The Dreaming Void

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Araminta was half an hour late when her pod pulled up at the back of Nik’s. She rushed in through the kitchen door, and got filthy looks from the rest of the staff. ‘Sorry!’ The restaurant was already full of the breakfast crowd, mid-level executives who liked their food natural, prepared by chefs rather than cuisine units, and served by humans not bots.

  Tandra managed to lean in close as Araminta fastened her apron. She sniffed suspiciously and winked. ‘Travel-clean, huh. I guess you didn’t get home last night?’

  Araminta hung her head, wishing she did have an excuse like that. ‘I was up late last night, another design course.’

  ‘Honey, you’ve got to start burning the candle at both ends. You’re real young and a looker, get yourself out there again.’

  ‘I know. I will.’ Araminta took a deep breath. Went over to Matthew who was so disgusted he didn’t even rebuke her. She lifted three plates from the ready counter, checked the table number, cranked her mouth open to a smile, and pushed through the doors.

  The breakfast session at Nik’s usually lasted for about ninety minutes. There wasn’t a time limit, but by quarter to nine the last customers were heading for the office or store. Occasionally, a tourist or two would linger, or a business meeting would run over time. Today there weren’t many lagging behind. Araminta did her penance by supervising the cleaning bots as the tables were changed ready to serve morning coffee to shoppers and visitors. Nik’s had a good position in the commercial district, five blocks from the docks down on the river.

  Tables started to fill up again after ten o’clock. The restaurant had a curving front wall, with a slim terrace running around it. Araminta went along the outside tables, adjusting the flowers in the small vases and taking orders for chocolettos and cappuccinos. It kept her out of Matthew’s way. He still hadn’t said anything to her, a bad sign.

  Some time after eleven the woman appeared and started moving along the tables, talking to the customers. Araminta could see several of them were annoyed, waving her away. Since Ethan declared Pilgrimage ten days ago, Living Dream disciples from the local fane had been coming in and pestering people. It was starting to be a problem.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Araminta asked, keeping the tone sharp; this was a chance to earn more redemption points with Matthew. The woman was dressed in a charcoal-grey cashmere suit, old-fashioned but expensive with a long flowing skirt, the kind of thing Araminta might have worn before the separation, back in the days when she had money. ‘We have several tables available.’

  ‘I’m collecting signature certificates,’ the woman said. She had a very determined look on her face. ‘We’re trying to get the council to stop ingrav capsule use above Colwyn City.’

  ‘Why?’ It came out before Araminta really thought about it.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘Regrav is bad enough, but at least they’re speed and altitude limited inside the city boundary. Have you ever thought what would happen if an ingrav drive failed? They fly semi-ballistic parabolas, that means they’d plummet down at half-orbital velocity.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see.’ She could also see Matthew giving them a wary look.

  ‘Suppose one crashed on to a school at that speed? Or a hospital? There’s just no need for them. It’s blatant consumerism without any form of responsibility. People are only buying them to show off. And there are studies that suggest the ingrav effect puts a strain on deep geological faults. We could have an earthquake.’

  Araminta was proud she didn’t laugh out loud. ‘I see.’

  ‘The city traffic network wasn’t designed with those sort of speeds in mind, either. The number of near-miss incidents logged is rising steadily. Will you add your certificate? Help us keep our lives safe.’

  A file was presented to Araminta’s u-shadow. ‘Yes, of course. But you’ll have to order a tea or coffee, my boss is already cross with me this morning.’ She flicked her gaze towards Matthew as she added her signature certificate to the petition, confirming she was a Colwyn City resident.

  ‘Typical,’ the woman grunted. ‘They never think of anything but themselves and their profit.’ But she sat down and ordered a peppermint tea.

  ‘What’s her problem?’ Matthew asked as Araminta collected the tea.

  ‘The universe is a bad place, she just needs to unwind a little.’ She gave him a sunny smile. ‘Which is why we’re here.’

  Before he could say anything else she skipped back to the terrace.

  At half past eleven Araminta’s u-shadow collated the morning’s property search it had run through the city’s estate agencies, and shunted the results into one of her storage lacunas. She was on her break in the little staff lounge beside the kitchen. It didn’t take her long to review them all; she was looking for a suitable flat or even a small house somewhere in the city. There weren’t many that fitted her criteria: cheap, in need of renovation, near the centre. She tagged three agency files as possibles, and checked on how yesterday’s possibles were doing. Half of them had already been snapped up. You really had to be quick in today’s market, she reflected wistfully. And have money, or at least some decent credit. A renovation was her dream project; buying a small property and refurbishing it in order to sell on at a profit. She knew she could be good at it. She’d taken five development and design courses in the last eight months since separating from Laril, as well as studying every interior decorating text her u-shadow could pull out of the unisphere. Property development was a risky proposition, but every case she’d accessed showed her that the true key was dedication and hard work, as well as a lot of market research. And from her point of view she could do it by herself. She wouldn’t depend on anyone. But first, she needed money .

  Araminta was back in the restaurant at twelve, getting the table settings changed ready for lunch, learning the specials the chef was working on. The anti-ingrav crusader had gone, leaving a three-Viotia-pound tip; and Matthew was treating her humanely again. Cressida walked in at ten past twelve. She was Araminta’s cousin on her mother’s side of the family, partner in a mid-sized law firm, a hundred and twenty-three years old, and spectacularly beautiful with flaming red hair and skin maintained to silky perfection by expensive cosmetic scales. She was wearing a two-thousand-Vpound emerald and platinum toga suit. Just by walking into Nik’s she was raising the whole tone of the place. She was also Araminta’s lawyer.

  ‘Darling.’ Cressida waved and came over for a big hug; air-kissing had never been part of her style. ‘Well, have I got news for you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Your boss won’t mind if I steal you for a second, will he?’ Without bothering to check she grabbed Araminta’s hand and pulled her over to a corner table.

  Araminta winced as she imagined Matthew’s stare drilling laser holes in her back. ‘What’s happened?’

  Cressida’s grinned broadly, her liquid scarlet lip gloss flowing to accommodate the big stretch. ‘Dear old Laril has skipped planet.’

  ‘What?’ Araminta couldn’t quite believe that. Laril was her ex-husband. A marriage which had lasted eighteen utterly miserable months. Everyone in her immediate family had objected to Laril from the moment she met him. They had cause. She could admit that now; she’d been twenty-one while he was three hundred and seven. At the time she’d thought him suave, sophisticated, rich, and her ticket out of boring, small (minded), agricultural Langham, a town over on the Suvorov continent, seven thousand miles away. They thought he was just another filthy Punk Skunk; there were enough of them kicking around the Commonwealth especially on the relatively unsophisticated planets that made up the outer fringes of the External Worlds. Jaded old folks who had the money to look flawlessly adolescent, but still envied the genuinely youthful for their spirit and exuberance. Every partner they snagged was centuries younger in a futile hope that their brio would magically transfer over. That wasn’t quite the case with Laril. Close, though.

  Her branch of the family on her father’s side had a business supplying and maintaining agricultural cybernetics,
an enterprise which was the largest in the county, and one in which Araminta was expected to work in for at least the first fifty years of her life. After that apprenticeship, family members were then considered adult and wealthy enough to take off for pastures new (a depressing number set up subsidiaries of the main business across Suvorov), leaving gaps for the latest batch of youngsters to fill, turning the cycle. It was a prospect which Araminta considered so soul-crushing she would have hired out as a love slave to a Prime motile in order to escape. By contrast, Laril, an independent businessman with an Andribot franchise among other successful commercial concerns, was like being discovered by Prince Charming. And given that these days an individual’s age wasn’t a physical quantity, her family objection to the three-century difference was so bourgeois. It certainly guaranteed the outcome of the affair.

  The fact that they’d been more or less right about him using her only made her post-separation life even worse. She could never go back to Langham now. Fortunately, Cressida wasn’t judgemental, considering Araminta’s colossal mistake as part of life’s rich experience. ‘If you don’t screw up,’ she’d told a weeping Araminta at their first meeting, ‘you haven’t got a base to launch your improvement from. Now what does the separation clause in the marriage contract entitle you to?’

  Araminta, who had overcome a mountain of shame even to go to a family member (however distant) for legal help at the start of the divorce had to admit theirs had been an old-fashioned wedding, of the till-death-do-us-part variety. They’d even sworn that to the licensed priest in Langham chapel. It was all very romantic at the time.

  ‘No contract?’ an amazed and horrified Cressida had asked. ‘Gosh, darling, you are headed for a Mount Hercu-laneum of improvement aren’t you?’

  It was a mountain which Laril’s lawyers were doing their very best to prevent her ever setting foot on; their counter-suit had frozen Araminta’s own assets, all seven hundred and thirty-two pounds she had in her savings account. Even Cressida with all her firm’s resources was finding it hard to break through Laril’s legal protection, and as for his commercial activities, they had proved even more elusive to pin down. All his early talk of being the centre of a Dynasty-like network of profitable companies was either a lie or a cover-up for some astonishing financial irregularities. Intriguingly, Viotia’s National Revenue Service had no record of him paying tax at any time in the last hundred years, and were now showing a healthy interest in his activities.

  ‘Skipped. Departed. Left this world. Gone vertical. Uprooted.’ Cressida grasped Araminta’s hands and gave them a near-painful squeeze. ‘He didn’t even pay his lawyers.’ And her happiness at that eventuality was indecent. ‘And now they’re just another name on the list of fifty creditors after his arse.’

  Araminta’s brief moment of delight suddenly darkened. ‘So I get nothing?’

  ‘On the contrary. His remaining solid assets, that’s his townhouse, and the stadium food franchise, which we did manage to freeze right at the start are rightfully yours. Admittedly, they don’t quite add up to the kind of assets that bragging about will sway a naive young girl’s head.’

  Araminta blushed furiously.

  ‘But not to be sneered at. Unfortunately, there is the question of back taxes. Which I’m afraid amounts to three hundred and thirty-seven thousand Viotia pounds. And if the NRS could ever prove half of Laril’s ventures that you told me about, they’d claim the rest too. Bloodsucking fiends. However, they can’t prove a damn thing thanks to the excellent encryption and strange lack of records your slippery ex has muddled his life with. Then there’s my fee, which is ten per cent seeing as how you’re family and I admire your late-found pride. So, the rest is yours, clear and free.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Eighty-three thousand.’

  Araminta couldn’t speak. It was a fortune. Agreed, nothing like the corporate megastructure Laril had claimed he owned and controlled, but still more than she’d expected and asked for in the divorce petition. Ever since she walked into Cressida’s office she’d allowed herself to dream she might, just might, come out of this with thirty or forty thousand, that Laril would pay just to be rid of her. ‘Oh, great Ozzie, you are kidding,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not a bit of it. A judge friend of mine has allowed us to expedite matters, on account of the circumstances of truly tragic hardship I claimed you’re suffering. Your savings are now unfrozen, and we’ll transfer Laril’s money into your account at four o’clock this afternoon. Congratulations. You’re a free and single woman again.’

  Araminta was horrified that she was crying, her hands seemed to flap about in front of her face of their own volition.

  ‘Wow!’ Cressida put her arm around Araminta’s shoulder, rocking her playfully. ‘How do you take bad news?’

  ‘It’s over? Really over?’

  ‘Yep. Really. So what say you and I go celebrate. Tell your manager where to stick his menu, go pour soup over a customer’s head, then we’ll hit the coolest clubs in town and ruin half the male population. How about it?’

  ‘Oh.’ Araminta looked up, wiping tears with the back of her hand; the mention of Matthew made her realize she was supposed to be serving. ‘I need to get back. Lunch is really busy. They rely on me.’

  ‘Hey, calm down, take a minute. Think of what’s happened here.’

  Araminta nodded her head sheepishly, glancing round the restaurant. Her co-workers were all trying not to glance in her direction; Matthew was annoyed again. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s going to take a while to sink in. I can’t believe it’s all over. I’ve got to … Oh, Ozzie, there are so many things I want to do.’

  ‘Great! Let’s get you out of here and bring on the serious partying. We’ll start with a decent meal.’

  ‘No.’ Araminta could see Tandra staring anxiously, and gave her a weak thumbs up in return. ‘I can’t just walk out, that’s not fair on everyone else here. They’ll need to get a replacement. I’ll hand in my notice properly, and work the rest of the week for them.’

  ‘Dammit, you are horrendously sweet. No wonder your filthy ex could take advantage so easily.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Too bloody true it won’t.’ Cressida stood up, smiling proudly. ‘From now on I’m vetting anyone you date. At least come out for a drink tonight.’

  ‘Um, I really do need to go home after this and work things out.’

  ‘Friday night, then. Come on! Everyone goes out Friday night.’

  Araminta couldn’t help the grin on her face. ‘All right. Friday night.’

  ‘Thank Ozzie for that. And get yourself some serious bad-girl clothes first. We’re going to do this properly.’

  ‘Okay. Yeah, okay, I will.’ She could actually feel her mood changing, like some warm liquid invading her arteries. ‘Uh, where do I go for clothes like that?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll show you, darling, don’t you worry.’

  Araminta did work the lunch shift, then told Matthew she was quitting, but was happy to stay on as long as he needed her. He completely surprised her by giving her a kiss and congratulating her on finally breaking free of Laril. Tandra got all teary and affectionate while the others gathered round to hear the news and cheer.

  By half past three in the afternoon she’d put on a light coat and walked out. The cool late spring air outside sobered her up, allowing her to think clearly again. Even so, she walked the route she so often walked in the afternoon. Along Ware Street, take a left at the major junction and head down the slope along Daryad Avenue. The buildings on either side were five or six storeys tall, a typical mix of commercial properties. Regrav capsules slid silently overhead, while the metro track running down the centre of the avenue hummed with public cabs. Right now the roads had few vehicles, yet Araminta still waited at the crossings for the traffic solidos to change shape and colour. She barely noticed her fellow pedestrians.

  The Glayfield was a bar and restaurant at the bottom of the slope, occupying two st
oreys of an old wood and composite building, part of the original planet landing camp. She made her way through the dark deserted bar to the stairs at the back, and went up to the restaurant. That too was virtually empty. Up at the front it boasted a sheltered balcony where in her opinion the tables were too close; waitresses would have trouble squeezing between them when they were full. She sat at one next to the rail which gave her an excellent view along Daryad Avenue. This was where she came most afternoons to wind down after her shift at Nik’s, sitting with a hot orange chocolate watching the people and the ships. Over to her right the Avenue curved upwards into the bulk of the city, producing a wall of tall buildings expressing the many construction phases and styles that had come and gone in Colwyn’s hundred-and-seventy-year history. While to her left the River Cairns cut through the land in a gentle northward curve as it flowed out to the Great Cloud Ocean twenty miles away. The river was half a mile wide in the city, the top of a deep estuary which made an excellent natural harbour. Several marinas had been built on both sides, providing anchorage to thousands of private yachts, ranging from little sailing dinghies up to regrav-assisted pleasure cruisers. Two giant bridges spanned the water, one a single unsupported arch of nanotube carbon, the other a more traditional suspension bridge with pure white pillars a flamboyant three hundred metres tall. Capsules slid along beside them, but the ground traffic was almost nonexistent these days. They were mainly used by pedestrians. They led over to the exclusive districts on the south bank, where the city’s wealthier residents flocked amid long green boulevards and extensive parks.

  On the northern shore, barely half a mile from the Glayfield, the docks were built into the bank and out into the mudflats; two square miles of cargo-handling machinery and warehouses and quays and landing pads and caravan platforms. It was the hub from which the Izyum continent had been developed, the second starport on the planet. There was no heavy industry on Viotia; major engineering systems and advanced technology were all imported. With Ellezelin only seventy-five lightyears away, Viotia was on the fringe of the Free Trade Zone. A market which the local population grumbled was free for Ellezelin companies all right, but disadvantaged everyone else caught in their commercial web. There wasn’t a worm-hole linking Viotia to Ellezelin. Yet. But talk was that in another hundred years when Viotia’s internal market had grown sufficiently, one would be opened allowing the full range of cheap Ellezelin products to flood through, turning them into an economic colony. In the meantime, starships from External Worlds came and went. She watched them as she sipped her orange chocolate; a line of huge freighters, their metal hulls as dull as lead, heavy and ungainly, drifting down vertically out of the sky. Behind them, the departing ships rose away from the planet, brushing through Viotia’s legendary pink clouds, accelerating fast once they reached the stratosphere. Araminta gave them a mild grin, thinking of the anti-ingrav woman. If she was right what would the starships’ field effect be doing to the geology beneath the city? Maybe a simple wormhole would be the answer; she rather liked the idea, a throwback to the First Commonwealth era of genteel and elegant train travel between star systems. It was a shame that the External Worlds rejected such links out of hand, but they valued their political freedom too much to risk a return to a monoculture, especially with the threat of Higher culture overwhelming their hard-won independence.