The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Cressida pushed her sapphire-glossed lips together as she looked out across the Bodant district’s park to the Cairns beyond. There was a marina along the embankment directly opposite them, its curving Deco buildings radiant white, as if they had just been forged in some fusion furnace. “You got the wrong side of the park, darling; over there is where the action and the smart money is. Besides, here you’re only a few streets from the Helie district. Really!”

  “Stop being such a grump. I’ve proved I can do this, and you know it.”

  “I also know how much you paid for these hovels. Honestly, darling, a hundred K each. Were you kidnapped and held ransom?”

  “They have three bedrooms each. They need a lot less work than the flat. The two largest ones have this view. And I cleared a forty-K profit on the flat.”

  “I still can’t believe the bank gave you the money for this.”

  “Standard commercial loan. They liked my business model,” Araminta said proudly.

  “And Ozzie’s coming back to save us all. Go on, you can tell me. You slept with the entire staff of the local office, didn’t you?”

  “It’s very simple economics.”

  “Ha! That just proves you don’t know what you’re talking about. Economics is never simple.”

  “I renovate one of them—this one probably—as the show apartment and sell the rest off plan, based on people seeing the quality of the finish. The deposits will pay off the mortgage while I refurbish them.”

  “This is the best one? Oh, help me.”

  “Yes, this one. And Helie is an up-and-coming area. Don’t be so negative. It’s annoying.” Her tone was more prickly than she had intended.

  Cressida was instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, darling, but my life is without risk now. Honestly, I admire you for taking this gamble, but you have to admit, it is a gamble.”

  “Of course it’s a gamble. You never get anywhere in life without taking a gamble.”

  “Well, well, whatever happened to the little farm girl from Langham?”

  “She died. Nobody came to the funeral.”

  A perfectly shaped eyebrow rose in surprise. “What have I unleashed on the world?”

  “I thought you’d be happy to see me move forward like this.”

  “I am. Are you going to do all the work yourself again?”

  “Most of it, yes. I’ve got some new bots, and I know where to go for all my supplies and fittings now. This is going to be a prestige development; you’ll see. All the apartments will fetch a premium.”

  “I’m sure they will. Did you know most of the hotels in town are fully booked?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  Cressida wiped the balcony rail with a hand and then leaned on it. “There’s a lot of Living Dream devotees flooding in. Rumor in the gaiafield is that the Second Dreamer is on Viotia.”

  “Really, I didn’t know that, but then, I haven’t accessed a news show in weeks. I’m a working gal these days.”

  “Keep it quiet, but the government is worried about the pressure that’s going to be put on housing, among other things, like public order.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Seriously. We’ve had over two million of the faithful arrive in the last seven weeks. Do you know how many have left again?”

  “No.”

  “None. And if they all apply for residency, that’s going to shift the political demographic.”

  “So we’re receiving immigrants again; that’s how planets develop. There’s going to be a big demand for housing. I come out a winner.”

  “All I’m saying is that in times of civil disturbance property values take a dive.”

  “It’s that serious?” Araminta asked in sudden alarm; after all, Cressida was very well connected.

  “You know there’s always been an undercurrent of resentment toward Ellezelin. If the Living Dream numbers keep rising at their current rate, then there could be trouble. Who wants to wind up living in a theocracy?”

  “Yes, but there’s the Pilgrimage. That’ll call them back to Ellezelin, won’t it? And it’s not like they’re going to find this stupid Second Dreamer, least of all here. The whole thing’s a political stunt by the new Cleric Conservator. Isn’t it?”

  “Who knows? But I’d respectfully suggest, darling, that you find a sucker who you can offload these apartments on to at very short notice.”

  Araminta recalled how keen Ikor had been to sell to her. And it had been a good deal, or so it had seemed at the time. Am I the sucker? “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look for one,” she said.

  Mr. Bovey let loose a small chorus of swearing as four of hims tried to maneuver the old-fashioned stone bath along the hallway and through the bathroom door. It was an awkward angle, and the apartment’s rear hallway was not particularly wide.

  “Can I help?” Araminta sang out from the kitchen, where she and three bots were making last-minute changes to the new utility connections to get them ready for the units she had ordered.

  “I’m quite capable, thank you,” quadraphonic voices grunted back.

  His hurtful insistence made her giggle. “Okay.” It was another twenty minutes before one of him walked into the kitchen. He was the Bovey she’d first encountered in his macrostore’s bathroom aisle, the one with ebony skin and an aging body. In his biological late middle age he may have been, but he did not shrink from hard work. His wrinkled forehead was smeared with sweat.

  “I made some tea,” she said, gesturing at the kettle with its cluster of ancient cups. “You look like you need a break.”

  “I do; my others are younger.” He smiled in admiration at the steaming cups and the packet of teacubes. “You really did make it, too, didn’t you?”

  “Waiting for my culinary unit to arrive,” she said with a martyred sigh.

  “It’s in the next load, I promise,” he told her, and picked up a cup. His eyes took in the packets of folded food and the hydrator oven.

  “Are you actually living here?”

  “Yeah. Not renting saves me a bucketload of money. I mean, what’s the point? I’ve got five apartments, and they’re not that bad—the roofs don’t leak, and the rest is just aesthetics. I can stick it out for a few months.”

  “You know, I really admire your attitude. There’s not many your age who would take on a project like this.”

  She batted her eyes. “And what’s my age?”

  “Honestly? I’ve no idea. But you come across as a first life.”

  “I’ll own up to that.”

  “Can I offer you an alternative to hydrated food tonight? There’s a nice restaurant I know.”

  She grinned, her hand curling around her mug of tea. “That would be lovely. Oh, I don’t like curry!”

  “That’s okay; some of mes don’t, either.”

  “Your tastes are different?”

  “Sure. Taste is a matter of biochemistry, which is subtly different in every human body. And face it, I have quite a variety to choose from.”

  “Okay,” she said, and dropped her gaze bashfully. “I have to ask. I’ve never been on a date with a multiple before. Do you all come and sit at the table with me?”

  “Nah, I think that would be a little much for you, wouldn’t it? Besides, I have the macrostore to run, deliveries to be made, installation, that kind of thing. My life goes on the whole time.”

  “Oh. Yes.” It was a strange notion. Not an objectionable one, though.

  “Now, if you were another multiple, it might be different.”

  “How?”

  “We’d book the whole restaurant of romantic tables for two and take over the lot. Yous and mes everywhere having fifty different conversations simultaneously and trying out the entire menu and wine list all at once. It’s like speed dating in fast forward.”

  She laughed. “Have you ever done that?”

  “Tell you tonight.”

  “Right. So which one of you do I get sitting at that romantic table for two?”

/>   “You choose. How many of mes and which ones.”

  “One, and you’ll do just fine.”

  Araminta took a great deal of thought and care over what to wear and which cosmetic scales to apply. She dressed exactly to plan two hours early, then took a look at herself in the mirror and chucked the whole image. Fifty minutes later all the cases in her bedroom were hanging open. Every outfit she had bought in the last two months was draped over floor and furniture, leaving little space to walk. She had experimented with four different styles of scale membrane. Her hair had been sparkled and then damped, oiled and then fluffed, bejeweled with red scintillators, blue scintillators, green, blue-white …

  In the end, with eleven minutes to go, she took an executive decision to go basic. Mr. Bovey was not the kind to concern himselfs with surface image.

  His capsule landed on the pad outside, and she took an elevator down to the lobby. The doors opened to a dusty space piled with junk and newly delivered boxes. It was all illuminated by too-bright temporary lighting.

  Mr. Bovey was dressed in a simple pale gray toga suit with minimal surface shimmer. He smiled as the doors opened and said: “A lady who is on time; now, that’s—oh, wow.”

  She permitted herself the smallest nod of approval as he stared. In her mind was an image of his customers left unattended, installations stalled, delivery flights landing at the wrong addresses all over town.

  “You look”—he swallowed as he tried to regain equilibrium—“fantastic. Absolutely amazing.”

  “Why, thank you.” She held her hands behind her back and presented the side of her face for a formal greeting kiss like some ingenue. It was the right choice, then: a black sleeveless dress of plain silky fabric with a wide cleft down the front, barely held together by a couple of slim black emerald chains, making it look as if she was about to burst out. Her hair glossed pale auburn and brushed with just a couple of waves to hang below her shoulders. No scales other than lips slightly darker than her natural pigmentation and emerald eyelash sparkles on low radiance. Most important was the sly half smile guaranteed to befuddle the male brain totally—all of them.

  Mr. Bovey recovered. “Shall we go?”

  “Love to.”

  The restaurant he’d booked was Richard’s. It was small but stylish, occupying two floors of an old white stone house in the Udno district. The owner was also the chef, and as Mr. Bovey explained, he had a small boat that he took out down the estuary a couple of times each week to catch fish for the specials.

  “So do you date other multiples?” she asked once they had ordered.

  “Of course,” he told her. “Not that there are a lot of us on Viotia.”

  “What about marriage? Is that only with multiples?”

  “I was married once. A multiple called Mrs. Rion. It was”—he frowned, as if searching for a memory—“pleasant.”

  “That sounds pretty awful.”

  “I’m being unfair to her. We had a good time while it lasted. Sex was great.” His smile was shameless. “Think on it: thirty of her, thirty of me. All of us at it every night. You singles can’t get that close to physical paradise even in an orgy.”

  “You don’t know how good I am in an orgy.” As soon as she said it, she could feel her ears burning. But it was the second time she had startled him that evening, and they were not even an hour into the date. Cressida would be proud of me.

  “Anyway,” he said, “we called time on the marriage after seven years. No hostilities; we’re still friends. Thankfully, we didn’t merge our businesses as well. Always sign a premarriage contract, no matter what you are.”

  “Yes. I found that out the hard way.”

  “You’ve been married?”

  “Yeah. It was a mistake, but you were right: I’m young. My cousin says mistakes are the only way to learn.”

  “Your cousin is right.”

  “So are you going to try and convert me tonight?”

  “Convert you?”

  “Sell the whole multiple idea. I thought you believe multiples are inevitable.”

  “I do. But I’m not an evangelical. Some of us are,” he admitted.

  “And you date, uh …”

  “Outside the faith? Of course I do. People are interesting no matter what type they are.”

  “Highers seem quite boring. If that sounds bigoted, I should explain that my ex is currently migrating inward.”

  “Not a wholly balanced opinion, then.”

  Araminta raised a glass. “Ozzie, I hope not.”

  “Going Higher is wrong; it’s a technocrat route. We’re a humanist solution to immortality and evolution.”

  “You still rely on technology, though.”

  “It’s a very small reliance. A few gaiamotes to homologize our thoughts. It’s a simple procedure.”

  “Ah, hah! You are trying to convert me.”

  He grinned. “You’re paranoid.”

  “All divorcées are. So are any of you female?”

  “No. Some multiples are multisexual, but that’s not for me. Too much like masturbation, I’d imagine.”

  “I’ve just thought of something, and you have to answer because it’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?”

  “Well, you can see that I’m not with anyone else this evening—”

  “Ah.” His smile turned devious. “So in among all the hard work the rest of mes are doing back at the macrostore, is there another of me in a different restaurant chatting to another woman? Right?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted.

  “Why would it have to be a different restaurant?” He gestured around extravagantly. “Be honest. How could you tell if one of them is me?”

  The idea made her draw a breath and glance around.

  Mr. Bovey was laughing. “But I’m not,” he assured her. “All I’m interested in tonight is you and you alone.” His gaze dropped to the front of her dress. “How could I not be?”

  “That’s”—she took another drink of the wine—“very flattering, thank you.”

  It got the evening back on more or less standard lines.

  The mighty creatures fly free amid glorious colored streamers that glow strongly against the infinite dark of the outer reaches. They loop around the great scarlet promontories that extend for light-years, curving and swooping above the mottled webbing of faint cold gas. As they fly, the notions of what was brush against their bodies to tingle their minds as if they were traveling through the memories of another entity. Such a notion is not far from the truth, especially this close to the nucleus of their universe.

  This one turns lazily along its major axis, aware of its kindred surrounding it. The flock is spread across millions of kilometers. Over a planetary diameter away, another of its own also is rolling, mountainsize elongated body throwing its vacuum wings wide, tenuous tissues of molecules as large as atmospheric clouds that shimmer delicately in the thin starlight. Somewhere out across the vast gulf it is aware of the whispers of thought arising once more from a solid world. Once more there are individual minds growing strong again, becoming attuned to the fabric of this universe. As it basks in the gentle radiance pouring out of the nebula, it wonders when the minds will have the strength truly to affect reality. Such a time, it agrees with its kindred, is sure to come. Then the flock will depart the great nebula to search out the newcomers and carry their completed lives back to the nucleus, where all life eventually culminates.

  It was a pleasurable notion that made Araminta sigh contentedly even though the creature was slipping away into the darkness where it dwelled. Misty starlight gave way to a row of flickering candles. The gossamer breath of nebula dust firmed up into strong fingers sliding along her legs; more hands began to stroke her belly, and then another pair squeezed her breasts. Sweet oil was massaged into her skin with wicked insistence. Tongues licked with intimate sensuality.

  “Time to wake up,” a voice murmured.

  On the other side of her another voice encouraged: “T
ime to indulge yourself again.”

  Amid a delicious drowsiness Araminta bent herself in the way the hands were urging. She blinked lazily, seeing the Mr. Bovey she had had dinner with standing beside the vast bed. He smiled down. As she grinned back up at him, she was impaled from behind. She gasped, startled and excited, seeing a look of rapture cross his face. A further set of hands started to explore her buttocks. She opened her mouth to receive the cock of a really young him, which was extremely bad of her.

  She did not know how many hims she was accommodating this time. She did not know if it was nearly morning or still the middle of the night. She did not care. Flesh and pleasure was her here and now, her whole universe.

  After the meal at Richard’s his capsule had brought them back to his place, a large house set above the city’s south bank with lawns that reached down to the river. It was not even midnight. Several of hims were in the lounge, a couple were cooking, and three were in the swimming pool. More were resting or sleeping upstairs, he told her.

  It was like holding court: her sitting on a broad leather sofa, hims on either side, and more sprawled on cushions at her feet as they chatted away. She took a long time to fight down her instinct that they were all separate people. He enjoyed teasing her, switching speaker midsentence, even arguing among himselfs. But the simultaneous laughter his bodies came out with was endearing. It was a wonderfully languid seduction.

  Then the one she had gone to dinner with leaned over and kissed her. By then the wine and the anticipation were making her heart pound and her skin burn.

  “You choose,” he murmured silkily.

  “Choose?”

  “How many and which ones.”

  She glanced around and saw identical expressions of delight and eagerness on each of him. For that long moment every one of him was completely indistinguishable; he could have been clones. That was when she accepted on a subconscious level that he truly was one.