The Abyss Beyond Dreams

by Peter F. Hamilton

  There was little by way of furniture. A marble and applewood desk five metres wide and three deep was situated a quarter of the way along the shining black and white tiled floor, its one ornate gilt-edged chair with its back to the huge fireplace. Two chairs for visitors were placed in front of it, velvet cushions unused – nobody sat before the Captain, not for official appointments; tradition had the chairs reserved for family only. Pedestals with busts of yet more esteemed ancestors filled the alcoves. At the far end of the room, ancient vases held impressive arrays of fresh cut flowers.

  Captain Philious sat behind the desk while two aides stood at one side, holding folders full of papers which required his signature. Both of them were young women in specialist versions of the usual smart palace staff uniform, tight fitting with a deep-cut neckline that extended down to the navel. Philious might be approaching middle age, but at seventy-seven he still enjoyed all the physical pleasure the flesh could provide. Thankfully his distinguished bloodline hadn’t let him down: the Captains remained blessed with a high resistance to illness, giving them a lifespan that usually got to see them comfortably into a second century. Unless their heirs grew impatient. That particular misfortune had befallen several ancestors during the last three thousand years. And Philious was under no illusions about his own son, Aothori.

  ‘Sir?’ his permanent secretary ’pathed from her office outside. ‘Trevene is here to see you.’

  Philious looked up from the stack of papers he’d already signed. ‘That’s a wonderful excuse to stop. Ask him to come in, please.’ He put his ornate fountain pen back into the gold holder. ‘We’ll finish these later, thank you.’

  One of the aides picked up the signed papers. Both smiled at him, and walked the length of the room to the double doors at the far end. Philious watched them go contentedly.

  Trevene came in just before they reached the doors. A man approaching a hundred and twenty, whose receding jet-black hair revealed a skull of olive skin that shone in the study’s thick sunbeams. He wore a simple grey suit, as unobtrusive as men of his profession always were. It was as if he had a natural fuzz, obscuring him from notice. Thin features were becoming creased as age dried his skin, while small silver-framed glasses perched on a long nose.

  ‘Do sit,’ Philious said, as he always did. Trevene was technically family, a second cousin – he had to be, only family could be trusted to run the Captain’s police.

  ‘Sir,’ Trevene bowed slightly as he reached the desk. As always, he stood.

  ‘So how are we doing with Jasmine Avenue?’ In three months it would be the centenary of the Jasmine Avenue rebellion, the last serious civil disturbance on Bienvenido – an unfortunate year for his grandfather, where a disappointing crop coincided with a demographic surge. It had been put down swiftly, of course. Possibly too swiftly. There were a number of deaths, and a lot more sentenced to the Pidrui mines. A year later, the martyrs’ names had been carved on the avenue’s walls. The borough council had swiftly removed them, repairing the wall, and then a year later they’d reappeared. Removed. Replaced. Removed. And so it went on for decades, despite sheriffs guarding the avenue at anniversary time. The families of the dead were quite tenacious. It had become a ritual, annoyingly keeping the cause alive.

  ‘There’s a lot of talk about commemorating the rebellion at the university, sir.’

  ‘Oh, there’s always talk there. Damn students.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Not students of good family, obviously. But provincials and middle classes may be a slight problem. They’re unusually persistent.’

  Philious raised an eyebrow. ‘The radicals are organizing?’

  A note of uncertainty coloured Trevene’s thoughts. ‘Not the radicals. This is something milder – an expanding seam of discontent, if you like. There is no defined leadership, which is peculiar. Yet my assets in the halls of residence report that some kind of loose organization is forming. Nothing formal, nothing official, there’s no name for what they are, but someone or something has stirred them up. They have developed a common purpose and support each other.’

  ‘By definition an organization has to be organized. Someone must be behind this.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But you can’t find them?’

  ‘If they exist, they are elusive.’

  Philious leaned back in his chair, far more amused than worried. ‘They’re outsmarting you? A bunch of students?’

  ‘Inquiries are being made. If there is a leader, they will be exposed and neutralized.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. What about the rest of the city?’

  ‘The Shanties are full of talk, sir, of course. But it is just another grumble to the content chorus. No one else is remotely interested.’

  ‘The Shanties,’ Philious said in disapproval. It seemed as if every problem his Captaincy faced originated in the Shanties. That same demographic quirk which had seen the sharp population rise hadn’t been matched by increased economic activity. Now every city and town on Bienvenido had Shanties on its outskirts – squalid shacks full of the jobless who couldn’t afford the rent for a tenement, or to send their children to school. The only thing they were any good at doing, it seemed, was breeding.

  Experts from the Treasury and banks constantly claimed that the economy would grow to accommodate them. Philious wasn’t so sure. It was a hundred years since they first appeared, and every time he passed a Shanty on the way out of the city, it was larger than before.

  ‘A suggestion, sir: Jasmine Avenue is old; it’s my belief that the road surface needs repairing. If the cobbles were pulled up ready to be relaid, the whole avenue would have to be closed off. And it’s a long, wide avenue. The work would likely take months.’

  Philious smiled. He did so like Trevene. The man was constantly five steps ahead of anyone else, and brutality was always a last resort. ‘Excellent. Have a word with the borough’s mayor. Let’s see; the Skylords will be here in two days, so shall we say work begins the day after, while everyone’s still too hungover to question anything?’

  ‘I’ll see to it, sir.’ Trevene adjusted his spectacles. ‘There is one other issue, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’ Philious asked wearily.

  ‘There’s been another girl, sir. It would appear the First Officer’s foibles got the better of him again.’

  ‘Oh great Giu, what happened?’

  ‘The hospital says she will live. But she wasn’t a working girl like his usuals. This one was from a middle-class family in Siegen, attending the university here. Her parents have arrived, and naturally they’re somewhat distressed. They’ve retained Howells as their lawyer.’

  ‘Oh crudding Uracus.’

  ‘Quite, sir. It may be hard to get his suit dismissed in court without an executive order. And I understand the Hilltop Eye pamphlet has acquired the story. It won’t reflect well on the Captaincy. Your reputation must remain unsullied.’

  ‘Right. Send someone from the Treasury’s legal department round to see the family. Pay them off. Whatever it costs.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And the First Officer?’

  Philious pressed his teeth together and took a breath. ‘I’ll speak with him.’

  5

  It was the day the Skylords were due to arrive – eighteen months to the day since Slvasta had arrived in Varlan. As customary, the mayor had declared it a public holiday. The city was packed with departer families, coming to witness the fabulous ceremony, which signalled the start of their friends and relatives receiving guidance to Giu.

  By midmorning the streets leading down to the city’s long waterfront were packed. Many people had eschewed their guesthouses and hotels to camp out along the quayside that ran the length of the city. The psychic sensation that filled the aether above Varlan was one of anticipation and delight.

  Slvasta walked along Walton Boulevard, the wide central thoroughfare that led all the way from Bromwell Park to the sprawling Captain’s Palace that lay at the centre of the government district – blo
ck after block dominated by grandiose ten-storey buildings. Today, the scuttling drab-suited officials that usually swarmed the roads and alleys and intersections were all absent, at home with their families or preparing for the evening’s festivities. Even the carts and carriages were fewer, though the flow of cyclists was as thick as ever.

  He reached the junction to Pointas Street, marked by the fountain statue of Captain Gootwai, and turned down it past the Ministry of Transport. Holat trees lined the road, their long red and yellow variegated leaves fluttering in the humid breeze. It was always humid in Varlan, something Slvasta still hadn’t accustomed himself to. This far south of the equator, it wasn’t anything like as hot as his home county of Cham, but the clamminess from the Colbal, which at this point was over three kilometres wide, was extraordinary, and unrelenting.

  Pointas Street ended at Okherrit Circus, and the buildings became slightly less stolid, with elaborate carvings on the stonework, and larger windows making them more open and welcoming. This was a commercial district, with fashionable stores and many family offices. Today, of course, the businesses were all shut. He began the steep walk up Longlear Road, with its notorious open stream bubbling and gurgling down a channel cut into the centre of the flagstones.

  Major Arnice was waiting for him outside the Burrington Club, his scarlet jacket and white breeches seemingly glowing in their own little haze of extra-strength sunlight. But then, Arnice was utterly faithful to the mould of a dashing officer and gentleman. He caught sight of Slvasta and raised a solemn hand in greeting. ‘There you are,’ he ’pathed.

  Arnice was one of the very few people in the city Slvasta considered a friend – a fellow sufferer of duty on the Joint Regimental Council, and only a few years older than Slvasta himself. They were the two youngest officers on the Council, with a shared contempt for its painfully bureaucratic workings.

  Slvasta greeted him with a firm handshake. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘Delighted to help, old chap.’

  They went into the club. And at once Slvasta felt a resurgence of that nagging insecurity he’d experienced since the day he arrived at Varlan. For a boy who grew up on a farm of modest means in the countryside fifteen hundred miles from the capital, a sense of social inferiority was the inevitable fallback position. It didn’t help that the dark wooden panelling of the club’s hallway, with its classic black and white marble tiled floor, reinforced his impression of the city’s casual wealth. Even his own dress uniform, a dark-blue tunic with discreet brass buttons and olive green trousers, was far less ostentatious than Arnice’s resplendent Meor Regiment regalia.

  ‘The ladies are waiting,’ Arnice said as they made their way up the stairs to the lounge restaurant. There were no mod-dwarfs in the club, which was one of the main reasons Slvasta had accepted the invitation. Here old men and women in stiff black suits with snow-white shirts served the members’ every whim with quiet efficiency. None of them would dream of taking a holiday, not even on this day.

  The club’s lounge restaurant had a wide balcony, with two dozen tables under an ancient wisteria canopy providing a grand view across the rooftops to the river Colbal itself. As such, it was proving very popular with the members. Every table was occupied.

  ‘Best view in the city,’ Arnice said from the corner of his mouth. ‘Excepting Captain Boorose’s pavilion itself, of course.’

  Slvasta followed his friend’s gaze. Down on the waterfront, the stone dome of Captain Boorose’s pavilion stood out against the more utilitarian warehouses and boatyards. It was on a raised mound just behind Chikase’s wharf, a simple building open at the front where fluted pillars supported the roof. Palace Guards in full green and blue dress uniforms stood round it, carbines held tightly across their chests. The elaborate black and gold coaches of the Captain’s family had just pulled up outside.

  Captain Philious was the first to emerge, waving at the crowds, who waved back, every hand grasping a colourful blossom. It looked as if he was swimming in a wildflower meadow. His wife followed, and they held hands and walked up the short steps to the pavilion, where a long table had been set up, allowing them to picnic while gazing out across the fast brown waters of the Colbal.

  His family followed, the smaller children giggling and waving enthusiastically back at the good-natured crowd. Then Aothori, the First Officer, climbed out of his carriage, the Captain’s eldest son, clad in the suave black of a Marine colonel. The cheering quietened. Even from the Burrington Club, Slvasta could sense the mood of the well-wishers darkening.

  ‘Giu help us when that one becomes Captain,’ Arnice muttered discreetly.

  Slvasta said nothing as he studied the young man through the public gifting. He’d heard talk about Aothori. About the extravagance and the arrogance. How people who complained about incidents involving their daughters or missing property and unpaid bills left the city unexpectedly.

  He kept a neutral smile in place as they approached the table Arnice had reserved. There were two young ladies standing waiting for them – dressed, inevitably, in the yellow and blue that Varlan’s younger aristocracy had decided was in fashion this season. He recognized one, Jaix – a nice girl in her late twenties whose features showed a strong Chinese heritage. She was the fifth daughter of a merchant family, and as such a likely fiancée for Arnice, though they had only been courting for a month. Slvasta had spent the last three weeks listening to Arnice talking endlessly about her – up until last week, when Arnice had withdrawn from social evenings in the city’s clubs and pubs and theatres. Now all Slvasta heard was how he spent every evening visiting Jaix at her day villa over in the Gonbridge district. For propriety’s sake, the unmarried daughters of good family were supposed to return home by midnight.

  Arnice introduced the other lady as Lanicia. She was tall and slender, the same age as Slvasta, with long strawberry-blonde hair arranged in elaborate curls. Her smile as he took her hand was fixed and emotionless, like all women of her class. Slvasta didn’t really care; all he could focus on was her nose, which was petite with an upturned tip. On such a narrow face, it was striking. He managed to look away before his stare became blatant.

  But then she was directing her ex-sight at his stump. It didn’t help that he pinned the tunic’s empty sleeve across his torso, drawing attention to it. He wanted a jacket tailored so the sleeve could be folded down his side, making it less obtrusive. And like so many things in Varlan, he hadn’t quite got round to doing it. Time seemed so very different here; the city’s languid pace was insidious. People spent so much of their day in the pursuit of such small goals. But they did know how to enjoy themselves, he admitted.

  Slvasta used his teekay to pull Lanicia’s chair out, as a gentleman should. Her eyes widened in appreciation.

  ‘That’s a very powerful teekay you have,’ she said as she sat down.

  Slvasta caught the glance she and Jaix exchanged. ‘It’s a compensation,’ he explained.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Lanicia asked, without any of the usual semi-embarrassment most people had.

  ‘Slvasta’s a genuine hero,’ Arnice said loudly. ‘Don’t let him tell you otherwise.’ He turned to a waiter. ‘We’ll start with champagne, thank you. The Bascullé.’

  ‘Sir,’ the waiter bowed.

  ‘It wasn’t heroic,’ Slvasta said. ‘I was caught by a nest.’

  ‘Giu, really?’ Lanicia asked, her hand going to her throat. ‘You’ve met a Faller?’

  ‘Yes. She and her mod-apes captured my squad. Then we were stuck to eggs. The Marines arrived just in time for me, but not my two friends.’

  ‘How dreadful. I don’t know what I would do if eggs Fell on Varlan. Flee, I expect.’

  ‘That’s the worst thing you can do,’ Slvasta said. ‘Arnice’s regiment is the one that will sweep the city for eggs. It’s a well-planned exercise. Unless one lands in your house, just stay put and wait for the all-clear.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t we run?’ Jaix asked.

  ‘Because th
en there’s a chance you could stray into an egg’s lure and be drawn to it.’ All he could think of was Trooper Andricea staring at the last egg they’d found, filthy from days on the sweep, determined never to succumb to the egg’s bewitchment, then swinging the axe furiously when it was her turn. So very different to these two refined daughters of the aristocracy, who probably didn’t even know how to boil water on a cooker.

  ‘But don’t you gals worry,’ Arnice said. ‘There hasn’t been a Fall on the city for seven hundred years. And there’ve only been three since the landing.’

  ‘What about a nest bringing eggs inside the city?’ Lanicia asked apprehensively.

  ‘The sheriffs remain vigilant for any signs of nest activity. There is none in Varlan, believe me.’

  Slvasta held his tongue. There were always rumours of nests established in cities and towns, preying on the poor and friendless, people that no sheriff would care about. In some cases, like Rakwesh Province, he knew it was a lot more than rumour. Reports from local regiments that crossed his desk were full of ‘disappeared’ people the sheriffs had compiled.

  ‘So do your family have an estate in Cham county?’ Jaix asked.

  ‘I gave the land up so I could serve in the regiment,’ Slvasta said. ‘I intend to spend my life fighting the Fallers.’ He hated replying in such a fashion – a vague truth that didn’t actually answer the question. It was another unwelcome trait he’d come to adopt in the city. But, as Arnice constantly reminded him, if you were going to accomplish anything in Varlan, you had to be accepted by the aristocracy. And the greatest barrier to that was being poor. As a serving officer with a position on the Joint Council, he could bypass that requirement to some degree – except probably marriage.