The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  On the ground so far below, there was a horrified gasp as the faces of the crowd turned up to watch him. Laughing defiantly, he held his arms wide, allowing his black cloak to flap madly around him as he streaked downward.

  That powerful farsight played over him as he fell. Then, a hundred feet from the ground, the city took hold of him and slowed his wild flight, lowering him softly onto the pavement at the foot of the tower. The crowd exclaimed in admiration. Several people applauded; more cheered.

  He saw Macsen’s derisory sneer. Dinlay gave him a disapproving frown. But it was Kristabel whose face was pure anger. He shrugged an apology, which clearly wasn’t anywhere near good enough. She was still scowling as he walked over and put his arm around her.

  “Daddy,” Marilee scolded.

  “That was so bad.”

  “Teach us how to do that.”

  He winked at the twins. “The Skylord comes,” he said solemnly.

  The crowd was excited now, chattering wildly as they all turned to the east. There was nothing to see at first; the towers of Eyrie blocked any view into the sky directly over the sea. Then the astonished residents of Myco and Neph gifted their sight to the rest of the city.

  The Skylord had risen above the horizon. Now it was flying directly over the choppy sea. Edeard didn’t appreciate the size at first. From the city’s Port district it simply looked like a shiny white moon skimming over the waves, slowly getting bigger as it dipped down again. Its actual surface was hard to make out; it had the same shimmer as a pool of water rippling under a noonday sun, a bright distortion that could never stay still long enough to focus on. Then he realized the Skylord wasn’t losing altitude; it was simply getting closer. The curving underside was already at least a mile above the sea, which was impossible because that would make it miles across. Yet there it was. The shadow it cast turned the gray-blue water nearly black across a vast area. The fine white sails of ships that were eclipsed beneath it turned gray and billowed energetically as the turbulence it created roiled against them.

  Finally the leading edge of that colossal circle slid across the city skyline. Like everyone else standing in Eyrie, Edeard felt awed and worshipful. Its size was beyond intimidating; it was utterly overwhelming and not a little frightening. It must have been almost half the size of the city itself. And it flew!

  “Oh, great Lady,” he whispered as Kristabel and the twins clung to him. His arms went around them, offering nowhere near enough comfort. He wanted to scream to the city’s mind to protect them. Some wretched primitive aspect wanted him to flee, to cower before such majesty. Instead he laughed hysterically; to think, only minutes ago he and Finitan had been doubting the Skylords and the purpose of the Heart.

  Around him people were flinging themselves to the ground, screaming in terror as they wrapped their arms over their heads. When Edeard glanced at the Pythia, he saw great tears of joy streaming down her cheeks as she held her arms upward in greeting. Her mind shone bright as she poured her welcoming thoughts up into the sky.

  Dazzling slivers of pure sunlight shimmered across Makkathran’s rooftops and streets. Now that Edeard could see it directly, the Skylord seemed to be made of some crystalline substance, a million thin sheets of the stuff folded into bizarre twisting geometries that somehow never seemed to intersect as they should. Sunlight foamed through the core, bending and shifting erratically. He could never be sure if it was the light that fluctuated or if the crystalline sheets themselves were in constant motion. The Skylord’s composition defied logic as the creature itself defied gravity.

  The umbra fell across Eyrie as the Skylord slid across Makkathran, a darkness alleviated by the perpetual flashes of brilliant prismatic light that radiated out of its undulating surface. With it came the thunder of its passage, the roar of a thousand lightning bolts blasting out simultaneously. Wind rushed down the streets, shaking the trees and mauling clothes and any loose items. A monsoon of flower petals surged into the dark scintillating air as they were ripped away from their trees and vines.

  Then the Skylord’s thoughts became apparent, a great wash of lofty interest bathing every human. Calming and compassionate, a reflection of its size and magnanimity. Even those who’d feared its presence the most were put at ease. Its benevolence was beyond question, a benevolence almost humbling in its honesty. It was curious and hopeful that the new residents of Makkathran once again had reached fulfillment so that they might receive its guidance to the Heart.

  “Look!” Marilee screamed above the howling atmosphere.

  Edeard turned to where she was pointing. Every fissure in the tower’s wrinkled skin was alive with scarlet light, as if some kind of fire were sweeping through it, racing upward. Then he saw that the kinked spires on top were glowing violet-white, becoming brighter and brighter.

  “Edeard,” Finitan’s longtalk called, firm and strong. “Oh, Edeard, it hears me, the Skylord hears me. It will take me! Edeard, I’m going to the Heart. Me!”

  The top of the tower vanished inside an explosion of light. Icy flames of radiance flashed upward toward the Skylord. Edeard’s farsight saw Finitan’s body turn to ash and blow apart in the gale. But his soul stood fast. Edeard didn’t need any special farsight to perceive him now; his spectral form was there for everyone to see.

  The old Eggshaper Guild Master laughed delightedly and raised his ethereal arms in farewell to the city and people he loved. Then he was soaring upward within the tower’s flames to be claimed by the dancing chaos of illumination surging through the Skylord.

  “I thank you,” Edeard told the Skylord.

  “Your kind are becoming fulfilled again,” the Skylord replied. “I am gladdened. We have waited so long for this time.”

  “We will wait for you to come again.” Edeard smiled up at the stupendous iridescent creature swooping so nonchalantly above them all.

  He wasn’t alone in calling to the Skylord.

  “Take me!” they began to cry, hundreds upon hundreds of the elderly and the sick, raising their longtalk to plead.

  “Take me.”

  “Guide me to the Heart.”

  “I am fulfilled.”

  “I have lived a good life.”

  “Take me.”

  “My kindred will return to guide you to the Heart,” the Skylord promised them. “Be ready.”

  When it was clear of the city, the Skylord began to climb back into the sky, rising higher and higher above the Iguru plain until it was ascending vertically above the Donsori Mountains. Edeard gathered his family around him so they could watch it go. He was sure it gathered speed as it gained altitude. Soon it was hard to follow, it was traveling so fast, growing smaller by the second.

  “Oh, Daddy,” the twins cooed as they hugged him.

  Edeard kissed both of them. He couldn’t remember being so relieved and excited before. “We’re saved,” he said. “Our souls will enter the Heart.” I won. I really did.

  Far above, the Skylord raced onward to the nebulae, dwindling until it was a bright daytime star. Eventually, even that faded from view.

  Edeard waved it farewell. “The world will know our joy when we meet again,” he whispered to Finitan. He let out a long breath and looked around him. So many people were still gazing up into the perfect azure sky, wistful and content. It was going to be a long time before Makkathran resumed its normal business.

  “You were right,” Macsen said. “Waterwalker.”

  Kristabel gave him a sharp look. “Why did you jump? That’s so dangerous.”

  “Yrance won’t know what to do now,” Dinlay said with an edge of cruel satisfaction. “We can capitalize on that right away.”

  Edeard started laughing.

  The dawn light crept around the sharp crystal skyscrapers at the heart of Darklake City, illuminating a clear sky with a mild wind blowing in from the west. On the fifty-second floor of the Bayview Tower, Laril blinked against the glare that shone directly through the curving floor-to-ceiling window of the lounge. He wa
s sprawled in the couch he’d spent the night on, dressed in a loose striped bed shirt. His u-shadow turned up the shading on the window as he moved his shoulder blades slowly, trying to work the tired knots out of his muscles. Newly active biononics didn’t seem to have much effect on the stiffness; that or he wasn’t as adept at their programming as he liked to think he was.

  A maidbot brought over a mug of hot, bitter coffee, and he sipped it carefully. There was a croissant, as well, that started to flake and crumble as soon as he picked it up. The culinary units on the Inner worlds were unbeatable when it came to synthesizing the basics. A five-star gastronomic experience still required a skilled chef to put together, but for a simple pickup meal, fully artificial was the way to go.

  He walked over to the darkened glass and looked down across the city grid. Capsules already were streaming above the old road arteries, ovals of colored chrome zipping along at their regulation hundred-meter altitude. Out on the lake from which the city drew its name, big day cruisers were stirring, edging into the quaysides. The quaint old ferryboats were already plowing off to the first ports on their timetables, churning up a bright green wake. As yet, few pedestrians were abroad. It was too early for that, and people were still in shock over the Sol barrier. Most of the urban population had done as Laril had and spent the night receiving unisphere reports on the barrier and what the President and the navy were going to do about it. The short answer was “Very little.” Oaktier’s Planetary Political Congress had issued a public statement of condemnation to the Accelerator Faction, calling for the barrier to be lifted.

  Big help, Laril thought. That was the one aspect of converting to Higher that he still couldn’t quite help feeling scornful over: the incredible number of official committees. There was one for everything, at both a local and a planetary level, all integrated in a weird hierarchy to form the world’s representational government. But that was the Higher way of involving all its citizenry in due process, of giving everyone the authority to act in an official capacity, the logical conclusion of Higher “I am government” philosophy. As he was only just qualifying as a Higher citizen, Laril could stand for election only into the lowest grade of committee, and there were at least seventeen levels beneath the executive grade. Oaktier didn’t have a President, or Chair, or Prime Minister; it had a plenum cabinet (self-deprecatingly referred to as the Politburo by locals) of collective responsibility. When the constitutional structure was explained in his citizenship classes, Laril somehow hadn’t been surprised. Even with all the daily legal datawork handled by super-smartcores, you still basically needed a permit to take a crap, Oaktier was that bureaucratic. But at that, it was one of the more liberal Higher planets.

  In an excellent reflection of both its excessive democracy and its forbearance, Laril realized the planetary gaiafield was almost devoid of emotional texture this morning. Everyone was withholding his or her consciousness stream, a universal condemnatory reaction to Living Dream’s Pilgrimage, which was the root cause of the crisis.

  Again, big help; although it was difficult to be so cynical about that. It showed a unity and resolve that even he found impressive.

  Laril just hoped he could find the same level of resolve within himself. As soon as Araminta’s call had broken up, his u-shadow had relayed the shotgun that had been loaded into Chobamba’s unisphere. He prayed she’d take the warning seriously and get the hell off Chobamba. She certainly hadn’t called him again, which meant she’d been caught or was running. All he could do was assume the latter and prepare for it. She would call him for advice and help again, which was the antithesis of Oaktier’s stupid bureaucracy. This was one person making a difference, a big difference. It was what Laril had always imagined he would be doing, influencing events across the Commonwealth with his smart thinking and innate ability to dodge trouble. Now he finally had that chance. He was determined to deliver exactly what Araminta wanted.

  First off, he didn’t quite trust the code she’d given him for Oscar. Even if Oscar whoever-he-was had helped her at Bodant Park, there was no way of knowing if he worked for ANA as he claimed. To keep her away from the Accelerators, it needed to be the navy or an opposing faction. Laril didn’t want to go running to the navy; trusting authority like that wasn’t right for him. Besides, that would effectively be handing Araminta over to the President, who would have to make some kind of political compromise. Far better she team up with a faction, which would take a more direct line of action, which would have a plan and get things done.

  So he spent the night using his u-shadow to make delicate inquiries among people he used to associate with a long time ago. Every precaution was taken: one time codes, shielded nodes, remote cutoff routing. All the old tricks he’d learned back in the day. And the magic was still there. A friend on Jacobal had a colleague on Cashel whose great-great-uncle had once been involved with the Protectorate on Tolmin and so had channels to a supporter who had a contact with the Custodian Faction. That contact supplied a code for someone called Ondra, who was an “active” custodian.

  After each call Laril rebuilt his electronic defenses within the unisphere, making very sure no one was aware of his interest in the factions. It must have worked; by the time he got Ondra’s code, none of his safeguards had detected scruitineers or access interrogators backtracking his ingenious routing.

  He made the final call. Ondra was certainly very interested when he explained who he was. And yes, there were custodians on Oaktier who might be able to offer “advice” to a friend of the Second Dreamer. That was when Laril laid out his conditions for contact. He was pleased with what he’d come up with. Over an hour had been spent remote surveying the Jachal Coliseum, seven kilometers from the Bayview Tower. He’d reviewed the local nodes and loaded a whole menu of monitor software. Then he’d gone through a virtual map, familiarizing himself with the layout on every level, working out escape routes. Finally, he’d hired three capsule cabs at random and parked them ready around the coliseum on public pads. It was a superb setup, in place before he even spoke to Ondra. The meeting was agreed for nine-thirty that morning. Someone called Asom would be there, alone.

  Laril finished his coffee and turned from the big window. Janine was coming out of the bedroom. They’d been together for six months now. She was only sixty, rejuvenated down to a sweet-looking twenty. That she was migrating inward at her age spoke for how insecure she was. It made her easy for his particular brand of charm; he understood exactly how the promise of sympathy and support would appeal to her. That kind of predatory behavior presumably would be discarded along with other inappropriate character qualities before he’d achieved true Higher citizenship. In the meantime, she was a pleasant enough companion. The Sol barrier, though, had brought back all her anxieties in the same way it had seen a resurgence of his more covetous traits.

  Her eyes were red-rimmed even though there hadn’t yet been tears. The thick mass of her curly chestnut hair hung limply, curtaining her heart-shaped face. She gave him such a needy look, he almost swayed away. Unlike everyone else, her emotions were pouring out into the gaiafield, revealing a psyche desperately seeking comfort.

  “They can’t get through the barrier,” she said in a cracked voice. “The navy’s been trying for hours. There are science ships there now, trying to analyze its composition.”

  “They’ll work something out, I’m sure.”

  “What, though? Without ANA we’re lost.”

  “Hardly. The Accelerators can’t get into the Void without the Second Dreamer.”

  “They’ll get her,” Janine wailed. “Look at what they’ve done already.”

  Laril didn’t comment, though it was tempting. He ran a hand over his chin, finding a lot of stubble there. Araminta always used to complain about that. I need a shower and clean clothes. “I’m going out.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I have to meet someone, an old friend.”

  “You are kidding,” she squawked as outrage fought with fright. “Toda
y? Don’t you understand? They’ve imprisoned ANA.”

  “The biggest victory they can have is to change our lives. I am going to carry on exactly as before. Anything else is allowing them to win.”

  She gave him a confused look, her thoughts in turmoil. More than anything she wanted to believe in him, to know he was right. “I didn’t think of that,” she said meekly.

  “That’s all right.” Laril put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her. She responded halfheartedly. “See?” he said gently. “Normality. It’s the best way forward.” The prospect of making contact with a faction agent, of becoming a galactic power player, was making him inordinately randy.

  “Yes.” She nodded, her arms going around him. “Yes, that’s what I want. I want a normal life.”

  Laril checked the clock function in his exovison display. There was just enough time.

  The taxi capsule slid out of the vaulting entrance to the hanger that made up the seventy-fifth floor of Bayview Tower. Laril sat back on the curving cushioning, feeling on top of the world. It doesn’t get any better than this, not ever.

  Direct flight time between Bayview Tower and the Jachal Coliseum was a couple of minutes at best. Laril had no intention of flying direct. Until he was absolutely sure of the custodian representative’s authenticity, he wasn’t taking any chances. So they flew to a marina first, then a touchdown mall, the Metropolitan Opera House, the civic museum, a crafts collective house. Twelve locations after leaving the tower, the taxi was finally descending vertically toward the coliseum. From his vantage point it looked like he was sinking down to a small volcano. The outside slope of the elongated cone had been turned to steep parkland, with trees and fields and meandering paths. There were even a couple of streams gurgling down between a series of ponds. Inside the caldera walls were tiers of extensive seating, enough to contain seventy thousand people in perfect comfort. The arena field at the bottom was capable of holding just about any event from concerts to races to display matches and Baroque festivals. Ringing the apex of the coliseum was a broad lip of flat ground that hosted a fence of two-hundred-year-old redka trees, huge trunks with wide boughs smothered in wire-sponge leaves the color of mature claret.