The Evolutionary Void

by Peter F. Hamilton

  She dozed before sunset, dreaming of some tall blonde girl who was also alone. The dream was a vague one, and the girl was on a mountainside rather than in a desert. A handsome lad appeared, which set the girl’s heart aflutter, then she was confronting a man with a gold face.

  Araminta woke with a start. The man was Gore Burnelli. Which made her suspect the dream had emerged out of the gaiafield. It was weak here, but she could still perceive it. Gore had been very angry about something. For a moment Araminta was tempted to delve back into the gaiafield to see if she could recapture the dream, but decided against. The last thing she wanted now was to risk exposure to Living Dream again. Though how they would find her here was a moot point. Besides, she had more immediate problems.

  With the small bright sun finally sliding below the horizon she gathered up her makeshift desert survival kit. The flagons were filled to the brim, and stoppered with cuts of wood. She hoisted them onto her back with a harness made from woven bark strips, grimacing at the weight. The baked eggs went into her basket, which was slung over a shoulder. More strips of bark were hung round her neck – she couldn’t imagine what she’d need them for, but they were all she had, and the fruits of her own labour. Thus equipped, she set off.

  The twilight lingered for a long time, which cheered her; total darkness would have been depressing, and not a little bit scary. Stars slowly started to twinkle overhead. None of the constellations were recognizable, certainly not to her encyclopedia files. I’m nowhere near the Greater Commonwealth, then. Despite that, she was confident she wasn’t far away from a path that would take her there. She hadn’t even hesitated when she left the oasis. She knew the direction she should take.

  Her flagons were ridiculously heavy. Yet she knew she had to carry as much water as was physically possible. Her stomach wasn’t exactly feeling a hundred per cent, and hunger was now a constant nag. She thought that perhaps the egg-things weren’t terribly nutritious for humans after all. Still, at least she hadn’t thrown up. That was a plus.

  Araminta grinned at that. Strange how perceptions shifted so much, depending on circumstances. A week ago she’d been fretting about buyers for the apartments producing their deposits on time and getting angry with late suppliers. Now, not being sick as she tramped across an unknown desert halfway across the galaxy counted as a reasonable achievement.

  After three hours she made herself take a rest. The desert was illuminated by starlight alone now. This world didn’t seem to have a moon. Some of the stars were quite bright. She wished she knew enough astronomy to tell if they were planets. Not that it mattered. She was committed now. It felt good having a physical goal, something she could measure success with.

  She drank some water, careful not to spill any. The eggs she left alone. Save them for real hunger pangs.

  After half an hour she could feel the air becoming a lot cooler as the day’s heat drained away into the sky. She zipped the fleece back up, and set off again. Her feet were sore. The boots were never designed for this kind of walking. At least the terrain was level.

  As she trudged on she allowed herself to wonder what she was going to do when she did reach the Commonwealth again. She knew she’d only have one chance, one choice. Too many people were looking for her. Giving in to Living Dream was something she instinctively shied away from. But Laril, for all he was loyal and trying to help, was in way over his head. Who isn’t? Though perhaps he could negotiate with some Faction. But which one? The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced she should contact Oscar Monroe. If anyone could offer her sanctuary, it would be ANA itself. And if it was going to use her there really was no hope.

  Araminta kept plodding forward. Hunger and lack of true sleep were getting to her. She felt exhausted, but knew she couldn’t stop. She had to cover as much ground as possible during the night, for she wouldn’t be going anywhere during the day. Her limbs ached, especially her legs as she just kept walking. Every time she stopped to drink, it was more painful to haul the flagons onto her back again. Her spine was really beginning to feel the weight. It was all she could do to ignore the throbbing in her feet as her boots rubbed already raw skin. Occasionally she’d shiver from the now-icy night air, a great spasm running the length of her body. Whenever that happened she’d pause for a minute, then shake her head like some dog coming out of water, and take that step again. I cannot quit.

  There were so many things that she needed to do, so many things she had to try and accomplish to stop the whole Living Dream madness. Her mind began to drift, she saw her parents again, not the ones she argued with constantly in her late teens, but as they were when she was growing up, indulging her, playing with her, comforting her, buying her a pony for Christmas when she was eight. Even after the divorce she hadn’t bothered to call them. Too stubborn, or, more like, too stupid. And I can just hear exactly what they’d say if I told them I’d met Mr Bovey, and I was going multiple. Then there was that time just after Laril went offplanet, clubbing with Cressida most nights, going on dates. Being free, having fun discovering what it was like to be young and single in the Commonwealth. Having independence and a little degree of pride with it.

  She wondered if any of that life would ever come back. All she wanted now was for this dangerous madness to be over, for Living Dream to be defeated, and for herself to become Mrs Bovey. Was it possible to fade back into blissful obscurity? Other people had done it, countless thousands had their moment of fame or infamy. Mellanie must have achieved it.

  The timer in Araminta’s exovision flashed purple, along with an insistent bleeping which wound down auditory nerves, drawing her attention back out of the comfortable reverie. She let out a groan of relief, and shrugged out of the harness. At least it wasn’t so cold now. As she held up the flagon to drink, she saw lights crawling across the starfield. She’d lived in Colwyn City long enough to recognize starships when she saw them. ‘What the hell?’ That was when she realized the Silfen path was now behind her. ‘Ozzie!’ Her mind felt a host of quiet emissions within the gaiafield, originating somewhere nearby. She hurriedly guarded her own thoughts, making sure nothing leaked out to warn anyone of her presence.

  So where in Ozzie’s name am I?

  Araminta looked round again, trying to make out the countryside. There wasn’t much to see, though she thought one section of the horizon was showing a tiny glow. Smiling, she sat down to wait.

  Half an hour later, she knew she was right. A pale pink wash of light began to creep upwards as dawn arrived. Now she could see she was still in a desert, but this one was mostly ochre rocks and crumbling soil rather than the featureless ocean of sand she’d left behind. The drab brown ground was broken by small patches of green-blue vegetation, small hardy bushes that looked half-dead. Tall fronds of pale-cream grass tufts lurked in fissures and stone spills, all of them dry and withered. Away in the distance, half-lost in air-shimmer, a broad line of mountains spiked up into the sky. Their height was impressive, yet she couldn’t see any snow on their peaks. The desert stretched all the way across to them. In the other direction was a low ridge, which she began to appreciate was at least five miles away, if not further. This landscape was so relentlessly monotonous it was hard to judge perspective.

  Whatever, she was on a dirt track made by vehicles of some kind. It led down a long gentle slope to a junction with a solid concrete road. Just the sight of it was a huge relief. From living out in the boondocks of an External planet for nearly twenty years, she knew just how rare roads could be, and that was in the agricultural areas. Everybody used regrav capsules these days. To find this here in the middle of a desert she’d been lucky. Very lucky.

  Thank you, she told the Silfen Motherholm.

  She took another drink of water, and set off down the track. The distance had fooled her after all, the road seemed to stay in the same place no matter how much ground she covered towards it. As she strode along the slope she saw a few regrav capsules flying beyond the ridge. In the other direction n
othing was moving above the vast desert. At least that told her which way to turn once she reached the junction. There was obviously some kind of settlement on the other side of the ridge. A few cautious examinations of the gaiafield confirmed that was where the buzz of minds was situated.

  It took her another three hours to reach the crest of the ridge. Again, ‘ridge’ was deceptive. The closer she got, the larger it rose above her. It was like an elongated hill. And the luck which had delivered the road had clearly abandoned her; there wasn’t a single vehicle moving along it all morning.

  By the time she finally limped to the crest she was ready for just about any sight apart from the one that greeted her. She’d almost been right about the elongated hill. The ridge was actually a crater wall. A big crater, complete with a beautiful circular lake that must have been at least twenty miles across. This was the mother of all oases. The inner slopes were all smothered in verdant woodland and cultivated terraces she thought might be vineyards. The road dipped away ahead of her, winding into a small town whose colourful ornate buildings were visible amid a swathe of tall trees. Despite being completely exhausted, aching everywhere, and quite worried about the painful state of her feet, Araminta couldn’t help chocking out a little laugh at she stared down at the exquisite vista before her. She wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes, and slowly discarded the flagon harness from her back. It was placed carefully behind some rocks at the side of the road, and followed by the basket of eggs. With her shoulders rejoicing at the absence of weight, she started off down the slope.

  People stared at her as she hobbled into town. Hardly surprising. She still had her silly conical hat on, and her clothes were a mess, filthy from mud and repeated deluges. She guessed she must smell, too. When she allowed herself to receive the local gaiafield she could sense the instinctive surprise everyone felt at the sight of her. Plenty of dismay was mingled in there as well.

  The little town’s buildings were mostly clapboard, painted a variety of bright colours; there were very few modern construction materials visible. It gave the town a comfortably quaint feel. The quiet old style suited the placid lake.

  Even with the shade thrown by tall willowy trees, it was hot in the late-morning sun. There weren’t many people about. However, she eventually sensed one old couple who didn’t quite share the disquiet of their fellow citizens. The woman was even emitting a small amount of concern and sympathy from her gaiamotes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Araminta asked. ‘Can you tell me if there’s somewhere to stay in town?’

  The couple exchanged a look. ‘That’s an offworld accent,’ the woman said.

  Araminta pressed down on a giggle. To her the woman’s accent was strange; she almost slurred her words as she ran them together. Thankfully, the pair of them weren’t wearing the old-fashioned kind of clothes Living Dream followers usually favoured. But then it was unusual to see anyone whose body had aged to such a degree. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ve just arrived.’

  The woman emitted a glow of satisfaction. ‘Good for you, my dear. Have you been away long?’

  ‘I’m, er, not sure,’ she replied honestly.

  ‘I tried once,’ the woman said with a tinge of melancholia. ‘Never got anywhere. Maybe I’ll try again after rejuvenation.’

  ‘Um, yes. That hotel . . . ?’

  ‘Why don’t you just get your u-shadow to find out?’ the man asked. He had a thatch of white hair that was slowly thinning out. His whole appearance made him seem harmless, but the tone he used was quite sharp.

  ‘I’m a Natural human,’ Araminta offered by way of explanation.

  ‘Now, Earl,’ the woman chided. ‘There’s the SideStar motel off Caston Street, my dear. That’s four blocks this way.’ She pointed, and gave Araminta a kindly smile. ‘Cheap, but clean with it. You’ll have no problem there.’

  ‘Okay, thank you.’

  ‘Do you have money?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ Araminta gave them a jerky nod and set off. She stopped after a couple of paces. ‘Uh, what is this place?’

  ‘Miledeep Water,’ the man said dryly. ‘We’re on Chobamba’s equatorial continent, that’s an External World you know.’

  ‘Right.’ She smiled, trying to give the impression it had just slipped her mind for a moment.

  ‘In fact, we’re the only settlement on this entire continent, which is a desert from shore to shore. Lucky you found us, really.’ The irony was quite blatant now, even through the odd accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  The woman gave him a mild jab with her hand, hushing him. Araminta smiled again, and backed off fast. As she went down Caston Street she was uncomfortably aware of the pair of them standing watching her. The man’s mind was filling with mild amusement, coupled with just a trace of exasperation.

  It could have been worse, she told herself. They could have been suspicious, or recognized me.

  Araminta’s encyclopedia files said Chobamba had been settled for barely two hundred and fifty years. She guessed that the StarSide motel was one of the earlier businesses to be established. Its chalets were an exception to the town’s clapboard buildings. They’d been grown from drycoral, which was now long dead and starting to flake under the unremitting sun. It was a similar variety to the pale-violet drycoral they’d used for barns back on the farm in Langham, so she knew for it to reach such a state it had to be at least a century old.

  The motel occupied a wide area, with the chalets spread out in a broad circle to surround a swimming pool. Their concrete landing pads for visiting capsules were all cracked, forced open by weeds and clumps of unpleasant-looking red fungus balls. Only one capsule was currently parked.

  Irrigation nozzles were squirting pulses of spray onto its front lawn as she walked up to the reception building. She supposed the whole crater wall must be irrigated.

  The owner was in the back office, tinkering with an ancient air-conditioning unit. He came out wiping his hands on his shabby white vest, and introduced himself as Ragnar. His glance swept up and down, giving her clothes a quick appraisal. ‘Been a while since we’ve had anyone walk in,’ he said, stressing ‘walk’. His accent was the same as the old couple she’d met.

  ‘But I’m not the first?’ she asked warily.

  ‘No, ma’am. The Silfen path ends somewhere out there beyond the crater wall. I’ve met a few travellers like yourself over the years.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, relaxing slightly.

  Ragnar leaned over the counter, speaking quietly. ‘You been out there long?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Okay. Well, you’ve not chosen the best time to come back. These are troubled times for the old Greater Commonwealth, yes indeed.’ His eyes narrowed at her blank expression. ‘You do know what the Commonwealth is?’

  ‘I know,’ she said solemnly.

  ‘That’s good. Just checking. Those paths are pretty tangled by all accounts. I had someone once come straight out of a pre-wormhole century. Boy oh boy, were they confused.’

  Araminta didn’t argue about how unlikely that was. She smiled and held up her cash coin. ‘A room?’

  ‘No problemo. How long will you be staying?’

  ‘A week.’ She handed over the coin.

  Ragnar gave her clothes another sceptical viewing as he handed the coin back. ‘I’ll give you number twelve, it’s a quiet one. And all our rooms have complimentary toiletries.’

  ‘Jolly good.’

  He sniffed. ‘I’ll get you an extra pack.’

  Room twelve measured about five metres by three, with a door on the back wall leading to a small bathroom which had a bath and a toilet. No spore shower, Araminta saw in disappointment. She sat on the double bed and stared at her feet – the pain was quite acute now. It took a while for her to tackle the problem of getting her boots off. When she did unfasten them, her socks were horribly bloody. She winced as she rolled them off. Blisters had abraded away, leaving the raw flesh bleeding. There was a lot of swelling, too.
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  Araminta stared at them, resentful and teary. But most of all she was tired. She knew she should do something about her feet, bathe them at least. She just didn’t have the energy. Instead, she pulled the thin duvet over herself, and went straight to sleep.

  *

  Paramedics were still working in Bodant Park ten hours after the riot, or fight, or skirmish, or whatever you called it. A lot of people were calling it mass murder. Cleric Phelim had thrown the Senate delegation out of his headquarters when they had levelled such an accusation against him, hinting broadly that the Commonwealth would convene a war crimes tribunal with him as the principal accused. But in an extraordinarily lame public relations exercise, five hours after the agents had finished blasting away at each other, he had finally lifted the restriction on local ambulance capsules. However, he wouldn’t switch off the force-field weather dome or allow the injured to be transferred to hospitals in other cities. Colwyn’s own hospitals and clinics, already swamped by earlier injuries from clashes between citizens and paramilitaries, were left to cope by themselves.

  Casualty figures were difficult to compile, but the unisphere reporters on the ground were estimating close to a hundred and fifty bodyloss victims. Injuries were easily over a thousand, probably two with varying degrees of seriousness.

  Oscar had directly added two people to the bodyloss count; he wasn’t sure about collateral damage but it wasn’t going to be small either, no one in that fight had held back. On one level he was quietly horrified at his own ruthlessness when he’d protected Araminta from the agents converging on her. He’d allowed the combat programs to dominate his responses. Yet his own instincts had contributed, adding a ferociousness to the fight that had exploited every mistake his opponents had shown. And his biononics were top of the range, producing energy currents formatted by the best weapons-grade programs the Knights Guardian had designed. It had also helped that Tomansio and Beckia had bounced over to his fight within seconds, adding their firepower and aggression. Yet he’d held by himself for those first few vital moments, the feeling was the same as the Hanko mission back in the good old days, flying near-suicidal manoeuvres above the star because it was necessary.