The Abyss Beyond Dreams (49 page)

Their cargo was grain of some sort, big nut-like kernels filling each of the five holds. Behind the cabin, two mod-monkeys worked in the engine compartment, methodically shovelling a mix of coal
and wood into the furnace while long brass pistons pumped away on either side of them. The compartment’s upper hatch was closed against the rain, and the only light came from the flames.
Neither of the mod-monkeys appeared bothered by their harsh environment.

Slvasta went up the narrow stairs at the end of the cabin, which took him to the tiny wheelhouse. The bargemaster was at the wheel. Slvasta had met him last night when he came aboard – a
tall fellow with greying hair and thick mutton-chop sideburns, a black Dutch cap seemingly part of his head. He nodded at Slvasta but said nothing.

‘Morning,’ Russell said. He was standing beside the bargemaster, staring through the narrow windows. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, scudding along quickly in the strong wind.
Meadows and forests on both sides of the broad river were glistening under the deluge.

‘Where are we?’ Slvasta asked.

‘Coming up on Brewsterville,’ Russell answered him. Which, of course, told Slvasta nothing.

‘Am I allowed to know where we’re going?’ he asked with a heavy irony.

Russell grinned broadly. ‘Adeone. It’s a town at the western end of the Algory mountains. Nice place.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

*

There were plenty of towns along the river, all of them with docks and warehouses. In this part of the world, the river was an important trade route, used by a great many
boats; he saw coal barges, grain barges, ordinary cargo boats, some private yachts, even trains of log rafts being steered carefully downstream.

Slvasta helped the crew operate the locks they came to, which were built along the side of great stone weirs where river water churned and foamed vigorously as it dropped several metres. He
marvelled at the massive wooden doors as he pushed hard at the long oak balance beam to open one, the size and ease of the operation putting into perspective the engineering and labour that had
gone into taming the river over the centuries. With the economics texts fresh in his mind, he could comprehend the effort that generations had expended to develop this quiet corner of Bienvenido
into a steady agricultural and mining community. Once again it forced him to confront how big the world was, how difficult to govern. The Captain’s rule might not be enlightened, but it did
work. Now here he was, coming along to change an evolutionary development, motivated by little more than exasperation.
If we succeed, so much will change, and no doubt there are going to be
deaths, too. Do I have the right to instigate such an upheaval? Perhaps it is just fear that makes me think violence is the only way to transform the system. Violence: the brutish solution of the
ignorant who know they could never get enough people to vote for them.

Bethaneve certainly thought theirs was the only way. The right way. She never had these moments of self-doubt the way he did; because of her job at the centre of government, she could see how
the Captain and his allies had corrupted the system so nothing could change. It was the chaos and suffering which would surely swarm the capital that Slvasta dreaded most. When he examined his
life, there were times when he simply didn’t understand how he had come to be in such a position.

*

Adeone was a pleasant enough market town, grown up around the original stony river crossing where the pioneers forded the water to reach the Pirit Wolds. It was a natural point
for the farmers who’d arrived back during Arnithan’s captaincy to cultivate the rich loamy soil around the edges of the wolds, to bring their produce to the boats. Then later when
modest malachite deposits had been found in the Algory mountains to the east, the wharfs had been extended to carry the mineral downstream to the larger towns and cities where smelters awaited.

As the longbarge tied up at a wharf, Slvasta admired the impressive stone bridge that had long since replaced the ford. Warehouses formed a near-solid cliff behind the waterfront. The brick and
timber houses that spread out beyond were pleasant, though hardly extravagant. Adeone was just another provincial copy of Dios. Smaller and shabbier, but with a sense of purpose, its citizens
knowing they were secure in their position, that nothing was going to upset their way of life.

Two horses were waiting for them in the stables of the local coaching inn. Slvasta mounted a terrestrial chestnut mare while Russell claimed a stolid mod-horse with a bristly grey hide which
could take his weight easily.

As they rode out of Adeone he realized there were none of the usual Shanties cluttering its outskirts, which surprised him; rural areas were notoriously short of jobs. Here, the road was lined
by terrestrial cedars, the tallest of which were easily two hundred years old. Their unique flattened branches arched out high above Slvasta’s head to merge across the track of muddy stone,
filling the air with their distinctive sharp scent after the rain. Where some of the ancient titans had fallen, new trees had already been planted; the local council was clearly quite efficient,
taking its obligations seriously.

It was late afternoon when they began their trek. Behind him, the sinking sun produced red-gold rays that cut down at a low angle past the thick tree trunks. Slvasta had to ride to the side of
the road, there were so many carts using it. He enjoyed the bustle and confidence he sensed radiating out from people. The whole area put him in mind of his early childhood, when the world was a
pleasant and happy place.

The sun was setting when they came to a major junction. Two big greenswards split off north and south – one carrying on with the line of cedars, the other marked by the drooping pink
leaves of thrasta trees. There were also two new roads, their trees barely three metres high. Russell set off down one defined by blue-grey follrux saplings whose prickly leaves were already
folding up as the sunlight shrank away. The land was wilder here, with deeper valleys; the farms were smaller, and the forests larger. Directly ahead, he could just see the snow-tipped crowns of
the Algory mountain range catching the last of the sun, like glowing beacon fires against the darkening sky.

Although they were now clearly at the frontier of civilization, the road they travelled was extremely well used, with fresh stone laid to keep the mud at bay. Russell turned off down a track
unmarked by trees, winding through a wide gash in a forest. Slvasta saw an ageing sign nailed to a tree, with vines already coiling round the edges. BLAIR FARM was carved crudely into the wood. The
ground began to rise on both sides, and nasty clouds of small tatus flies emerged from the thick trees to buzz round Slvasta’s head. He extended his shell to ward them off; they clearly had a
thirst for human blood.

Finally, they rounded a curve, and a valley unfolded ahead. The land along the bottom had been cleared of trees and laid out in a chequerboard of fields. A large farm compound stood just short
of the treeline, with long wooden barns in perfect rows. For an unpleasant moment, Slvasta was back on patrol approaching the Shilo compound.

As they approached, Slvasta let his ex-sight range through the buildings. The timber barns were all new. Indeed, one of them was a timber mill, with a steam engine powering a couple of saws.
Four hulking traction engines were puffing their way home from the fields they’d been ploughing, pistons clanking loudly in the still evening air. Nearly half of the barns were full of stalls
or cages with a huge variety of mods, which made him even more uneasy. He was astonished by the amount of activity and the number of people out here. A couple of the barns were dormitories. One was
nothing more than a coal store. Other barns housed heavy machinery, stamping out shapes of metal which were carried to long benches where dozens of mod-dwarfs sat assembling odd pieces of
equipment. Furnaces burnt hotly, powering all sorts of unfamiliar devices. Then there were the long sheds at the far end of the compound, protected by the most effective fuzz he’d
encountered.

The farmhouse itself was a normal two-storey affair, with a veranda along the front and roses climbing up the gable ends. A bright light shone welcomingly out of every window. It was a lot
whiter than the oil lamps he was familiar with. He tied his horse up on the rail beside the paddock. With a grin, Russell showed him through the front door. That was when Slvasta realized
he’d never actually jabbed a pin into Russell’s thumb to check his blood. So much for him being the smart one, as Bethaneve claimed, but at least he had his pistol.
While walking
into the home of a weapons merchant.
Anxiety made his stomach churn as he crossed the threshold.

The centre of the house was a large hallway with a curving stair that led up to a long landing. By now Slvasta wasn’t at all surprised by how pleasant the interior of the farmhouse was,
with plush furniture and thick carpets. The too-white lights hung from the ceiling, strange glass globes that shone with a uniform monochrome brilliance.

Someone was coming down the stairs. A man shedding his fuzz to smile knowingly, allowing a certain degree of lofty amusement to radiate out through his shell.

Recognition locked Slvasta’s muscles tight. ‘You!’ he grunted in shock.

‘Good to see you again, lieutenant,’ Nigel said.

It was two days before Kysandra’s seventeenth birthday when the
thing
plunged flaming through the night sky. She was sitting by her bedroom window on the top
floor of the farmhouse, eyes a blotchy red from another bout of crying. The argument with her mother had been epic, even by their standards, starting that morning and carrying on all afternoon. The
ancient mod-dwarfs that helped out around the farm whimpered softly and crawled under the dining-room table, folding their arms over their heads as the air filled with screams, insults, threats and
denouncements, and ’path emotions saturated the aether like firework bursts.

‘I
hate
you. You’re the worst mother ever! I hope you die!’ was just a mild opening salvo.

None of the insults made any difference, nor the pleading, nor the anguish. Sarara, her mother, was too skilled in this battlefield. Anger was answered by scorn and fury. Threats came thick and
fast from both sides. More of the kitchen’s dwindling stack of crockery had been hurled. Sometimes by hand, often by a near-involuntary teekay reflex, thought becoming deed without
restraint.

By mid-afternoon the argument had become so fierce that Sarara had inevitably turned to her pipe of narnik. After that, the dispute became surreal as the drug amplified and soothed the
woman’s thoughts in random surges. Sometimes she’d be sobbing, moaning, ‘sorry, sorry, sorry,’ while at other times her eyes would be focused with manic hatred and
she’d hold a carving knife dangerously in her shaking hand as Kysandra unleashed another torrent of abuse.

Exhausted and distraught as the sun dropped behind the valley where Blair Farm nestled, Kysandra had run upstairs and slammed her bedroom door shut, then pushed the old chest of drawers across
it. Mother and daughter had shouted at each other through the wood for a further ten minutes before Sarara had stomped off downstairs for another pipe.

Kysandra had cried pitifully as her mother fumbled her way into another night of mad narnik-fuelled dreams. Ex-sight showed her Sarara’s comatose form sprawled across the parlour’s
settee. Every so often she would jerk about and yell something incoherent as the drug sparked a fresh hallucination in her brain. Then she’d sink back down again to resume a soft snoring and
sniffling. The cold empty pipe had fallen onto the bare floorboards beside her.

Adding to Kysandra’s misery was the hunger. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had just been some apples and a glass of milk. But she refused to go downstairs to the kitchen.
Even though there was no chance of her mother waking before morning now, she was powered by a stubbornness which had governed her whole life.

‘Girl, you have an attitude from Uracus,’ her father used to say, half in delight, half in dismay, as she refused to back down or apologize for whatever mischief she’d
performed.

But that was years ago, before her father had gone off with the Adeone county militia to help sweep after a Fall. Eight years. And he’d still not come back.

Kysandra was still waiting for him, refusing to give up. That had been one of the first massive battles with Sarara, when she found her mother getting rid of Dad’s clothes. It was around
the time Sarara had started smoking to cover her own grief and the difficulty of looking after a farm by herself. Those difficulties had just kept getting worse as the fields turned fallow, the
mods grew old and the buildings in the compound started to deteriorate.

After eight years without Dad, they could just about keep the compound’s vegetable garden going, along with maintaining a couple of pigs, an ageing cow for milk and a chicken coop –
which the bussalores kept getting into. It was hard to feed themselves some days.

That was why Kysandra was due to marry Akstan in two days, as soon as she was seventeen and it was legal (with parental permission). Sarara hadn’t simply given permission; she’d
eagerly agreed to the whole dowry arrangement with Akstan’s grubby family. It was simple enough. In exchange for Blair Farm (and Kysandra), Sarara would get three rooms of her own above one
of the family’s stores which sold cloth to the town. With an easy job behind the counter, she’d finally be rid of her whole nightmare inheritance problem. In her more hurtful moments,
she’d screeched at Kysandra that without a brat daughter and a crap farm holding her back, she’d be able to find herself a decent man again. Kysandra had hurled the last remaining china
jug at her for that one.

So there she was that clear night, looking out at the splendid nebulas whose moiré radiance dusted the Void. Their remarkable intricate shapes and glowing colours did nothing for her. She
simply stared at them, trying not to think of how Giu had claimed her father’s soul. She alternated that with malicious snarls at the idea of Uracus taking her mother and Akstan, and the rest
of his wretched family – including their matriarch, Ma Ulvon, whom Kysandra was secretly rather scared of.