who was ever born. Owain is still there, for God’s sake, still frozen in the memory layer at the moment the Waterwalker shot him and for all the decades he lived before. In all the resets Edeard performed afterward, he never went back past the point where he wiped out the conspirators. He could never bring himself to do that all over again because that’s what he would have had to do each time. This is what the Void throws at us. They lived in the time they were meant to live. You can’t change that, Justine. You cannot allow rationality and ethics that evolved in this universe to apply where you are now.”

  “I know what you’re saying, but Dad, you haven’t met him. He’s so sweet. He doesn’t deserve this.”

  “The galaxy doesn’t deserve the Void, but we’ve got it. And I have met him, darling. I’ve felt your silly little heart beat faster at the sight of him. I tasted the chocolates you ate when you smiled and flirted with him. I know the urge you’ve been trying to ignore. I’m sorry. You have to do this. You have to go to Makkathran.”

  “Oh, goddamnit.”

  He kissed her brow. “Look on the bright side. If we lose, you get to stay and live in the Void; you can find him again.”

  “You are a thoroughly fucking useless coach; you know that.”

  “I know. Now go and wake up.”

  Justine nodded weakly, knowing she didn’t really have a choice. For the first time she looked through the bedroom window. The land outside wasn’t the grounds of the Tulip Mansion. Instead, her old home was sitting at the bottom of an impossibly huge valley, with mountains curving away through the sky like a monstrous green and brown wave about to break overhead. The sun was a long band of glaring light. “What the hell is that?”

  Gore shrugged lightly. “I had to make a few sacrifices so I could dream your dreams.”

  “Dad …”

  “I’m fine.” He raised a hand, waving, his smile fond and proud. “Go on. Wake up.”

  Justine’s eyes opened wide, staring up at the cabin ceiling. Tears blurred her vision. She wiped them away angrily. “Oh, hell.” And Kazimir would know something was wrong. No telepath had the strength to shield those emotions.

  Sure enough, he was standing at the end of the rope ladder as she struggled her way down. He even held it steady for her.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I have to go,” she said flatly.

  “I see. That’s good, isn’t it? You know how to reach the nucleus. You wanted to go there.”

  “I can’t take you with me,” she stammered.

  “I understand.”

  “No. No, you don’t.” She took a deep breath and kissed him. Delight banished the surprise from his face.

  “Kazimir, I want you to know something. If there is a way back here, I will find it; I will find you. I promise that. Know my thoughts and know the truth in them.”

  He gave her that tentative worshipful gaze that just made her feel worse. She’d never thought she’d ever see that again.

 
“I see the honesty in your thoughts,” he assured her. “Now do what you know you must.”

  Justine sat on a rock a few meters from the Silverbird’s landing leg. The warm late-afternoon sun was a pleasant pressure on her face and arms as she folded her legs into a yoga position. Kazimir was squatting a little way past her, watching anxiously. She gave him one last smile and concentrated.

  Her thoughts flowed into the confluence nest, using its routines to hold her mind steady. There were memories in there: the time where Edeard stood on top of the mountain and reached into the fabric of the Void, seeing the past. She followed what he did intently and tried to shape her thoughts in the same fashion, pushing her farsight down into the nothingness that lay around her.

  Her own body was there, a long multiple image winding back and forth across the ground, going up into the ship, talking to Kazimir, radiating such sorrow that it threatened to resonate through her now. She pushed past it, saw the Silverbird swoop down from space. Further.

  It was incredibly difficult; without the support of the confluence nest she would never have maintained focus. She couldn’t believe the Waterwalker had ever done this unaided. There was a single distinctive moment in her life that she wanted to achieve. Her mind held it up, instinctively matching it to the moment contained within the Void’s memory of everywhen. Then all she had to do was impel herself into it. There was a cry of desperation somewhere in the physical world as she attempted to force her thoughts into a pattern they were never intended for, calling upon the strength of the confluence nest to support her. The precious moment was there, linking present and past. Justine pushed. The Void reset itself—

  Inigo’s Thirteenth Dream

  The chamber of records was three levels down from the Spiral Tower, which housed the headquarters of Makkathran’s Weapons Guild. In total, the third level had twenty chambers arranged in a circle and reached by a single ring corridor. They were used as vaults for the most secret guns and ammunition compounds known to the guild’s Masters. For centuries the triple iron doors to each chamber had kept the rapid-fire guns safe, along with long-barreled pistols and other firearms lost to the rest of Querencia. The mechanisms to produce such devices also were kept in the vaults, as were the raw ingots of specialist metals the designs required.

  Just gaining entrance to the Spiral Tower was difficult enough; there was only one entrance, and it was heavily guarded. All visitors had to be accompanied by a Master. Beyond that, armed guards kept a ceaseless vigil on the first and second basement levels. There were also ingenious trips and traps along the corridors and steps to catch anyone using concealment.

  It was reasonable, therefore, for those who assembled in the chamber of records two days after Topar’s little expedition had left Makkathran to exude a degree of security. Grand Master Owain greeted his eleven guests warmly. No one made any attempt to hide his sense of trepidation and excitement as they made their way into the broad cross-vaulted chamber. There was a simple wooden table set up in the middle with thirteen chairs around it. Tall shelving cabinets were arrayed around the lead-gray walls, containing hundreds of leather folders that held every pistol and bullet design produced by the guild over its two millennia of existence. Long teardrop lighting patterns stretched across the curving ceiling, glowing passively.

  Bise was the last to be shown in. He smiled at his fellows as the three thick, heavy doors swung shut behind him. Complicated locks rotated, pushing steel bolts into place and securing them; combination bands were spun.

  “My poor boy,” Mistress Florrel said, and embraced Sampalok’s ex-Master warmly. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Grandmama.”

  “Did you get the food I had sent out to you? I had the bakery on Jodsell Street make those raspberry muffins especially. I know how much you liked them as a boy.”

  “Yes, indeed; it was most kind.”

  “Was exile so terrible?”

  “It had its moments.”

  “It had its costs,” Tannarl said. “Half of your family stayed at my lodge.”

  “For which you will be fully recompensed,” Owain said smoothly. “Come, come, we are not here to squabble among ourselves over a little coinage. Our moment draws near.”

  “It was drawing near two years ago,” Bise said. “Then he arrived.”

  “Well, the Waterwalker is off running around the countryside now, trying to find bandits,” Buate said. “And when he does, he won’t be coming back.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Owain said. “His telekinesis is incredibly strong. Makkathran hasn’t seen the likes since the days of Rah. And not even Rah could alter the city buildings.”

  Bise glowered at the reminder.

  “Careful, Cousin,” Tannarl said. “You tread close to heresy.”

  “I state the simple truth.”

  “You don’t seriously believe he can ward off the reception I have arranged for him?” Buate asked. “The whole point of ambushing him outside the crystal wall is to rob him of the advantage which the city gives him.”

  “The outcome is almost irrelevant,” Owain said. “Even if he does survive, there will be nothing for him to return to. We must be absolute in that. Our supporters are ready.”

  “There will be resistance,” Buate warned.

  “Lady take them,” Tannarl said. “I say we don’t wait any—”

  The Waterwalker rose smoothly through the floor of the records chamber, his black cloak enveloping him like an extinguished nebula. He studied each one of the conspirators sitting around the table. Several had risen to their feet, hands reaching for their pistols—a motion that died as he gave them a lofty dismissive smile.

  “The election has given us a Mayor and a full Council,” the Waterwalker said. “There will be no change, no revolution. We are not one nation until we choose to be so.”

  “What are you proposing?” Owain asked.

  “I am proposing nothing. Your time is over.”

  “This time, maybe,” Bise snarled. “But there will be other opportunities.”

  “No, there won’t,” the Waterwalker told him. “I’ve already seen what happens if you win.”

  Owain frowned at the strange claim. Uneasy thoughts were stirring beneath his normally resolute shield.

  “You cannot arrest us,” Mistress Florrel said. “Our kind are not accountable in common law courts. And we have many allies in the Upper Council, where you would need to enact judgment.”

  “Quite right,” the Waterwalker agreed. “It would be pointless.”

  Tannarl strode across the chamber, his third hand reaching out. The big lock on the inner door turned sharply, its intricate combination bands spinning until the bolts were freed. They withdrew, and the door swung open. There were several sharp breaths. The door opened onto a smooth section of gray wall. There was no way out of the chamber.

  “I have heard many times from your followers that I am weak,” the Waterwalker said, “that I lack resolution. If you believe that, you don’t know me at all. This revolution will end here, now. Without you it cannot happen. Without the rapid-fire guns it cannot be attempted ever again. Makkathran will remain a democracy.” His cloak parted, and he held an arm out, palm down. A rapid-fire gun slipped up through the floor and rose into his hand. He closed his fingers around it.

  “No,” Owain said. “This is against everything you stand for.”

  “You really shouldn’t believe everything a heartbroken teenage girl tells you.”

  Owain grimaced as his fear began to manifest.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Mistress Florrel said. “My family will not permit this.”

  “It is my family now,” Edeard told her calmly.

  Eleven third hands pushed and hammered against the Waterwalker’s shield, trying to find a weakness, a way through. Longshouts for help were hurled at the impermeable chamber walls.

  “For all of my life I have known that sometimes to do what’s right, you first have to do what’s wrong,” the Waterwalke
r told them. “Now I realize the truth of it. That is what I am.” His finger squeezed down on the trigger. He held it there until the magazine was empty.

  Storage vault five contained over three hundred rapid-fire guns. They were wrapped in oiled cloth, sitting on racks that formed neat ranks across the floor.

  Edeard replaced the one he’d used on its rack. He asked the city to dispose of them all. The floor beneath the racks changed, becoming porous, and the dreadful weapons sank down to oblivion.

  His farsight swept out, examining the other vaults. Storage vault eight contained the bullets used in the rapid-fire guns. The city quietly absorbed the crates. Vault two had the long-barreled pistols. Seventeen housed some huge guns, their barrels as big as his legs, mounted on little wheeled trolleys. Iron balls larger than his fist were stacked in pyramids beside them—the bullets, he realized. He shuddered as he imagined the damage they could cause. All sank away. Finally, the shelving cabinets in the chamber of records slid beneath the solid floor.

  The secret power of the Weapons Guild was no more. Never again would there be an internal threat to Makkathran’s Grand Council and Mayor.

  Apart from the elections. And the guild quarrels. And the merchants maneuvering and bribing for gain. And the Grand Families struggling for advantage.

  He grinned at the thought of it all. That crazy, wondrous life lived by Makkathran’s citizens. It’s all Finitan’s problem now.

  The warm afternoon sun lit up the white pillars that lined Golden Park. Even the last bloom on the bushes and vines glowed with an exotic splendor in celebration of what had been an exceptionally pleasant summer. Edeard walked for some way across its elegant paths, drawing his thoughts together, resolving to do what he had to.