The Evolutionary Void

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘Daddy!’ they chorused delightedly. He was kissed simultaneously on both cheeks.

  ‘We’ve been very good tonight.’

  ‘We talked to so many people.’

  ‘And convinced them to vote for you.’

  ‘They all got reminded of what you did for the city.’

  ‘Even though it was so long ago.’

  ‘A debt like that can never be ignored.’

  ‘So they’ll remind all their friends.’

  ‘And their families to get out there on election day.’

  ‘And put their cross where it counts.’

  ‘Or they’ll have to answer to us.’

  Being talked at by the twins was like being deafened by birdsong. ‘Thank you both,’ he said.

  ‘So now we’ve done our duty.’

  ‘And we’d like you to set us free.’

  ‘Because there’s a super party at the Frandol Family mansion tonight.’

  ‘And we’ve found us a suitable escort.’

  They both giggled, and looked at their father pleadingly.

  ‘Uh . . .’ Edeard managed.

  ‘Utrallis.’

  ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘And tall.’

  ‘And serves in the Pholas and Zelda regiment.’

  ‘But he’s independently wealthy, too.’

  ‘Not just some minor son.’

  ‘A gentleman of honour.’

  ‘Happy to serve his city.’

  ‘All right,’ Edeard held his hands up. ‘Go on, go away, the pair of you. Have fun.’

  ‘Oh, we will.’

  Another burst of giggling assaulted Edeard’s ears as they turned away. Each girl raised a gloved hand. Two fingers beckoned imperiously. Through the melee of guests Edeard saw a young man in his militia dress uniform, all polished buttons and perfectly tailored scarlet and blue jacket. Utrallis couldn’t possibly be older than the twins, though he held his broad shoulders square, and had a strong jaw. Edeard regarded his nose charily, suspecting a distant Gilmorn heritage – he had a nasty flash-memory of Ranalee and the helpless lad in her office. Their eyes met, and the young man produced such a panicked guilty look as his cheeks flushed crimson that Edeard couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Then Utrallis was suddenly caught between the twins and hauled off.

  Jiska shook her head as she sighed. ‘And he looked so sweet. Poor thing. How is it they’re always so elated at the start of the evening then when morning comes this tragic broken husk creeps out of the ziggurat looking like they’ve managed to escape from Honious itself.’

  ‘The twins aren’t that bad,’ Edeard said mildly.

  ‘Daddy, you’ve got such a blind spot when it comes to them.’

  He grinned roguishly. ‘Because I was so tough on you.’

  Jiska raised her glass. ‘I’ll get round to Natran, don’t you worry. I suppose five years is long enough.’

  ‘No pressure. From me. Besides, it’s only two months till Marakas goes before the Lady.’

  She smiled with a kind of fond bewilderment. ‘I can’t believe he’s marrying that one. I mean . . . Heliana is nice, and shapely; but really, what else has she got? Are men genuinely that shallow?’

  ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘Poor Taralee.’

  ‘Taralee will do fine; she’s destined for great things. One day she’s going to be Grand Mistress of the Doctors’ Guild.’ He was still inordinately proud of his youngest, not yet twenty-two and already a Doctors’ Guild journeyman. She’d completely eschewed the dizzy party life which the twins had chosen so she could devote herself to medicine.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Jiska mused. ‘After the election you’ll be Chief Constable. So now Dylorn’s joined the militia you just need me or one of the twins to become a Novice and work our way up to Pythia, and you’d be king of the city.’

  Trying to visualize either of the twins in a Novice’s robing was plain impossible. ‘Not the first time someone’s accused me of that ambition,’ he said.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  He looked at his daughter, smart, elegant, courted by every eligible man in the city, completely carefree, and with such astonishing opportunities ahead of her. But above all, his greatest triumph was to make her safe, to give her that wonderful future. Yet she didn’t see that. The battles fought before her birth meant very little to all of her generation. It was a depressing thought how established he’d become, just to be taken for granted as one of Makkathran’s principal figures. No questions asked, no need to prove himself, not any more.

  ‘Long old story, ask Macsen some time.’

  ‘Oh Lady, I know he’s your oldest friend, but I really can’t take any more of those stories about the old days.’

  ‘Good old days,’ he corrected.

  ‘If you say so, Daddy.’

  It must have been something about Jiska’s scepticism or the appearance of the Skylord, but Edeard gave Macsen an unusually critical appraisal as he made his way over to his friend. The robes of office Macsen wore were fanciful, allowing thick fur-trimmed fabric to flow easily around him. It was a generous cut, perhaps designed to deflect attention from the equally generous belly Macsen had cultivated over the last couple of decades. His handsome face, too, was now a lot rounder. A fashionable short beard showed several grey strands.

  ‘Edeard!’ Macsen opened his arms wide, and hugged him enthusiastically as if they’d been parted for years. Edeard gave him a slightly stiff response – after all, they saw each other at least twice a week, most weeks for the last forty years.

  ‘Lady this wine is dross,’ Macsen complained, holding up his glass to the twilight seeping through the crescent windows.

  ‘Stop whingeing, one of my potential voters has donated it,’ Edeard replied.

  ‘In which case I’ll be honoured to quaff a few more bottles for the fine chap.’

  Lady, we even talk like the aristocrats these days. ‘Don’t bother. I don’t really care if I make Chief Constable. Face it, we’ve had our day.’

  Macsen gave him a startled look. From the corner of his eye, Edeard saw Kanseen frown; but as always her mental shield allowed no knowledge of her feelings.

  ‘Speak for yourself, country boy,’ Macsen said; he was trying for a jovial tone but couldn’t quite reach it. ‘Anyway, from what I gather, you’re well ahead of our glorious current incumbent. Makkathran needs you to take a more prominent role.’

  Edeard nearly said: Why? But managed to hold his tongue. ‘I suppose so.’

  Macsen draped his arm round Edeard’s shoulder, and drew him aside with several insincere smiles directed at the group he’d been chatting to. ‘You want us to return to the old days? After everything you did?’

  ‘No,’ Edeard began wearily.

  ‘Good, because I for one am not prepared to see everything we’ve achieved shat upon from a great height just because you’re menopausal.’

  ‘I am not . . .’ Okay, maybe he hasn’t changed that much. ‘All right. I’m a little sour myself right now, I admit that. I went to see the Mayor three days ago to press for the livestock certificate expansion.’

  ‘I heard. So he said no? You’ll be Chief Constable in under three weeks. You can apply some pressure in Grand Council, push it through yourself.’

  ‘I won’t do that, though,’ Edeard said forcefully. ‘Because Trahaval was right, wasn’t he? You must have seen it. We can’t extend the livestock certificates to sheep and pigs, for the Lady’s sake. It was an idiotic idea. Who wants that much paperwork? Don’t you remember the time we drew up the One Hundred list? We never saw daylight for weeks on end we were so busy with all those forms and reports and chits. A great bunch of extra certificates is simply pushing the job off on clerks. Our job! If rustling is to be stopped it should be by constables enforcing the law. What was I thinking?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Definitely menopausal.’

  ‘I was letting things slip, it’s complacency, and it was stupid of me. But not now, not any more.’
>
  ‘Oh Lady, so now what? You want to go back out there with a couple of regiments? Take the city’s finest and haul the provincial militia along so you can catch sheep rustlers? Is that what it’s come to?’

  ‘It hasn’t come to that. You don’t get it. We’ve been sailing along these last few years, we have no goals any more. It was never just about winning, beating Owain and Buate; it was always about what happened afterwards. Well this is afterwards, and it matters to me. It matters a lot.’

  ‘All right then.’ Macsen heaved out a big sigh. ‘I’ll kiss the Mistress of Sampalok goodbye and ride out with you again. But you’ve got to admit it, we’re really getting too old and fat for this kind of thing. How about we just sit in the headquarters tent and leave the glory bits to your Dylorn, my Castio and all the other youngsters?’

  Edeard’s eyes automatically gazed down on Macsen’s belly. We’re not all so old and fat, thank you. In fact he was rather proud of himself for keeping his daily run going all this time. Today he could still climb the stairs in the ziggurat without getting out of breath. There were even running clubs in the city now; and the big autumn race from the City Gate across the Iguru to Kessal’s Farm and back was an annual event, with more people entering each year.

  ‘No,’ Edeard said. ‘That’s not the way to handle this. We have to change the way Station Captains and sheriffs operate, they need to gather more information, maybe put together some dedicated teams of constables who don’t just spend their days out on patrol.’

  ‘More special Grand Council committees?’

  ‘No, not like that, just a group of officers, those with some experience, and a little smarter than average, who’ll devote more of their time to investigating all the aspects of a crime, trying to build up a pattern. Like we used to do. You remember how I spied on Ivarl to find out what he was up to?’

  ‘I remember what happened to you when you did.’

  ‘All I’m saying is we need to get smarter, to adapt. Life is different now. It would be the worst kind of irony if we’re the ones who can’t keep up and benefit.’

  Macsen gripped Edeard’s shoulder, smiling broadly. ‘You know what your real trouble is?’

  ‘What?’ Edeard asked, though he’d already guessed the answer.

  ‘You’re a glory glutton.’

  It was the third night Edeard had lain awake in the big bedroom on the tenth floor of the Culverit ziggurat. He really should have been able to sleep. The room was perfect for him, he’d spent years altering it, expanding the arching windows that led out on to the hortus, changing the lights to circles that shone with a warm pink-white radiance, reducing the ceiling height, producing alcoves for which Kristabel had commissioned furniture that fitted exactly, toning the walls to a subtle grey-blue so they matched the specially woven carpet. Even the spongy bed mattress had been adjusted until it achieved exactly the firmness both he and Kristabel wanted. They’d argued over her fondness for draping all the furniture in lace, compromising with a few tasteful frills. Even the curtains were a stylish pale russet, although they did have thick jade piping and tassels. The tassels had been one of the things he’d compromised on, but he really couldn’t blame them for not being able to sleep.

  Kristabel shifted beside him, pulling the silk sheets about. He held his breath until she was sleeping deeply again. There had been a time, not all that long ago, when he would have nuzzled up to her when she did that and they’d start caressing and kissing. There would be giggles and moaning, then sheets and blankets would be flung aside and they’d work each other’s bodies to that wondrous physical pinnacle they knew exactly how to reach.

  Gazing over at her in the dusky light that crept round the curtains he wondered when all that had ended. Not that it had finished, they still made love several times a month. Whereas it used to be several times a night. Kristabel was still beautiful; not girlish any more, which he didn’t want anyway, her hair was starting to lighten and there were a few lines around her eyes. But physically she was still very desirable. He could remember only too well all the cursing and misery after each child about how much weight she’d put on during the pregnancy, and how she’d never look good again. Then there’d be the long fight back to shape, with fierce discipline over what she ate and then taking the kind of exercise that put his morning run to shame.

  But she no longer wore the short lacy negligees he used to adore, and they showered separately, and didn’t talk and shout each other down, nor laugh, not in the way they used to. Developing dignity, he’d thought, at least that was what he told himself. The kind of dignity that comes with growing up and taking responsibilities seriously. And their ever-increasing burden of duties, and how tired that always left them. Though it shouldn’t, all they had to do was delegate.

  We’re just not the same people. That’s not a fault thing. Live with it. Even so, his traitor mind nearly sent his farsight creeping out to the House of Blue Petals. Ranalee would doubtless have that bewitched lad performing his strenuous best for her, corrupting him beyond salvation. Her love life had never ebbed.

  No! It wasn’t fair to blame sex for everything. Attitudes, too, had hardened over the years. Edeard had always favoured moving the city towards a full democracy, slowly reducing the power of the Upper Council and expanding the authority of the Representatives. It would never be a swift transition and he fully expected he wouldn’t live to see its conclusion. But as long as the process could be started he would be content. However, with all the other changes and reforms within the city, and the strengthening of bonds with the provinces, that seemed to have been delayed year after year. Kristabel hadn’t helped, not as he’d assumed she would. When she finally took her seat in the Upper Council as Mistress of Haxpen there had been too many other, more immediate, causes to support. As part of Finitan’s voting bloc she was expected to advance the Mayor’s new legislation and budgets and taxes. None of them had been focused on expanding general democracy.

  He knew he shouldn’t confuse personality with politics. But it was hard not to blame her for being part of the Grand Family setup, which she bitterly resented.

  Edeard hated himself for having such doubts about himself and Kristabel. Doubts and questions which had only increased since the appearance of the Skylord. That was the real root of his sleepless nights. Since the afternoon when the Liliala Hall ceiling had cleared for him he’d been striving to sense the Skylord’s thoughts, and he’d failed miserably.

  Now the frustration was starting to cloud his mind, making him prickly and despondent. Worse, everyone close to him knew it, which just annoyed him even more, especially as he couldn’t tell them the reason.

  He let out a frustrated sigh and rolled cleanly off the bed without waking Kristabel. His third hand snatched up the clothes he wanted, and they drifted silently through the air behind him as he tiptoed out into the corridor. Once he was dressed he pulled his black cloak about him and marched off to the central stairs. When he reached them he threw a concealment around himself and simply vaulted over the banister rails to plummet the ten floors down to the ground. It was stupid, and exhilarating, and he hadn’t done anything like it for years.

  Makkathran buoyed him up as he asked, controlling his fall. When he reached the floor his boots landed with a gentle thud. He strode through the deserted cloisters of the ground floor to the ziggurat’s private mooring platform. It was long past midnight, which left very little traffic on the Great Major Canal. He waited for a minute as a gondola slipped into the High Pool, its lantern disappearing round the curving wall, then with the waterway clear he reached out with his third hand and steadied the water. Another thing he hadn’t done in years.

  Edeard ran straight across the canal. As he was halfway across the farsight caught him. It was so inevitable, he was almost ready for it.

  ‘I’ll find you one day,’ he longtalked down the strand of perception that stretched across the city to Cobara. ‘You know I will.’

  The farsight ended so fast it was
as if it had been broken. Edeard grinned to himself, and reached a public mooring platform, where the wooden steps took him up to Eyrie.

  The crooked towers stretched away ahead of him. Around the lower quarter of each one, slender streaks of orange light shone out of their dark wrinkled fascias, illuminating the deserted streets that wove between them. But the upper sections were jet black, cutting sharply across the nebula-swathed sky.

  It was instinct which drew him here. The Lady’s scriptures spoke of how the ill and infirm and old used to wait atop the towers, then as the Skylord flew above the city their souls would ascend to be guided away from Querencia. He reached the tower close to the Lady’s grand church, where so many years ago conspirators from the Families had thrown him off the top. It was one of the tallest in Eyrie, which would put him as close to the Skylord as anything in Makkathran. Pushing aside any reservations about the location and its resonances, he walked up the central staircase, spiralling round and round until he finally reached the top and stood on the broad circular platform which crowned the tower. Eight spikes stuck up from the edge, their twisted tips stretching a further forty feet above the platform itself.

  The nostalgia he was feeling now wasn’t good. This was where Medath had waited after luring him up. This was where the other Grand Family conspirators had overpowered him and . . . He grimaced as he stared over at the section of the lip where he’d been shoved over. After so long, over forty years, he really shouldn’t have been bothered by it, yet the memory was disturbingly clear. So much so he even searched round with farsight to make perfectly sure no one else was around.