The Night's Dawn Trilogy

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Yeah. Go on.”

  “Pick up each crystal, hold it in your hands for a moment, try to impress it with your essence, then put it in the bag.”

  He picked up the clear one, naturally. Love Lady. “How do I impress it?”

  She just shrugged.

  He squeezed the crystals one at a time, feeling increasingly stupid, and dropped them in the goatskin bag. Anastasia Rigel shook the bag, then tipped the crystals out.

  “What does it say?” Dariat asked, a shade too eagerly for someone who was supposed to be sceptical.

  She stared at them a while, eyes flicking anxiously between the runes. “Greatness,” she said eventually. “You will come to greatness.”

  “Hey, yeah!”

  Her hand came up, silencing him. “It will not last. You shine so bright, Dariat, but for such a short time, and it is a dark flame which ignites you.”

  “Then what?” he asked, disgruntled.

  “Pain, death.”

  “Death?”

  “Not yours. Many people, but not yours.”

  Anastasia Rigel didn’t offer to sleep with him that time. Nor any of his visits during the month which followed. They walked round the savannah together, talking inanities, almost as brother and sister. She would tell him about the Starbridge philosophy, the idiosyncrasies of the realms. He listened, but became lost and impatient with a worldview which seemed to have little internal logic. In return he told her of his father, the resentment and the confusion of loss; mainly in the hope she’d feel sorry for him. He took her down into a starscraper; she said she’d never been in one before. She didn’t like it, the confining walls of the apartments, although she was fascinated by the slowly spinning starfield outside.

  The sexual tension died down from its initial high-voltage peak, though it was never laid to rest. It became a sort of game, jibes and smirks, played for points that neither knew how to win. Dariat enjoyed her company a lot. Someone who treated him fairly, who took time to hear what he said. Because she wanted to. He could never quite understand what she got out of the arrangement. She read his future several times, though none of the readings ever proved quite as dire as the first.

  Dariat spent more and more time with her, almost divorcing himself from the culture lived out in the starscrapers and industrial stations (except for keeping up on his didactic courses). The portentous aspirations in his mind lost their grip when he was in her presence.

  He learnt how to milk a goat, not that he particularly wanted to. They were smelly, bad-tempered creatures. She cooked him fish which she caught in the streams, and showed him which plants had edible roots. He found out about the tribe’s way of life, how they sold a lot of their handicrafts to starship crews, chiefly the rugs and pottery, how they shunned technology. “Except for nanonic medical packages,” she said wryly. “Amazing how many women become technocrats around childbirth time.” He went to some of their ceremonies, which seemed little more than open air parties where everyone drank a strong distilled spirit, and sang gospel hymns late into the night.

  One evening, when she was wearing just a simple white cotton poncho, she invited him into her tepee. He felt all the sexual heat return as the outline of her body was revealed through the fabric by the light of the tepee’s meagre oil lamp. There was some kind of clay pot in the centre with a snakelike hose coming from the side. It was smoking docilely, filling the air with a funny sweet and sour scent.

  Anastasia took a puff on the pipe, and shivered as if she’d swallowed a triple whisky. “Try some,” she said, her voice rich with challenge.

  “What is it?” “A wide gate into Tarrug’s realm. You’ll like it. Anstid won’t. He’ll lose all control over you.”

  He looked at the crimped end of the tube, still wet from her mouth. He wanted to try it. He was frightened. Her eyes were very wide.

  She tipped her head back, expelling two long plumes of smoke from her nostrils. “Don’t you want to explore the realm of mischief with me?”

  Dariat put the tube in his mouth and sucked. The next minute he was coughing violently.

  “Not so hard,” she said. Her voice sounded all furred. “Take it down slow. Feel it float through your bones.”

  He did as he was told.

  “They’re hollow, you know, your bones.” Her smile was wide, shining like the light-tube against her black face.

  The world spun round. He could feel the habitat moving, stars whipping round faster and faster, smearing across space. Smeared like cream. He giggled. Anastasia Rigel gave him a long, knowing grin, and took another drag on the tube.

  Space was pink. Stars were black. Water smelt of cheese. “I love you,” he told her. “I love you, I love you.” The tepee walls were palpitating in and out. He was in the belly of some huge beast, just like Jonah.

  Bloody hell.

  “What did you say?”

  Shit, I can’t filter . . . What’s green? What are you—

  “My hands are green,” he explained patiently.

  “Are they?” Anastasia Rigel asked. “That’s interesting.”

  What has she given you?

  “Tarrug?” Dariat asked. Anastasia had said that was who they were going to visit. “Hello, Tarrug. I can hear him. He’s talking to me.”

  Anastasia Rigel was at right angles to him. She pulled the poncho off over her head, sitting crosslegged and naked on the rug. Now she was totally upside-down. Her nipples were black eyes following him.

  “That’s not Tarrug you hear,” she said. “That’s Anstid.”

  “Anstid. Hi!”

  What is it? What is in that bloody pipe? Wait, I’m reviewing the local memory . . . Oh, fuck, it’s salfrond. I can’t hold onto your thoughts when you’re tripping on that, you little prick.

  “I don’t want you to.”

  Yes, you do. Oh, believe me you do, boy. I’ve got the keys to every dark door in this kingdom, and you’re the golden protégé. Now stop smoking that mind-rotting crap.

  Dariat very deliberately stuck the tube in his mouth, and inhaled until his lungs were about to burst. His cheeks puffed out. Anastasia Rigel leant forwards and took the tube from between his lips. “Enough.”

  The tepee was spinning in the opposite direction to the habitat, and outside it was raining shoes. Black leather shoes with scarlet buckles.

  Shit! I’m going to kill that little black junkie bitch for this. It’s high bloody time I shoved the Starbridge tribes out of the airlock. Dariat, stand up, boy. Walk outside, get some fresh air. There’s some medical nanonic packages in the village, the headman’s got some. They can straighten out your blood chemistry.

  Dariat’s giggles returned. “Piss off.”

  GET UP!

  “No.”

  Weakling! Always bloody weaklings. You’re no better than your bastard father.

  Dariat squeezed his eyes shut. The colours were behind his eyelids too. “I am not like him.”

  Yes, you are. Weak, feeble, pathetic. All of you are. I should have cloned myself when I had the chance. Parthenogenetics would have solved all this bullshit. Two fucking centuries of weaklings I’ve had to endure. Two centuries, fuck it.

  “Go away!” Even stoned, he could tell this wasn’t part of the trip. This was more. This was much much worse.

  “Is he hurting you, baby?” Anastasia Rigel asked.

  “Yes.”

  I’ll fucking cripple you if you don’t get up. Smash your legs, shred your hands to ribbons. Do you like the sound of that, boy? A life spent grubbing round like a snail. Can’t walk, can’t feed yourself, can’t wipe your arse.

  “Stop it,” Dariat screamed.

  Get up!

  “Don’t listen to him, baby. Close your mind.”

  Tell that bitch from me, she’s dead.

  “Please, both of you, stop it. Leave me alone.”

  Get up.

  Dariat tried to rise. He got up to his knees, then fell into Anastasia’s lap.

  “You’re mine now,” she
said gladly.

  No, you’re not. You’re mine. Always mine. You can never leave. I won’t allow you to.

  Her hands ran over his clothes, opening seals. Kisses with the sharp cold impact of hailstones fell on his face. “This is what you wanted, what you always wanted,” she breathed in his ear. “Me.”

  The nauseating colour stripes blitzing his sight swirled into blackness. Her hot skin sliding up and down against him. Weight pressing against every part of him. He was doing it! He was fucking! Tears poured out of his eyes.

  “That’s right, baby. Up inside me. Purge him. Purge him with me. Fly, fly into Venus and Chi-ri. Leave him behind. Free yourself.”

  Always mine.

  Dariat woke feeling awful. He was lying on the stiff tousled grass of the tepee without a stitch of clothing. The entrance flap was open, a slice of bright morning light sliding through. A heavy dew mottled his legs. Something had died and decomposed in his mouth, his tongue by the feel of it. Anastasia Rigel was lying beside him. Naked and beautiful. Arms tucked up against her chest.

  Last night. I fucked her. I did it!

  He tried to smother an ecstatic laugh.

  Feeling better?

  Dariat screamed. It was inside his head. Anstid. The realm demigod.

  He jerked around, hugging himself, biting his lower lip so hard he drew blood.

  Don’t be an idiot. I’m not a bloody spirit bogeyman. There’s no such thing. Religion is a psychological crutch for mental inadequates. Spiritualism is for mental paraplegics. Think what that makes your girlie friend.

  “What are you?”

  Anastasia Rigel woke up, blinking against the light. She ran her hand through her wild hair and sat up, looking at him with a curious expression.

  I’m your ancestor.

  “A lost spirit from the emptiness?” he asked, wide eyed with fright.

  Give me one more word of mythology and I really will have your legs broken. Now think logically. I’m your ancestor. Who can I be?

  Information from his didactic history courses tumbled into his thoughts. “Rubra?” The idea didn’t make him feel any better at all.

  Well done. Now stop panicking, and stop shivering. I don’t normally talk direct to someone your age, I like to let you have sixteen years to yourself. But I’m not going to allow you to become a dopehead. Do not ever smoke that stuff again. Understand?

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stop vocalizing. Concentrate your thoughts.

  “What are you saying, baby?” Anastasia Rigel asked. “Are you still tripping?”

  “No. It’s Rubra, he’s . . . We’re talking.”

  She pulled the white poncho round herself, giving him an alarmed look.

  I’ve got plans for you, boy, Rubra said. Big plans. You’re destined for Magellanic Itg’s executive committee.

  I am?

  Yes. If you play your cards right. If you do as you’re told.

  I will.

  Good. Now I’ve been lenient letting you sow your oats with dinky little Anastasia. I can understand that, she’s got a nice body, good tits, pretty face. I had a sex drive myself, once. But you’ve had your fun now; so put your clothes on and say goodbye. We’ll find someone a bit more suitable.

  I can’t leave her. Not after . . . last night.

  Take a real good look at yourself, boy. Rutting with a bubblehead primitive on a filthy mat in a tepee. Some friend, she filled your brain with two kinds of shit. That’s not how Valisk’s future ruler is going to behave. Is it?

  No, sir.

  Good boy.

  He started to pick up his clothes.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Home.”

  “He told you to.”

  “I . . . What is there here?”

  She gave him a forlorn look over the white poncho which was still clasped to her body. “Me. Your friend. Your lover.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m human. That’s more than he is.”

  Come on. Leave.

  Dariat pulled on his shoes. He paused by the entrance flap.

  “It’s Anstid,” she said in a mournful tone. “That’s who you really talk to.”

  Pseudobabble. Ignore her.

  Dariat walked slowly out of the village. Some of the elders gave him strange looks as he passed their steaming cooking pits. They couldn’t understand. Why would anyone leave Anastasia’s bed?

  That’s their trouble, boy. They’re too backward. The real world is beyond them. I really must get round to cleaning them out one day.

  * * *

  Now Dariat knew what he was, what he was destined for, the didactic courses took on a whole new level of importance. He listened to Rubra’s advice on the specializations he needed, the grades he had to achieve. He became obedient, and a shade resentful at his own compliance. But what else was there? Starbridge?

  In return for acquiescence Rubra taught him how to use the affinity bond with the habitat. How to access the sensitive cells to see what was going on, how he could call on vast amounts of processing power, the tremendous amount of stored data that was available.

  One of the first things Rubra did was to guide him through a list of possible replacement girls, eager to bury the lingering traces of yearning for Anastasia Rigel. Dariat felt like a voyeuristic ghost, watching the prospective candidates through the sensitive cells; seeing them at home, talking to their friends. Some of them he watched having sex with their boyfriends, two with other girls, which was exciting. Rubra didn’t seem to object to these prolonged observations. At least it meant he didn’t have to pay for bluesense fleks any more.

  One girl he chanced on was nice, Chilone, nine months older than him. As black as Anastasia (which was what first caught his attention), but with dark auburn hair. Shy and pretty, who talked a lot about sex and boys with her girl friends.

  Still he hesitated from meeting her, even though he knew her daily routine, knew her interests, what to say, which day clubs she belonged to. He could contrive a dozen encounters.

  Get on with it, Rubra told him after a week of cautious scrutiny. Screw her brains out. You don’t think Anastasia’s still pining over you, do you?

  What?

  Try using the sensitive cells around the tepee.

  That was something he’d never done, not using the habitat’s perception faculty to spy on her. But the tone Rubra used had a hint of cruel amusement in it.

  Anastasia had a lover, Mersin Columba, another Starbridge. A man in his forties; overweight, balding, with white pallid skin. They looked horrible locked together. Anastasia flinched silently as she lay underneath his pumping body.

  The old white-hot infantile fury rose into Dariat’s mind. He wanted to save her from the repellent humiliation; his beautiful girl who had loved him.

  Take my advice. Go find young Chilone.

  Like juvenile Edenists, it hadn’t taken Dariat long to discover how to fox the habitat’s sensitive cells. Unless Rubra’s principal personality pattern was concentrating on him in particular, the autonomous monitoring of the subroutines could be circumvented.

  Dariat used the sensitive cells to follow Mersin Columba out of the tepee. The podgy oaf had a smug smile on his face as he made his way down to the stream. Anastasia Rigel was curled up on her rug, staring at nothing.

  Mersin Columba made his way down the valley before stripping off his shirt and trousers. He splashed into a wide pool, and began to wash off the smell and stains of sex.

  The first blow from Dariat’s wooden cudgel caught him on the side of his head, tearing his ear. He grunted and dropped to his knees. The second blow smashed across the crown of his skull.

  Stop it!

  Dariat aimed another blow; laughing at the surprise on the man’s face. Nobody does that to my girl. Nobody does that to me! A cascade of blows rained down on Mersin Columba’s unprotected head. Rubra’s furious demands were reduced to a wasp’s buzz at the back of Dariat’s raging mind. He was vengeance. He was om
nipotent, more than any realm Lord. He struck and struck, and it felt good.

  The water pushed at Mersin Columba’s inert body. Long ribbons of blood wept from the battered head, turned to tattered curlicues by the current. Dariat stood over him. The bloody length of wood dropped from his fingers.

  I didn’t realize what I’d created with you, Rubra said. The silent voice lacked its usual conviction.

  Dariat shivered suddenly. His heart was pumping hard. Anastasia is mine. Well, she certainly doesn’t belong to poor old Mersin Columba any more, and that’s a fact.

  The body had drifted five metres downstream. Dariat thought it looked repugnant, sickly white, bloated.

  Now what? he asked sullenly.

  I’d better get some housechimps to tidy up. And you’d better make tracks.

  Is that it?

  I’m not going to punish you for killing a Starbridge. But we’re going to have to work on that temper of yours. It can be useful, but only if it’s applied properly.

  For the company.

  Yes. And don’t you forget it. Don’t worry, you’ll improve with age.

  Dariat turned and walked away from the river. He hiked up out of the valley and spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the savannah.

  His thoughts were glacial. He had killed a man, but there was no remorse, no sense of guilt. No sense of satisfaction, either. He felt nothing, as if the whole incident was an act he’d seen on an AV recording.

  When the light-tube began to dim into brassy twilight he turned and made his way towards the Starbridge village.

  Where do you think you’re going? Rubra asked.

  She’s mine. I love her. I’m going to have her. Tonight, always.

  No. Only I am for always.

  You can’t stop me. I don’t care about the company. Keep it. I never wanted it. I want Anastasia.

  Don’t be a fool.

  Dariat detected something then, a strand of emotion wound up with the mental voice: anxiety. Rubra was worried.

  What’s happened?

  Nothing’s happened. Go home. It’s been a hellish day.