The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “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 keep the grin off 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 actually could 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 around to hear the news and cheer.

  By half past three in the afternoon she had put on a light coat and walked out. The cool late spring air 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 stories tall, a typical mix of commercial properties. Regrav capsules slid silently overhead, and the metro track running down the center of the avenue hummed with public cabs. The roads had few vehicles, yet Araminta still waited at the crossings for the traffic solidos to change shape and color. She barely noticed her fellow pedestrians.

  The Glayfield was a bar and restaurant at the bottom of the slope, occupying two stories 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 Niks, sitting with a hot orange chocolate and watching the people and the ships. Over to her right the avenue curved upward 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-seventy-year history. 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 that made an excellent natural harbor. 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 and the other a more traditional suspension bridge with pure white pillars a flamboyant three hundred meters tall. Capsules slid along beside them, but ground traffic was almost nonexistent these days and they were used mainly 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 mud flats: 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 light-years away, Viotia was on the fringe of the Free Trade Zone, a market that the local population grumbled was free for Ellezelin companies all right, but disadvantaged everyone else caught in its commercial web. There wasn’t a wormhole 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 Viota’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.

  Araminta stayed at the table long after she usually packed up and went home. The sun began to fall, turning the clouds a genuine gold-pink as the planet’s hazy mesosphere diffused the dying rays of the K-class star. Transocean barges shone brightly out on the Cairns, regrav engines keeping their flat hulls just above the slowly rippling water as they nosed out of the dock and headed for the open sea and the islands beyond. She always was soothed by the sight of the city, a huge edifice of human activity buzzing along efficiently, a reassurance that civilization did actually work, that nothing could kick the basics out from under her. And now, finally, she could begin to take an active part, to carve out a life for herself. The files from the property agencies floated gently through her exoimage display, allowing her to plan what she might do in more detail than she ever had bothered with before. Without money such reviews had been pointless daydreams, but this evening they took on a comfortable solidity. Part of her was scared by the notion. If she made a mistake now, she would be back to waitressing tables for the next few decades. She had only one shot. Eighty-three thousand was a tidy sum, but it had to be made to work for her. Despite the trepidation, she was looking forward to the challenge. It marked her life’s true beginning.

  The sun set amid a warm scarlet glow, seeming to match Araminta’s mood. By then the first customers of the evening were starting to fill up the restaurant. She left a big tip and went downstairs. Her usual routine had her walking back to Niks, maybe doing some shopping on the way, and taking the trike pod home. But there was nothing usual about this day. There was music blasting through the bar. People were leaning on the counter, ordering drinks and aerosols. Araminta glanced down at her clothes. She was wearing a sensible skirt, navy blue, that came down below her knees, and a white top with short sleeves made from a fabric that was specifically wipe-clean so that she could cope with spills. Around her, people had made an effort to smarten up for the evening; she felt slightly downmarket by comparison.

  But then, who are they to judge me?

  It was a liberating thought of the kind she had not entertained since leaving Langham back when the future was full of opportunity, at least in her imagination.

  Araminta sidled her way up to the bar and studied the bottles and beer taps. “Green Fog, please,” she told the barman. It earned her a slightly bemused smile, but he mixed it perfectly. She drank it slowly, trying not to let the smoldering mist get up her nose. Sneezing would blow away any remaining credibility.

  “Haven’t seen anybody drink one of those for a while,” a man’s voice said.

  She turned and looked at him. He was handsome in that precise way everyone was these days, with features aligned perfectly; she guessed that meant he had been through at least a couple of rejuve treatments. Like the rest of the bar’s clientele, he had dressed up, a simple gray and purple toga jacket that cloaked him in a gentle shimmer.

  And he’s not Laril.

  “Been awhile since I was let out,” she retorted. Then she smirked at her own answer, th
e fact she was bold enough to say it.

  “Can I get you another? I’m Jaful, by the way.”

  “Araminta. And no, not a Green Fog; that’s a nostalgia thing for me. What’s current?”

  “They say Adlier 88Vodka is going down in all the wrong places.”

  She finished her Green Fog in a single gulp, tried not to grimace too hard, and pushed the empty glass across the bar. “Best start there, then.”

  “Are you awake?”

  Araminta stirred when she heard the question. She wasn’t awake exactly, more like dozing pleasantly, content in the afterglow of a night spent in busy lovemaking. Her mind was full of a strange vision, as if she were being chased through the dark sky by an angel. Her slight movement was enough for Jaful. His hands slid up her belly to cup her breasts. “Uh,” she murmured, still drowsy as the angel dwindled. Jaful rolled her onto her front, which was confusing. Then his cock was sliding up inside her again, hard and insistent. It was not a comfortable position. Each thrust pushed her face down into the soft mattress. She wriggled to try to get into a more acceptable stance, which he interpreted as full acceptance. Heated panting became shouts of joy. Araminta cooperated as best she could; the pleasure was minimal at best. Out of practice, she thought, and tried not to laugh. He wouldn’t understand. At least she was doing her best to make up for lost time, though. They had coupled three or four times after going back to his place.

  Jaful climaxed with a happy yell. Araminta matched him. Yep, remember how to do that bit as well. Eighteen months with Laril had made faking orgasms automatic.

  Jaful flopped onto his back and let out a long breath. He grinned at her. “Fantastic. I haven’t had a night like that for a long time, if ever.”

  She dropped her voice a couple of octaves. “You were good.” It was so funny, as if they were reading from a script.

  Picked up in a bar. Back to his place for a one-night stand. Compliment each other. Both of them playing their part of the ritual to perfection.

  But it has been fun.

  “I’m going to grab a shower,” he said. “Tell the culinary unit what you want. It’s got some good synthesis routines.”

  “I’ll do that.” She watched him stroll across the room and into the en suite. Only then did she stare in curiosity. It was a chic city bachelor pad; that much was evident by the plain yet expensive furniture and contemporary art. The wall opposite the bed was a single window covered with snow-white curtains.

  Araminta started hunting for her clothes as the spore shower came on. Underwear—practical rather than sexy, she acknowledged with a sigh—close to the bed. Skirt halfway between bed and door. Her white top in the living room. She pulled it on, then looked back at the bedroom. The shower was still on. Did he always take so long, or was he sticking with the part of the script that gave her a polite opportunity to exit? She shrugged and let herself out.

  There wasn’t anything wrong with Jaful. She certainly had enjoyed herself in his bed most of the time. It was just that she couldn’t think what they could say to each other over breakfast. It would have been awkward. This way she kept the memory agreeable. “More practice,” she told herself, and smiled wickedly. And why not? This is real life again.

  The building had a big lobby. When she walked out into the street, she blinked against the bright pink light; it was twelve minutes until she was supposed to start the morning shift at Niks. Her u-shadow told her she was in the Spalding district, which was halfway across the city, so she called a taxi down. It took about thirty seconds until the yellow and purple capsule was resting a couple of centimeters above the concrete, three meters in front of her. She watched in bemusement as the door opened. In all her life she’d never called a taxi herself; it had always been Laril who ordered them. After the separation, of course, she couldn’t afford them. Another blow for freedom.

  As soon as she arrived at Niks, she rushed into the staff toilets.

  Tandra gave her a leery look when she came out, tying her apron on. “You know, those look like the very same clothes you wore when you left yesterday.” She sniffed elaborately. “Yep, travel-clean again. Did something happen to your plumbing last night?”

  “You know, I’m really going to miss you when I leave,” Araminta replied, trying not to laugh.

  “What’s his name? How long have you been dating?”

  “Nobody. I’m not dating; you know that.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “I need coffee.”

  “Not much sleep, huh?”

  “I was reviewing property files, that’s all.”

  Tandra gave her a malicious sneer. “Sweetie, I ain’t never heard it called that before.”

  After the breakfast shift was over, Araminta ran her usual review. This time it was different. This time her u-shadow contacted the agencies, which gave her virtual tours of the five most promising properties, using a full sense relay bot. On that basis, she made an appointment to visit one that afternoon.

  As soon as she walked through the door, she knew it was right for her. The flat was the second floor of a converted three-story house in the Philburgh district. A mile and a half north of the dock and three blocks back from the river, with two bedrooms, it was perfect for someone working in the city center on a modest salary. There was even a balcony from which one could just see the Cairns if one leaned out over the railing.

  She went through the official survey scan with the modern analysis programs recommended by half a dozen professional property development companies. It needed redecorating; the current vendor had lived there for thirty years and had not done much to it. The plumbing needed replacing; it would require new domestic units. But the structure was perfectly sound.

  “I’ll take it,” she told the agent.

  An hour negotiating with the vendor gave her a price of fifty-eight thousand, more than she would have liked, but it did leave her with enough of a budget to give the place a decent refurbishment. There would not be much left over to live on, but if she completed the work within three or four months, she would not need a bank loan. It would be tough; looking around the living room, she could see the amount of work involved. That was when she experienced a little moment of doubt. Come on, she told herself. You can do this. This is what you’ve waited for; this is what you’ve earned.

  She took a breath and left the flat. She needed to get back to her place and grab a shower. Travel-clean could cope for only so long. Then she might get changed and go out again. There were a lot of bars in Colwyn City she had heard about and never visited.

  Troblum double woke in two of the penthouse’s bedrooms. His actual self lay on a bed made from a special foam that supported his large body comfortably, providing him with a decent night’s sleep. It had been Catriona’s room, decorated in excessively pink fabrics and ornaments; a lot of the surfaces were fluffy, a very girly girl’s room that he was now used to. His parallel sensorium was coming from a twinning link to the solido of Howard Liang, a Starflyer agent who had been part of the disinformation mission. Howard was in the penthouse’s main bedroom, sharing a huge circular bed with the three girls. It was another aspect of the solidos that Troblum had spent years refining; now, whenever he wanted sex, the four characters would launch themselves eagerly into a mini-orgy. The permutations their supple young bodies could combine into were almost endless, and they could keep going as long as Troblum wanted. He immersed himself for hours, his body drinking down the pleasure that Howard’s carefully formatted neural pathways experienced, as much the puppet as the puppeteer. The four of them together was not, strictly speaking, a historical reality. At least he’d never found any evidence for it. But it wasn’t impossible, which sort of legitimized the extrapolation.

  The image and feeling of the beautiful naked bodies draped across him faded as his actual body reasserted itself, canceling the twinning with Howard. After the shower had squirted dermal freshener spores over him, he walked through into the vast lounge, bronze sunlight washing warmly across h
is tingling skin. His u-shadow reported that there was still no message from Admiral Kazimir, which he chose to interpret as good news. The delay at least meant it was still being considered. Knowing the navy bureaucracy, he suspected that the review committee still hadn’t formally met. His theory was struggling against a lot of conventional beliefs. Briefly, he considered calling the Admiral to urge him along, but his personal protocol routines advised against it.

  He wrapped one of his cloaks around himself, then took the lift down to the lobby. It was only a short walk down to the Caspe River, where his favorite café was situated on the edge of the quiet water. The building was made from white wood and sculpted to resemble a folgail, a bird even more sedate than a terrestrial swan. His usual table underneath a wing arch was free, and he sat himself down. He gave his order to the café network and waited while a servicebot brought him a freshly squeezed apple and gonberry juice. The chef, Rowury, spent several days every week in the café, cooking for his enthusiastic clientele of foodies. For a culture that prided itself on its egalitarian ethos, Highers could be real snobs about some traditions and crafts, and “proper” food was well up the list. There were several restaurants and cafés in Daroca set up as showcases for their gastronomic patrons.

  Troblum had finished a dish of cereal and started on his tea when someone sat down in front of him. He looked up in annoyance. The café was full, but that was no excuse for rudeness. The rebuke never made it past his lips.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” Marius said as he settled in the chair, his black toga suit trailing thin wisps of darkness behind him as if he were time-lapsed. “I’ve heard good reports about this place.”

  “Help yourself,” Troblum said grouchily. He knew he should not show too much resentment at Marius’s appearance; after all, the faction representative had channeled the kind of EMA funds to Troblum’s private projects that normally were available only to huge public enterprises. It was the demands placed on him in return that he found annoying. Not the challenges themselves—they were intriguing—but the fact that they always took so much time. “Oh, you already have.”