The Abyss Beyond Dreams

by Peter F. Hamilton

  As he drew the flimsy curtain across the booth he realized how much he wanted Bethaneve here with him, how much nicer it would have been for them to have voted together. But she was busy, and appearances must be kept to protect themselves from discovery and danger. Slvasta looked down at the voting sheet. There were eight parties competing to run Nalani’s borough council. Citizens’ Dawn and Democratic Unity were the largest and best organized, followed by the usual collection of eccentric independent candidates who had some burning local issue to promote. It was an unusually large number. Even some of the pamphlets they didn’t have contacts with had noted it. Everyone was interested in the emergence of a workers’ union again. Many thought Bryan-Anthony was a political genius for developing a political base so quickly.

  It was a strange feeling, seeing his own name on the ballot. This, then, was the leap into the abyss, he thought; after this there can be no going back. He just had to have the courage – another reason he wished Bethaneve was here. How she would scorn his pathetic doubts. He closed his eyes, and saw Ingmar’s face.

  I was weak before. I will not be again.

  He placed his cross against his own party, pressing the pencil down hard so it left a firm dark mark that could never be disputed.

  The world outside was so ordinary for such a momentous day. Bright sunlight shone down, prickling his face as he left the hall. A few high strands of cloud ribbed the sapphire sky above the city. As Slvasta started down Footscray Avenue, he saw a man at the end of the road, sitting on a bench which gave him a perfect view of everyone going into the hall. He’d been there when Slvasta walked to the hall as well: ordinary clothes, ordinary features, unobtrusively reading a gazette. Not quite fuzzed, but giving off a subtle psychic impression of insignificance. A tiny ’path that wheedled: ignore me, just below conscious thought – unless you hunted for the emanation.

  A small smile lifted Slvasta’s lips and he scanned round with his ex-sight. Sure enough, there was a mod-bird perched on a chimney stack, its keen eyes gazing along Footscray Avenue, exposing the road’s traffic to its hidden owner.

  So you are worried about us, Slvasta thought as he walked past the watcher, studiously disregarding him. As you should be.

  4

  Looking round the Nalani council chamber, Slvasta wasn’t quite sure they’d won such a big victory after all. The chamber had a pretty standard layout, but degraded by age and cheapened by generations of dispirited councillors. Those councillors who did turn up sat in rows at long benches, facing a dais from which the mayor ran the proceedings. The wood panelling on the walls was old and dark, helping to amplify the gloom, while the glass cupola in the middle of the roof was so grimy it barely let any light through. The borough clerk had given Slvasta a copy of the council’s current financial accounts. Which, after one of the most depressing hours of his life reading it, Slvasta was surprised the council could afford to print in the first place.

  Bethaneve and Coulan were up in the public gallery, along with over a hundred Democratic Unity supporters and several reporters from gazettes across the city. Slvasta winked up at Bethaneve just as the county clerk called the meeting to order. First order of business was to appoint a new mayor. Out of the seventeen seats, fourteen had been won by Democratic Unity, with Citizens’ Dawn keeping just two, while one had gone to an independent road-improvement campaigner. Bryan-Anthony was nominated to be mayor, and quickly seconded. The vote was unanimous, and Bryan-Anthony walked up to the dais amid a lot of cheering and applause from the public gallery. He was given the robe with its fur-lined collar, and a heavy gold chain of office. Then he was sworn in as a faithful and loyal subject of the Captain, an oath he recited without any trace of irony.

  ‘Well done,’ Slvasta muttered under his breath. Bryan-Anthony was a good choice as their frontman, though he was impressively passionate about the cause, with a heated radical streak which too often manifested in tirades against authority, especially after a few pints. But tonight he was stone-cold sober – Javier had made sure about that.

  There was an official agenda for the meeting, starting with the appointment of new councillors to the borough’s various portfolios. Slvasta himself was given the office responsible for drain and sewer maintenance (which gave him access to a lot of information on the water utilities), and a second portfolio for the maintenance of public trees. Bryan-Anthony even graciously allocated one of the Citizens’ Dawn councillors the office which was responsible for licensing the borough’s cabs.

  Then there was a debate on the accounts. Five Democratic Unity councillors spoke condemning the financial state which the last council had left the borough in. ‘We’re effectively bankrupt,’ one stormed.

  At which both Citizens’ Dawn councillors stomped out. Cue booing and jeers from Democratic Unity supporters in the public gallery.

  It was agreed to form a special task force to review finances and the options available, which would report back to the full council in a week. Slvasta was one of the five members of the task force. It was tough keeping his shell hard enough to contain his dismay.

  ‘I now open the floor to any new business,’ Bryan-Anthony said.

  ‘I would like to propose a licence suspension,’ Jerill said.

  The crowd in the public gallery finally perked up. Slvasta kept his face and mind composed, while inside he was praying to Giu that Jerill wouldn’t screw up; they’d certainly spent long enough briefing him for this moment.

  ‘I represent a ward with, like, a great load of . . . um . . . unemployment,’ Jerill continued, glancing round edgily. ‘Them families live under a . . . er . . . hardship unknown and unrecognized in them boroughs stuffed with rich toffs. Nothing is done for them. The sheriffs are bloody harsh when any of us, like, fall behind on our rent. The city doesn’t give a toss for us. Well, I do care, see, for I know what hardship is really like. Er . . . Yeah, I was elected to help the poorest folks, and that is what I will do, no matter what vested interests I have to fight.’

  Jerill was given a couple of loud whoops from the public gallery. Slvasta wished they’d given him a shorter speech; the man wasn’t the best orator, and clearly hadn’t rehearsed enough.

  ‘In light of that, mayor, I would urge this council to support a moratorium on issuing any further mod-keeping licences for newly purchased mods in this borough. If, and only if, full human employment is restored, then we can consider approving any new licences.’

  They didn’t get it. Slvasta smirked to himself as he glanced round the blank and puzzled faces in the public gallery. The only one smiling was Bethaneve. But then, she was the one who discovered there was a city-wide law that said you needed a licence to own and keep a mod, with every borough responsible for enforcing it within their boundary.

  The law had been introduced by Captain Ephraim two thousand five hundred years ago, when mods were nothing like as common as they were today. It had never been repealed, but as mod usage increased, the licence fee was reduced under political pressure from adaptor stables and business owners and most householders, until eventually the cost of collecting the fees far outweighed the monies it raised. It remained purely as a historical quirk on the statute book, along with other relics like the Brocklage Square horseshoe tax or the Taylor Avenue flower tithe.

  As Bethaneve told them, an existing law – especially one as old as this – could never be challenged legally. All the council had to do was carry out its duty and enforce the law. And, as no one had a licence, the next stage was going to be setting the licence fee and forcing people to apply for the mods they already had. The money due would solve the borough’s financial woes at a stroke – providing they could collect it, of course. But there were plenty of unemployed people who would relish the job of licence regulation officer – especially when they were encouraged by the cells and the unions.

  The proposal was seconded, and passed.

  That was when Slvasta caught sight of him. The same man who’d been sitting on Footscray Avenue. He w
as standing at the back, not far from Bethaneve. His eyes were narrowed slightly, as if he was just coming to the realization of what had happened.

  *

  Trevene stood in his usual place, between the two plush chairs in front of the Captain’s desk, waiting while Philious absorbed that latest news. Delivering unwelcome announcements was becoming a habit he didn’t like. He was reacting to events, not controlling them as he should be.

  The last few weeks had seen some definite progress. His informants had embedded themselves in both the Wellfield union and Democratic Unity, they’d even been out on the streets canvassing for votes. Two of the newly elected Democratic Unity councillors belonged to him. There was nothing the party said or planned at their meetings that he did not know about within the hour.

  But that was one of his biggest problems. Nothing Democratic Unity did was surprising or relevant. They were a political party for poor people, which was rare enough, but apart from having absurd quantities of ambition and deluded goals of rivalling Citizens’ Dawn and becoming a major opposition party, they weren’t planning anything untoward. That left him with what they’d come to call the core: Slvasta, Bethaneve, Javier and Coulan. He’d built comprehensive files on all of them. Had them under constant surveillance. Interviewed people who used to know them before they turned political. Slvasta was the key, of course. A good ex-officer (he’d read the reports from the Cham regiment, and how his diligence was a problem for them) galvanized by his friend Arnice’s death. Which, when Trevene read the Justice Office file, he had to agree with Slvasta, was a phenomenal act of stupidity on officialdom’s part. The others were basically a support group to their leader – and Slvasta was smart enough to keep in the background. Bryan-Anthony, for all his good intentions, was a simple figurehead.

  It was the core who planned everything in private, who pulled the strings that controlled Democratic Unity and the ever-expanding unions. They were impressively good at it, too. Slvasta was clearly a natural politician. Trevene had even slipped into a public meeting in a pub to observe the man first hand. By the end there was no doubting Slvasta’s genuine commitment to improving life for the underdog.

  It was the methods that were proving a giant headache.

  Captain Philious looked up from the file Trevene had delivered. ‘But . . . I never signed an order to license mods.’

  ‘No sir. That was Captain Ephraim.’

  ‘Er, which . . . ?’

  ‘Two thousand years ago. He was Captain for seven years. Not terribly remarkable, by all accounts. Unfortunately, his law hasn’t been removed from the statute books. It’s still valid. Nobody has bothered enforcing it for centuries.’

  ‘Oh crud!’ Philious dropped the file on his desk and slumped back in his chair. After a moment’s contemplation, a grin of admiration lifted his thin lips. ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Shame, he’d make a superb First Speaker for me.’

  ‘Slvasta has his own agenda. It’s not one which embraces you or me.’

  ‘So I’ll just remove the assent from poor old Captain Ephraim’s mod licence. Take the wind out of Slvasta’s sails.’

  ‘That’s an option, of course, sir.’

  ‘Ah, here we go. What would your advice be?’

  ‘They’re a one-borough protest party, unregarded by the rest of Varlan, let alone Bienvenido. Cancelling the mod licence calls their action to prominence. It says you’re worried about Citizens’ Dawn being challenged. The Captaincy mustn’t be seen to be dabbling in grubby politics.’

  Philious gave him a curious look. ‘Do nothing? Look out there.’ The Captain’s arm gestured at the big windows overlooking Walton Boulevard. It was night outside, with nebula light effervescing out of a cloudless sky. Their gentle radiance shimmered on the rooftops. Windows glowed yellow. ‘No streetlights. For the first time in thousands of years, Varlan’s lights are going out. And its my Captaincy! This wretched core has done that. But that’s a mild disaster compared to what I’m reading in the Treasury reports. Prices are rising, banks are nervous. That cannot stand. We need the new neuts the guild is arranging to bring in, and we need the mods they’ll produce. Unrestricted, unlicensed mods.’

  ‘Yes. But this clever little manoeuvre of theirs confirms what I’ve said all along: the core is behind the whole neut situation. Slvasta has a weakness: he is obsessed by Fallers and mods. It consumes him – understandably. That is what ultimately lies behind all this.’

  ‘Then he should have stayed in the regiment; fought the Fallers head on.’

  ‘But he didn’t, sir. And we have to deal with him. He and his friends have become public figures. Not so easy to quietly dispose of any more. Questions would be asked. Nobody wants a martyr.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘They have made their move. It is a public message of defiance to you personally. We have to make a counter-move. Make them understand this is not some easy game. They must be taught there are consequences to challenging the authority of the Captain.’

  ‘Very well. Send them a message. And Trevene, make it a firm one.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  5

  ‘We did it.’ Bethaneve said. ‘We started it.’

  It was half an hour after the end of the council meeting, and the four of them were sitting in the garden at the back of the Bellaview pub on the other side of Tarleton Gardens from their flat. Four beers on the table, and a mild fuzz around them to prevent any eavesdropping. Clouds were beginning to thicken in the twilight sky above.

  ‘A good beginning,’ Javier agreed. ‘But now our biggest task is to keep the momentum going.’

  ‘The word is out with every cell,’ Bethaneve said. ‘There’s going to be a lot of dead mods across this city by the end of the week.’

  ‘The sheriffs are going to be busy,’ Coulan said thoughtfully. ‘They’ll work out there’s an organization of some kind behind it. And, as it all started with the Wellfield, I expect they’ll start poking around.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Bethaneve said. ‘Once you’ve struck a spark, some fires flash out of control. If all the unemployed see that dead mods mean jobs for them, we won’t have to keep feeding the cells with orders to kill. It’ll start to happen naturally.’

  ‘I like it,’ Coulan said. ‘The sheriffs might blame Nalani council for the spark, but the deaths will look spontaneous. They won’t be interested in us.’

  ‘Someone already is,’ Slvasta said. ‘And it ain’t the sheriffs.’ He told them about the observer he’d spotted.

  ‘Uracus!’ Coulan exclaimed. ‘He was really standing that close to me in the public gallery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should have warned me.’

  ‘Why, what would you have done? Turned and stared? How would that help?’

  ‘Is he here now?’ Bethaneve asked.

  Slvasta took his time and looked round the pub garden. At one time it might indeed have had a view, but now the only thing behind the garden was a high stone wall covered in viricote vines whose large papery white flowers were furling up now the sun had gone. ‘Not him, no,’ Slvasta confirmed, checking all the tables. ‘But if they’re smart they’ll rotate their watchers so we don’t start to recognize them.’

  ‘You already have,’ Coulan said.

  ‘I was lucky, or they got careless. It’s not something we can count on.’

  ‘You’re implying they have a big team on us,’ Bethaneve said in a subdued tone.

  ‘If they’re watching us already, then we are in trouble,’ Javier said. ‘If they’re watching anyone, it should be Bryan-Anthony. He’s really embracing his role as chief radical. Even I believed he’s in charge, the way he ran that meeting.’

  ‘About that meeting,’ Bethaneve said. ‘Next time you introduce a proposal, make sure the speech is better rehearsed. It was painful listening to Jerill.’

  ‘Yes, but it made him sound honest. A natural first-time request, well intentioned and gu
ileless. Nobody wants professional politicians taking over Democratic Unity right now.’

  ‘I’m not saying professional, just a little more coherent.’

  ‘We’ll all grow into the role.’

  Slvasta ’pathed an order to the barman for another round.

  ‘We have to be careful,’ Bethaneve said. ‘This is a critical time. We have to get a groundswell of support behind us. So far, all we control is one of the poorest boroughs in Varlan. And the next round of elections isn’t for another eight months.’

  ‘Is there a time when it won’t be “critical”?’ Javier asked.

  Bethaneve raised her glass and gave him an amused glance over the rim. ‘I can’t think of one.’

  *

  The second Nalani council meeting was much more boisterous than the first. They’d been expecting that. What the gazettes were condemning as the slaughter of the mods had taken on a fervour that left even Slvasta and Bethaneve surprised and not a little concerned. The cells had been told to limit their killing to the mods used by business, but no one else felt that constraint. Household mods were targeted with as much glee as those in commerce. In some of the wealthier boroughs, sheriffs were patrolling all the roads leading into the area, demanding proof of residency before they let pedestrians and cabs through. Citizens were determined to keep undesirables out – a policy which quickly resulted in a few ugly incidents when the sheriffs were overzealous. Pamphlets and ’path gossip feasted on those for days.

  Then there was the problem of the bodies. Dead mods were simply thrown out onto the streets. Bussalores emerged from their secluded warrens; people reported packs of the sleek rodents swarming over this bounty of rotting food. They became brave protecting their carrion, snapping at human children. Tatus flies formed huge clouds that clogged the air along alleys and narrow streets. Public health was becoming a serious issue.

  Bryan-Anthony’s opening statement was that the borough considered clearing the bodies away to be the highest priority. Twenty new human workers would be taken on to clear the streets.