The Void Trilogy 3-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “I thought we didn’t mind if they rioted in Sampalok,” Boyd said.

  “There are a lot of decent folks who live here,” Edeard said. “And this is a very big crowd. It’s the same at every bridge. I didn’t realize Buate still had this much control.”

  “We could go in with concealment,” Dinlay said. “Snatch the closest one on the list and bring him out quickly. The hundred are the key to this≔ they’re the ones stirring people up. Take them out one at a time.”

  “You might be right,” Edeard said. He wasn’t sure. The size and animosity of the response had caught him off guard. But then, Sampalok residents always had a chip on their shoulder; it wouldn’t take much to rile them.

  He went over to the watcher crew at the end of the concourse next to Trade Route Canal to find out which of the hundred were nearby. Before he’d even spoken to anyone, the sergeant at the middle bridge into High Moat was longtalking that the crowd was rampaging along the streets, breaking into shops and businesses. Looting had begun. Edeard’s farsight flicked over to the area, sensing a deluge of anger and glee. Not a good combination, he thought as his farsight found a ge-eagle overhead. The genistar’s acute sight revealed flames and smoke pouring out of five or six buildings. When it swooped lower, he could see dense congregations pressed up against commercial premises. Goods were being hauled out of shattered doors to be passed around the eager crowd. Scores of kids were running away, each clutching some piece of loot.

  The ge-eagle’s thought filled with agitation. Something was pulling at it, forcing it down toward the curving, angled rooftops of Sampalok. Its powerful wings flapped madly as its distress mounted.

  Edeard found that extremely alarming. Few people had the telekinetic strength to reach all the way up to a ge-eagle, and fewer still had the inclination to attack a defenseless creature.

  It was inordinately difficult to farsight telekinesis, but Edeard could just make out the tenuous band of force stretching up from the ground. He focused on the origin, a youth no more than fifteen who was standing in Entfall Avenue while the crowd surged around him.

  “Stop that,” Edeard commanded.

  The lad started. His telekinesis abandoned the ge-eagle, and he ran into the nearest building.

  The sound of wood splintering reverberated across the Mid Pool concourse. Edeard looked around to see that a group of people had battered down the door to a baker’s shop in Mislore Avenue. Cheers rang out as the crowd swarmed in to help themselves to fresh loaves and cakes. Sharp cries from the baker and his family vanished swiftly. Then the grocer’s next door was breached, a clothing shop, a tavern— to the accompaniment of much cheering. Then an ironmonger’s, a café, a cobbler.

  “What do we do, Waterwalker?” the senior sergeant on the concourse demanded.

  Edeard looked at him, not knowing the answer. Then there came the sound of doors being broken on Zulmal Street.

  “Lady!” He turned to the sergeant. “Drive them back; get them out of those premises.”

  The sergeant, who was from Vaji station, gave him a dubious stare. “Yes, sir.”

  A squad of over fifty constables formed, with Edeard at the head. He led them into Mislore Avenue. As soon as the crowd saw him coming, they turned and ran. A sleet of projectiles hurtled through the air at the advancing constables. Edeard batted all of them away, sending them tumbling to the ground ahead of him. When he looked down the first side alley, he could see directly into Zulmal Street; the rioting and looting were worse there. Farther up Mislore Avenue the crowd was breaking into a fresh set of shops.

  “You did this!” a woman screamed at him. She’d run out of a splintered doorway, wearing a long yellow dress that was smeared with blood. Her hand clutched at a long knife, which she waved extravagantly. “You, Waterwalker, you ruined us. Two hundred years my family has lived here; two hundred years our shop has thrived, and now we’ve lost everything. Rot in Honious, you bastard.”

  Edeard stopped advancing down Mislore Avenue. All he was accomplishing was to push people into areas that were undamaged, providing them with further targets. “Lady help me,” he muttered.

  Three more sergeants reported riots starting. Six sections of Sampalok were in chaos now.

  “Trouble here,” Dinlay’s longtalk reported. Edeard could tell his friend was trying not to panic.

  “Back to the concourse,” he told the constables he was leading.

  When he got there, he found the rioters in Zulmal Street had been emboldened by his absence. They’d spilled out into the concourse to confront the constables defending the bridge over to Bellis. Behind them, the looting was multiplying. Violence spilled onto the street as the beleaguered business owners did their best to defend their livelihoods. He saw clubs swing brutally. Third hands clashed. Then his worst fear was realized: A pistol shot rang out.

  Everyone on the concourse froze, trying to see where the shot had come from. Out of the corner of his eye Edeard saw Kanseen fall. She was in the front rank of the constables, of course; she crumpled to her knees, hands clutching her chest, breathing with difficulty.

  “Kanseen!” Macsen bellowed. He shoved his way through the silent constables to reach her side. His arms went around her.

  “All right,” she gasped. “I’m all right. Lady! I’ll never complain about these drosilk waistcoats again.” She was rubbing her chest where the bullet had struck. Macsen let out a sob of relief and kissed her.

  A furious Edeard strode out into the empty zone between the constables and the rioters. The nearest members of the mob shuffled backward.

  “Break this up!” Edeard roared. “Go back to your homes. This is over.”

  For a moment the silence held. Then someone unseen yelled: “Fuck the Waterwalker.”

  Two more pistol shots rang out. Edeard was ready for them. The bullets hung in the air a couple of feet in front of him. He was going to make a show of examining them and sneering contemptuously, slap it into the rioters that he was invincible, that their moment of rebellion was over. But it was a signal for a renewed round of jeering.

  “One of mine fired the shots,” Argian longtalked directly to Edeard.

  Edeard’s gaze flicked up to the roof of the building at the start of Zulmal Street. Argian was there, crouched down amid the profusion of flowering vines. “Who? Where?” Edeard asked.

  “Junlie. He’s already retreating.”

  The hail of missiles was starting again.

  “All right,” Edeard snarled at the rioters. “I warned you.”

  Those in the front rank faltered, their taunts and abuse fading as they saw his determination.

  Edeard’s cloak billowed wide, freeing his arms. He brought them up in a wide curving motion, his eyes closed. He concentrated hard; he’d never exerted his full telekinetic strength before so aggressively. Behind him, the surface of Mid Pool shivered. Twin plumes of water exploded high into the air. Their crests warped around to streak over the concourse, merging directly above Edeard. The constables underneath the giant airborne streams gasped, crouching fearfully.

  Edeard grinned mercilessly. He flung the water directly at the rioters as a single wave front. It hit the ground in front of Zulmal Street, throwing up a huge cloud of spume. The main bulk of water surged onward into the street, knocking them all off their feet. Third hands formed desperate body shields, warding the thundering foam away from mouths and noses. Edeard kept it coming, standing immobile as the vast torrent churned above him. Captured fil-rats squawked in terror as they were propelled overhead within the unnatural flood. The leading wave rushed fifty yards down the street-seventy—a hundred. Its force and size were reduced gradually as smaller streams poured away down the side alleys.

  The surface of Mid Pool sank down drastically as Edeard continued to siphon water out. Water along the connecting canals began to dip and race in to fill the depression.

  Edeard took a deep calming breath and slowly lowered his arms. Above him, the final swell of water splattered down into the
street.

  There was no more rioting. Water churned away down alleys and drains. Edeard looked at the hundreds of soaking bodies left clinging to the buildings and one another, flopping about like beached fish. A multitude of coughing and harsh gasps echoed along the walls of dripping vines. Sunlight shining through the placid stripes of altocumulus clouds created a strangely beautiful sheen across the glistening surfaces.

  “I told you,” Edeard announced impassively. “Go home.”

  Constables moved down Zulmal Street, helping people to their feet, making sure they were all right. Broken limbs were a common injury. Over two dozen were carried to the concourse, where doctors had been summoned. Two arrests were made when they found a couple of the people on Edeard’s hundred list. Other than that there were no recriminations. The rioters slunk away, shivering in their sodden clothes. Mislore Avenue was equally quiet.

  “What in the Lady’s name is going on?” Chief Constable Walsfol demanded with directed longtalk.

  Soft and precise though the telepathy was, Edeard could sense the man’s anger and fear. “I had to do something, sir. The rioters were destroying the whole street.”

  “You might have calmed your area, but the rest of Sampalok is falling into Ladydamned anarchy.”

  “I know,” Edeard replied miserably. His farsight could see the mobs rampaging through the streets and alleys across the rest of Sampalok. Smoke was churning into the morning air, muting the bright sunlight across the district. Instead of giving them pause for thought, his actions had acted like some kind of spur to the mobs. “I’ll go over to Galsard Street next; it’s closest. Then I’ll move on to—”

  “You will do no such thing,” Walsfol said. “We’re worried your actions are just inflaming the whole situation. You stand down, Waterwalker. I want you back in Jeavons by midday. I am ordering all constables to fall back behind the bridges.”

  “But people are being hurt,” Edeard protested.

  “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you began this action. You assured me that the disturbance would be minimal. I don’t know who it was that forced the gang leaders into Sampalok, but all that’s done is magnify this whole Ladydamned disaster.”

  It would have been worse. Every district would be burning like this by now. Probably. Dear Lady, what have I done?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Mayor feels more direct action will be required to support the citizens currently under threat.”

  “What sort of action?”

  “We’re not sure. The Upper Council has been in emergency session for the last twenty minutes; nothing has been decided.”

  Edeard gazed around the concourse. A wide flow of shallow water was rippling back out of Zulmal Street to gurgle over the rim into Mid Pool. A couple of doctors had responded to the calls of the sergeants and were moving along the row of the injured. Lady’s novices in their blue and white robes were scurrying around, assisting the doctors and comforting the dazed patients.

  A shot rang out. Every constable flinched, automatically looking toward Zulmal Street. Edeard’s farsight was unconsciously aware of his squadmates, just as Chae had taught them so long ago. Boyd’s thoughts vanished from perception.

  Somewhere close by, Kanseen screamed.

  Edeard’s farsight flashed out to where Boyd had been an instant before: one of the shops along Zulmal Street. A mind in the front room glowed with unrepentant satisfaction. There was a lifeless body in there, but farsight couldn’t help Edeard identify who it was. He could, however, pick out the kind of kit every constable wore. “Lady, no,” he whispered.

  Then he was running across the concourse and into Zulmal Street. It was a baker’s shop. The deluge of water had poured in through the broken door, creating havoc inside. Shelving and counters had flipped over as the powerful current raced through into the rear. It struck the ovens in the kitchens, releasing dangerous clouds of steam as it quenched their fires. One of the heavy cabinets in the front had toppled onto a teenage lad, pinning him to the ground. That was how Boyd found him, whimpering in agony, coughing water, blood seeping into his clothes from where broken hipbones had punctured his skin. A son of the baker or a rioter—Boyd didn’t care. The lad was suffering and needed help. Boyd helped. Using his third hand and a post of wood, he was crouched down beside the cabinet, levering it free.

  When Edeard rushed in, Mirayse was still standing over Boyd’s corpse, the pistol in her hand. Her clothes were splattered with blood, as well they might be. She’d put the pistol muzzle an inch from the back of Boyd’s head to shoot. The front of Boyd’s face had blown off, spewing gore across the cabinet and the poor lad underneath it, who was weeping hysterically.

  Mirayse giggled at the constables piling into the shop. “I got you,” she said in a peculiar singsong voice. “I got you. You killed my life. We’re equal now.”

  Dinlay lunged forward, face contorted in fury, his third hand reaching to heartsqueeze the demented woman. Edeard’s shield protected her.

  “No. She will stand trial.” His third hand plucked the pistol from her. “Take her out,” he told Urarl. He lifted the cabinet effortlessly from the lad. “And get a doctor in here.”

  Urarl and two constables took Mirayse out of the shop. As they left, Argian slipped in.

  Macsen dropped to his knees next to Boyd’s corpse. He reached out tentatively, as if his friend were merely pretending. Blood mingled with the water soaking into his uniform trousers. Kanseen was gripping a sobbing Dinlay, tears leaking silently from her eyes.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  Argian held up the pistol. “This model is the kind we favor. They would know her state of mind. It would be a simple thing to give her this and whisper where one of the Waterwalker’s squad was.”

  Macsen turned to snarl at Argian.

  “Wait,” Edeard said. He found it strange that he was so calm. Shock seemed to be slowing his thoughts, taking him a long way away. It was as though the events inside the baker’s shop were taking place on some remote stage.

  “What?” Macsen moaned. “He’s dead!”

  Edeard stood perfectly still, reaching out with his farsight. His friends faded away, as did the walls of the bakery. Droplets from the drenched walls and furniture struck the puddled floor, tinkling like bells. Grayness eclipsed the world he walked through.

  Amid this somber silent universe a single figure glimmered. Edeard smiled. “You stayed.”

  “I haven’t said goodbye,” Boyd’s soul told him. “I’d like to say goodbye. But it’s difficult, Edeard. They can’t hear me.”

  “Take whatever you need,” Edeard told him, and held his arms out. The phantom Boyd touched him.

  It was as though a spike of ice were being driven through his heart. Edeard’s mouth opened to a shocked O: His own life was flowing out through the contact. The real universe rushed back in to engulf him.

  Kanseen gasped as Boyd’s spectral shape materialized above his own corpse. Edeard staggered, forcing himself to draw down a breath. A numbing cold was spreading through him.

  “Boyd?” Dinlay said.

  “My friends.” Boyd gazed at them magnanimously.

  “Don’t go,” Kanseen said.

  “I have to. I can hear the nebulae calling. It’s quite beautiful. I only waited for Edeard to notice me.”

  “We need you, too.”

  “Dinlay, tell Saria for me. Be kind; she will need a lot of comfort.”

  “I promise.”

  “Kanseen, Macsen. Don’t hide, not like this. Life is too precious for a single moment of happiness to be lost.”

  “I …” Kanseen gave Macsen a forlorn look. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

  Boyd regarded Argian. “You, the doubter. Have faith in Edeard; he is stronger than all of us. I can see that. I can see the way he affects this universe. It flows to his will.”

  Edeard grimaced, his knees sagging. The cold was becoming unbearable.

  “I’m sorry, Edeard,” Boyd sa
id. “I weary you. I am one pattern you cannot sustain.”

  “Pattern?” Edeard gasped.

  “Why, yes. That is what this universe is, a beautiful memory. There are so many patterns folded within its structure; they stretch back forever.” He let go of Edeard’s hand and immediately began to diminish. As he did so, he gave a knowing grin. “I never realized the city was alive like this, Waterwalker. But you know, don’t you? You can feel its dreams. Get it to help you, today of all days. Stop being so timid. This needs more than water to finish it. Have courage and be bold.”

  Edeard couldn’t stop shivering. “I will,” he pledged.

  “You must think I’m so weak to leave,” Boyd said as his specter lifted toward the sky, thinning out.

  Edeard’s perception followed it. “No,” he said. Then he heard: “We have to stay; he is all we have.”

  “What?” he asked.

  The sensation of a smile emerged from Boyd’s essence. “I understand.” And he was gone, ascending to the nebulae.

  Kanseen was crying openly as they stepped back out onto Zulmal Street. “I’m sorry,” she blubbed, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes. “I’ll be all right.”

  “You do see souls,” Argian said in astonishment.

  “Yes,” Edeard said. He was incredibly tired. It would be so easy to sit down and just close his eyes, chasing a moment’s rest. After all, Walsfol had ordered him back to Jeavons. None of this was his problem anymore.

  Yeah, right.

  “What do you want to do?” Macsen asked.

  Edeard gave him a desperate look. “I don’t know.”

  “My people,” Bise’s longtalk voice called.

  As one the squad turned to face the District Master’s mansion at the heart of Sampalok. Bise stood on the roof, dressed in his flowing violet robes, the fur-lined hood thrown over his left shoulder. He held his arms out in benediction to his vast audience. “I speak to all of us within Sampalok, those whose families have been here for generations and those newly arrived, seeking safe haven from the Waterwalker’s persecution.”