The Abyss Beyond Dreams

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Even with the constant downpour of murky rain, the docks carried on as usual. Commerce, the city’s great engine, was floundering in these difficult economic times, and simple downpours couldn’t be allowed to restrict the flow of commodities. So every jetty bustled with human stevedores using muscle and teekay to load and unload the cargoes from a multitude of different boats – the big three-masted ocean-going clippers docked alongside the longest jetties, sturdy river barges, fishing boats with cold-holds full of their catches, steam ferries which crossed the river several times a day laden with cargo from Willesden station. Several jetties had huge lumber rafts tied up to them after their long trip down river from the mountainous lands in the east, with steam cranes hoisting the thick trunks up onto flatbed wagons one at a time. There wasn’t a mod-ape to be seen along the whole quayside, not these days. Horses pulled heavily loaded carts along the jetties, but they were terrestrial animals, not mods.

  It was a rare thing indeed to catch sight of any mod now. The sheriffs (and the Captain’s police) still used mod-birds drifting on the thermals above Varlan to keep an eye on known and suspected recidivists; and rumour had many grand houses still employing mod-monkeys behind their thick ex-sight-proof stone walls. But the time of civic teams cleaning the streets, or building teams using them for heavy work, were now past. Even cabs used terrestrial horses, raising their prices to pay for the new and expensive animals.

  Democratic Unity had ridden the wave of popularity that had come from the employment shift, with new party chapters forming in over a dozen cities. They’d even held their first convention a month ago to formalize their policies for the forthcoming elections. As the democratically elected leader of the party, Slvasta was now a readily identifiable figure right across the city. So as they stood in the lee of a big warehouse at the end of Siebert jetty, he used a mild fuzz to deflect any ex-sight, while his wide-brimmed rain hat left his face shaded. A bulky grey greatcoat also disguised his missing arm. No one who worked on the quayside paid him a second glance as they passed by, allowing him to remain perfectly anonymous amid the busiest district in the whole of Varlan.

  The four of them watched silently as the ferry Elmar pulled up at the jetty on schedule. Slvasta’s ex-sight scanned across the throng of passengers huddled together under the awning pitched across the mid deck. It was a miserable duty, but he didn’t complain. They’d been receiving a delivery from Nigel almost every ten days since Slvasta returned from Blair farm. Either Slvasta, Bethaneve, Coulan or Javier would be on hand to collect it – not that they didn’t trust anyone else, but . . .

  Russell stood close to the back of the ferry, where the wind pushed a quantity of rain under the edge of the awning. Like most of Varlan’s citizens that day, he wore a long dark coat slicked with rain, while his teekay brushed the heaviest droplets away from his face and hair. One hand rested on the handle of a large trunk bound with brass strips and a small set of wheels on the bottom.

  ‘Get ready,’ Slvasta said. Andricea and Tovakar walked away from the warehouse in opposite directions, mingling with the traffic along the broad quayside road. Their ex-sight scanning round, alert for anything out of place, any police operation. Slvasta himself used his ex-sight to keep watch on the wet sky overhead, alert for mod-birds. Russell joined the queue of people disembarking along the gangplank, walking steadily, his trunk trundling along behind him. An unremarkable figure, indistinguishable from the other ferry commuters that damp evening. As soon as he reached the end of the jetty, he made straight for the warehouse. Slvasta and Yannrith walked back into the loading bay they were temporarily borrowing – courtesy of the stevedores’ union – where the cab was waiting. Russell wheeled the trunk round to the cab’s door. He was fuzzing it slightly, preventing any curious ex-sight from pervading the interior. Yannrith was already in the cab; he leaned out, gripping the top of the trunk. Slvasta used his teekay and his one arm to help Russell push the trunk up and inside. The thing was excessively heavy, but the three of them managed to shove it onto the floor of the cab quickly enough.

  ‘A fortnight on Friday,’ Russell said. ‘It’ll be mostly ammunition then. I’ll use the Compton’s five-thirty-five crossing.’

  ‘One of us will be here,’ Slvasta assured him. He climbed up onto the driver’s bench and ’pathed an order to the horse.

  Russell walked away into the dreary evening as the cab rolled out of the loading bay. After a hundred metres, Slvasta stopped and allowed Andricea to get into the cab with Yannrith, who was maintaining a decent fuzz. Less than a minute later, Tovakar arrived and climbed up beside Slvasta. Slvasta ordered the horse forward again, and the cab picked up speed.

  *

  Bethaneve used a mild teekay shield to keep the drizzle off as she walked into East Folwich. The inclement weather had emptied most people from Varlan’s streets, which was an unwelcome development. The city’s bustle provided useful cover when she was about some task.

  Not this evening. So, after she met Coulan, they had to go into a small café a couple of streets away from the Faller Research Institute. Standing about outside in the rain would have made them conspicuous. The café was pleasant enough inside, and the tea and cakes they ordered were excellent – even though the prices made it very clear you were in East Folwich.

  She sipped her third cup and eyed up one of the chocolate cupcakes. The fresh strawberry slices on top made it especially tempting.

  ‘You know you want to,’ Coulan taunted.

  ‘Don’t. I’m putting on enough weight as it is. All I do every day is sit. And eat. Who knew a revolution made you fat?’

  ‘Rubbish. You look just as hot now as when we met.’

  ‘So much for all of us aspiring to truth.’

  ‘A white lie isn’t a real lie.’

  ‘So I am fat?’

  ‘Stop it. You always were the smart one. If you don’t have that cupcake, I’m going to.’ He reached out.

  ‘Get your hands off!’ Her smirk faded as the mod-bird caught sight of the carriage. ‘Here it comes,’ she warned him.

  The low clouds and patch mist provided good cover for the mod-bird. It flew high above East Folwich, slipping quickly from one patch to another. In between, its sharp eyes scanned the wet streets and rooftops, providing an intermittent – but safe – view. The mod-bird belonged to a level nine cell member, and Bethaneve found it invaluable in any observation operation. She hadn’t told Slvasta about using the mod. His obsession wouldn’t allow exceptions, not even for her.

  The two of them sat at the table with the cupcake between them, perceiving the mod-bird’s sight. They looked down through the grey swirl of drizzle to see a long black carriage pulled by a terrestrial horse approaching the walled sanctuary of the Faller Research Institute. It paused while the outer doors were opened, then rolled into the tunnel which formed the mainstay of the gatehouse.

  ‘I understand they have to be super cautious about preventing Fallers from escaping,’ Bethaneve private ’pathed. ‘And I’m glad they are. But that entrance is going to be a problem if we ever want to get inside.’

  ‘Depends when you want to get inside,’ Coulan replied. ‘If you want to sneak in to scout round now, then yes. But when the revolution’s in progress, a couple of well-placed explosives will blow the hinges easily enough.’

  ‘The direct approach. I like it.’ Bethaneve allowed a sense of admiration to flutter through her shell. Even though she knew him so well, Coulan could still surprise her.

  It was risky, sending a mod-bird directly over the institute. Its staff were extremely vigilant. So Bethaneve counted off a minute to allow the carriage time to get past the inner gate and into the courtyard, then sent the mod-bird on a fast pass.

  The carriage had stopped in the centre of the bleak courtyard. Two men were helping a figure out. He had a hood over his head and his hands were cuffed. His movements were awkward, as if he was in a great deal of pain.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘See? A prisoner.’


  ‘Obvious enough.’

  ‘But why? I don’t understand why they bring them here.’ It had come to her attention a couple of months ago, when Trevene had seized more cell members. The elites had kept watch on Fifty-Eight Grosvner Place to try and see if their comrades were being taken to the Pidrui mines. There were a lot of people who’d have to be rescued from that terrible place as soon as they liberated Bienvenido. Instead the elites had reported something altogether stranger, so she mounted a discreet observation operation. Every now and then, maybe once every two or three weeks (there was no regular schedule), a fuzzed carriage with a (presumed) prisoner would travel from Fifty-Eight Grosvner Place across half the city to the Faller Research Institute, then drive back empty. ‘What’s the connection?’ she asked. ‘What does Trevene’s Uracus-damned operation need with the biggest collection of obsolete science nerds on the planet?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. But I now understand your obsession to get through the institute gates.’

  ‘It’s not an obsession. But you have to admit it’s a strange—’

  The mod-bird had finished its overflight of the courtyard and was banking to head for the nearest fog patch. Its head turned to provide a last glimpse of the institute. A man had emerged from the entrance, walking towards the prisoner.

  Bethaneve stiffened. Then she started shaking.

  ‘Bethaneve?’ Coulan asked in concern. ‘Bethaneve, what’s wrong?’

  She tightened her shell as strongly as she possibly could. Hating herself for the weakness. Knowing that, despite veiling her thoughts, her face would be creased with distress. Tears threatened to trickle down her cheeks.

  ‘Bethaneve, for Giu’s sake—’

  ‘It’s him,’ she whispered. ‘The First Officer.’ Her hands gripped the edge of the table, squeezing hard.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Ha! You know what he does to people.’

  ‘Yes, and because of that he’s up there at the top of our list along with people like Trevene, to be dealt with as soon as we overthrow the Captain. He’ll be taken care of.’

  Bethaneve didn’t like the way Coulan was looking at her, the curiosity in his gaze. Aothori’s appearance had been so unexpected, taking her by surprise. ‘But why’s he here? Why is he involved in this weird prisoner movement?’ As deflections went, it was pitiful. But Coulan at least appeared to be considering the question.

  ‘Aothori enjoys the interrogations,’ he said slowly. ‘He turns up at Fifty-Eight Grosvner Place often enough for them, we know that. So maybe the interrogations carry on at the institute.’

  ‘Why? What can they possibly do here that Trevene’s bastards can’t do in their dungeons?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not a good question to dwell on.’

  ‘Uracus!’

  ‘Where do the prisoners get taken after the institute?’ Coulan asked. ‘Is it the Pidrui mines?’

  Bethaneve made an effort to focus, to get back to normal. ‘I don’t know. We haven’t tracked them when they leave.’

  ‘Then that’s your next step. Find out where they’re sending our comrades. Once we know that, we can rescue them as soon as we’ve got rid of the Captain.’ He paused. ‘And the First Officer.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll start organizing that.’

  ‘Good.’ He pushed the chocolate cupcake across the table to her. ‘You’re their best hope, Bethaneve. Don’t let them down.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Okay then. We’d best be getting back. I want to know how the latest delivery went.’

  ‘Andricea’s with them,’ she said, not bothering to hide her disapproval. ‘I’m sure she’ll make sure everything goes off perfectly.’ She bit hard into the cupcake.

  *

  Andricea’s mod-bird circled overhead, watching the cab as Slvasta steered a convoluted route across Varlan. He had very mixed feelings about the mod-bird, but it had been with Andricea since it was born. Keeping it with her was a condition of her coming to Varlan – a very strong condition. He comforted himself with the knowledge that if anything went wrong, a mod-bird couldn’t do anything like the damage a mod-ape could wreak; in any case, it was damn useful to have an eye in the sky. The Captain’s police hadn’t intercepted a weapons shipment yet, but he knew Trevene suspected the rebel cells had access to weapons. Several activists had travelled out of the city to undergo training on the sniper rifles; they weren’t the kind of things you could just hand to people and tell them to get on with it. Nor, sadly – human nature being what it was – were they the kind of weapon everyone could keep quiet about. Loose boastful words at the end of an evening in a pub, pillow talk, whispers and hints – it all mounted up over time and became quiet rumour. Informants picked it up and reported it to their contacts.

  And Slvasta knew they had, because Trevene was picking up more and more cell members for interrogation. Bethaneve was constantly sending warnings through the network, advising comrades to get out of town. It was becoming a regular migration.

  But they fought back. Bethaneve’s contacts and lookouts kept an equally keen watch on the members of the Captain’s police. She and Coulan had gradually compiled a comprehensive list of names, starting with Trevene, and then addresses, family connections, habits, areas of expertise. Once that was established, Javier started telling subtle lies to cell members known to Trevene’s people. Bethaneve called that disinformation. Whatever name you used, their orchestrated deceit caused a great deal of confusion to the Captain’s police, and how they interpreted the surge of radical activity in the city.

  If the stakes hadn’t been so high, Slvasta would have laughed at the mirrored networks of gossips and informers working the capital’s streets.

  So despite formidable expense and effort since Democratic Unity won their seats in Nalani, the Captain’s police still hadn’t intercepted a weapons shipment, nor discovered a cache. And Slvasta was determined that record should remain intact. What Trevene’s reaction would be if a cache was found made for uncomfortable thinking.

  He took a careful ninety minutes winding along Varlan’s boulevards and avenues and narrow back roads until they reached the junction into Prout Road in the Winchester district on the western side of town. It was a respectable enough region, with long rows of terraced houses long since converted into multiple lodgings. But there were still individual townhouses and parks, and light industry which didn’t belch out pollution into the culverted rivers that ran through it.

  ‘Taxing the poor,’ Slvasta ’pathed to the partially concealed man standing on the kerbside by the junction.

  ‘Pays for the rich,’ the man ’pathed back.

  ‘Is it clear?’

  ‘Yes. Nobody we don’t know visiting, nobody shown an interest for two days. No mods close. Go on in.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Slvasta used his ex-sight to guide the cab along the uneven cobbles of Prout Road. With the rainclouds remaining stubbornly overhead, there was no nebula light shining on the city tonight, and Prout Road’s streetlights hadn’t been lit for over a year, leaving the road in the pitch dark. The cab rolled up to the broad wooden doors of an old leatherworks yard, and a couple of level seven cell members opened them.

  The factory was over three hundred years old, currently awaiting redevelopment. Its owners had moved the vats and rollers and cutting tables out to new premises three streets away when the cracks and bulges in the dark brick walls had become just too alarming to ignore. In the meantime squatters had moved in. To begin with it was families who wanted out of the Shanties, but couldn’t afford even the smallest rent, the jobless and the terminally unemployable. Over the last year, those first-generation residents had moved out as job opportunities opened wide across the city, only for their rooms to be taken over by those with drink or narnik problems, people whose mental health had deteriorated. People who didn’t care who came and went in the night.

  Weak yellow light flickered in a few of the big windows looming
over the courtyard. The door closed behind the cab, and the cell members increased their fuzz, obscuring the whole courtyard from psychic perception. Up on the driver’s bench, Slvasta increased his own fuzz so they wouldn’t realize who he was.

  It was a smooth operation. Tovakar and Yannrith carried the trunk with two cell members; Andricea walked behind, gifting her sight to Slvasta, who stayed in the cab. They went down into the factory’s vaulted cellars. The bricks were crumbling here, and there had been several cave-ins. The cell members led them to a wide fissure with a steep ramp of rubble on the other side, leading down.

  Andricea’s ex-sight probed round the cavern behind the opening. The stone walls here were ancient, slicked with algae along the edge of each big block. It had archways along one wall, which were all blocked off. ‘What is this place?’ she asked.

  ‘Whatever the factory was built on top of,’ the first cell member said. ‘There have been buildings here for two thousand years.’

  The stones in one of the archways had shifted, leaving a gap they could just push the trunk through. On the other side were crude stairs leading down a circular shaft cut into naked rock. By the time Andricea reached the bottom there was so much rock and stone between them that her gifting had become very tenuous; Slvasta could barely make out anything. The little party seemed to be walking through another series of vaults. Empty crates and barrels were strewn across the floor, their rotten wood crumbling apart. A thick layer of gritty dust covered everything, but the air was perfectly dry.

  Andricea had to use a lot of teekay to keep the dust out of her nose and mouth. The trunk was lowered to the ground, and Yannrith finally stopped fuzzing it. They all used their ex-sight to perceive the contents. There were twenty snub-nosed carbines inside, with three spare magazines each, everything wrapped in oiled cloth.