The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Barakka laughed. “You old rogue; it is your tongue, not your mind, which shapes words against their true meaning.”

  Akeem gave a small, pleased bow. “Thank you. Shall we begin loading?”

  “If Melzar’s team is ready,” Barakka said.

  Edeard’s farsight flashed out, surveying the new well and the crowd gathering around it. “They are. Wedard has called the ge-monkey digging team out.”

  Barakka gave him a calculating stare. The new well was being dug on the other side of the village from the Eggshaper Guild compound. His own farsight could not reach that far. “Very well, we’ll put them on the wagon. Can you manage a third of the weight, boy?”

  Edeard was very pleased that he managed to stop any irony from showing amid his surface thoughts. “I think so, sir.” He caught Akeem’s small private smile; the master’s mind remained calm and demure.

  Barakka gave the reshaped cats another doubting look and scratched his beard once more. “All right, then. On my call. Three. Two. One.”

  Edeard exerted his third hand, careful not to boost more than he was supposed to. With the three of them lifting, the reshaped cat rose smoothly into the air and floated into the back of the open wagon.

  “They’re not small, are they?” Barakka said. His smile was somewhat forced. “Good thing you’re helping, Akeem.”

  Edeard did not know if he should protest or laugh.

  “We all play our part,” Akeem said, giving Edeard a warning stare.

  “Second one, then,” Barakka said.

  Ten minutes later they were rolling through the village, Barakka and Akeem sitting on the wagon’s bench while Edeard made do with the rear, one arm resting protectively over a cat. Ashwell was a cluster of buildings in the lee of a modest stone cliff that had sheared out of the side of a gentle slope. Almost impossible to climb, the cliff formed a good defense, with a semicircular walled rampart of earth and stone completing their protection from any malign forces that might ride in from the wild lands to the northeast. Most of the buildings were simple stone cottages with thatch roofs and slatted shutters. Some larger buildings had windows with glass panes that had been brought in from the western towns. Only the broad main street running parallel to the cliff was cobbled; the lanes running off it were little more than muddy ruts worn down to the stone by wheels and feet. Although the Eggshaper compound was the biggest collection of buildings, the tallest was the church of the Empyrean Lady, with its conical spire rising out of the north side of the low dome. Once upon a time the stone church had been a uniform white, but many seasons of neglect had seen the lightest sections molder to a drab gray, with kimoss pullulating in the slim gaps between the big blocks.

  The road down to the village gate branched off midway along the main street. Edeard looked along it, seeing the short brick-lined tunnel that cut through the sloping rampart; at the far end the massive doors were open to the outside world. On the top of the wall, twin watchtowers stood on either side of the door, with big iron bells on top. They would be rung by the guards at any sign of trouble approaching. Edeard had never heard them. Some of the older villagers claimed to remember their sound when bandit gangs had been spotted crossing the farmlands bordering the village.

  As Edeard looked at the top of the rampart wall with its uneven line and many different materials, he wondered how hard it actually would be to overcome their fortifications. There were places where crumbling gaps had been plugged by thick timbers, which themselves were rotting beneath swaths of kimoss. Even if every man and woman in the village carried arms, they could not stretch along more than a third of the length. In reality, their safety depended on the illusion of strength.

  A sharp prick of pain in his left shin made him wince. It was a telekinetic pinch, which he warded off with a strong shield over his flesh. Obron and two of his cronies were flanking the wagon, mingling with the other villagers who were heading up to the new well. There was a sense of carnival in the air as the wagon made its slow procession through Ashwell, with people abandoning their normal work to tag along and see the innovation.

  Now that Edeard had been jerked away from his daydreaming, he picked up on the bustle of amusement and interest filling the ether through the village. Very few people were expecting his reshaped cats to work, but they were looking forward to witnessing the failure. Typical, he thought. This village always expects the worst. It’s exactly the attitude that’s responsible for our decline; not everything can be blamed on bad weather, poor crops, and more bandits.

  “Hey, Egg-Boy,” Obron jeered. “What are those abortions? And where are your pump genistars?” He laughed derisively, a cackling that quickly was duplicated by his friends.

  “These are—” Edeard began crossly. He stopped as their laughter rose, wishing the wagon could travel faster. There were smiles on the faces of the adults walking alongside as they witnessed typical apprentice rivalry, remembering what it had been like when they were young. Obron’s thoughts were vivid and mocking. Edeard managed to keep his temper. Revenge would come as soon as the cats were in place. There would be respect for the Eggshaper Guild, with a corresponding loss of status for the carpenters.

  He was clinging smugly to that knowledge when the wagon rolled up beside the new well. It had been four months since the village’s old well had collapsed partially. Rubble and silt had been sucked up into the pump, a large contraption assembled by the carpentry guild, with big cogwheels and leather bladders that were compressed and expanded by three ge-horses harnessed to a broad-axle wheel. They walked around and around in a circle all day long, producing gulps of water that slopped out of the pipe into a reservoir trough for everyone to use. As no one had noticed the sludge at first, the ge-horses kept walking until the pump started to creak and shudder. It had been badly damaged.

  Once the extent of the damage to the well had been assessed, the elder council had decreed that a new well should be dug. This time it was at the top of the village, close to the cliff where the water percolating down from the slopes above should be plentiful. There were also ideas that a simple network of pipes could carry fresh water into each house. That would have required an even larger pump to be built. At that point Akeem had brought his apprentice’s idea to the council.

  The crowd that had gathered around the head of the new well was good-natured enough when the wagon stopped. Melzar, who listed Water Master among many other village titles, was standing beside the open hole, talking to Wedard, the stonemason who had overseen the team of ge-monkeys that had performed the actual digging. They both gave the reshaped cats an intrigued look. Edeard was not really aware of them; he could hear a lot of sniggering. It came mostly from the gang of apprentices centered on Obron. His cheeks flushed red as he struggled to keep the anger from showing in his surface thoughts.

  “Have faith in yourself,” someone whispered into his mind, a skillfully directed longtalk voice directed at him alone. The sentiment was threaded with a rosy glow of approval.

  He looked around to see Salrana smiling warmly at him. She was only twelve, dressed in the blue and white robe of a Lady’s novice. A sweet, good-natured child, she had never wanted to do anything other than join the church. The Lady’s Mother of Ashwell, Lorellan, had been happy to start her instructions. Attendance was never high in the village church apart from the usual festival services. Like Edeard, Salrana never quite fit into the mainstream of village life. It made them feel kindred. She was like a younger sister. He grinned back at her as he clambered down from the wagon. Lorellan, who was standing protectively to one side of her, gave him a bland smile.

  Melzar came over to the back of the wagon. “This should be interesting.”

  “Why, thank you,” Akeem said. The cold air was turning the blood vessels on his nose and cheeks an even darker shade than normal.

  Melzar inclined his head surreptitiously toward the surrounding crowd. Edeard did not turn around; his farsight revealed Geepalt standing in the front row, feet apart and arms folded
, a glower on his thin features. Contempt scudded across his surface thoughts, plain for everyone to sense. Edeard was adept enough to detect the currents of concern underneath.

  “What’s the water like?” Barakka asked.

  “Cold but very clear,” Melzar said contentedly. “Digging the well this close to the cliff is a boon. There is a lot of water filtering through the rock from above us, and it’s wonderfully pure. No need to boil it before we make beer, eh? Got to be good news.”

  Edeard shuffled closer to the hole, half expecting Obron’s third hand to shove at him. His feet squelched on the semifrozen mud around the flagstones, and he peered over the rim. Wedard had done a good job of lining the circular shaft; the stones were perfectly cut and were fixed better than a lot of cottage walls. This well would not crumble and collapse as the last one had. Darkness lurked ten feet below the rim like an impenetrable mist. His farsight probed down, reaching the water over thirty feet below ground level.

  “Are you ready?” Melzar asked. His voice was sympathetic. Without the Water Master’s support, the council never would have allowed Edeard to try the cats.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Edeard, Akeem, Melzar, Barakka, and Wedard extended their third hands to lift the first cat off the wagon. All the people in the crowd used their farsight to follow it into the gloomy shaft. Just as it reached the water, Edeard tensed. Suppose it sinks?

  “And release,” Akeem said so smoothly and confidently that Edeard had no alternative but to let go. The cat bobbed about, completely unperturbed. Edeard realized he had been holding his breath, anxiety scribbled across his mind for everyone to sense, especially Obron. His relief was equally discernible to the villagers.

  It was not long before all five cats were floating on the water. Melzar lowered the thick rubber hose, unwinding it slowly from the cylinder it was spooled around. The end was remarkably complicated, branching many times as if it had sprouted roots. Edeard lay flat on the flagstones around the rim, heedless of the freezing mud soaking into his sweater. Warm air gusted up from the shaft to tickle his face. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to concentrate solely on his third hand as it connected the hose ends to the cats’ gills. Simple muscle lips closed around the rubber tubes on his command, forming a tight seal. A standard genistar cat had three big flotation bladders, giving it complete control over its own buoyancy as it swam, allowing it to float peacefully or dive down several yards. It was those bladders which Edeard had shaped the new cats around, expanding them to occupy eighty percent of the total body volume, surrounding them with muscle so that they were crude pumps, like a heart for water. His longtalk ordered them to start the muscle squeeze sequence, building up an elementary rhythm.

  Everyone fell silent as he stood up. Eyes and farsight were focused on the giant stone trough that had been set up next to the well. The hose end curved over it. For an achingly long minute nothing happened, and then it emitted a gurgling sound. Droplets of water spit out, the prelude to a foaming torrent that poured into the trough. It began to fill up remarkably quickly.

  Edeard remembered the flow of water from the old well pump; this had several times the pressure. Melzar dipped a cup into the water and tasted it. “Fresh and pure,” he announced in a loud voice. “And better than that: abundant.” He stood in front of Edeard and started clapping, his eyes ranging around the crowd, encouraging them. Others joined in. Soon Edeard was at the center of a storm of applause. His cheeks were burning again, but this time he didn’t care. Akeem’s arm went around his shoulder, his mind aglow with pride. Even Geepalt was acknowledging the success, albeit grudgingly. Of Obron and his cronies there was no sign.

  There was the tidying up, of course. Sacks of the oily vegetable mush that the cats digested were filled and positioned beside the well, valves adjusted so that they dripped a steady supply down slender tubes. Edeard connected the far end of each tube to the mouth of a cat, instructing them to suckle slowly. Wedard and his apprentices fastened the hose to the side of the well. The ground was cleared. Finally, the huge stone capping slab was moved over the shaft, sealing the cats into their agreeable new milieu. By that time apprentices and household ge-monkeys were lining up at the trough with large pitchers.

  “You have a rare talent, my boy,” Melzar said as he watched the water lapping close to the top of the trough. “I see we’re going to have to dig a drain to cope with the overspill. Then no doubt the council will soon be demanding that mad pipe scheme to supply the houses. Quite a revolution you’ve started. Akeem, I’d be honored if you and your apprentice would join us for our evening meal.”

  “I will be happy to liberate some of the wine you hold prisoner,” Akeem said. “I’ve heard there are whole dungeons full under your guild hall.”

  “Ha!” Melzar turned to Edeard. “Do you like wine, my boy?”

  Edeard realized that the question was actually genuine; for once he wasn’t simply being humored. “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Best find out, then.”

  The crowd had departed, creating a rare atmosphere of satisfaction pervading the village. It was a good way to start the new spring season, ran the feeling, a good omen that times were getting better. Edeard stayed close to the trough as the apprentices filled their pitchers. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but they seemed to be treating him with a tad more approbation than before. Several even congratulated him.

  “Haunting the site of your victory?”

  It was Salrana. He grinned at her. “Actually, just making sure the cats don’t keel over from exhaustion or the hoses don’t tear free. Stuff like that. There’s a lot that can go wrong yet.”

  “Poor Edeard; always the pessimist.”

  “Not today. Today was …”

  “Glorious.”

  He eyed the low clouds that were blocking the sun from view.

  “Helpful. For me and the village.”

  “I’m really pleased for you,” she exclaimed. “It takes so much courage to stand up for your own convictions, especially in a place like this. Melzar was right; this is a revolution.”

  “You were eavesdropping! What would the Lady say?”

  “She would say: ‘Well done, young man. This will make everyone’s life a little better. Ashwell has one less thing to worry about now.’ The people need that. Life is so hard here. From small foundations of hope, empires can be built.”

  “That has to be a quote,” he teased.

  “If you attended church, you’d know.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t get much time.”

  “The Lady knows and understands.”

  “You’re such a good person, Salrana. One day you’ll be the Pythia.”

  “And you’ll be Mayor of Makkathran. What a grand time we’ll have together, making all of Querencia a happy place.”

  “No more bandits. No more drudgery—especially not for apprentices.”

  “Or novices.”

  “They’ll talk about our reign until the Skylords return to carry us all into the Heart.”

  “Oh, look,” she squealed, and pointed excitedly at the trough. “It’s overflowing! You’ve given us too much water, Edeard.”

  He watched as the water began to spill over the lip of the trough. Within seconds it had become a small stream frothing across the mud toward their feet. They both ran aside, laughing.

  Justine Burnelli examined her body closely before she put it on. After all, it had been over two centuries since she’d last worn it. During the intervening years it had been stored in an exotic matter cage that generated a temporal suspension zone so that barely half a second had passed inside.

  The cage looked like a simple sphere of violet light in ANA’s New York reception facility, a building that extended a hundred fifty stories below Manhattan’s streets. Her cage was housed on the ninety-fifth floor, along with several thousand identical radiant bubbles. ANA normally maintained a body for five years after the personality downloaded out of it in case there were compatibility probl
ems. Such an issue was unusual; only about one in eleven million rejected a life inside ANA and returned to the physical realm. Once those five years were up, the body was discontinued. After all, if a personality really wanted to leave ANA after that, a simple clone could be grown, a process not dissimilar to the old-fashioned re-life procedure that was still available in the External worlds.

  However, ANA: Governance considered it useful to have physical representatives walking the Greater Commonwealth in certain circumstances. Justine was one of them. It was partly her own fault. She had been over eight hundred years old when Earth had built its repository for Advanced Neural Activity, the ultimate virtual universe where everyone supposedly was equal in the end. After so much life she was very reluctant to see her body “discontinued” in much the same way she’d never quite acknowledged that re-life was true continuation. For her, clones force-fed on a dead person’s memories were not the same person, no matter that there was no discernible difference. That early twenty-first-century upbringing of hers was too hard to shake off, even for someone as mature and controlled as she had become.

  The violet haze faded away to reveal a blond girl in her biological mid-twenties. Rather attractive, Justine noted with a little tweak of pride, and very little of that had come from genetic manipulation down the centuries. The face she was looking at was still recognizable as the brattish party It girl of the early twenty-first century who had spent a decade on the gossip channels as she dated her way through East Coast society and soap actors. Her nose had been reduced, admittedly, and pointed slightly. Now that she regarded it critically, it was possibly a little too cutesy, especially with cheekbones that looked like they were made from avian bone, they were so sharp yet delicate. Her eyes had been modified to a pale blue, matching Nordic white skin that tanned to honey gold and hair that was thick white-blond, falling below her shoulders. Her height was greater than her friends from the twenty-first century would have remembered; she’d surreptitiously added four inches during various rejuvenation treatments. Despite the temptation, she had not gained all that length only in her legs; she had made sure her torso was in proportion, with a nicely flat abdomen that was easy to maintain thanks to a slightly accelerated digestive system. Happily, she’d never gone for ridiculous boobs—well, except that one time when she was rejuving for her two hundredth birthday and did it to find out what it was like having a Grand Canyon cleavage. And yes, men did gape and come out with even more stupid opening lines, but as she could always have whoever she wanted anyway, there was no real advantage and it wasn’t really her, so she’d gotten rid of them at the next rejuvenation session.