The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “You’d change,” he whispered. “If I gave you a meat body, you’d change. Your routines would be running in neural paths that are never fixed. I don’t want you to change.”

  “I don’t want a meat body. I just want you. Always. And I need you to be safe and happy for that to happen. Do you understand that, Troblum?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”

  The starship’s sensors reported energy weapon discharges above Colwyn City. Troblum frowned. “What’s that?” he queried. His u-shadow started refining the scan.

  It had been a while since Araminta had used the mélange program. Nothing wrong with the program; it was its association with Likan that made her all squirmy and uncomfortable. That was stupid. She certainly couldn’t afford that kind of weakness now.

  As she walked beside the little brook, she sent her perception seeping out ahead of her, experiencing it flowing along the path. Far away she could feel the Silfen Motherholme, sympathetic and imposing. There was the human gaiafield, fizzing with agitation and excitement. On the other side of her mind was the Skylord—she recoiled from that right away. Her feet kept on walking. All around her the trees were growing higher, muddling those on the world she walked among with those of Francola Wood. She knew now where the path would take her into Francola Wood, smelling the scent of the whiplit fronds. Her mind found a host of people lurking in the undergrowth, cleverly concealed by their gadgetry while their steely thoughts filled with expectation. They were waiting for her.

  Yet even as it swept her along to its ending, she knew the path was fluid, simply anchored in place by past wishes, directions sung to it by Silfen millennia ago. She tried to make her own wishes known. Somehow they weren’t clear enough, and the path remained obdurately in place. So she summoned up the mélange and felt the calmness sinking through her body, centering her, enabling her to concentrate on every sensation she was receiving.

  The tunes imprinted on the path’s structure were easier to trace, to comprehend. With that knowledge she began to form the new tunes that her thoughts spun out. Wishes amplified by a fond nostalgia and the most fragile of hopes.

  Onward her feet fell, pressing down on damp grass as the melody permeated her whole existence. She swayed in time to the gentle undulations she had set free, finally happy that the end of the path was moving with her, carrying her onward to the place she so urgently sought. There, ahead of her, the thoughts she knew so well radiated out from his home.

  Araminta opened her eyes to look across the lawn toward the big old house. Her initial smile faded from her face. There had been a fire. Long black smoke marks contaminated the white walls above three of the big ground-floor arches. Two of the balconies were smashed. There was a hole in the roof, which looked melted.

  “Oh, great Ozzie,” she moaned. The dismay was kept in place by the mélange, occupying a single stream in her mind, an emotion that neither colored nor determined her behavior. “Bovey!” she called as she ran for the house. “Bovey!”

  Two of hims were outside by the swimming pool. They turned around at her voice. The gaiafield revealed his burst of astonishment.

  “You’re okay,” she gasped as she came to a halt a few meters short of hims. One was the Bovey she’d been on their first date with, the body she truly identified as him; the other was the tall blond youngster. At their feet was another body, inert, covered in a beach towel.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Not one of you.”

  “Hey,” the older of hims said, and threw his arms around her. “It’s okay.”

  Some small part of herself marveled at how calm she was, channeling all the emotion away so she could remain perfectly rational and controlled. She knew what she should say, even if her voice lacked the appropriate intensity. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “No, no,” he soothed.

  “I should have told you. Warned you. I left because I didn’t want you to get involved, to get hurt.”

  Neither of hims could avoid looking at the corpse. “It’s okay. You came back; that’s all that matters.”

  “It is not okay. They killed one of you.” A pulse of regret and guilt in his mind alerted her. “No, it’s not just one, is it? How many?”

  He took a step back from her, though his hands were still gripping her shoulders.

  “Tell me,” she demanded.

  “Five,” he said, as if ashamed.

  “Bastards!”

  “It doesn’t matter.” His grin was rueful. “That’s the point of being mes; bodyloss is irrelevant. Some of mes are scattered all across this city, and nobody knows how many there are; certainly not those thugs. I’m safe. Safer than you.”

  “This is my fault. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come to you, not before it’s all over.”

  “I’m glad you did,” he said earnestly. “Really, I am. Just seeing you, knowing you’re okay, makes this all worthwhile.” Both of hims looked back across the empty garden toward the Cairns, whose muddy waters flowed past the bank at the bottom of the lawn. “How did you get here? Everyone thinks you’re on Chobamba.”

  “Long story.”

  A sound similar to faint thunder rolled across the house. Araminta turned to the source, seeing energy weapons flash just below the curving force field dome. She didn’t need any kind of program to tell her it was the Francola district.

  “Not again,” Bovey groaned. “Enough!”

  “It’s me,” she said impassively. “They’re fighting because they think I’m there.”

  “Araminta.” It came out of both of hims, a distraught desperate voice.

  “I can’t stay. They’ll find me eventually.”

  “Run, then. I’ll come with you. We’ll just keep on running. The navy can probably help.”

  “No. I can’t do that. ANA has gone. Nobody is going to help us; nobody can stop Living Dream and the Accelerators. It’s down to me now.”

  “You?”

  “I’m not running, not hiding. Not anymore. I know I have no right to ask this, because I didn’t have the courage to tell you about myself before.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re sweet, too sweet. After this is over, I want us to be together. I really do. That’s why I’m here, so you know that.”

  He hugged her tight again. “It’ll happen,” he whispered fiercely. “It will.”

  “There are things I have to do,” she said. “Things I don’t want to, but I can’t see any other way. I have an idea, but I’m going to need your help to make it work.”

  Inigo’s Twenty-sixth Dream

  In all the years Edeard had lived in Makkathran, he’d never bothered drawing up a proper map of the deep tunnels. He knew there were five large concentric circles forming the main routes, with curving links between them. He also instinctively knew their position in relation to the streets and districts above. Beyond the outermost circle were the longer branches driving out under the Iguru plain apparently at random. One day he would fly along each of those brightly lit white tubes to find exactly where they emerged. One day when he had the time.

  For now he was simply glad that the outermost circular tunnel carried him close to Grinal Street in Bellis district, where Marcol was having difficulty subduing an exceptionally strong psychic. Edeard hadn’t used a deep tunnel for months, if not longer; such excursions were becoming a rare event. For several years now he’d had no reason to rush anywhere, especially on constable business. But now, as he hurtled along somewhere deep underneath Lisieux Park, the sheer exhilaration made him curse his middle-aged timidity. His cloak was almost tearing off his shoulders from the ferocity of the wind. He stretched his hands out ahead, as if he were diving. Then he rolled. It was a ridiculously pleasurable sensation, making the blood pump wildly along his veins. He yelled out for the sheer joy of living once more. And rolled again and again. A side tunnel flashed past, then another. He was almost at his destination in Bellis. There was an urge to simply go around again. Marcol and his squad
can handle it, surely.

  Something was suddenly hurtling around the tunnel’s shallow curve directly ahead. Edeard never bothered using his farsight in the intense white light of the tubes, so he was taken completely by surprise. He just had time to harden his third hand into a bodyshield as they flashed past. Two people clinging together. Teenagers, whooping madly. No clothes on as they coupled furiously in the buffeting wind. There was a quick glance of their startled, ecstatic faces, and then they were gone, their joyful cries lost amid the churning slipstream. Edeard threw his farsight after them, but the tunnel had separated them too quickly; already they were lost around the curve behind him.

  His shocked thoughts managed to calm, and he asked the city to take him the other way to chase the intruders and catch up. He slowed as always, skidding to a halt on the tunnel floor. Then the force that carried him reversed, and he began flying back the way he’d just come.

  This time he sent his farsight ranging out ahead. Perception through the tunnel walls was difficult, even for him. He could just sense the city a couple of hundred yards above him, but that was mainly due to the layout of the canals impinging on his perception. Actually sensing anything along the tunnel was extremely difficult.

  For a moment he thought he’d caught a trace of them a few hundred yards ahead, but then he lost them again. When he reached the spot, it was a side tunnel branch, and he didn’t know which way to go. He skidded and stumbled to a halt in front of the fork, standing on the bright glowing floor, looking first one way and then another, as if hunting a trace. Then he tried delving into the tunnel wall structure for its memory. The city always recalled decades of localized events.

  That was the second surprise of the day. There wasn’t one memory of the teenage couple. He could sense the tunnel’s recollection of himself flashing past barely a minute before, but of them there was nothing.

  “How in the Lady’s name did they …” His voice echoed off down the tunnel as he frowned at the shining junction. For a moment he thought he might have heard laughter whispering along the main tunnel. But by then he knew he was grasping at phantoms. “Honious!” he grunted, and asked the city to take him back to Bellis.

  Grinal Street was a pleasant enough boulevard, winding its way across the south side of the Bellis district from the Emerald Canal to the top of Oak Canal. A mixture of buildings stood along it, from typanum-gabled mansions to bloated hemispheres with narrow arches that made perfect boutiques, leading onto a line of houses with blended triple-cylinder walls whose overhanging roofs made them resemble knobbly stone mushrooms. Sergeant Marcol had been dealing with an incident in Five Fountain Plaza close to Oak Canal. The plaza was enclosed by a terrace with a concave outer wall and an internal honeycomb configuration of small cell-rooms connected via short tubes without any apparent logic to the layout, as if the whole structure had been hollowed out by giant insects long ago. This hivelike topography made it ideal for merchants and traders dealing in small high-value items. Few people lived in it, but many thrived and bustled around inside.

  Edeard arrived at a squat archway in one corner and automatically ducked his head as he went inside. There was a lot of hostility and bad temper radiating out from the gloomy interior. As he crossed the threshold, he was instantly aware of a strong farsight examining him. His inquisitor, somewhere over in Zelda, withdrew farsight as Edeard attempted to backtrack it.

  He paused, pursing his lips with interest. That hadn’t happened for quite a few years, either. Whoever had taken such an interest in him before the Skylords returned had been ignoring him ever since. He didn’t think their reemergence today was a coincidence.

  Marcol was waiting for him in the herbalist emporium, a room on the second floor reached by a spiraling tube and several interconnected cell-rooms. Its walls were completely covered in rugs woven with intricate geometric designs. Lanterns hung on long brass chains, burning jamolar oil to cast a thick yellow light. There were other scents in the air, a mélange of spice and alcohol so potent that that Edeard half expected to see it as a vapor. The cell-room was fitted out with row upon row of small shelves lined with kestric pipes of various sizes and lengths. Several were lying broken on the floor. Hundreds of the narcotic plant’s long tapering leaves hung from racks, drying in the hot air. There were bundles of other stems, seed pods, and leaves that Edeard didn’t recognize. Again, many of them had been torn down and trampled underfoot.

  As soon as he’d pushed aside the bead curtains, he immediately knew who the protagonists were: two men on opposite sides of the room, still glaring at each other, minds reeking of animosity. One was old and quite large, dressed in an expensive matching jacket and trousers colorfully embroidered with small birds in the same style as the hanging rugs. Edeard immediately tagged him as the herbal emporium’s owner.

  The other man was considerably younger, under thirty, and Edeard knew his type only too well. Yet another Grand Family son a long way down the entitlement list, as arrogant as he was handsome and living well beyond his allowance thanks to extended merchants’ credit. Edeard immediately suspected the owner was one such creditor. The two constables under Marcol’s charge had gotten cuffs on him, rumpling up the sleeves of his dark red velvet jacket. Looking around, Edeard didn’t quite know why he was there. Then he studied the younger man’s face closely, taking in the high cheekbones, the dark floppy hair, the unbreakable defiance in those light brown eyes.

  I’ve seen him before. But where? He was younger. Honious damn my memory.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked lightly.

  “Colfal called us,” Marcol said, indicating the owner. “Alleging psychic assault. When we turned up, Tathal resisted arrest.” His thumb jerked toward the youthful aristocrat, who responded with a dismissive smile. “He’s a difficult one.”

  “I did no such thing,” Tathal said. It was a polite tone, and the accent wasn’t immediately indicative of Makkathran’s finest. Edeard thought he might be from the southern provinces.

  Holding up a finger to Tathal for silence, Edeard turned to Colfal. “Why did Tathal assault you?”

  Colfal’s anger finally faded away, replaced by a surly glower. He took a deep breath. “I apologize that your time has been wasted, Waterwalker. This has been a misunderstanding.”

  “Huh?” Marcol’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “But you called us.”

  Edeard’s gaze lingered on the damaged merchandise scattered over the floor as his farsight was studying the few of Marcol’s thoughts revealed through his shield. “Uh huh.” He raised an eyebrow. “And you, Tathal? What have you to say?”

  “Also, my profound apologies. As your constables will testify, I have a strong third hand. In the heat of the moment my restraint isn’t all it should be.”

  “You don’t wish to press charges?” Edeard asked Colfal.

  “No.” The old herbalist shook his head, unable to meet Edeard’s stare.

  “Very well.” Edeard told the constables to uncuff Tathal. “And you, learn to restrain your strength.”

  “Of course, Waterwalker.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Abad, Waterwalker, I have a residence on Boldar Avenue.”

  “Really? Anywhere near Apricot Cottage?”

  Tathal grinned eagerly and inclined his head. “Indeed, I am privileged to be a fellow.”

  That would explain the stylish clothes along with a provincial accent, but Edeard still couldn’t place the face. “All right, you’re free to go. Consider this your only warning; stay out of trouble from now on.”

  “Yes, Waterwalker.”

  Edeard was sure that platitude was loaded with mockery, but there was no hint of anything from beneath Tathal’s mental shield. In fact, Edeard had never encountered such a perfectly protected mind before.

  “Wasting a constable’s time is also an offense,” he told Colfal after Tathal had gone through the swirling bead curtain. “Especially mine.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” a flushed Colfal mutter
ed.

  ———

  “What in Honious was that?” Edeard asked Marcol when they were back out in Five Fountain Plaza.

  “I’m really sorry, Edeard. It all got out of hand so quickly. And Lady, he was so strong. I couldn’t handle him by myself. Even with my squadmates pitching in, it was touch and go. I just sort of instinctively called you.”

  “Hmm.” Edeard gave the warrenlike terrace a suspicious look. “He really was that strong?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the dispute about? If Tathal is an Apricot Cottage fellow, it could hardly be over payment.”

  “I’m not sure. Colfal was making all sorts of allegations when we arrived. Extortion. Financial abuse. Physical threats. Psychic assault. You name it, he was shouting about it.”

  “Interesting.” Edeard sent his perception into the walls of the herbal emporium, seeking to extract the city’s memory of the confrontation. But with the walls covered in rugs, the substance of the city could neither see nor hear what went on inside.

  “I can’t believe Colfal backed down,” Marcol was saying. “He was as furious as a blooded drakken.”

  “Domination,” Edeard said. “I recognized some of the patterns in his thoughts; they’re quite distinct after they’ve been forced to change—” He stopped. Now he remembered Tathal. “Oh, Lady, I might have guessed.”

  The Chief Constable of Makkathran had a grand office at the back of the Orchard Palace, a circular room with a high conical ceiling that twisted upward as if it had been melted into shape. The floor was a polished ocher with dark red lines tracing out a pentagon, the walls a lighter brown but still glossy. Edeard didn’t go for much furniture; it was a place of work, after all. He had his muroak desk, which had been a gift from Kanseen the day after his election, and a long table for meetings with various captains and lawyers.