The Abyss Beyond Dreams

by Peter F. Hamilton

  But right now, differences had been put aside so they could all condemn him. He dropped the fist-sized red ball into the cup at the front of his desk, indicating that he wished to address the chamber.

  The First Speaker, on the floor of the amphitheatre, rose from his ornate onyx throne. ‘Representative for Langley has the floor; pray silence and respect.’

  Slvasta got neither as he walked down the aisle to stand beside the First Speaker’s podium.

  ‘Silence!’ the First Speaker’s voice and ’path declared across the chamber.

  ‘Mr Speaker.’ Slvasta bowed to the podium, as was tradition. He stared round at the ranks of desks, most of which had the yellow ball of challenge in their cups. The contempt and scorn radiating down on him was a psychic storm. ‘My honourable colleague from Durnsford has levelled a serious charge. I really don’t care that he slanders me with association; however, he does immense wrong to the people who simply speak up for a better life. He claims radicals are responsible for the calamity in this great capital city of ours. Could he perhaps name which pump house the sheriffs have confirmed was sabotaged? Of course he cannot, because we all know there has been no such declaration. We are also aware of the perilous state the city’s water utilities have been in for a great many years. Have the companies who own this precious utility which is vital to all of us, rich and poor alike, improved their pipes and pumps in the last ten years? Have they heeded the pleas of their engineers for funds and more repairs? Have their vast profits been invested wisely in new facilities that would alleviate any problem such as we now face? Has there been a debate or inquiry by this esteemed chamber in the matter by the very members who now claim to know so much about pipes and engines and reservoirs? Of course not. For complacency has become Bienvenido’s watchword – an example sadly set by this chamber. And for which this chamber must take responsibility.’

  The torrent of vocal and ’pathed abuse was overwhelming. The First Speaker had to hold up the gavel of silence for over a minute before the honourable representatives quietened down.

  ‘I repeat my question,’ Slvasta said when the noise subsided. ‘Can you name an act of sabotage? No. This was a catastrophe waiting to happen. I say to you, my honourable colleagues, don’t try to cast blame outside; instead look where it truly lies. Any impartial inquiry will find where the fault for this disaster actually falls. If arrests are to be made, it should be among those who own the water utilities, whose uncaring greed is responsible.’ He bowed again to the First Speaker and made his way back up the aisle. This time there was no jeering, only sullen glances. Several of the yellow challenge balls were removed.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Bethaneve’s ’path reached him as he sat behind his desk. ‘You smacked it right back at them. Everybody who’s receiving the gifting from the Council clerk will know you’re the people’s champion now.’

  Next to the First Speaker’s podium, the councillor for Wurzen was demanding that the regions should not be taxed to pay for setting the city to rights. Slvasta watched him with growing respect – someone who was trying to protect his constituents. ‘I think it takes more than one speech to establish that.’

  ‘It was the perfect start we wanted.’

  ‘Besides, who bothers with the gifting from in here? Watching mod-spiders excrete their drosilk is less boring.’

  ‘Stop being so negative. The pamphlets will be all over this. Uracus, Slvasta, you need to focus.’

  ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I know.’

  *

  Varlan was the hub of all four of the continent’s major train lines; the Great North-Western Line, the Southern City Line, the Eastern Trans-Continental Line and the Grand South-Western Line; each ran out of the city in rough alignment with the relevant compass point. For all their prominence, passenger trains only formed fifteen per cent of the traffic; the rest of it was freight trains, unnoticed by the majority of the residents. The trade they generated was phenomenal, bringing in raw material for the factories, then exporting finished goods out to the furthest province. They were the city’s economic arteries, as well as supplying most of the food to markets and homes. Just how essential they were to Varlan’s survival had become obvious to Slvasta when the Josi bridge was damaged. The rail lines were a terrible weakness; anyone who could control the flow of goods in and out of the city could dictate their own terms. Of course, the government knew that as well, which was why any such attempt would be met with a swift and extreme response. What was needed, then, was a blockage which took time to repair – a repair which could be prolonged even further with small strategic strikes.

  The cells chosen were from the top layers of the network: people who had been recruited right at the start, those who had proved themselves to be loyal time and again, as well as being totally committed. Weapons caches were finally broken open, and explosives distributed. Nine groups met up for the first time in the late afternoon five days after Varlan’s water supplies were disrupted. Each of them took a cart out of the capital, riding them to railway bridges, not just on the four main lines but on the nearby branch lines that could be used as alternative routes into Varlan.

  After darkness, they crept across the supports and arches, placing bundles of explosives precisely in the places they’d been told – locations that Skylady had worked out were the maximum load points. At two o’clock in the morning, fuses were lit. Ten minutes later, explosions crippled seven bridges.

  News seeped into the city as the dawn cast a crisp light across the buildings and waterlogged streets. As before, it was markets such as the Wellfield that alerted friends and business colleagues to the absence of trains. Ex-sight began to scan round, perceiving marshalling yards full of the trains that should be heading out. Railway workers were summoned in early, and packed into special trains that headed cautiously along the tracks. Head office staff were called in and swiftly dispatched by horse and cab to further assess the damage. The chief sheriff of every borough was roused; they converged on the Justice Ministry offices, along with senior government officials and Trevene’s lieutenant. By seven o’clock in the morning all of Varlan knew the rail bridges north, east and west of the city had been sabotaged. No natural collapse, no derailment blocking the lines, no water surge washing away supports, no structural failure of ageing structures. They’d been blown up. Giftings from people who’d travelled out and returned were shared across the whole city, confirming the destruction. The only communications left open were the roads, the river and the Southern City Line.

  ‘I cannot get anyone to respond,’ Bethaneve said in frustration. She was sitting at the kitchen table in Number Sixteen Jaysfield Terrace, fingers pressed against her temple as she sent ’path after ’path into their network. ‘I just don’t understand what’s happened.’

  ‘The trains from Willesden station are leaving on schedule,’ Slvasta confirmed, as ’paths came slinking through the complex network strung across the city, relaying messages directly from five separate cell members at Willesden, sent there specifically to tell them what the Southern City Line managers were doing and saying. ‘The company’s been ’pathing out general reassurances since six o’clock. Three teams of sheriffs have been sent to guard the closest bridges.’

  ‘Uracus! They can’t have intercepted all our demolition squads – they just can’t. That makes no sense. Trevene either knows all about us or he doesn’t. He wouldn’t have arrested just two squads and left the rest alone. Where are they?’

  ‘Maybe running for cover. Or they had some kind of accident. It was a lot of explosives they had piled up on those carts.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’ For the first time, Bethaneve actually showed uncertainty. ‘We would have heard about it if the carts exploded.’

  ‘So they didn’t explode. They threw a wheel, or a horse spooked and bolted. Who knows?’

  ‘I need to know!’

  He wanted to tell her to calm down, but that would be a mistake, he knew. She was running on raw nerves now. And terrified. �
��We’ll know soon enough. At least they haven’t been arrested.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ she shouted.

  ‘Because we haven’t been arrested.’

  ‘All right. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘I have to go.’

  She nodded, her hair falling down over her face to hide a forlorn expression. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I will, but I need to be at the National Council.’

  ‘Everyone’s in place. They’ll gift your message out uncensored.’

  They embraced. He could feel her trembling, and assumed she knew he was equally scared behind the hardest shell he’d ever manifested. His ex-sight perceived Andricea, Coulan and Yannrith waiting for them in Number Sixteen’s entrance hall below. ‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘Let’s go. I want to know you’re at the safe house before I make the denouncement.’

  ‘Let’s hope it is safe.’

  ‘Ha! Now who’s the cynic?’

  She smiled and hugged him closer. ‘Please be careful.’

  ‘You too.’

  It took a long moment for them to let go of each other.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Coulan and Yannrith looked equally pensive, while Andricea looked positively gleeful.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Slvasta asked. He and Bethaneve had been so busy with the rail bridges and preparing his National Council appearance they’d left the other half of the operation to Coulan and Javier.

  ‘Distribution’s been running pretty smoothly,’ Coulan said. ‘The caches were opened at four o’clock this morning, and we’ve armed the majority of grade threes.’

  ‘What are grade threes?’ Slvasta asked.

  ‘The comrades we believe can be trusted with weapons,’ Bethaneve said as they went out into the road where two cabs were waiting. ‘After all, we can’t supply every grunt on the street. That would be anarchy, and we want precision.’

  ‘Right,’ Slvasta frowned. Something she’d said bothered him, and he couldn’t figure out what or why. ‘What about the snipers?’ He hated the idea of that – it was cold murder – but the others had talked him round.

  ‘They’re all active and ready,’ Yannrith said.

  ‘Okay, then.’ He looked at Bethaneve as she stood poised beside the cab – wearing a simple burgundy-red dress, her hair held in place with clips, those broad features burning with concern – working hard to memorize the image perfectly. Because if this all went straight to Uracus, it would be the last time . . . He grinned at his own pessimism.

  She mistook it for encouragement. ‘See you tonight, my love.’

  ‘See you tonight.’

  Coulan and Andricea climbed into the cab with Bethaneve. Slvasta shut the door, and the horse started off down the street at a fast pace, with Andricea’s mod-bird zipping through the air high above. He and Yannrith got into their cab, fuzzing the interior.

  ‘Crud!’ Yannrith grunted.

  ‘I know. Every day I have to ask myself if this is real.’

  ‘It doesn’t get any more real, captain. Not today.’

  Their cab made good time across the city. It was a cloudless cobalt sky vaulting the capital, with the hot sun glaring down. Slvasta didn’t know if that was auspicious or not. The morning’s river mist began to clear urgently, evaporating out of the wider boulevards and avenues. It exposed the deep puddles and long streams running down the middle of streets, still lingering six days after the pipes had burst and the reservoirs discharged into the city. The water was dank and sluggish now, steaming slightly under the morning sunlight. Whole boroughs were still without fresh water; those living closest to the river took buckets to the quayside and hauled them back home just like people from the Shanties. The northern boroughs had laid on emergency tank carts, rationing each household to two buckets a day. The silt and filth that had been swept along by the tide of water had been deposited in rooms and along roads as the levels fell. Borough council work crews struggled to clear the stinking mess away. Fire carts were helping to drain basements and cellars with their mobile pumps. People were starting to mutter about how it would have been so much easier if they had mod-apes and dwarfs to help. Every engineer employed by the water utilities was working sixteen-hour days as they strove to repair the network and restore supplies.

  Two days ago, Captain Philious himself had toured the worst afflicted areas. He even climbed down from his carriage to talk with flooded householders and the owners of ruined businesses, offering sympathy. ‘I know exactly what it’s like: we have no water in the Palace, either.’ Which was a politically astute lie; the Palace had its own freshwater spring. He also promised to punish ‘those responsible’ and get the city and National Council to pass much stricter regulation so this could never happen again.

  The atmosphere of misery and resentment pervading Varlan was as thick and toxic as the stench of the sewage layer clogging the streets. And now with news of the rail bridges percolating between the residents, uncertainty had supplanted stoic misery. Several of the large wholesale markets had shut their gates that morning; without trains coming in, they simply had no fresh food to sell. All the food in city warehouses dramatically increased in price and became difficult to obtain. Retailers that did open sold out fast, although most kept their doors closed. Crowds began to gather at the borough markets, their vocal complaints escalating fast at the sight of empty stalls. Sheriffs arrived, to be goaded by strategically positioned cell members. What started as worry and dissatisfaction began to grow into something more ugly.

  As the shock of the transport failures sank in, so businesses large and small began to realize the true extent of the problem. A lot of private ’paths began to flash out. Banks found queues materializing outside before they opened. Sheriffs were called to keep order as the queues steadily lengthened. The first customers that rushed in as soon as nervous clerks opened the doors demanded huge cash withdrawals. Banks didn’t keep large amounts of cash at individual branches. On the emergency instructions of the Treasury, managers were told to limit withdrawals to fifty silver shillings per customer. Nice middle-class people got very cross about that. Arrests were made. Branches tried to shut, only to find people forcing the doors open. More requests for sheriffs were hurriedly ’pathed.

  By ten o’clock, Varlan’s mighty economy was grinding to a noisy and unprecedented halt. Real fear was beginning to gain momentum. It was everything the revolution wanted. Fear was a state easy to exploit.

  ‘Did you know about the grading?’ Slvasta asked as the cab arrived at the central government area. Here the avenues were clear and clean, untouched by the flood and disruption – deliberately so, to help encourage resentment.

  ‘Captain?’ Yannrith said.

  ‘That we’d graded cell members to find the ones we could trust?’

  ‘I knew instructions had gone out to help decide who to give the guns to. Bethaneve is right; you can’t just give them to everybody. Why?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know. Or I forgot; Giu knows, there’s been a lot of planning. Coulan chose his palace militia carefully. I helped him and Javier with the bridge teams – we can’t have mistakes with the critical parts of the plan. There are so many details . . .’ Yet he knew that wasn’t what bothered him.

  Two kilometres past the palace, Byworth Avenue ended at First Night Square – a huge expanse of cobbles encircled by snow-white riccalon trees, where it was said the passengers of Captain Cornelius set up camp the night they landed on Bienvenido. The circular National Council building stood at the far end, dominating the whole square with its eight blue-stone fresco rings wrapped round the rust-red brick wall. The green copper dome on top shone a hazy lime in the morning sun. Native birds sat perched on the lip, staring down at the large crowd milling round the square. Over two thousand people had already gathered, mostly men, and definitely no children. The instructions which had come buzzing through the cell network as they woke had been very clear about that. No one want
ed another Haranne incident.

  The grim psychic aura they gave off matched their demeanour. It was stifling, as if the air temperature had risen ten degrees. Cabs delivering National Council members to the morning’s emergency debate were booed and jostled with teekay, making their horses skittish. Badly unnerved representatives hurried into the sanctuary of their grand building, carefully avoiding glancing at the forest of banners with crude slogans and cartoonish images of the Captain.

  The horse pulling Slvasta’s cab grew panicky as it trotted round the road at the edge of the square. Slvasta dropped his fuzz, allowing ex-sight to pervade the inside of the cab. It was a perception that was quickly gifted round the square. The cheering began.

  He opened the door, and grinned round at the smiling faces, raising his arm. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he ’pathed wide. ‘Thank you for adding weight to my lone voice in this nest of ugly bussalores. I’m here to tell the First Speaker and Citizens’ Dawn that their way, their privilege and arrogance, is coming to an end. They must listen to you, they must act upon your grievances. You have a RIGHT to be heard. They cannot ignore you forever. Today, they will be made to LISTEN.’