The Abyss Beyond Dreams

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Slvasta’s travelling companion took a seat further down the carriage. The meeting had been set up by a cell in the Hicombe Shanty. A cautious introduction in the middle of Lloyd Park, with Javier and Coulan keeping a careful watch for any signs of the Captain’s police lurking in the bushes. The sky overhead appeared to be free of mod-birds, and no one suspicious was strolling across the rolling expanse of grass. And as agreed, the man had been waiting by the big stone and crystal fountain at the centre of the park, wearing a dark blue hat.

  He called himself Russell, and Slvasta couldn’t tell if that was true or not. His shell was impeccably maintained. He was middle aged, wearing a simple white shirt, dark blue trousers and sturdy boots. ‘Captain Slvasta, a pleasure,’ Russell said.

  ‘Just Slvasta, now. I resigned from my regiment some time ago now.’

  ‘Of course. But I am glad it’s you who’s here.’

  ‘You told a colleague you might be able to help Democratic Unity.’

  Russell smiled gently. ‘We both know that’s not true, but I understand your caution. So, yes, I know a man who can greatly assist your cause.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The way every politician craves. He would like to donate. The kind of donation that will ultimately guarantee your success.’

  ‘I see,’ Slvasta said. ‘And what is it this benefactor wants in return? Democratic Unity is not rich.’

  ‘I have no idea what his price is.’

  ‘Then what— ?’

  ‘This meeting is simply to assess your level of integrity.’

  Slvasta’s face hardened to match his shell. ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘He would like to meet you. That way you can have the opportunity to appraise him. He hopes, that way a deal can be agreed.’

  *

  So, a week later, here he was on the express, travelling to an unknown destination to see someone who may or may not have guns for sale. It was about as unlikely as you could get. Not to mention potentially lethal. If this was a set-up by the Captain’s police, he wouldn’t be coming back.

  Though, if it was a set-up, he had to admit it was flawless. Everyone at the station had seen him get on the train by his own free will, no coercion involved. He wasn’t yet Democratic Unity’s publicly acknowledged leader, not a true public figure. So who would ever ask what happened to good old Captain Slvasta if he didn’t come back? And if you were stupid enough to persist in asking, you’d most likely experience a similar journey. All he wondered about now was if the Captain’s police were really that good.

  It was half past ten at night when the express finally drew in to the main station at Dios. There were eight platforms sheltering under four long arched roofs whose glass was blackened by soot from the big engines. Russell brushed against him on the platform, and Slvasta was left holding a new ticket. A local train for Erond at the end of a branch line, two hundred and fifty miles east. It departed in twelve minutes from platform seven.

  Slvasta hurried over to platform seven, where the slightly smaller engine was puffing away enthusiastically. Behind him the express let out a sharp whistle blast as it rolled out of the station on its way south. As far as he could tell, he and Russell were the only passengers from the express to board the Erond train. Once again, they sat in the same carriage but not next to each other.

  Erond was the end of the line – a simple station with two platforms but no grand overhead roof. A considerable quantity of cold rain washed across Slvasta as he stepped out at two thirty in the morning. He hurried for the cover of the wooden canopy that arched out of the main ticket office like a stumpy wing. A lone platform agent inspector stood by the gate, stamping his feet against the chill as he examined the tickets of the disembarking passengers. Outside, sparse oil lamps on wall brackets emitted a weak yellow glow, revealing a bleak street of terraced houses and small shops. A couple of listless mod-monkeys moved along slowly, clearing rubbish from the gutters. Slvasta stared at them almost in shock; he hadn’t seen a team of mods performing civic work for weeks now. No one here had heard of the anti-mod campaign that thrived in the capital. Erond was a market town, but not especially wealthy. Here people needed all the help they could get. He suspected that it would be a lot harder to wean them off mods, even though the countryside population ought to be natural Democratic Unity voters.

  If we overthrow the Captain and the National Council, how many of the counties will recognize a new government? he wondered. But they can’t afford to ignore us. Defending Bienvenido from Faller eggs has to be a joint venture, with everyone cooperating.

  Russell walked past. ‘Follow me,’ he ’pathed.

  The street led into the town’s waterfront district, which had been colonized by warehouses and large commercial buildings. Walking along the gloomy streets between the high uncompromising brick walls, trying not to lose his mysterious guide, Slvasta hadn’t felt so isolated and lonely since the day he arrived in Varlan, full of resentment and completely alone. At least, back then, he knew where he was going; here there could be anything waiting for him in the bleak warren of lanes and alleys. He wasn’t sure if he was frightened or excited by that.

  When he arrived at the docks, the cold rain had wormed its way under his jacket, turning his skin numb. Slipways alternated with wharfs, almost half of which had cargo boats birthed for the night, dark and silent except for one.

  Russell had stopped at the gangplank of the only boat that had its running lamps lit, a longbarge that was fully laden judging by how low it was in the water. Slvasta could hear the engine chugging quietly below decks; a tall iron stack puffed out thin streamers of smoke.

  Then he sensed someone emerging from an alley between two warehouses behind him and turned to see a dark figure in a rain hat standing in the meagre glimmer of a street lamp. Slvasta was sure he hadn’t been on the train. Russell gave the watcher a silent wave of acknowledgement. ‘We haven’t been followed. You can come on board.’

  ‘More travelling?’ Slvasta asked with a groan.

  ‘If you want to meet him, yes. Not much further.’

  Slvasta shrugged; he’d come this far. He stepped onto the gangplank, impressed by the way Russell’s boss had arranged the trip and watched for any signs of pursuit. Clearly, the network of cells they’d painstakingly built up in Varlan wasn’t the only subversive organization on Bienvenido. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, or not.

  *

  Slvasta didn’t know how long he slept. When he woke it was raining again, the big drops drumming loudly on the taut canvas tarpaulins covering the longbarge’s holds. His cot was in a tiny alcove in the cabin, barely more than a shelf, a curtain closing it off. He pulled it aside and swung out. A weak grey daylight shone through small portholes just below the roof. His clothes were stretched across a stool in front of the galley’s small iron stove. The heat from the coals glowing in the grate had dried them out overnight, and he put them on, allowing his ex-sight to sweep the longbarge.

  Their cargo was grain of some sort, big nut-like kernels filling each of the five holds. Behind the cabin, two mod-monkeys worked in the engine compartment, methodically shovelling a mix of coal and wood into the furnace while long brass pistons pumped away on either side of them. The compartment’s upper hatch was closed against the rain, and the only light came from the flames. Neither of the mod-monkeys appeared bothered by their harsh environment.

  Slvasta went up the narrow stairs at the end of the cabin, which took him to the tiny wheelhouse. The bargemaster was at the wheel. Slvasta had met him last night when he came aboard – a tall fellow with greying hair and thick mutton-chop sideburns, a black Dutch cap seemingly part of his head. He nodded at Slvasta but said nothing.

  ‘Morning,’ Russell said. He was standing beside the bargemaster, staring through the narrow windows. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, scudding along quickly in the strong wind. Meadows and forests on both sides of the broad river were glistening under the deluge.

  ‘Where are we?�
�� Slvasta asked.

  ‘Coming up on Brewsterville,’ Russell answered him. Which, of course, told Slvasta nothing.

  ‘Am I allowed to know where we’re going?’ he asked with a heavy irony.

  Russell grinned broadly. ‘Adeone. It’s a town at the western end of the Algory mountains. Nice place.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  *

  There were plenty of towns along the river, all of them with docks and warehouses. In this part of the world, the river was an important trade route, used by a great many boats; he saw coal barges, grain barges, ordinary cargo boats, some private yachts, even trains of log rafts being steered carefully downstream.

  Slvasta helped the crew operate the locks they came to, which were built along the side of great stone weirs where river water churned and foamed vigorously as it dropped several metres. He marvelled at the massive wooden doors as he pushed hard at the long oak balance beam to open one, the size and ease of the operation putting into perspective the engineering and labour that had gone into taming the river over the centuries. With the economics texts fresh in his mind, he could comprehend the effort that generations had expended to develop this quiet corner of Bienvenido into a steady agricultural and mining community. Once again it forced him to confront how big the world was, how difficult to govern. The Captain’s rule might not be enlightened, but it did work. Now here he was, coming along to change an evolutionary development, motivated by little more than exasperation. If we succeed, so much will change, and no doubt there are going to be deaths, too. Do I have the right to instigate such an upheaval? Perhaps it is just fear that makes me think violence is the only way to transform the system. Violence: the brutish solution of the ignorant who know they could never get enough people to vote for them.

  Bethaneve certainly thought theirs was the only way. The right way. She never had these moments of self-doubt the way he did; because of her job at the centre of government, she could see how the Captain and his allies had corrupted the system so nothing could change. It was the chaos and suffering which would surely swarm the capital that Slvasta dreaded most. When he examined his life, there were times when he simply didn’t understand how he had come to be in such a position.

  *

  Adeone was a pleasant enough market town, grown up around the original stony river crossing where the pioneers forded the water to reach the Pirit Wolds. It was a natural point for the farmers who’d arrived back during Arnithan’s captaincy to cultivate the rich loamy soil around the edges of the wolds, to bring their produce to the boats. Then later when modest malachite deposits had been found in the Algory mountains to the east, the wharfs had been extended to carry the mineral downstream to the larger towns and cities where smelters awaited.

  As the longbarge tied up at a wharf, Slvasta admired the impressive stone bridge that had long since replaced the ford. Warehouses formed a near-solid cliff behind the waterfront. The brick and timber houses that spread out beyond were pleasant, though hardly extravagant. Adeone was just another provincial copy of Dios. Smaller and shabbier, but with a sense of purpose, its citizens knowing they were secure in their position, that nothing was going to upset their way of life.

  Two horses were waiting for them in the stables of the local coaching inn. Slvasta mounted a terrestrial chestnut mare while Russell claimed a stolid mod-horse with a bristly grey hide which could take his weight easily.

  As they rode out of Adeone he realized there were none of the usual Shanties cluttering its outskirts, which surprised him; rural areas were notoriously short of jobs. Here, the road was lined by terrestrial cedars, the tallest of which were easily two hundred years old. Their unique flattened branches arched out high above Slvasta’s head to merge across the track of muddy stone, filling the air with their distinctive sharp scent after the rain. Where some of the ancient titans had fallen, new trees had already been planted; the local council was clearly quite efficient, taking its obligations seriously.

  It was late afternoon when they began their trek. Behind him, the sinking sun produced red-gold rays that cut down at a low angle past the thick tree trunks. Slvasta had to ride to the side of the road, there were so many carts using it. He enjoyed the bustle and confidence he sensed radiating out from people. The whole area put him in mind of his early childhood, when the world was a pleasant and happy place.

  The sun was setting when they came to a major junction. Two big greenswards split off north and south – one carrying on with the line of cedars, the other marked by the drooping pink leaves of thrasta trees. There were also two new roads, their trees barely three metres high. Russell set off down one defined by blue-grey follrux saplings whose prickly leaves were already folding up as the sunlight shrank away. The land was wilder here, with deeper valleys; the farms were smaller, and the forests larger. Directly ahead, he could just see the snow-tipped crowns of the Algory mountain range catching the last of the sun, like glowing beacon fires against the darkening sky.

  Although they were now clearly at the frontier of civilization, the road they travelled was extremely well used, with fresh stone laid to keep the mud at bay. Russell turned off down a track unmarked by trees, winding through a wide gash in a forest. Slvasta saw an ageing sign nailed to a tree, with vines already coiling round the edges. BLAIR FARM was carved crudely into the wood. The ground began to rise on both sides, and nasty clouds of small tatus flies emerged from the thick trees to buzz round Slvasta’s head. He extended his shell to ward them off; they clearly had a thirst for human blood.

  Finally, they rounded a curve, and a valley unfolded ahead. The land along the bottom had been cleared of trees and laid out in a chequerboard of fields. A large farm compound stood just short of the treeline, with long wooden barns in perfect rows. For an unpleasant moment, Slvasta was back on patrol approaching the Shilo compound.

  As they approached, Slvasta let his ex-sight range through the buildings. The timber barns were all new. Indeed, one of them was a timber mill, with a steam engine powering a couple of saws. Four hulking traction engines were puffing their way home from the fields they’d been ploughing, pistons clanking loudly in the still evening air. Nearly half of the barns were full of stalls or cages with a huge variety of mods, which made him even more uneasy. He was astonished by the amount of activity and the number of people out here. A couple of the barns were dormitories. One was nothing more than a coal store. Other barns housed heavy machinery, stamping out shapes of metal which were carried to long benches where dozens of mod-dwarfs sat assembling odd pieces of equipment. Furnaces burnt hotly, powering all sorts of unfamiliar devices. Then there were the long sheds at the far end of the compound, protected by the most effective fuzz he’d encountered.

  The farmhouse itself was a normal two-storey affair, with a veranda along the front and roses climbing up the gable ends. A bright light shone welcomingly out of every window. It was a lot whiter than the oil lamps he was familiar with. He tied his horse up on the rail beside the paddock. With a grin, Russell showed him through the front door. That was when Slvasta realized he’d never actually jabbed a pin into Russell’s thumb to check his blood. So much for him being the smart one, as Bethaneve claimed, but at least he had his pistol. While walking into the home of a weapons merchant. Anxiety made his stomach churn as he crossed the threshold.

  The centre of the house was a large hallway with a curving stair that led up to a long landing. By now Slvasta wasn’t at all surprised by how pleasant the interior of the farmhouse was, with plush furniture and thick carpets. The too-white lights hung from the ceiling, strange glass globes that shone with a uniform monochrome brilliance.

  Someone was coming down the stairs. A man shedding his fuzz to smile knowingly, allowing a certain degree of lofty amusement to radiate out through his shell.

  Recognition locked Slvasta’s muscles tight. ‘You!’ he grunted in shock.

  ‘Good to see you again, lieutenant,’ Nigel said.

  BOOK FIVE

&nb
sp; Those who Fall

  1

  It was two days before Kysandra’s seventeenth birthday when the thing plunged flaming through the night sky. She was sitting by her bedroom window on the top floor of the farmhouse, eyes a blotchy red from another bout of crying. The argument with her mother had been epic, even by their standards, starting that morning and carrying on all afternoon. The ancient mod-dwarfs that helped out around the farm whimpered softly and crawled under the dining-room table, folding their arms over their heads as the air filled with screams, insults, threats and denouncements, and ’path emotions saturated the aether like firework bursts.

  ‘I hate you. You’re the worst mother ever! I hope you die!’ was just a mild opening salvo.

  None of the insults made any difference, nor the pleading, nor the anguish. Sarara, her mother, was too skilled in this battlefield. Anger was answered by scorn and fury. Threats came thick and fast from both sides. More of the kitchen’s dwindling stack of crockery had been hurled. Sometimes by hand, often by a near-involuntary teekay reflex, thought becoming deed without restraint.

  By mid-afternoon the argument had become so fierce that Sarara had inevitably turned to her pipe of narnik. After that, the dispute became surreal as the drug amplified and soothed the woman’s thoughts in random surges. Sometimes she’d be sobbing, moaning, ‘sorry, sorry, sorry,’ while at other times her eyes would be focused with manic hatred and she’d hold a carving knife dangerously in her shaking hand as Kysandra unleashed another torrent of abuse.

  Exhausted and distraught as the sun dropped behind the valley where Blair Farm nestled, Kysandra had run upstairs and slammed her bedroom door shut, then pushed the old chest of drawers across it. Mother and daughter had shouted at each other through the wood for a further ten minutes before Sarara had stomped off downstairs for another pipe.