The Abyss Beyond Dreams

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘How will you pay for them?’ asked Oriol, one of the Citizens’ Dawn councillors.

  ‘I propose charging one shilling for each mod-licence,’ Jerill said. ‘That should see a considerable rise in the borough’s income.’

  ‘Your lot are killing all the mods,’ Oriol shouted back. ‘There won’t be any left to buy a licence for, you cretin! You didn’t work that out before you started this, did you?’

  ‘Keep it civil, councillor, please,’ Bryan-Anthony said.

  ‘Five of my mods have been murdered by your supporters. Is that civil? I will be ruined!’

  ‘Employ a human,’ someone shouted from the gallery.

  ‘Criminal scum,’ came the answering shout.

  Bryan-Anthony started banging his gavel as the shouting and accusations in the gallery grew louder and more heated. ‘Order, please. Order!’

  Insults were followed up by mild teekay jabs. They didn’t stay mild for long. A full-scale brawl broke out. The sheriffs were called.

  It took twenty minutes, but the public gallery was cleared and the rest of the meeting was conducted without any physical observers. As no closed sessions were permitted in Varlan, the borough clerk allowed any interested party to see and hear through her senses.

  ‘Did not expect that,’ Slvasta admitted as they walked home.

  ‘We should have done,’ Bethaneve said. ‘After all, the whole point of getting rid of mods was to hit people where it hurts most: in the wallet. Start taking money away from the privileged, and they can turn just as savage as any animal that gets shoved into Philippa’s arena.’

  Her nose wrinkled up as they turned onto Onslo Road. It was a commercial street with plenty of shops and businesses. Dead mods were piled in the gutter, although the corpses were hard to see without ex-sight. None of Onslo Road’s streetlights had been lit; the only illumination came from the nebulas and the occasional upper-floor window. Mod-dwarfs made up most of the capital’s lamplighter teams, and they’d proved an easy target. Gossip ’path claimed that less than twenty per cent of the city’s lamps were currently being lit at night.

  They hurried along the pavement. The dark mounds in the gutter shifted about as if they were ripples on some murky lake, emitting slithering sounds as they sloshed against the kerb stones. To begin with, Slvasta thought the bodies weren’t quite dead, then a quick sweep with his ex-sight showed him they were all smothered by dozens of bussalores – big brutes, he perceived in dismay; he’d always assumed rodents that size were an urban myth, but then they’d enjoyed plenty to eat this last week.

  His arm tightened round Bethaneve’s shoulder, and they all hurried along.

  ‘We really will have to do something about this,’ Javier said, clamping his hand over his nose to ward off some of the stench.

  ‘Another unintended consequence,’ Bethaneve ’pathed as she held her breath. ‘It’s too expensive to pay humans to light the streetlamps and refill them again in the morning. Maybe we should start to put in some exemptions in the licensing ban.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter any more,’ Javier said. ‘The streetlight companies couldn’t afford new mods right now. Have you seen what a three-month-old mod-dwarf is going for today? That’s if you can import one. The sheriffs are talking about providing armed guards when stables bring them into the city.’

  ‘It’s starting to hit the economy, too,’ Coulan said. ‘Food prices are going up.’

  ‘I could have told you that would happen,’ Slvasta said. ‘All the Wellfield stalls have raised their prices. We had no choice; people cost more to employ.’

  ‘Wages will have to rise to take that into account,’ Bethaneve said. ‘Which, of course, they won’t. Maybe Nalani should introduce a minimum wage level?’

  ‘No,’ Slvasta said. ‘We have to be realistic. Even if we could enforce it, every shop owner and business would challenge it in the courts, which would just shut down the borough’s commercial affairs. That would cause even more hardship.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘That will have to come after, when we can enforce it planet-wide.’

  ‘Good call,’ Slvasta said. Once again he was impressed and disturbed by her devotion to the cause.

  *

  A squad of sheriffs were waiting in the Wellfield market when Slvasta and Ervin drove their carts back from Plessey station. Five of them were standing round Javier’s stall, strong shells preventing any emotional leakage.

  Slvasta saw Javier standing in front of the main display cabinets, in deep conversation with the squad’s sergeant.

  ‘Get the carts unloaded, please,’ Slvasta told Ervin and the new workers as he pulled up outside the store rooms. ‘I’ll see what’s going on.’

  Javier gave him a tight smile as he went over. ‘This is Sergeant Becker. He needs us to identify someone.’

  ‘Identify?’ Slvasta said.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, please, councillor?’ Becker said. He was in his late sixties, a rotund man with a big walrus moustache. The polite yet firm attitude told Slvasta he was a career sheriff used to dealing with human extremes.

  ‘I’ll be happy to help the sheriffs,’ Slvasta said.

  All that earned him was a quiet grunt. Three of the squad fell in behind them as they walked out of the Wellfield to a couple of cabs waiting outside.

  ‘Are we under arrest?’ Slvasta asked.

  ‘No, sir. My men are here for your protection.’

  When Slvasta checked with Javier, all the big man could do was shrug.

  Doyce Street was barely ten minutes away. Slvasta had a bad feeling as they pulled up outside an old tenement. He remembered Doyce Street, and couldn’t think why. More worrying, his ex-sight caught a glimpse of mod-bird circling high overhead. It wasn’t just the sheriffs involved in this . . . whatever this was.

  Two sheriffs stood guard outside one of the tenements. They opened the door to allow Becker through. He tried not to let any censure show through his shell, but the place was bleak. Bare brick walls whose mortar was eroding to fine sand which drifted down the walls to contaminate the floorboards. Odd stains discoloured bricks at random. Long, poorly lit corridors of doors on every floor looked like the image created by two mirrors reflecting each other, they were so monotonous. Identical doors opened into single-room lodgings; communal bathrooms at the end of each corridor were ornamented by leaking pipes and cracked basins. Cool air was heavy with the smell of sewers that drained badly. It was all a stark reminder of the life he was barely avoiding by living with his friends, of how every farthing from his wage was important.

  They followed Becker up to the third floor. Slvasta didn’t need any ex-sight to know there was death in the miserable lodgings Becker finally showed them to. An eerie sensation of gloom pervaded the walls, so much so that Slvasta wondered if there was a tortured soul clinging to the building’s structure. The drab cube of a room had paper on the walls, so ancient and damp it was barely more than a grey skin of mould. There were just two pieces of furniture: an iron-framed bed and a recently repaired bussalore-proof wooden chest full of clothes. Tall piles of extremist political pamphlets cluttered the floor, their curling pages yellow and damp.

  A body was sprawled on the bed. A lot of blood had seeped out of the multiple knife wounds to soak into the mattress and drip onto the floorboards. Two bright oil lamps had been set up by a coroner’s assistant who was waiting patiently, reading a copy of Hilltop Eye. He rolled the pamphlet up when Becker showed them in.

  Slvasta looked at the body then hurriedly looked away, fighting the urge to throw up.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Becker said in a detached voice. ‘The bussalores had chewed quite a lot of his face before we arrived. They’re getting bold right now. I guess that’s what eating well does for them.’

  ‘Crudding Uracus,’ Javier grunted.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, gentlemen, I would like a formal identification, please. You were his colleagues.’

  Slvasta clamped his teeth together and mad
e himself look at the body again. The facial features – even with half of the skin missing – were easy enough to place. And the bussalores hadn’t touched his hair. ‘Sweet Giu. It’s Bryan-Anthony.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’ Becker asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. And you, sir?’

  ‘It’s the mayor, yes,’ Javier said.

  ‘Officially confirmed.’ The coroner’s assistant scrawled something on his clipboard. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  ‘What happened?’ Javier said.

  ‘As far as I can make out, it was a teekay violation in his cranium during sleep,’ the coroner’s assistant said. ‘There’s a small but noticeable tear inside the frontal lobe, with no corresponding external trauma.’

  ‘But the stab wounds . . .’

  ‘Done immediately following death. Presumably to make a point. Whoever did this didn’t want us to write it off as a misidentified mod killing.’ He pulled back the blanket. The words UNION WAGE had been sliced into Bryan-Anthony’s chest.

  ‘Crud,’ Slvasta exclaimed.

  ‘Did anyone sense his soul?’ Javier asked.

  ‘No, he’s ascended to Giu,’ the coroner’s assistant said. ‘I couldn’t find his soul when I arrived. If they can resist the song of Giu, then the souls of murder victims tend to linger long enough to tell us who killed them. That’s why my profession has to have a very sensitive ex-sight.’

  ‘My station commander would like to meet you now,’ Becker said. ‘He wants to talk about giving all of you sheriff bodyguards.’

  ‘All of us?’ Javier asked. Who’s us?’

  ‘Democratic Unity councillors.’

  ‘I see,’ Javier said. ‘Tell him we’ll be happy to meet him later today. I must discuss this with my colleagues first.’

  Becker glanced down at the corpse, then back at Javier. ‘As you wish. Do you have any idea who might have done this?’

  ‘No. but we both know a lot of business people aren’t happy with our party right now. Do you have any leads?’

  ‘No, sir, none. We only found out about the body a couple of hours ago. The bussalores made enough noise to wake a neighbour; she used her ex-sense and found his body.’

  ‘Body temperature gives me an approximate time of death around midnight,’ the coroner’s assistant said.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Where were you at midnight, sir?’ Becker asked.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Murder is as serious as it gets, sir. It would help if we could eliminate you from our inquiries.’

  ‘I was at home. My partner Coulan will confirm that. As will Slvasta.’

  ‘Indeed. So you all live at the same address?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s very convenient. Did anyone else witness you going home?’

  ‘The neighbours, probably.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll check with them. Routine, you understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Slvasta said. ‘I understand very well.’

  *

  Bethaneve was getting ready for work when Slvasta and Javier arrived back at the Tarleton Gardens flat.

  ‘Dead?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Bryan-Anthony is dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, great Giu.’ She clung to Slvasta, struggling to keep her grief and fear under control. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘The sheriffs don’t know.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘They don’t,’ Javier said. ‘Not the ones who talked to us, anyway. They were just the locals. The Captain’s police wouldn’t include them in anything.’

  ‘You think they did it?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Slvasta’s ex-sense showed him Coulan hurrying up the stairs. When he burst into the room he was carrying three gazettes.

  ‘Bryan-Anthony—’ Javier began.

  ‘I know,’ Coulan waved the gazettes above his head. ‘They’re all leading with the story.’

  Slvasta gave Javier a concerned look. ‘That was very quick. When do they print?’

  ‘Middle of the night, so they can get them on the racks by breakfast.’

  Bethaneve had grabbed a gazette from Coulan. ‘This is awful,’ she said. ‘They’re saying it was poetic justice, that the anti-mod league mistook him for a mod-ape. What anti-mod league?’

  ‘This one says that he was skimming union funds,’ Javier said. ‘And that the union is a gangster organization that murdered him because he wasn’t paying the gang bosses their full cut. Bastards!’ He scrunched up the gazette.

  ‘The union doesn’t have any funds,’ Slvasta protested.

  ‘What did you expect?’ Coulan looked round at them. ‘Welcome to the opening salvo. You wanted the Captain’s attention, and you got it.’

  ‘They killed him!’ Bethaneve said.

  ‘And we want to overthrow them. Do you think that’s going to happen without blood being spilt? How did you think this would play out, that they’d just hand over the keys to the palace? So far it’s all gone our way. Last night it didn’t. We knew it was dangerous being a frontman in this city; that’s why we pushed Bryan-Anthony out there. And it’s going to happen to the next guy, and probably the one after. This is a war. You know that. So now it’s our turn to strike back. The pamphlets are on our side, so we get them to counter all the crud Trevene’s people are peddling to the gazettes. People aren’t stupid; they’re going to realize there was something wrong about Bryan-Anthony’s death. And next Tuesday we can use that to our advantage.’

  Slvasta nodded, though he felt bad. They had known it would be dangerous fronting Democratic Unity. But this . . . It was shocking, being reminded just how high the stakes were, how serious this was. He couldn’t even call it a game. Not any more, not now he had blood on his hands. ‘So are we still doing this?’

  ‘Fuck, yes,’ Bethaneve snapped.

  6

  The Eastern Trans-Continental Line was one of the four principal railway lines which stretched out from Varlan to cover most of the Lamaran continent. From Doncastor station in the heart of the city, it ran north for nearly a thousand miles to Adice before heading due east for another two and a half thousand miles across the continent’s central lands to Portlynn at the bottom of Nillson Sound – the vital spine of a hundred branch lines (themselves substantial) that nurtured the economy of the cities and towns that cluttered the provinces.

  It wasn’t just Lamaran’s economy that was dependent on its railways; it was such a vast continent there was no other way the human society it hosted could hold together under one governmental authority. As Slvasta’s cabal had discovered, organizing anything at a distance was tough. To date their influence didn’t extend outside the capital, and even there they had no traction in the wealthier boroughs. As a result, Varlan’s beleaguered adaptor stables had only to travel a few hundred miles along the tracks to find stables with plentiful stocks of neuts.

  Those county stables that suddenly found themselves on the receiving end of bountiful orders to resupply the city with female neuts soon realized their advantage and hiked their prices up. It was a seller’s market. Varlan’s Adaptor Guild gritted its collective teeth and paid. The guild president also insisted that the new stocks be guarded; he was very firm about that, and the Captain’s private estate owned quite a few shares in the adaptor business. So all the roads around Doncastor station goods yard were closed at six o’clock on Tuesday morning. Every sheriff from the surrounding five boroughs was on duty at the station to reinforce the barricades. More sheriffs were deployed at the station to escort the animal wagons back to their stables.

  The Adaptor Guild had arranged a train of thirty cattle trucks, each containing fifty new female neuts. It was enough stock to refill every stable in the city, and to restart mod breeding. Already the stables were being strengthened – fortified, according to the pamphlets – by surviving mod-apes and human labourers. Men with strong teekay were being employed as guards, most of them brought in from
outside Varlan to be sure they weren’t tainted by this new anti-mod fanaticism infecting the city.

  Gossip ’path began as soon as the sheriffs started to put up the barricades. By seven o’clock everyone awake in Varlan knew the train was due in today.

  Bethaneve sent a private ’path to five people. It was forwarded to eight more. Then seventeen. Forty-three . . .

  Cell members began to agitate each sympathizer they knew to go and protest. People with newfound jobs. People who were now unionized and anticipating higher wages. People who’d realized that their lives would have more opportunity without mods. And, as always, the ones spoiling for a fight, any fight. They all converged on Doncastor station as the sun rose over the city and the night’s river mist burnt away.

  Cab drivers outside the borough refused to take anyone there, no matter if they had legitimate train tickets. Cabs already in the borough headed out.

  Bethaneve took up position a quarter of a mile away from the station, sitting in a little café on Rycotte Street. Her ex-sight located Slvasta, Javier and Coulan, all of whom were closer to the station, but at the rear of the swelling crowds. She sent out quick private ’paths to each of them, checking they were in range. In turn, they were in contact with all the level two, three, four, and five cells, and confirmed their location. Those cells were the cutoffs, inactive and unseen, they’d never be asked to perform any physical action, never do anything to draw Trevene’s attention. They were the communications strata, in touch with dozens upon dozens of other cells scattered throughout the crowd, relaying orders and receiving observations. Her mind held the beautiful geometry of inter-cell communications, positioning them in her ex-sense visualization of the area.

  ‘Are we ready?’ Slvasta ’pathed at half past nine.

  Bethaneve sipped her hot chocolate and picked up a gazette, the perfect image of an innocent bystander. ‘We’re ready.’

  ‘Then let’s do this.’

  The train pulled in to the goods yard at eleven minutes past ten. It was greeted by stable owners from across the city. All of them had caged wagons to transport the female neuts, most of them hurriedly altered with planks of wood affixed to the bars, offering a flimsy level of protection and anonymity to the animals they were intended to transport. Waiting alongside the wagons were guards, tough men whose loyalty was to the shiniest coin.