The Abyss Beyond Dreams

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Her elites brought him in almost an hour after they’d blown the gates open. A figure with a hood over his head, hands cuffed behind his back, moving with difficulty. The beating they’d given him hadn’t broken anything too important, although his fancy, expensive clothes were grubby and torn, bloodied in several places.

  They positioned him carefully in front of the open gate. His shaking body became still then as he guessed where he was.

  Bethaneve’s teekay removed the hood from his head. Aothori blinked, and glanced round. His jaws were clenched, muscle cords standing proud as the collar of braided etor vine assaulted his throat. But even now, here on the edge of the pit, that terrible arrogance was undiminished.

  ‘I know you,’ he ’pathed.

  And for the first time she didn’t tremble at the sight of him. ‘Good. I wondered if you would. There have been so many like me, haven’t there?’

  ‘Oh yes, now I remember: the silver man’s present. He chose well, as I recall.’

  ‘I hated the doctors and nurses who treated me afterwards. They didn’t deserve that hatred. They were good people. It took me a long time to realize that, to accept there were still good people in this world. And now I’ve gathered them to me. Enough to overwhelm and obliterate you and everything you have.’

  ‘Self-justification, the refuge of the weak. And I know how weak you truly are. I have seen everything you are, I tasted your every precious thought. It was pitiful, as all your kind are.’

  ‘And yet here we are.’

  ‘Because you copy me. Because you admire my power, my strength. You worship me now, as you did before. And secretly you know that to replace me, you must first become me. Will you ever admit that to yourself, do you think? Or will the knowledge break you?’

  ‘Mad to the very end,’ Bethaneve said ruefully. She put her hand between his shoulder blades – and pushed hard.

  *

  The splendid ge-eagle drifted on a thermal high above Varlan, soaring above the disturbed flocks of native birds, unseen by the mod-birds that darted about so frantically. It looked down on the wide pleasant boulevards in the middle of the city, which were now filled with running crowds. Fires began in many boroughs, sending long columns of dirty smoke streaming into the clear bright air. The ge-eagle flicked its powerful wings, curving effortlessly round them. Shouts of fury and screams of terror mingled into a single haze of sound that smothered the city buildings like an invisible fog. Its monotony was broken by sharp bursts of gunfire. They went on all day, then further, long into the night. Darkness didn’t quench the screams, either.

  *

  For two days Slvasta was on the front line, protected by his stalwarts Yannrith, Andricea and Tovakar as he led charges against government buildings and other enclaves of resistance. The sight of him was gifted continuously: dirty, tired, showing sympathy to all those who had suffered in the violence, helping wounded onto cabs heading for hospitals. Wherever resistance flared from remnants of regiment officers and their remaining squads, he was there, fighting for his side, for justice, for change. He was the face of revolution, the inspiration for righteousness. Towards the end, if he simply turned up at a barricade or a building siege, the opposition gave up and surrendered. He made a big point of treating the defeated with dignity, preventing any retaliation or dirty street justice. You didn’t need a gifting to know where he was; you just had to listen for the cheering.

  He was only granted privacy on the morning of the third day because everyone thought he was finally resting from his heroism. In reality Yannrith and Andricea had shoved him into a fuzzed cab driven by Tovakar. He watched the city roll past through a small gap in the blinds that’d been drawn against curious eyes. The darkness inside the cab was a huge invitation to sleep. It had been so long since he’d even had a rest; he was filthy, aching in every bone, and exhausted.

  Outside, people shuffled through the morning river mist with dazed expressions. He was surprised by how many windows had been smashed here, well away from the centre of the city where the majority of the fighting had occurred. Some of the furtive figures carried bulky boxes or sacks with them. Looters, he supposed. Bethaneve had been getting a lot of reports of that. It was ironic, in all their plans to overturn the civic and national authority with their revolution, they’d never thought about the consequences such lawlessness would bring.

  There were also families outside, parents shepherding children along, surrounding them with their strongest shells, hurrying in search of . . . Slvasta wasn’t sure what, but they all moved with purpose. The families were nearly always well dressed, the faces of the children fearful and tear streaked, parents grim and apprehensive. He would have stopped and asked where they were going – if only he had the energy.

  The cab drove into East Folwich, a district which seemed to have escaped the worst of the revolution. Here there was no broken glass, nor smoke rising from firebombed buildings. No blood staining the cobbles. All that marred these charming suburban streets were the hastily boarded-up windows and locked doors.

  Slvasta stared curiously at the shattered remains of the sturdy doors belonging to the Faller Research Institute. He couldn’t remember them plotting any kind of action here – but Bethaneve had insisted he come.

  The courtyard’s tall walls helped ward off the low sunlight, allowing the cool grey mist to linger. It eddied slowly around the two parked cabs and a wagon. His curiosity grew when he saw men unloading barrels of yalseed oil from the back.

  Then he didn’t care any more, because Bethaneve came out of the institute’s entrance. They embraced in the clammy mist, desperately checking each other over to make sure they were both intact, that they hadn’t lied when they kept breezily assuring the other: ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ all through the revolution.

  She rested her forehead on his, fingers tracing his features for still more reassurance. ‘We did it,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve beaten them.’

  ‘We did,’ he whispered back. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It was you. I just helped.’

  They kissed again.

  Finally he leaned back from her, but still smiled. ‘Why did you bring me here? You said it was important.’

  ‘It is,’ she said, her voice suddenly unsteady. ‘We’ve won, you know that: Coulan at the palace, you with the government offices, Javier with the merchants and companies. The hold-outs can’t last much longer. The government is gone. You understand that, don’t you, my love?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Good. And we were right to topple it. I want you to be certain of this when you sit in the new congress. It’s important, because that congress will shape our lives, it will determine how our children will be free of suffering and poverty, that there will be justice on our world.’

  ‘I know all this,’ he said.

  ‘There is always a danger, because you are a good man, that you will be magnanimous in victory. That cannot happen.’

  The joy he’d felt at seeing her was starting to fade; the weariness eclipsed everything. ‘I don’t understand. The congress starts in a few hours. I’m not going to waver. All I need right now is some rest. Sorry if that sounds selfish, but I’m so tired, Bethaneve.’

  ‘I know. But first you must come with me.’

  She led him through the institute, down several flights of stairs, then into the cellars. Like every building in Varlan, they were extensive, and old. As the walls of the passage changed from brick to bare rock, a small bad part of his mind was glad Tovakar and Andricea were accompanying him; that they were all armed with the formidable carbines Nigel had supplied.

  ‘Did you ever wonder what happened to all those people Trevene snatched?’ Bethaneve asked. ‘Our comrades?’

  They passed a group of men who’d been unloading the oil barrels. Slvasta frowned at them – they all looked scared. ‘They’re sent to the Pidrui mines,’ he said. ‘It was you who told me. That’s one of the first things we’re going to do: set them all free.’

&
nbsp; ‘Most would have gone there, yes. But some, the special ones, the ones Aothori took an interest in, they’re not there, Slvasta. We can’t rescue them.’

  ‘Then what . . . ?’

  They reached the end of the passage. There was a single thick iron door set in the rock, secured by several heavy Ysdom locks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But you have to see this before you hold the congress. You must never forget the evil we overthrew.’

  Slvasta gave her outstretched hand a worried glance. But he took it and let himself be led through the door.

  It stank inside. The room was a simple oblong cut into the rock, with iron rails along the middle, guarding the edge of the pit. In the middle of the rails was a gate. Two comrades stood beside it, holding their carbines ready, the safety catches off.

  ‘This is what they did to us,’ Bethaneve said.

  Slvasta inched towards the pit, where the awful stench was even stronger. Bethaneve handed him a bright lamp, which he held out over the dark chasm. Shadows shrank down the walls of the pit, as if they were a liquid draining away. Something moved at the bottom. A face looking up.

  Slvasta screamed, and stumbled back. The lamp fell from numb fingers, tumbling down into the pit. He hit the rock wall beside the door and crumpled to the floor. ‘No! NO!’ Tears flooded his eyes as his whole body shook.

  ‘The professor in charge told me the institute doesn’t just keep eggs for research; they’ve been keeping Fallers here from the very beginning as well,’ Bethaneve said quietly.

  Slvasta gave her an uncomprehending stare.

  ‘When one dies, or they cut it open to examine it in their laboratory, the Marines bring them another,’ she continued. ‘They don’t bother much with the eggs, the professor says, because they don’t have the instruments to analyse them like the first scientists from Captain Cornelius’s ship did.’

  ‘It’s him,’ Slvasta croaked. His thoughts were threatening to burn his brain apart, they hurt so much. He wanted to shrink to a foetal ball, away from the universe, to spin a shell so strong that nothing could ever get to him. To seal himself off from knowing.

  ‘The First Officer, yes,’ Bethaneve said. ‘He brought his victims here. He enjoyed watching, Slvasta, when they were cast into the pit. That’s what we have destroyed today, the pinnacle of corruption, of power abused. We were right, Slvasta. Everything we have done, the deaths, the damage. We had to do it. Do you understand now?’

  ‘Its him,’ Slvasta yelled at her. ‘Him!’

  ‘Slvasta?’ There was worry in Bethaneve’s thoughts now. ‘It’s all right, my love. We’re going to finish this. The oil will burn—’

  ‘Shut the crud up,’ Slvasta bellowed. He rose to his feet. His teekay snatched one of the lamps from its bracket on the wall, bending the iron rods holding it. Tovakar and Andricea exchanged a concerned look. ‘The Marines who saved me fired one shot,’ Slvasta laughed, spraying out spittle. ‘I only heard one shot. Why did I never figure out what that meant? It’s so crudding obvious. Isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘Slvasta?’ Bethaneve moaned in dismay. ‘Please.’

  He gave her a wild grin, and his teekay sent the lamp arching through the air. It descended halfway down the pit before he halted it, holding it steady in mid-air. Then he looked down, properly this time.

  The floor of the pit was covered in bones – human bones – some of which still had flesh sticking to them. Skulls lay everywhere, smashed open. There were scraps of fabric amid the festering layer of slime which covered the rock floor – clothes from the victims. Boots. Shoes. Buttons and buckles glinted weakly in the lamplight. And there in the middle of it all was the Faller. Looking up, his face displaying that puzzled entreating expression that Slvasta remembered so perfectly.

  ‘Ingmar,’ Slvasta whimpered.

  ‘Slvasta. Slvasta, help me,’ the Faller pleaded.

  ‘You’re not him, not Ingmar. He has Fallen.’

  ‘But I am Ingmar. It’s me, Slvasta. The Marines cut me free as they did you. Look, I drop my shell to you, my friend. These are my thoughts, aren’t they? Know me. Sense me. This is my essence, my soul. You know that’s true. Know I am genuine. You’re my friend, Slvasta. My friend!’

  Slvasta sobbed as he brought his carbine round.

  ‘No! I have been down here since we were captured by Quanda. In the dark. Alone. They were terrible to me, Slvasta. They torture me eternally. My soul is broken from what they have done to me. Please, Slvasta, please.’

  ‘You know me, Faller?’ Slvasta growled at his tormentor. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course I do. We grew up together, Slvasta. Do you remember the time when—’

  ‘I remember my life, for I lived it. So tell me this. Do you remember me saying We will burn you from our world? Ha! Do you, Faller? Do you remember?’

  ‘Slvasta, please.’

  ‘You should do. You were there. It is for you I said it. And in your memory I will honour it. Now and forever!’ He pulled the carbine’s trigger and held it down until the nonhuman creature at the bottom of the pit was ripped apart.

  *

  Cell members had been appointed to supervise each borough council after the Captain and his authority had been overthrown. The sitting elected representatives were dismissed, and fresh open elections promised to the residents. That order was irrelevant in many boroughs; the Citizens’ Dawn councillors were either dead or had fled with their families.

  The National Council amphitheatre was still cluttered with broken desks from when the mob had broken in. Files and folders had been flung about and burst, snowing paper everywhere. Iron bars had hacked big chunks out of the First Speaker’s onyx throne, cracking it. Vigorous teekay had pulled statues from every alcove, sending them toppling to the ground, where they smashed apart, inflicting more damage on the chamber’s classical decor. The plaster was pocked with an awful number of bullet holes. Paintings had been ripped off the walls to be burnt in a bonfire outside, while slogans were daubed in the empty spaces.

  Sitting on a small wooden stool beside the ruined throne, with Yannrith ever watchful behind him, Slvasta couldn’t help but be disappointed. Behind Yannrith was Tovakar, a necessary concession; a democratic leader shouldn’t need a bodyguard, but there were a lot of people and organizations out there still loyal to the Captain. He’d wanted the first session of the People’s Interim Congress to appear a little more dignified, proving its authority with formality and gravity. Grandeur wasn’t completely essential, but the damage to the chamber looked as if it had been wrought by teenagers wrecked on narnik. However, the comrades directing the First Night Square mob had achieved their objectives. The National Council was no more; over half of the councillors were now locked up in the cellars of the Merrowdin Street sheriff ’s station. Some representatives had fled, others had been caught trying to escape and faced immediate mob judgement. Several were still hanging like grisly fruit from the riccalon trees around the square.

  Coulan had commanded the mob assigned to storm the Captain’s Palace, an operation which had gone remarkably smoothly – mainly down to the perfectly placed snipers from his militia cutting down the guard. Cell members and Coulan’s militia were now going through every room, clearing them of furniture and clothes and trinkets and art and fine wines, distributing the booty to a throng of cheering supporters along Walton Boulevard. That was simple cheap popularity politics. Far more important was Coulan taking the Captain and his family into custody (apart from Dionene, his youngest daughter, who’d eluded them), which gave Slvasta tremendous leverage over the government institutions who were still holding out. As the palace had suffered little damage, they could have held the parliament in one of the huge intact staterooms there. Javier had advised against that. ‘We have to make a clean break with the old regime; don’t be tainted by association.’ Slvasta agreed totally. His hand still trembled from the memory of the Research Institute. He wanted the whole monstrosity blown up, the gardens turned into a public park, eradicating th
e last vestige and symbolism of the Captain’s power. But that might have to wait a while. For now, they held the city, but not the rest of Bienvenido.

  Messengers had been sent to every city and province, explaining that the People’s Interim Congress was the new government, so they had a choice: join us, agree to democracy, or we will enforce the change. It wouldn’t come today or tomorrow, but in a few months or a year, the old mayors and governors would awake to find revolutionary forces besieging their city.

  In the meantime, despite Bethaneve’s claim that they’d won, there were still pockets of resistance to be quashed in Varlan. It was Tovakar who had led a group of comrades against Fifty-Eight Grosvner Place, which was still burning. Trevene’s decomposing remains hung from one of the lamp posts just down the street from his broken headquarters. Over two dozen prisoners had been freed from its dungeons before it was firebombed, all of them associated with Democratic Unity or the cells. They at least would never know the Pidrui mines, or the horror of the Research Institute. Their erstwhile jailers and interrogators were either shot during the incursion or left dangling close to their boss an hour later.

  Despite that, many government offices refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the People’s Interim Congress. Their staff had ignored orders to report to work in departments where cell members had already installed themselves as managers. Comrades were arranging for each and every one of them to be visited at home by activists to explain why they should.

  There were also nine city boroughs (the wealthiest nine) which repudiated Slvasta’s claim to government, along with all the outlying National Council constituencies.