Текст книги "The Abyss Beyond Dreams"

Автор книги: Peter F. Hamilton

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

‘I wasn’t criticizing. Given the Faller threat, you’ve got a pretty good arrangement here. Government is always a balance between liberty and restriction. Back in the outside universe, political systems evolved as technology and understanding grew, and that generally brought a liberalizing democracy with it. The problem here is a near-perfect status quo – though perfect isn’t quite the right word for it – and all the Shanties are a new development that can’t be helping the economy or the crime rates. The Fallers aren’t ever going to stop Falling. If anything, they have the advantage. Your society is probably stagnating in a lot of subtle ways that’ll start to mount up, and with that comes decadence and corruption. The Fallers only have to wait until your vigilance falters.’ He pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘Then again, fear keeps you on your toes, and you have kept society going for three thousand years.’

‘You think the Fallers will win in the end?’

‘Time and human nature is on their side. But only because the Void restricts us. If we could get up there to the Forest and deploy some decent Commonwealth technology, it would be a very different story.’

‘Us?’ she taunted. ‘So you do consider yourself human, then? I was wondering.’

Nigel grinned back. ‘Occasionally.’

‘Anything else you’ve decided just from looking?’

‘Not really.’ He turned back to stare at the palace, sending his ex-sight to examine it closely. As expected, the whole structure was fuzzed. ‘You said this is where the ship landed?’

‘Yes. They built the palace around it.’

Nigel studied the façade closely, then turned three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘Around and over, I’d guess. Especially if they came down anything like the way I did. You see this landscape? The palace is two thirds of the way up an incline; those big gardens at the back slope up. And this last mile of Walton Boulevard itself is actually a shallow valley, see, running up a slope? Unlikely in nature. No, I’d say the ship hit somewhere down where our hotel is and kept on going, ploughing a groove through the earth until it came to rest here. So once it was down, the ship would be Cornelius’s headquarters. It also contained all the resources; those ships carried everything you needed to start a new society on a fresh world. A lot of it wouldn’t work here, but there was enough, clearly, and the metal from the superstructure would have been valuable back in the early days. And Cornelius had control over it. The start of the Captain’s economic authority. He wouldn’t have moved away from that. No. He secured it. Built walls around it, buried it, closed it off to everyone else.’ Nigel licked his lips and frowned. ‘I wonder what happened to everything they didn’t use. Is it still here? I mean, why move it?’

‘You think bits of the ship are still here?’

‘Could be. We need to get inside to see for sure. But not today.’

‘Shame. I’d like to go inside.’

‘Come on. Let’s go check out something else.’

‘Okay. What?’

‘I thought the courts; I’d like to observe a trial. Then the Treasury. I’d say the security sheriffs, too, but I don’t think any public sheriff station is going to be the kind I need to know about.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Government always has its own special police. The kind who really don’t like people sniffing round in places they shouldn’t. The kind who make sure that anyone complaining about life and saying, Something should be done, are quietly dealt with.’

‘The Captain has his own police squad separate from the sheriffs,’ Kysandra said, trying to remember details from Mrs Brewster’s history lessons. ‘They’re mostly ceremonial bodyguards.’

‘Ceremony my ass. They’ll be the ones.’

It was a ten-minute walk to the central justice courts, back down Walton Boulevard to the junction with Struzaburg Avenue. Nigel stood admiring the Landing Plane statue for a while. ‘I remember those brutes; they made them on Oaktier. Cargo capacity about two hundred and fifty tonnes. Aerodynamic flight only, no ingrav propulsion. The Brandts were lucky to have them in the Void. If they had any sense, they’d have ferried their people down in them before they tried to land the big colony ships themselves.’

Kysandra walked on, shaking her head in bemusement. Nigel claimed to know about or be connected to absolutely everything. It was a weird quirk.

*

The courts were another grandiose government block, with narrow windows running up the whole six storeys. The front was classical architecture with heavily stylized columns running along the front. A green copper dome dominated the roofs of its various wings, the apex supporting a fluted pillar where gold scales stood on the top. ‘Pretty standard,’ Nigel proclaimed.

The trials listed beside the main entrance were all fairly minor ones. They sat in the public gallery of a dispute between a merchant and a rail freight company over the price of grain. The merchant claimed the grain was low quality, the rail company lawyer said the quality wasn’t their responsibility. But it was the rail company’s agent who had secured the load, the merchant’s lawyer protested.

‘Nothing ever changes,’ Nigel muttered with a sad smile.

They went back to Walton Boulevard, past the plane monument. Before they reached the Treasury at the end of Wahren Street, Nigel stopped outside the looming granite wall that fronted the National Tax Office. Kysandra sensed his ex-sight probing. He walked to the far end of the vast building and looked down the tiny alley running up the side. Several high enclosed pedestrian bridges connected it to the stolid office block next door.

‘No wonder the government can afford to build the way it does, as well as fund the county regiments,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed. That is one big mother of a tax office.’

‘They say that the Captain has an agreement with the Skylords, that if you haven’t settled your taxes when you seek Guidance, the Skylords will take you to Uracus instead of Giu.’

‘Interesting.’

‘I don’t think it’s true, Nigel.’

‘Not that. Both Bienvenido and Querencia have the same myths about those two nebulas. Uracus is the doorway to hell, Giu is the route to paradise. That has to come from the Skylords. They’re the only connection.’

‘Did the Skylords Guide the people from Querencia as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s not so strange.’

‘Good point.’ He gave the Tax Office one last disapproving look and headed off towards the Treasury.

That night they visited the Grand Metropolitan Theatre to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kysandra asked afterwards as they sat in a corner booth of the Rasheeda’s lounge bar for a nightcap. Half of the booths had their black velvet curtains drawn, their occupants fuzzing themselves effectively.

‘The play has changed slightly, that’s all,’ Nigel muttered.

‘How could it change?’ She closed her eyes, summoning up the memory. ‘“The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on.”’

‘Very good. But somebody else’s finger has written over the top, believe me. There were no vampires in the original Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

‘I liked the vampires.’

‘They’re a metaphor for the temptation of refusing a spiritual afterlife in exchange for flawed physical immortality.’

‘Can’t you ever just kick back and enjoy things? You always analyse stuff to death.’

He grinned and his retinas zoomed in on the labels of the long line of bottles arranged behind the mirrored bar. ‘I’m going to get a drink. What would you like?’

‘Double bourbon. Neat. No ice.’

‘Okay. One white wine spritzer coming up.’

Kysandra pulled a face at him. She settled down in the booth, a small smile elevating her lips. Life was pretty much perfect right now. A girl, probably twenty years old, left one of the curtained-off booths, and walked over to the bar. Kysandra instantly knew her. It wasn’t the dress, which was an elegant tight-fitting burgundy silk gown with a big rose-knot at the base of her spine. Not the long auburn hair, styled in waves at the back to leave delicate curls framing her cheeks. Nor even the broad features of her face, emphasized by too much mascara. No, it was the brittle determination which propelled her across the floor that Kysandra could sense without any ex-sight at all. Exactly the same as her mother’s. Determination to get the next shot, no matter what the cost.

She watched the girl sit on the stool next to Nigel in a slinky movement that was akin to a snake flowing into its nest. Long fake eyelashes were flapped slowly. Small inquisitive smile. Toss of the head. A few words spoken.

‘Well, hi there,’ Kysandra mocked facetiously. ‘Do you come here often? Why, yes. Oh, good, so do I. Can I buy you a drink? That would be nice, until my friends turn up.’ She lowered her voice to a growl. ‘Well, pretty thing, I hope they don’t. Perhaps we could wait in my room? That would be simply splendid, I used to wait in rooms all over the Commonwealth, you know.’ Open mouth wide and poke a finger in, making a retching sound.

At which moment Nigel turned round, holding a crystal brandy tumbler and a wine glass. Kysandra frantically turned the gesture into rubbing the side of her lips. Too late. Nigel’s eyebrows had risen in that irritatingly disdainful put-down he’d clearly spent centuries perfecting.

‘Who’s your new friend?’ Kysandra asked as he sat back down in their booth, what with offence being the best defence, and all.

‘Why? Jealous?’

‘Sure, if you like narnik whores,’ spoken just a little too loudly.

Nigel’s teekay slid the booth curtains shut smoothly. ‘I think you’re being a little judgemental, don’t you?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Your mother’s going to be fine. The domination variant I used just compelled her to straighten her act out, not turn into one of my cronies.’

‘I know,’ Kysandra said in a small voice. The whole domination technique both fascinated and repelled her. Ma’s entire family and organization had flipped in that one dark rainy night, becoming Nigel’s unquestioning acolytes. They talked the same, walked the same, but he owned them now, sure as if they were a batch of mods. They actually had a rivalry going among themselves to be the best, the fastest to perform his bidding.

It creeped her out. Ma Ulvon’s ex-madam, Madeline, might be her maid for the trip, but Kysandra avoided talking to her as much as possible. She was afraid she’d blurt out something like: ‘Don’t you remember what you were like, what you and Ma were going to do with me?’ which might be enough to shatter the spell.

‘Aren’t you worried about that?’ she asked.

‘About what?’

‘Nobody on this world has ever cured narnik addiction before. Someone might get suspicious about Mum overcoming her problem.’

‘Someone in Adeone is a qualified psychologist?’

Kysandra sipped her spritzer sheepishly. ‘All right, smartarse.’

‘I’m sure people have turned their lives around, even here. If you’re determined enough you can achieve miracles. Family support is a big help, too. And I’ll bet rich people have sanatoriums that take in wrecked younger members to—’

‘All right! Uracus, you know everything always. I get it. I’m just saying it’s not so common in Adeone.’

He settled back, looking thoughtful. ‘I appreciate that, but don’t worry about your mother. If anyone does start asking questions, then Demitri will steer them off topic. Frankly, I’m more concerned about the Tax Office.’

‘What?’

‘The Tax Office. Even Kafka would envy the size of the place we saw today. And they’ll have regional offices, I imagine. I may have been spending a little too freely.’ His grin was knowing. ‘After all, taxes is how they got Al Capone in the end.’

‘Again: nonsense words. Stop it.’

‘Sorry. The point is, all the locals in Adeone are happy to accept me as a rich newcomer, especially the ones I spend so many of my counterfeit coins with. To the town, I’m obviously throwing family money around. But when the Tax Office comes calling, the bureaucrats will want to know where that money came from. And I’m not in their existing records.’

‘Just dominate the tax inspector. Simple.’

‘Yes and no. We need to get politically strategic.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’ve slightly underestimated this society. That can be corrected by a presence here in Varlan.’

‘What sort of presence?’

‘I’m going to leave one of the ANAdroids here to embed himself.’

‘What will he do?’

‘To start with, I’d like to know what’s inside the palace. If there’s anything left of the ship’s network, we might just be able to access some of the flight logs. Unlikely after three thousand years, but you never know. Then a few people working for me in the Tax Office would be advantageous. And it’s always good to have political contacts . . .’

‘That’s just to start?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Giu. So what happens after that?’

‘Whatever needs to happen. That’s the whole point of being strategic.’

*

This version of his personality was strange. Not unpleasant, but definitely different. Nigel knew they were his own thoughts running through the ANAdroid’s bioconstruct brain. The inbuilt gaiamotes still connected him to his real self as he went upstairs to the hotel suite with Kysandra, just as they simultaneously linked him with the second ANAdroid sharing a room in the hotel’s servants’ quarters with Madeline and Russell. Identity wasn’t the problem. It was the responses that were difficult. For all its excellent duplication of his own neural pathways, the bioconstruct brain didn’t facilitate spontaneous emotion. Instead he had to analyse situations and extrapolate what he should be feeling. The bioconstruct brain was fast enough and the secondary routines good enough to produce appropriate expressions without delay. Ironically, of course, not having emotions didn’t bother the ANAdroid; he simply knew that any real version of himself would be bothered.

There was also the problem of ex-sight perception. Without a shell (which this artificial brain could generate perfectly), anyone on Bienvenido would know his thoughts were different, wrong. Best case scenario they’d think him a psychopath, unfeeling and cold, disconnected from his fellow humans. More likely they’d assume he was a Faller. But then, as the ANAdroid didn’t sleep, he was never likely to be caught with his shell down. In fact, maintaining it constantly was handled by a secondary routine.

He was confident he could pass for human in the city. Kysandra had certainly never realized the ANAdroids were all Nigel-copy personalities. A subtle variation in the emotional responses of each one was easy enough, making them appear distinct and different. But she was young and naive. Living in Varlan would be the real test.

As Nigel and Kysandra said goodnight and retired to their separate rooms upstairs (Kysandra claimed the huge bed in the master bedroom, of course), he walked into the Rasheeda’s lounge bar. At this time of the evening, coming up on midnight, the room was quite full, with most of the booths occupied. He sat at the bar, choosing the middle one of three empty stools.

‘Dirantio,’ he told the barman. An almond-flavoured spirit his real self enjoyed the taste of. Taste made no difference to him, and the ANAdroid body would never metabolize the alcohol, but he should sound as if he knew what he liked.

‘Ice with that, sir?’ the barman asked.

‘Yes, please.’

There was the distinctive swish sound of silk as she sat on the stool next to him. He turned to look at her. Fresh mascara had been added. He wondered if she’d been crying, slapped about by her pimp back in the booth for her earlier failure.

‘Now, where’s that barman gone?’ she asked, not quite to herself.

‘Getting me some ice. He’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Oh, good. I like my drink chilled.’

‘Really? What do you like to drink?’

‘Me? Oh, white wine, mostly. Sometimes a Finns. When I’m in the mood.’

‘I would love to buy you one of those.’

She did the slow appraising blink. ‘Can you afford one? You seem rather young.’

‘I’ve just arrived in the city today. It’s kind of a tradition for the men in our family. We spend a couple of years at the university partying and making contacts and maybe even going to a lecture or two before we get dragged back home to manage the estates like every other boring ancestor since the landing.’

‘Oh, really? Where is home?’

‘Kassell. Ever been?’

‘No.’

‘Well, maybe one day. I’d be happy to show you round.’

‘If that offer is still open, I think I’ll risk a Finns.’

‘Glad I caught you in the right mood, er . . . ’

‘Bethaneve.’

‘Hello, Bethaneve. I’m Coulan.’

4

From Varlan, they took the express to Portlynn, which sat at the end of the Great Central Line, three thousand miles as the mantahawk flew, but the track headed north to Adice first, then curved round the Guelp mountains as it sliced through the middle of Lamaran. By the time they finally pulled in at Portlynn, the train had travelled closer to four thousand miles, stopping twenty times and taking four days.

Portlynn had sprung up as a trading town at the end of Nilsson Sound, a huge inlet slicing deep into the heart of Lamaran. It was also the estuary to the river Mozal, whose massive tributary network multiplied across the wetland basin which stretched right across to the Bouge mountains a thousand miles to the east, and down to the Transo mountains in the south. This close to the equator, and with guaranteed rainfall, the rich soil was perfect for stonefruit, banana, breadfruit and citrus plantations, as well as extensive rice paddies. The river network made travel easy and cheap, with no need to invest in expensive train lines that would have needed a multitude of bridges.

The regional capital extended over across dozens of estuary mud islands. Its buildings were all wooden, which came as quite a change for Kysandra after all the stone and brick towns the express had just travelled through. Wood imposed natural limits on the height of the buildings, so instead of going up, the town sprawled outwards, colonizing the marshy ground. There were bridges between the islands, but there was no logic to their positions, and they were all narrow – for pedestrians, not carts. Sometimes you’d have to go round three or four islands before reaching the one neighbouring the one you started at. All real travel in Portlynn was by boat along the channels, which were constantly being dredged clear. The buildings themselves were all built on stilts, thick hardwood trunks driven deep into the alluvial silt to provide stability and protection from the monsoon season floods.

Nigel booked them into the Baylee Hotel, a big three-storey structure close to the east bank docks, where the town’s largest warehouses stood at the end of long wharfs. Fast sailing clippers and steam-powered sea barges were berthed along them, with teams of mod-dwarfs and stevedores loading and unloading cargoes all day long.

It took two days to gather supplies then hire a boat to take them upstream. But at daybreak on the third morning Nigel, Kysandra, Fergus, Madeline and Russell walked along the rickety bridges to Kate’s Lagoon at the south end of the city. Nigel had hired the Gothora, a sturdy steam-powered cargo boat, with a hull built out of anbor planks, one of the hardest woods on Bienvenido. A tiny crew cabin at the rear had berths for Captain Migray and his three crew: Sancal, Jymoar and the engineer Avinus. They certainly couldn’t fit Nigel and the rest in with them, so they’d rigged the first of Gothora’s two holds with a simple bamboo frame covered in canvas, allowing the passengers to spend the trip under cover, along with their trunks and supplies. The other hold was rigged with a simple open-sided awning, and used as a stable for the five terrestrial horses which they would ride across the desert, and the three mod-horses that would go with them, carrying their provisions.

Portlynn was just coming to life when Migray cast off and steered them out of Kate’s Lagoon into the three-kilometre-wide mouth of the Mozal. The water was a thick ochre red from the silt it carried, and it flowed so swiftly at the centre that boats going upstream had to travel close to the side where the current wasn’t as tenacious. Even so, Gothora burnt a lot of logs and didn’t make much headway for the morning of the first day.

The riverbanks for the first fifteen kilometres up from the mouth were still wild despite the heavy cultivation a few kilometres inland. Gothora chugged past a continuous wall of marshes and jugobush swamps, one boat in a long procession of cargo vessels setting off upstream. Five hundred metres to starboard, vessels laden with freshly picked crops were racing past, catching the current downstream to dock in Portlynn where their payload would be transferred to trains or the big seagoing ships.

By mid-afternoon they were seeing the first plantations and pastures encroaching through the flood meadows. Big white-painted manor houses were glimpsed amid the dense groves. Then the villages began to appear on the banks; like Portlynn, the houses were all built from wood and stood on stilts. Landing jetties extended out into the river, with boats docked and stevedores busy.

‘It all looks so lovely,’ Kysandra said wistfully as the pretty little communities slid past. Nearly all the original jungle had been cleared, surrendering the land to cultivation. Rigid lines of citrus trees stood proud in their groves. Small armies of mod-dwarfs moved through them, picking the colourful globes. Big carts stacked high with wicker crates full of fruit wound along the dirt tracks lined with tall fandapalms to the jetties. Paddy fields glinted rose gold in the afternoon sun, with even smaller mod-dwarfs wading through them, planting rice. Cattle and ostriches grazed long lush meadows. Humans walked about or rode horses, all wearing wide-brimmed hats against the powerful sun. It looked such a settled, easy life.

‘Would you like to live here, señorita?’ Jymoar asked.

Kysandra gave a small furtive smile and glanced round. Jymoar was standing beside the small wheelhouse, looking at her. He caught her eye and grinned happily. She blushed and turned back to stare at the riverbank. Jymoar was maybe nineteen, serving his apprenticeship with his uncle Migray. Cute enough, but . . . No thanks.

‘I already have a home, thank you.’ Even as she said it, she regretted it. The lad gave her an apologetic nod and turned to go.

‘But I could be persuaded to move.’ She gave Nigel a sly glance. ‘My guardian won’t be able to order me around forever.’

‘Guardian?’ Jymoar said in confusion.

Nigel tipped his hat at Jymoar. ‘That would be me. But I’m going to check on the horses, or something; you kids have fun.’ With a private ’path, he added, ‘Play nice, now,’ to Kysandra.

‘So have you travelled this far east before?’ she asked.

Jymoar hurried forward to be with her. ‘Never so far, no. But I have only been on the Gothora for seven months. One day I will have my own boat.’

She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Really? What sort?’

*

As night came, lights from the villages and more isolated manors shimmered across the fast quiet water as the Gothora kept a steady course upstream. They stopped at a village the next day to replenish their logs and buy fresh food for the galley. After less than four hours, they set off again.

It took eight days to navigate the length of the Mozal. Fortunately the main river extended almost all the way to the southern end of the Bouge mountain range, a thousand miles due east from Portlynn. Only the last fifty miles saw them turning down a tributary river, the Woular, heading north again. The mountains had grown steadily up from the horizon for the last two days.

The land on either side of the Woular had reverted to long stretches of raw jungle and scrub. Estates and villages were spaced further and further apart. This was wilderness country, devoid of any terrestrial vegetation. Native natell and quasso trees grew tall along the riverbanks, festooned with vines decorated in an abundance of white and purple flowers. The water was getting clogged with rotting fallen branches and long vine tendrils. Tough bakku weed grew along the edges, forming large wiry mats. Captain Migray had to reduce speed, while he and Sancal used their ex-sight diligently, probing the river for snags. They hadn’t seen another boat for hours.

Finally, Croixtown slipped into view round a long curve. The village was made up from about fifty houses, none of which had a second storey. They were huddled together at the centre of an array of big pens, whose high, strong fences contained bison and wild boar. Smaller pens contained neuts. Kysandra craned her neck forward, her retinas zooming in.

‘Are those camels?’

‘You have good eyes,’ Jymoar said, smiling worshipfully. He’d spent most of the voyage flirting hopefully with her and was now badly smitten.

‘Thank you.’

‘And, yes, those are probably camels. The rancheros, they don’t care what they drive into their corrals, as long as it fetches a shining coin from the markets.’

‘That’s a lot of livestock out there,’ Nigel said, regarding the pens attentively.

Jymoar didn’t flinch quite as much as he had at the start of the trip whenever Nigel said something. ‘Si, señor. The savannah is home to many beasts; they run wild here. There are few predators, just mantahawks and roxwolves and dingoes – and the rancheros hunt them down to protect the herds.’ He looked round furtively, then lowered his voice. ‘I’ve heard that the people of Shansville like dingo meat.’

Kysandra stared past the pens. Beyond them, the land rose slowly to the foothills of the Bouge range, a vast open region of savannah where the blue-green native gangrass rippled away like some sluggish sea. The occasional ebony whipwoor tree stood proud, thorny blemishes speckling the endless shifting gangrass. ‘Is that where the Desert of Bone is?’ she asked.

‘Beyond the mountains, yes,’ Jymoar said. ‘I wish you were not going there, señorita. It is a bad place.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Everybody knows. Not even the Fallers dare to travel there. They say there are ten thousand bodies piled up in the centre, their bones are a monster’s treasure hoard and their souls haunt the desert, weeping tears of grey light into the sand.’

‘Fascinating,’ Nigel said. ‘What sort of monster?’

‘Nobody knows, señor. If you encounter it, you do not survive. Those that do manage to avoid its clutches are scarred for life by what they have seen; many go mad afterwards.’

‘Ten thousand bodies? That’s a lot of people. Where did they come from?’

‘Nigel,’ Kysandra chided, frowning at him. It wasn’t fair to mock the poor boy’s superstition.

Jymoar shrugged. ‘You doubt me, but those people have died in the Desert of Bone, señor. I will not go there, not even for the señorita.’

‘And I would never ask you to,’ she told him kindly.

Gothora tied up at Croixtown’s single jetty. The townsfolk were disappointed it wouldn’t be taking any of their livestock down river to the big markets, but Nigel was paying Captain Migray to stay there until they got back.

‘For a month,’ the captain said. ‘Your coins are good, señor, but the Gothora is my life and my living. I cannot chain her to the land; she must travel the river.’

‘I understand,’ Nigel said. ‘We’ll be back before the month is up.’

‘I will wait,’ Jymoar ’pathed privately to Kysandra, ‘until you return safely.’

‘Don’t worry about us,’ she ’pathed back. ‘Please.’

Nigel whistled happily as he led his horse down the jetty. ‘Ahh, shipboard romance. Finest kind.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she growled at him.