The Dreaming Void

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Araminta wished she had the ability to trojan a sensorium package past his u-shadow filters, one that would produce the painburst he’d get from a good smack on the nose. ‘Will you take part exchange?’

  ‘I could make you an offer on any components I can salvage, but I’d have to bring the bot in to the workshop to analyse what’s left. I can come out, oh … middle of next week, and there would have to be a collection charge.’

  ‘For Ozzie’s sake, you sold me a dud.’

  ‘I sold you what you wanted. Look, I’m only offering to salvage parts as a goodwill gesture. I’m running a business, I want return customers.’

  ‘Well you’ve lost this one.’ She ended the call and told her u-shadow never to accept a call from Burt Renik again. ‘Bloody hell!’ Her u-shadow quickly revised her refurbishment schedule, adding on an extra three days to her expected completion date. That assumed she wouldn’t buy a replacement for the 8038. It was a correct assumption. The budget wasn’t working out like she’d originally planned. Not that she was overspending, but the time involved in stripping out all the old fittings and démodé decorations was taking a lot longer than her first estimate.

  Araminta sat back on the floor and glared at the ruined bot. I’m not going to cry. I’m not that pathetic.

  The loss of the 8038 was a blow, though. She’d just have to trust the remaining bots would hold out. Her u-shadow began to run diagnostic checks on them while she tried to detach the abrader mat from the 8038’s foam-clogged multi-socket. The attachment was expensive and, unlike the bot, brand new. Her mood wasn’t helped by the current state of the flat. She had been working on it for five days solid now, stripping it down to bare walls, and gutting the ancient domestic equipment. The whole place looked just terrible. Every surface was covered in fine particles, with sawdust enhancing the whole dilapidated appearance; also not helped by the way any sound echoed round the blank rooms. After tidying things up today, she could start the refurbishment stage. She was sure that would re-fire her enthusiasm. There had been times over the last week when she’d had moments of pure panic, wondering how she could have been so stupid to have gambled everything on this ancient cruddy flat.

  The abrader attachment came free and she pulled it out. With her u-shadow controlling them directly, two of the remaining bots hauled their broken sibling out of the flat and dumped it in the commercial refuse casket parked outside. She winced every time it bumped on the stairs, but the other occupants were out, they’d never know how the dints got there.

  With the abrader plugged in to another bot, a Braklef 34B – only eight years old – she turned her attention back to the balcony door actuator. She knew if she started moping over the broken bot she’d just wind up feeling sorry for herself and never get anything done. She simply couldn’t afford that.

  The simplest thing, she decided, was to break the actuator down and clean the grime off manually; after that she could use the specialist tools to get the systems up to required standard. Her other toolbox, the larger one, had a set of power keys. She set to with more determination than she had any right to without resorting to aerosols.

  As she worked, her u-shadow skimmed the news, local and Intersolar, and summarized topics she was interested in, feeding it to her in a quiet neural drizzle. Now she’d bought the flat, she’d cancelled the daily review of city property. It would be too distracting, especially if something really good appeared on the market. So instead she chortled quietly at the images in her peripheral vision as a city councillor’s son was indicted on charges of land fraud. The investigators were rumoured to be closing in on Daddy, who sat on the city board for zoning management. Last night, Debbina, the first-born daughter of billionaire Sheldonite Likan had been arrested once again for lewd conduct in a public place. The image of her coming out of Colwyn Central police station flanked by her lawyers this morning showed her still wearing a black spray dress from the previous evening, and her blonde hair in disarray. Hansel Industries, one of Ellezelin’s top 100 companies, was discussing opening a manufacturing district just outside Colwyn; the details were accompanied by economic projections. She couldn’t help scan the effect on property prices.

  As far as Intersolar political news was concerned the only item was the new Senate motion introduced by Marian Kantil, Earth’s Senator, that Living Dream desist from reckless action in respect to its Pilgrimage. Ellezelin’s Senator responded to the motion by walking out. He was followed by the Senators from Tari, Idlib, Lirno, Quhood and Agra – the Free Trade Zone planets. Araminta wasn’t surprised to find Viotia’s Senator had abstained from the vote, as had seven other External Worlds, all on the fringe of the Zone, and all with a large percentage of Living Dream followers in their population. The report went on to show the huge manufacturing yard on the edge of Greater Makkathran, where the Pilgrimage ships would be assembled. Araminta stopped cleaning the actuator to watch. An armada of civic construction machinery was laying down the field, flattening fifteen square miles of countryside ready for its cladding of concrete. The first echelon of machines swept the ground with dispersant beams, chewing into the side of hillocks and escarpments; loosening any material that stood above the required level. All the resulting scree slides of pulverized soil and sand were elevated by regrav modules then channelled by force fields into thick solid streams that curved through the air and stretched back to the holds of vast ore barges hovering at the side of the estuary which made up one side of the yard. Following the levelling operation was a line of more basic machinery which drove deep support piles into the bedrock to support the weight of the starship cradles. The Pilgrimage fleet was to be made up of twelve cylindrical vessels, each a mile long, and capable of carrying two million pilgrims in suspension. Already Living Dream was talking about them being merely the ‘first wave’.

  Araminta shook her head in mild disbelief that so many people could be so stupid, and switched to local reports of business and celebrities.

  Two hours later, Cressida arrived. She frowned down at the prints her shiny leather pumps with their diamond-encrusted straps made in the thick layer of dirt coating the hall floor. Her cashmere fur dress contracted around her to save her skin from exposure to the dusty air. One hand was raised to cover her mouth, gold and purple nailprint friezes flowing in slow motion.

  Araminta smiled up uncertainly at her cousin. She was suddenly very self-conscious standing there in her filthy overalls, hair wound up and tucked into a cap, hands streaked with black grease.

  ‘There’s a dead bot in your casket,’ Cressida said. She sounded annoyed by it.

  ‘I know,’ Araminta sighed. ‘Price of buying cheap.’

  ‘It’s one of yours?’ Cressida’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Do you want me to call the supplier and have it replaced?’

  ‘Tempting. Ozzie knows it wasn’t actually that cheap relative to my budget, but no I’ll fight my own battles from now on.’

  ‘That’s my family. Stupidly stubborn to the last.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m here for two reasons. One to look round. Okay, done that. Came a month too early, obviously. Two, I want all the frightful details of Thursday night. You and that rather attractive boy Keetch left very early together. And darling I do mean all the details.’

  ‘Keetch is hardly a boy.’

  ‘Pha! Younger than me by almost a century. So tell your best cousin. What happened?’

  Araminta smiled bashfully. ‘You know very well. We went back to his place.’ She proffered a limp gesture at the dilapidated hallway. ‘I could hardly bring him here.’

  ‘Excellent. And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What does he do? Is he single? What’s he like in bed? How many times has he called? Is he yearning and desperate yet? Has he sent flowers or jewellery or is he all pathetic and gone the chocolates route? Which resort bedroom are you spending the weekend in?’

  ‘Wow, just stop there.’ Araminta’s smile turned sour. In truth Keetch had been more than
adequate in bed and he had even tried to call her several times since Thursday. Calls she had no intention of returning. The thrill of liberation, of playing the field, of experimenting, of answering to no one, of making and taking her own choices, of just plain having fun; it was all she wanted right now. A simple life without commitments or attachments. Right now was what she should have been doing instead of being married. ‘Keetch was very nice, but I’m not seeing him again. I’m too busy here.’

  ‘Now I am impressed. Hump ’em and dump ’em. There’s quite a core of raw steel hidden inside that ingénue facade, isn’t there?’

  Araminta shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘If you ever want a career in law, I’ll be happy to sponsor you. You’ll probably make partner in under seventy years.’

  ‘Gosh, now there’s an enticement.’

  Cressida dropped her hand long enough to laugh. ‘Ah well, I tried. So are we on for Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Araminta enjoyed their girls’ nights out. Cressida seemed to know every exclusive club in Colwyn City, and she was on all their guest lists. ‘So what happened to you after I left? Did you catch anyone?’

  ‘At my age? I was safely tucked up in bed by midnight.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘I forget their names. You know you really must go up a level and join an orgy. They can be fantastic, especially if you have partners who know exactly what they’re doing.’

  Araminta giggled. ‘No thanks. Don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet. What I’m doing is pretty adventurous for me.’

  ‘Well when you’re ready …’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Cressida inhaled a breath of dust and started coughing. ‘Ozzie, this place is bringing back too many memories of my early years. Look, I’ll call later. Sorry I’m not much practical help, but truthfully, I’m crap with design programs.’

  ‘I want to do this by myself. I’m going to do this by myself.’

  ‘Hell, make that partner in fifty years. You’ve got what it takes.’

  ‘Remind you of you?’ Araminta asked sweetly.

  ‘No. I think you’re sharper, unfortunately. Bye, darling.’

  Lunch was a sandwich in her carry capsule as she flew across the city to the first of three suppliers on her list. The carry capsule, like her bots, had seen better days; according to the log she was the fifth owner in thirty years. Perfectly serviceable, the sales manager had assured her. It didn’t have the speed of a new model, and if the big rear cargo compartment was filled to the rated load then it wouldn’t quite reach its maximum flight ceiling. But she had a lot more confidence in the capsule than the 8038 bot; because of its age it had to pass a strict Viotia Transport Agency flightworthiness test every year, and the last one had been two months before she bought it.

  The capsule settled on the lot of Bovey’s Bathing and Culinaryware, one of eight macrostores that made up a small touchdown mall in the Groby district. She walked into the store, looking round the open display rooms that lined a broad aisle with many branches. Bathrooms and kitchens alternated, promoting a big range of size, styles, and price, though the ones by the door tended to be elaborate. She looked enviously at the larger luxury units, thinking about the kind of apartment she’d develop one day in which such extravagance was a necessity.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Araminta turned round to see a man dressed in the store’s blue and maroon uniform. He was quite tall with his biological age locked in around his late twenties, dark skin offset by sandy-blond hair. Nice regular features, she thought, without being too handsome. His eyes were light grey, revealing a lot of humour. If they were meeting in a club she’d definitely let him buy her a drink – she might even offer to buy him one first.

  ‘I’m looking for a kitchen and a bathroom. Both have to look and feel high grade, yet cost practically nothing.’

  ‘Ah, now that I can understand, and provide for. I’m Mr Bovey, by the way.’

  She was quite flattered the owner himself would come down on the floor and single her out to help. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Araminta.’

  He shook her hand politely. She thought he was debating with himself if he should try for a platonic greeting kiss. It was one of those times when she wished she had a connection to the gaiafield, which would enable her to gauge his emotions, assuming he’d broadcast them. Which as the owner of the store and therefore a professional he wouldn’t. Damn. Come on girl, focus.

  ‘What sort of dimensions can you give me to play with?’ he asked.

  Araminta gave him a slightly cheeky grin, then stopped. Perhaps it wasn’t a double-entendre. Certainly sounded like one, though. ‘Here you go,’ she told him as her u-shadow produced the blueprint file. ‘I would appreciate some help on price. This is my first renovation project, I don’t want it to be my last.’

  ‘Ah.’ His eyes strayed to her hands, which still had lines of grime etched on the skin. ‘Boss and workforce, I can relate to that.’

  ‘Depleted workforce today, I’m afraid. One of my bots blew up. I can’t afford any more expensive mistakes.’

  ‘I understand.’ He hesitated. ‘You didn’t get it from Burt Renik, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said cautiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Okay, well for future reference – and I didn’t tell you this – he’s not the most reliable of suppliers.’

  ‘I know he’s not the gold standard, but I checked on the evaluation library for that model. It was okay.’

  This time he did wince. ‘Next time you buy something in the trade, including anything from me, I’d recommend some research on Dave’s Coding.’ His u-shadow handed over the address. ‘The evaluation library is fine, all those “independent” reports on how the product worked – well, the library is financed and managed by corporations, that’s why there’s never really a bad review. Dave’s Coding is truly autonomous.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said meekly as she filed the address in one of her storage lacunas. ‘I’ll take an access sometime.’

  ‘Glad to help. In the meantime, try aisle seven for a kitchen. I think we can supply your order from there.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She walked off to aisle seven, more than a little disappointed he didn’t accompany her. Perhaps he had a policy of not flirting with customers. Shame.

  The man waiting in aisle seven had on an identical blue and maroon uniform. He was perhaps five years older than Mr Bovey, but even taller, with a slender marathon runner frame. His skin was Nordic pale with ginger hair cut short except for a slender ridge right at the crest of his skull. Strangely, his green eyes registered the same kind of general amusement at the world as Mr Bovey.

  ‘I’d recommend these two kitchen styles,’ he said in greeting, and gestured at a small display area. ‘They’re a good fit to your dimensions, and this one is an end-of-the-line model. I’ve got two left in the warehouse, so I can give you a sweet deal.’

  Araminta was slightly nonplussed. Mr Bovey had obviously passed on her file to this employee; but that was no reason for him to start off as if they were already on familiar terms. ‘Let’s take a look,’ she said, lowering the temperature of her voice.

  It turned out the end-of-the-line model was quite satisfactory, and it was a good deal. As well as a mid-range culinary unit with a range of multichem storage tanks she got a breakfast bar and stools, ancillaries like a fridge, food prepper, maidbot, shelving and cupboards. The style was chaste white, with black and gold trim. ‘If you throw in delivery, I’ll take it,’ she told him.

  ‘Any time you want it, I’ll get it to you.’

  She ignored the flirty overture, and told her u-shadow to pay the deposit.

  ‘Bathrooms: aisle eleven,’ he told her with unabashed enthusiasm.

  The salesman waiting for her in aisle eleven had allowed himself to age into his biological fifties, which was unusual even for Viotia. His ebony skin was just starting to crinkle, with his hair greying and thinning. ‘I’ve got four th
at I think will suit your aesthetics,’ was his opening gambit.

  ‘Hello,’ she snapped at him.

  ‘Ah … yes?’

  ‘I’m Araminta, pleased to meet you. And I’m looking for a bathroom for my flat. Can you help me?’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘This whole relay thing you’ve got going here really isn’t polite. You could at least say hi to me first before you access the file you’re all shooting around here. I am a person, you know.’

  ‘I think … ah.’ His surprised expression softened. Araminta found it a lot more disconcerting than his initial smug chumminess.

  ‘You do know what I am, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am Mr Bovey. We are all Mr Bovey in this store. I am a multiple human.’

  Araminta was certain she’d be turning bright red with embarrassment. She knew what a multiple was, of course; one personality shared between several bodies through an adaptation of the gaiafield technology. This way, its practitioners claimed, was the true evolutionary leap for humanity that everyone else was pursuing down futile dead ends. A multiple human could never die unless every body was killed, which was unlikely in the extreme. In a quiet non-evangelical way they believed that everyone would one day become multiple. Perhaps after that the personalities would start fusing, leaving one consciousness with a trillion bodies – a much better outcome than downloading into the artificial sanctity of ANA.

  It was a human heresy, their detractors claimed, a long-term conspiracy to imitate the Prime aliens of Dyson Alpha. More vocal opponents accused the multiple lifestyle of being started by left-over Starflyer agents trying to continue their dead master’s corrupting ideology.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shamefaced. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s okay. Partly my fault in assuming you did. Most people in the trade know.’

  Araminta gave a wry grin. ‘I guess continuity of service is a big plus.’