Peter Hamilton - The Evolutionary Void

The path led her to the edge of the waving trees. She stared out at the vista ahead, blinking against the harsh light. “Oh, Great Ozzie,” she muttered in dismay. As far as she could see, the land was a flat expanse of white sand. The world’s hot sun burned high overhead, unencumbered by any cloud. “It’s a desert!”

When she turned a full circle, she found she’d emerged amid a few paltry clumps of trees that clung to the edge of a long muddy pool. And somewhere in those trees the path was dwindling away to nothing. “No,” she told it. “No, wait. This isn’t right. I don’t want to be here.” But then it was gone. “Oh, bollocks.”

Araminta might have been generally ignorant about alien planets, but one thing she knew for certain was that you didn’t start walking across a desert in the middle of the day, certainly not without any preparation. She took a slow saunter around the pool, trying to spot any sign that other people were around. Apart from some very odd imprints in the dry mud, there was no evidence that anybody used the oasis on any kind of regular basis. With the sun rising higher, she sat with her back to one of the gray tree trunks, making the most of the measly shade cast by its chunky leaves.

All the doubt and self-pity she’d managed to throw off on the path threatened to come swarming back. Maybe the Silfen were more involved with galactic events than anyone suspected. They could have dumped her here deliberately so that she could never lead a human Pilgrimage. Just thinking it through brought up an image of Cressida, her cousin’s eyebrow lifting in that incredibly scornful way of hers. Araminta cringed just at the memory of it.

Come on, pull yourself together .

She looked down at the tool belt. There weren’t a lot of tools, and the power charge on some was well down. But they could be useful. For what? How do I use them to cross a desert? She looked around the silent oasis again, trying to be smart and analytical the way Cressida would be. Okay, so I’ve got water. How do I carry it? Then she realized that there were several stumps sticking out of the ground but no fallen trees. She hurried over to one and saw the wood had been cut clean and level. Someone had sawed it off. She gave the stump a modest grin; it was a great clue. So now start thinking how you can use wood .

The power saw she carried was small, designed to cut small shaped holes, not to fell a tree, however spindly. But she cut around a trunk and managed to topple the tree onto open ground. The black wood under the bark was incredibly hard. She cut a couple of sections off, producing cylinders half a meter long, which she rolled into the shade, sitting down beside them. Her drill bored a hole down the middle. Once she had that, she switched the drill bit to its expansion mode and started to drill again. It took hours, but eventually she’d hollowed out each of the cylinders, leaving a shell of wood a couple of centimeters thick. They made excellent flagons. When she carried them into the pool to fill them with the clear water in the middle, she felt something give under her feet. The dark-blue sphere she fished out had a slippery jellylike shell. An egg! Araminta glanced around nervously, wondering what had laid it, land animal or marine? Perhaps it was a seed.

The flagons were full, and she lugged them out quickly but kept hold of the flaccid egg. It was the size of her fist, the wet surface giving like slippery rubber beneath her fingers. Just looking at it made her stomach growl with hunger. She realized she hadn’t eaten anything since that last breakfast with Tandra and her family, and that was a long time ago now.

With the egg wedged between some stones, she turned her laser to low-power wide beam and swept the ruby-red fan forward and backward across the bendy shell. The color began to darken down to a grubby brown, minute cracks appearing as it slowly hardened. After a few minutes she took a guess that it was done and used her screwdriver to tap a hole through it. The smell wasn’t good, but she cracked a wide hole open and hooked out some of the steaming greenish gloop inside.

Wrinkling her face in dismay, she touched some of the gloop to the tip of her tongue. It didn’t taste of much at all, maybe slightly minty jelly. Secondary routines in her macrocellular clusters interpreted the results firing down the nerve channels from her taste buds. They couldn’t discern anything lethal in the hot organic mush; it certainly wouldn’t kill her outright. Closing her eyes, she swallowed. Her stomach groaned in relief, and she scooped out a larger portion.

After she finished the first egg (she was still half-convinced it was some kind of aquatic seed), she went trawling for some more, recovering nine in total. She cooked another four with the laser, washing down the uninspiring contents with the water from the flagons. The wood wasn’t leaking, which she counted as a minor victory. With her stomach finally quiet, she set about splitting more wood and building a small fire. The flames baked the remaining eggs, saving power in her laser. She was firmly proud of the innovation, though she should have thought of it earlier.

As the flames crackled away, she set about stripping the bark of the tree she’d felled. When it was cut into thin strips, she began to weave a hat. Three attempts later she had a flattish cone that finally stayed in place on her head. She began weaving a basket to carry the eggs.

One more fishing expedition in the late afternoon netted a further five eggs, and then she settled down for a rest before night fell. She’d been working for hours, and the sun was only just starting to sink down toward the horizon. The days here were long ones. Logically, then, the nights would be as well, so she ought to be able to make a decent distance before the sun rose once more.

She dozed before sunset, dreaming of some tall blonde girl who was also alone. The dream was a vague one, and the girl was on a mountainside rather than in a desert. A handsome lad appeared, which set the girl’s heart aflutter, then she was confronting a man with a gold face.

Araminta woke with a start. The man was Gore Burnelli, which made her suspect the dream had emerged out of the gaiafield. It was weak here, but she could still perceive it. Gore had been very angry about something. For a moment Araminta was tempted to delve back into the gaiafield to see if she could recapture the dream but decided against it. The last thing she wanted now was to risk reexposure to Living Dream, though how they would find her here was a moot point. Besides, she had more immediate problems.

With the small bright sun finally sliding below the horizon, she gathered up her makeshift desert survival kit. The flagons were filled to the brim and stoppered with cuts of wood. She hoisted them onto her back with a harness made from woven bark strips, grimacing at the weight. The baked eggs went into her basket, which was slung over a shoulder. More strips of bark were hung around her neck; she couldn’t imagine what she’d need them for, but they were all she had and were the fruits of her own labor. Thus equipped, she set off.

The twilight lingered for a long time, which cheered her; total darkness would have been depressing and not a little bit scary. Stars slowly started to twinkle overhead. None of the constellations were recognizable, certainly not to her encyclopedia files. I’m nowhere near the Greater Commonwealth, then . Despite that, she was confident she wasn’t far away from a path that would take her there. She hadn’t even hesitated when she left the oasis. She knew the direction she should take.

Her flagons were ridiculously heavy, yet she knew she had to carry as much water as was physically possible. Her stomach wasn’t exactly feeling a hundred percent, and hunger was now a constant nag. She thought that perhaps the egg-things weren’t terribly nutritious for humans, after all. Still, at least she hadn’t thrown up. That was a plus.