The Dreaming Void

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘This is the best one? Oh help me.’

  ‘Yes, this one. And Helie is an up-and-coming area. Don’t be so negative. It’s annoying.’ Her tone was more prickly than she’d intended.

  Cressida was instantly apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, darling. But my life is without risk now. Honestly, I admire you for taking this gamble. But you have to admit, it is a gamble.’

  ‘Of course it’s a gamble. You never get anywhere in life without taking a gamble.’

  ‘Well well, whatever happened to the little farmgirl from Langham?’

  ‘She died. Nobody came to the funeral.’

  A perfectly shaped eyebrow rose in surprise. ‘What have I unleashed on the world?’

  ‘I thought you’d be happy to see me move forward like this.’

  ‘I am. Are you going to do all the work yourself, again?’

  ‘Most of it, yes. I’ve got some new bots, and I know where to go for all my supplies and fittings now. This is going to be a prestige development, you’ll see, all the apartments will fetch a premium.’

  ‘I’m sure they will. Did you know most of the hotels in town are fully booked?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  Cressida wiped the balcony rail with a hand then leant on it. ‘There’s a lot of Living Dream devotees flooding in. Rumour in the gaiafield is that the Second Dreamer is on Viotia.’

  ‘Really, I didn’t know that, but then I haven’t accessed a news show in weeks. I’m a working gal these days.’

  ‘Keep it quiet, but the government is worried about the pressure that’s going to be put on housing, among other things – like public order.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Seriously. We’ve had over two million of the faithful arrive in the last seven weeks. Do you know how many have left again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None. And if they all apply for residency, that’s going to shift the political demographic.’

  ‘So we’re receiving immigrants again. That’s how planets develop. There’s going to be a big demand for housing. I come out a winner.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that in times of civil disturbance property values take a dive.’

  ‘It’s that serious?’ Araminta asked in sudden alarm; after all, Cressida was very well connected.

  ‘You know there’s always been an undercurrent of resentment towards Ellezelin. If the Living Dream numbers keep rising at their current rate, then there could be trouble. Who wants to wind up living in a hierocracy?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s the Pilgrimage. That’ll call them back to Ellezelin, won’t it? And it’s not like they’re going to find this stupid Second Dreamer, least of all here. The whole thing’s a political stunt by the new Cleric Conservator. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Who knows. But I’d respectfully suggest, darling, that you find a sucker who you can offload these apartments on to at very short notice.’

  Araminta recalled how keen Ikor had been to sell to her. And it was a good deal, or so it seemed at the time. Am I the sucker? ‘I suppose it wouldn’t harm to look for one,’ she said.

  Mr Bovey let loose a small chorus of swearing as four of him tried to manoeuvre the old-fashioned stone bath along the hallway and through the bathroom door. It was an awkward angle, and the apartment’s rear hallway wasn’t particularly wide.

  ‘Can I help?’ Araminta sang out from the kitchen where she and three bots were making last-minute changes to the new utility connections ready for the units she’d ordered.

  ‘I’m quite capable, thank you,’ quadraphonic voices grunted back.

  His hurtful insistence made her giggle. ‘Okay.’ It was another twenty minutes before one of him walked into the kitchen. He was the Bovey she’d first encountered in his macrostore’s bathroom aisle, the one with ebony skin and an ageing body. In his biological late-middle-age he may have been, but he didn’t shirk from hard work. His wrinkled forehead was smeared with sweat.

  ‘I made some tea,’ she said, gesturing at the kettle with its cluster of ancient cups. ‘You look like you need a break.’

  ‘I do, my others are younger.’ He smiled in admiration at the steaming cups and the packet of tea cubes. ‘You really did make it, too, didn’t you?’

  ‘Waiting for my culinary unit to arrive,’ she said with a martyred sigh.

  ‘It’s in the next load, I promise,’ he told her, and picked up a cup. His eyes took in the packets of folded food and the hydrator oven. ‘Are you actually living here?’

  ‘Yeah. Not renting saves me a bucket load of money. I mean, what’s the point? I’ve got five apartments, and they’re not that bad – the roofs don’t leak and the rest is just aesthetics. I can stick it out for a few months.’

  ‘You know I really admire your attitude. There’s not many your age would take on a project like this.’

  She batted her eyes. ‘And what’s my age?’

  ‘Honestly? I’ve no idea. But you come across as a first life.’

  ‘I’ll own up to that.’

  ‘Can I offer you an alternative to hydrated food tonight? There’s a nice restaurant I know.’

  She grinned, her hand curling round her own mug of tea. ‘That would be lovely. Oh, I don’t like curry!’

  ‘That’s okay, some mes don’t, either.’

  ‘Your tastes are different?’

  ‘Sure. Taste is all down to biochemistry, which is subtly different in every human body. And, face it, I have quite a variety to chose from.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and dropped her gaze bashfully. ‘I have to ask. I’ve never been on a date with a multiple before. Do you all come and sit at the table with me?’

  ‘Nah, I think that would be a little full on for you, wouldn’t it? Besides, I have the macrostore to run, deliveries to be made, installation, that kind of thing. My life goes on the whole time.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ It was a strange notion. Not an objectionable one, though.

  ‘Now if you were another multiple, it might be different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’d book the whole restaurant of romantic tables for two and take over the lot. Yous and mes everywhere having fifty different conversations simultaneously and trying out the entire menu and wine list all at once. It’s like speed dating in fast forward.’

  She laughed. ‘Have you ever done that?’

  ‘Tell you tonight.’

  ‘Right. So which one of you do I get sitting at that romantic table for two?’

  ‘You choose. How many mes and which ones.’

  ‘One, and you’ll do just fine.’

  Araminta took a great deal of thought and care over what to wear and which cosmetic scales to apply. Dressed exactly to plan two hours early. Took one look at herself in the mirror and chucked the whole image. Fifty minutes later all the cases in her bedroom were hanging open. Every outfit she had bought in the last two months was draped over floor and furniture leaving little space to walk. She’d experimented with four different styles of scale membrane. Her hair had been sparkled then damped. Oiled then fluffed. Bejewelled with red scintillators, blue scintillators, green, blue-white .

  In the end – with eleven minutes to go – she took an executive decision: go basic. Mr Bovey wasn’t the kind to concern himselfs with surface image.

  His capsule landed on the pad outside, and she took a lift down to the lobby. The doors opened to a dusty space piled with junk and newly delivered boxes. It was all illuminated by too-bright temporary lighting.

  Mr Bovey was dressed in a simple pale-grey toga suit with minimal surface shimmer. He smiled as the doors opened, and said: ‘A lady who is on time, now that’s – oh, wow.’

  She permitted the smallest nod of approval as he stared. In her mind was an image of his customers left unattended, installations stalled, delivery flights landing at the wrong addresses all over town.

  ‘You look,’ he swallowed as he tried to regain equilibrium, ‘fantastic. Absolutely amazing.’

  ‘Why thank yo
u.’ She held her hands behind her back, and presented the side of her face for a formal greeting kiss like some girly ingénue. It was the right choice then. A black sleeveless dress of plain silky fabric with a wide cleft down the front, barely held together by a couple of slim black emerald chains, making it look as if she was about to burst out. Hair glossed pale auburn, and brushed with just a couple of waves to hang below her shoulders. No scales other than lips slightly darker than her natural pigmentation, and emerald eyelash sparkles on low radiance. Most important was the sly half-smile guaranteed to totally befuddle the male brain – all of them.

  Mr Bovey recovered. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Love to.’

  The restaurant he’d booked was Richard’s. Small but stylish, occupying two floors of an old white stone house in the Udno district. The owner was also the chef; and as Mr Bovey explained he had a small boat which he took out down the estuary a couple of times each week to catch fish for the specials.

  ‘So do you date other multiples?’ she asked once they’d ordered.

  ‘Of course,’ he told her. ‘Not that there are a lot of us on Viotia yet.’

  ‘What about marriage? Is that only with multiples?’

  ‘I was married once. A multiple called Mrs Rion. It was,’ he frowned, as if searching for a memory, ‘pleasant.’

  ‘That sounds pretty awful.’

  ‘I’m being unfair to her. We had a good time while it lasted. Sex was great.’ His smile was shameless. ‘Think on it, thirty of her, thirty of me. All of us at it every night. You singles can’t get that close to physical paradise even in an orgy.’

  ‘You don’t know how good I am in an orgy.’ As soon as she said it she could feel her ears burning. But it was the second time she’d startled him this evening, and they weren’t even an hour into the date. Cressida would be proud of me.

  ‘Anyway …’ he said. ‘We called time on the marriage after seven years. No hostilities, we’re still friends. Thankfully, we didn’t merge our businesses as well. Always sign a pre-marriage contract, no matter what you are.’

  ‘Yes. I found that out the hard way.’

  ‘You’ve been married?’

  ‘Yeah. It was a mistake, but you were right, I’m young. My cousin says mistakes are the only way to learn.’

  ‘Your cousin is right.’

  ‘So are you going to try and convert me tonight?’

  ‘Convert you?’

  ‘Sell the whole multiple idea. I thought you believed multiples are inevitable.’

  ‘I do. But I’m not an evangelical. Some of us are,’ he admitted.

  ‘And you date – uh …’

  ‘Outside the faith? Of course I do. People are interesting no matter what type they are.’

  ‘Highers seem quite boring. If that sounds bigoted, I should explain my ex is currently migrating inwards.’

  ‘Not a wholly balanced opinion, then.’

  Araminta raised a glass. ‘Ozzie, I hope not.’

  ‘Going Higher is wrong, it’s a technocrat route. We’re a humanist solution to immortality and evolution.’

  ‘You still rely on technology, though.’

  ‘It’s a very small reliance. A few gaiamotes to homolo-gize our thoughts. It’s a simple procedure.’

  ‘Ah hah! You are trying to convert me.’

  He grinned. ‘You’re paranoid.’

  ‘All divorcees are. So are any of you female?’

  ‘No. Some multiples are multisexual, but that’s not for me. Too much like masturbation I’d imagine.’

  ‘I’ve just thought of something, and you have to answer because it’s not fair.’

  ‘What’s not fair?’

  ‘Well, you can see that I’m not with anyone else this evening—’

  ‘Ah,’ his smile turned devious. ‘So in among all the hard work the rest of mes are doing back at the macrostore, is there another of me in a different restaurant chatting to another woman? Right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she admitted.

  ‘Why would it have to be a different restaurant?’ he gestured round extravagantly. ‘Be honest, how could you tell if one of them is me?’

  The idea made her draw a breath and glance round.

  Mr Bovey was laughing. ‘But I’m not,’ he assured her. ‘All I’m interested in tonight is you and you alone.’ His gaze dropped to the front of her dress. ‘How could I not be?’

  ‘That’s,’ she took another drink of the wine, ‘very flattering, thank you.’

  Which got the evening back on more or less standard lines.

  The mighty creatures fly free amid glorious coloured streamers which glow strongly against the infinite dark of the outer reaches. They loop round the great scarlet promontories which extend for lightyears, curving and swooping above the mottled webbing of faint cold gas. As they fly, the notions of what was brush against their bodies to tingle their minds as if they are travelling through the memories of another entity. Such a notion is not far from the truth, especially this close to the nucleus of their universe.

  This one she tenants turns lazily along its major axis, aware of its kindred surrounding it. The flock is spread across millions of kilometres. Over a planetary diameter away, another of its own is also rolling, mountain-sized elongated body throwing its vacuum wings wide, tenuous tissues of molecules as large as atmospheric clouds that shimmer delicately in the thin starlight. Somewhere out across the vast gulf it is aware of the whispers of thought arising once more from a solid world. Once more there are individual minds growing strong again, becoming attuned to the fabric of this universe. As it basks in the gentle radiance pouring out of the nebula, it wonders when the minds will have the strength to truly affect reality. Such a time, it agrees with its kindred, is sure to come. Then the flock will depart the great nebula to search out the newcomers, and carry their completed lives back to the nucleus, where all life eventually culminates.

  It was a pleasurable notion which made Araminta sigh contentedly even though the creature was slipping away into the darkness where it dwelled. Misty starlight gave way to a row of flickering candles. The gossamer breath of nebula dust firmed up into strong fingers sliding along her legs; more hands began to stroke her belly, then another pair squeezed her breasts. Sweet oil was massaged into her skin with wicked insistence. Tongues licked with intimate sensuality.

  ‘Time to wake up,’ a voice murmured.

  On the other side of her another voice encouraged, ‘Time to indulge yourself again.’

  Amid a delicious drowsiness Araminta bent herself in the way the hands were urging. She blinked lazily, seeing the Mr Bovey she’d had dinner with standing beside the vast bed. He smiled down. As she grinned back up at him she was impaled from behind. She gasped, startled and excited, seeing a look of rapture cross his face. A further set of hands started to explore her buttocks. She opened her mouth to receive the cock of a really young him. Which was extremely bad of her.

  She didn’t know how many hims she was accommodating this time. She didn’t know if it was nearly morning or still the middle of the night. She didn’t care. Flesh and pleasure were her here and now, her whole universe.

  After the meal at Richard’s, his capsule had brought them back to his place, a large house set above the city’s south bank with lawns that reached down to the river. It wasn’t even midnight. Several hims were in the lounge, a couple were cooking, three were in the swimming pool. More were resting or sleeping upstairs, he told her.

  It was like holding court. Her sitting on a broad leather sofa, hims on either side, and more sprawled on cushions at her feet as they chatted away. She took a long time to fight down her instinct that they were all separate people. He enjoyed teasing her, switching speaker mid-sentence, even arguing among himself. But the simultaneous laughter his bodies came out with was endearing. It was a wonderfully languid seduction.

  Then the one she’d gone to dinner with leaned over and kissed her. By then the wine and the anticipation were making her heart
pound and her skin burn.

  ‘You choose,’ he murmured silkily.

  ‘Choose?’

  ‘How many, and which ones.’

  She’d glanced round, and seen identical expressions of delight and eagerness on each of him. For that long moment every one of him was completely indistinguishable; he could have been clones. That was when she accepted on a subconscious level that he truly was one.

  ‘You, of course,’ she told her dinner companion. ‘You did all the hard work getting me back here, after all.’ Then she pointed. ‘You.’ The handsome one. ‘You.’ Young and very well muscled – she’d seen that when he climbed out of the pool.

  The chosen three led her upstairs. Araminta thought that was daring enough, but the night swiftly evolved into a strenuous sexual adventure as Mr Bovey began teaching her acts that could only be performed as a group. ‘Trust me,’ one of him said as he opened an aerosol in her face. ‘It’s a booster. It’ll amplify your pleasure, sort of even things up between you and mes.’ Araminta breathed it down. It was potent.

  They gathered round, strong hands supporting her in different positions. She was made to climax with each of him in turn, with the booster increasing the sensation each time as it gradually saturated her bloodstream. After the third one she flopped back on the mattress in a lovely warm fugue. That was when she saw more hims had arrived to wait silent and naked around the bed. She didn’t protest as they stared down excitedly. ‘Yes,’ she told them. In unison the fresh bodies closed in.

  More than once that night Araminta swooned from a combination of exhaustion and aerosol-fuelled ecstasy. Each time he allowed her a small rest before rousing her again. Those were the occasions when she dreamed her strange dream.

  She didn’t wake up until mid-morning. When she did, the details of the night had merged together into a single strand of relentless animal behaviour. She’d surprised herself by yielding to everything he’d demanded from her.

  The dinner-date Bovey was lying on the bed beside her. He was the only one left in the bedroom. ‘Good morning,’ he said with soft politeness.