Peter Hamilton - The Evolutionary Void

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 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 anymore.

“Long old story. Ask Macsen sometime.”

“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 skepticism 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 gray 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 had seen 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 whining; one of my potential voters donated it,” Edeard replied.

“In which case I’ll be honored 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 around Edeard’s shoulder and drew him aside with several insincere smiles directed at the group he’d been chatting with. “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 shit 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 the 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 didn’t see 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 anymore.”

“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 anymore. It was never just about winning, beating Owain and Buate; it was always about what happened afterward. Well, this is afterward 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 onto 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 fit exactly, toning the walls to a subtle gray-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 his 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.