The Vastening Omnibus

by Paul McAuley

Genres: Science Fiction

Synopsis

IN THE MOUTH OF THE WHALE: Humanity's future rests on the shoulders of a Child from the past, and she must never know of the battles being fought for her . . . In the system of Fomalhaut, a war is being fought. The Quicks came long ago, refugees from the Solar System. The True arrived later, to find a declining civilisation and a system ripe for the taking. Then the Ghosts appeared, no longer human, unknowable, powerful and determined to drive out the Quick and the True. The battle continues, but the outcome is uncertain. Three lives will intersect, because there is something at the centre of their universe, something dangerous and growing and powerful. Something that is worth fighting for. And it will change everybody's life. EVENING'S EMPIRES: In the far future, a young man stands on a barren asteroid. His ship has been stolen, his family kidnapped or worse, and all he has on his side is a semi-intelligent spacesuit. The only member of the crew to escape, Hari has barely been off his ship before. It was his birthplace, his home and his future. He's going to get it back. Nobody is to be trusted.

Release date: July 20, 2017

Publisher: Gollancz

Print pages: 768

Sample

1

When the Child was a child, a sturdy toddler not quite two years old, she and her mother moved to São Gabriel da Cachoeira, in the north-west corner of the Peixoto
family’s territory in Greater Brazil. It was an old place, São Gabriel da Cachoeira, an old garrison town on the Rio Negro, serving an army base and a depot for workers in the
Reclamation and Reconstruction Corps. Civilians, mostly descendants of Indians and early settlers, lived in a skewed grid of apartment blocks and bungalows beneath the green breast of the Fortaleza
hill. Senior army officers, supervisors, and government officials rented villas along the Praia Grande, where in the dry season between September and January a beach appeared at the edge of the
river. There was an airfield and a solar farm to the north, two schools, a hotel and half a dozen bars, a scruffy futbol pitch, a big church built in the brutalist style of the mid-twenty-first
century, and a hospital, where the Child’s mother, Maria Hong-Owen, had taken up the position of resident surgeon.

Maria’s husband had been a captain in the army’s intelligence service, killed when the plane in which he’d been travelling, a routine flight between his base and
Brasília, had crashed after being caught in a lightning storm. The Child knew him only through pictures and clips. A handsome young man posing stiff and unsmiling in uniform. Standing
bare-chested on a sunny lawn, a halo burning in his cap of blond hair, his face in shadow. Riding a bicycle down a dusty white road, the camera turning as he passed it and dissolved in a flare of
light.

We do not know why Maria, a widow at twenty-eight with a young child to care for, quit her comfortable position in the teaching hospital in Montevideo and took up work in a half-forgotten town
in the upper reaches of the basin of the Rio Amazonas. She was a devout Catholic – it was one of the reasons why her daughter severed all contact with her years later – so let us
suppose that she decided to dedicate her life to a good cause. To atone for some real or imagined sin that had opened the hole in the world that swallowed her husband. Every day, she attended
early-morning Mass and then worked long hours in the hospital, walking the rounds of the wards, helping out at the day clinic, delivering babies, treating fevers and parasitic infections and all
kinds of cancers, repairing the cleft palates common amongst the children of the local Indians, dealing with the machete wounds, shattered bones, and other injuries of workers in the sugar-cane,
pharm-banana, and tree plantations.

In short, she had too little time for her daughter, who was educated by a generic AI teaching package and cared for by her nursemaid or ama, Paulinho Gonzagão Silva. We know almost
nothing about Ama Paulinho. She is one of the many players in the Child’s story whose life was written on water: we must reconstruct her by approximation, stochastic sampling, and best
guesses. So let’s say that she was a full-blooded member of the Ianomâmis tribe, a stocky nut-brown old woman from a large family of some importance in the town, a widow like Maria
Hong-Owen.

The Child quickly came to love Ama Paulinho as much as she loved her mother. They went everywhere together. See them in the jostling market, the pale child riding in a cloth pouch on her
ama’s back, clutching the old woman’s woolly grey hair and looking around with an imperious gaze. See the Child sprawled on her tummy on the threadbare lawn in the hospital compound,
studying one of her AI teacher’s exercises while Ama Paulinho sits in the shade of a tree, a tablet in her lap, following her chosen thread in a saga. See the Child standing in her
ama’s skirts at the edge of a street, the two of them watching army trucks rumble past in a blowing envelope of dust.

Bright moments shining like stars in a dark and backward abyss. Constructed from file images and fragments of an audio clip discovered in a memory box that the Child created fifteen centuries
ago.

So much has been lost, and we lack the skill and knowledge to retrieve or resurrect most of it. All we can do is string what remains into some kind of order and pattern. Weave informed guesses
and extrapolations based on heuristic sampling of historical records into a narrative that, if not accurate, is at least self-consistent. So we proceed, second by second. So the Child, our dear
mother, twice dead, twice reborn, dreams herself towards her destiny.

Ama Paulinho told the Child stories about the people of the town and its history, recounted the legends of the long ago. Once upon a time, a giant snake lived in the Rio Negro, swallowing any
who tried to cross the river, until at last two heroes tricked it into coming ashore, where it was turned to stone by the heat of the sun – it could still be seen, a long and disappointingly
mundane bump in the avenue that ran through the middle of the town. Once upon a time, a beautiful woman was seen bathing in the shallows of the river by two friends who both fell in love with her
at first sight and fought over who would have to right to approach her. Frightened by their ferocious rivalry, the woman struck out for the far shore but was caught in a strong river current and
drowned; the two friends swam after her, and when they reached her body it turned into the island Adana, and they became the streams of water passing by on either side.

At the western point of the town’s promontory was a grassy rise where the trenches of the ancient fort of Morro da Fortaleza could be traced. To the east, the peaks of the Serra da Bela
Adormecida mountains sketched the profile of the fairy-tale princess waiting for a handsome prince to kiss her awake. To the north-west was the Neblina Peak, whose slopes ran with icy springs that
fed the river, and all around volcanic cones stood up from the patchwork of renewed forest and dry grassland. In several of these, according to Ama Paulinho, dinosaurs, giant sloths, spotted tigers
with teeth like knives, and other fabulous animals still lived. Products of the blasphemous technologies that had caused the Overturn. Wildsiders lived there, also. Animals who looked like men; men
who looked like animals. River Folk whose sweet songs could cloud the minds of men. Bat people who fed on the blood of cattle and children. Ground sloths who captured unwary travellers and forced
them to work in underground galleries, cultivating fungus on fields of rotten wood.

Ama Paulinho had her own story, her own mythos. She’d been married, once upon a time, although she said that it was so long ago that it might as well have been in another life. She and her
husband had both been very young. Fifteen and sixteen. Little more than children. Her husband had worked as a general labourer for the R&R Corps. One day, while he was helping the big machines
plant trees in a valley folded between two mountains, he had stepped off the road to urinate. When he finished, he saw a beautiful young woman staring at him from the green shade of an old tree
that had somehow survived the hyperstorms and droughts and general ruin of the Overturn. She had large dark eyes and her tawny skin was dusted with golden freckles. He started to apologise, she
laughed and ran off, and he chased after her, running up the side of the valley through a tract of old-growth forest, running faster than he had ever run before, running with such speed that he
outran his human form and found that he had become a jaguar. He was so astonished that he stopped running, and he had been going so fast that when he stopped he tumbled head over tail (whenever she
told the story, Ama Paulinho always widened her eyes in mock astonishment at this point, and the Child always laughed). The young woman came back and circled him and in the green light of the old
forest he saw her true form: he saw that she was also a jaguar. And so they ran together through the tall and ancient trees, and he never again thought of or remembered the wife he had left behind,
except in dreams.

‘And that is how I know what happened to him,’ Ama Paulinho said. ‘Because I shared his dreams, for a little while. And because he lives still, I have never looked for another
husband, and that is why, little one, I am able to look after you. So you see, it is a sad story with a happy ending.’

Ama Paulinho’s family possessed a deep knowledge of the forest, handed down from generation to generation. Her uncle and two of her cousins were ethnobotanical advisers to the R&R
Corps, which in the past century had made great advances in repairing the ecological damage caused by the Overturn to the forests along the Rio Negros and the Rio Uampés. Her father, Josua
Mão de Ferro Almeida Gonzagão, had served on the front line with the R&R Corps for more than forty years. He lived in a rambling single-storey house that was as familiar to the
Child as her mother’s bungalow in the hospital compound. A fabulously old man, gaunt and leathery and bald as a turtle, who spent most of his time on a couch in a back room, watching a screen
that was always streaming news, and receiving visitors. Old R&R comrades who drank maté with him and talked about the good old days; townspeople who came to ask his advice on business or
personal matters, or to ask for small loans, or to pay off the interest on loans he had already given them. The household was run by his sister, widowed like Ama Paulinho. Her son and his wife and
daughter lived there, too. The Child played with the daughter and her cousins and friends, and she was fond of Josua Gonzagão, who asked her opinion about various items of news, listened to
her talk about her studies, told her that she was destined for great things (which she liked), told her that she should listen to her mother and her ama (which she didn’t), and talked about
his work in the R&R Corps, and the properties of trees and lesser plants of the forest, and the lives and uses of its insects and animals. And so the Child began to be shaped into what she
would – what she should, what she must – become.

Maria Hong-Owen’s position in the hospital gave her considerable status, but her manner was severe and abrupt, she showed little interest in gossip, and was innocent of
tact. Those who believed they mattered in the town thought her a typical barbarian from the Spanish-speaking south. At first, she was invited to parties and formal dinners and introduced to
everyone who was anyone, but the wives were jealous of her independence and feared that she would steal their husbands, and the husbands did not know how to deal with a woman whose professional
accomplishments gave her the kind of independence they jealously reserved for themselves. It did not help that, quite soon after her arrival in São Gabriel da Cachoeira, Maria had a very
public row with the supervisor of the sugar-cane plantation. A pipe in the plantation’s mill fractured; pressurised steam scalded three workers; Maria saved their lives and reconstructed
their faces and hands with grafts of cultured skin and collagen, and presented a strongly-worded letter of complaint about work practices in the plantation to the members of the town’s
council. They rejected it out of hand, of course, being friends and business associates of the plantation’s supervisor, Vidal Rahai Francisca, but Maria’s headstrong action had an
effect she couldn’t have anticipated.

Unlike most of its important citizens, Vidal Francisca had been born in the town. His father had been a teacher in its school; Vidal had studied at the agricultural college in Manaus and
returned to take charge of the plantation, which was owned, like much of the town, by a minor scion of the Peixoto family. His beautiful young wife had died suddenly of an aneuryism ten years ago
and he hadn’t remarried, although it was rumoured that he kept a mistress in an apartment in Manaus. A clever, vain man, he’d taken on the role of ringmaster to the town’s tiny
social set. He had organised several famous events – a firework display the size of a minor war, a boat race, a polo match on the futbol field, especially returfed for the occasion, a
performance of Turandot by a touring opera company – and every Independence Day held a celebrated and much anticipated barbecue at his large house.

After his spat with Doctor Hong-Owen, he had felt insulted at first, and then intrigued. He saw in the woman’s dedication and uncompromising manner something of his younger self, and he
sympathised with her plight. Her widowhood and, so he supposed, her loneliness. So he was disappointed when she sent him a polite message declining his invitation to that year’s Independence
Day party, excusing herself on the grounds of pressure of work.

Her absence was noted, of course; most people agreed that she was a ball-breaker too proud and snobbish to associate with people she believed to be no better than country bumpkins. Vidal
Francisca found himself defending her on more than one occasion. ‘I know how it is, to lose a loved one, and to raise a child alone,’ he said, at a dinner party. ‘It leaves you
with little energy for anything else. And if that is not enough, she is a capable woman very dedicated to her work.’

‘If she had any love of her work she should know who pays her salary,’ someone said.

‘Do we pay her to abase herself before us,’ Vidal asked, ‘or to do her work?’

‘Vidal is in love,’ someone else said, to general laughter.

Vidal Francisca managed to change the subject, but more and more he found his thoughts turning to the young doctor and her precocious daughter.

Because her mother was more or less frozen out of the town’s social set, the Child did not mix much with children of her class. She was tutored in mathematics and physics
by the teenage son of the hospital director, but that was about it. At first she was too young to know any different, and later she pretended that she did not care.

Imagine the Child growing up in that small and sleepy outpost, blonde and light-skinned like her father, secretive, sunburned, lanky. She learned how to trap birds with sticky sap and poison
fish in a pool with a mash of berries, where edible fungi grew and at what season, which trees had kindly spirits and which were possessed by angry spirits that must be acknowledged and pacified,
or else they might drop a branch on your head. She learned to read some of the signs with which the Ianomâmis marked their sacred places, and she collected and catalogued beetles and moths,
and discussed the pharmaceutical properties of forest plants and mosses with her mother. And so she passed back and forth between two irreconcilable worlds: the numinous world of her mother’s
God and of Ama Paulinho’s ancestral beliefs, where spirits animated the forest, men could shrug off human form, and death was not a full stop but a transformation; and the world of her
mother’s profession, where logic unpicked mystery and revealed the common principles and laws by which reality could be tamed and manipulated, where disease was driven back by antibiotics and
gene therapy, cancers were defeated by tagged antibodies and engineered viruses, and only death remained unconquered.

The Child had an early familiarity with death. She kept a small menagerie of animals collected from the wild places inside the town limits or bought in the market. She had a tank of terrapins,
several tanks of river fish. She had an ant farm sandwiched between two plates of glass. She collected several species of stick insect from the forest, and bought a baby sloth from a mestizo boy in
the market, but it died because she couldn’t figure out how to wean it. Most of her animals died, sooner or later. One day her fish would be all alive-o in their tanks; the next they’d
be floating belly up. The ants deserted their maze. One by one, the stick insects dropped to the bottoms of their wire-mesh cages, as stiff and dry in death as the twigs they had emulated in life.
Only the terrapins did not die, no matter how often she forgot to feed them, or how fetid the green soup of their little pond became.

And because she made herself useful around the hospital, working in the lab, running errands for the nurses and doctors, fetching water and food for patients, and so on, the Child was also
familiar with the deep and powerful mystery of human death. One day she’d be chatting with an old woman; the next, the woman’s bed would be empty and stripped to its mattress. Late one
sultry night, the Child delivered a bite of supper to her mother as she kept watch on a dying patient in a little room off one of the wards. She saw the man start in his solitary bed and try to
rise on his elbows, toothless mouth snapping at the air, his eyes wide and fixed on something far beyond the limits of the room, the hospital, the town, the world. She saw her mother ease him down
and talk to him soothingly and fold his hands around a rosary, saw him try to take a breath and fail, and try and fail again, and that was that. Her mother called the Child to her side and they
said a prayer over the body. Then her mother rose, her shadow wheeling hugely across the wall and ceiling, and flung open the shutters of the window as if setting something free.

Yes, the Child had an early education in death, but to begin with she was only mildly interested in it. Animals died, and it was disappointing because it meant that she had failed in some part
of their care. People came to the hospital to get better, but sometimes, especially if they were old, nothing could be done for them, and they died. She did not think that it was something that
would ever happen to her until she saw the drowned boy.

She was eleven, that summer. We had at last passed through Fomalhaut’s Oort Cloud and were approaching the bow shock of its heliosphere. After almost one and a half thousand years, we were
poised to enter the rarified climate of our destination. And the weather that summer in the little town of São Gabriel da Cachoeira and in the vast Amazonia region all around was unusually
hot and dry. The wet season ended a month early, and after that no rain fell for day after day after day. The sun burned in a cloudless sky bleached white as paper. The lawn in the hospital
compound withered. The streets were silted with silky dust and dust blew into houses and apartments. The R&R Corps stopped planting out new areas of forest. The artesian well that watered Vidal
Francisca’s sugar-cane plantation dried up; he had to run a pump line two kilometres long from the river. And the level of the river dropped steadily, exposing rocks and an old shipwreck
unseen for decades.

It was a return of the bad days, Ama Paulinho said, and told the Child tall tales about great droughts in the long-ago. People prayed to Gaia at every Mass, but no rain came. During the day they
stayed indoors as much as possible, sheltering from brassy hammerfalls of heat and light; in the evening they gathered along the beach below the Praia Grande, to enjoy the breezes that blew over
the cool waters of the river. Families brought food or cooked there, men drank and talked at a couple of bars set up on the sand, and children ran everywhere.

Maria Hong-Owen was too often busy with her duties at the hospital to visit the beach, but the Child went there almost every evening with Ama Paulinho, where they ate with the old woman’s
extended family, everyone sitting around a blanket spread with bowls and dishes of salad, rice and beans, fried fish, farofa, hard-boiled eggs, and fruit. Afterwards, the Child liked to walk by
herself, watching fat tropical stars bloom in the humid nightblue sky, watching bats dip and skim across the river, watching people moving about. Children chased up and down the beach in little
packs, or played the game that was the rage in the town that summer, involving throwing little shells into the air and catching them on the back of the hand while chanting nonsense rhymes, but the
Child believed that she had grown beyond those childish things. She was no longer a child nor yet an adult, but something else. A changeling, perhaps, like one of the lonely creatures in her
ama’s stories. Living amongst people, disguised as one of them, but watchful and apart.

One night, she was walking along the water’s edge when she noticed a flurry of activity a little way ahead. A small group of children shouting and pointing at something in the river; two
men running towards them, splashing into the shallows. The Child walked towards them over sugary sand still warm from the day’s sun. More adults were coming down the beach. Then a woman
screamed and ran towards the two men, stooping between them and lifting up the wet and naked body of a little boy. She staggered out of the water and sat down hard, pressing the body to herself,
shaking it, kissing its face, looking around at people who would not meet her gaze, asking the dear Lord Jesus Christ the same question over and again. Why? Why had this happened? Why why why?

The Child knew the boy from the market, where he helped his father sell watermelons, but she did not know his name until the woman began to say it, calling to him over and again in a cracked and
sobbing incantation, rocking his body, stroking wet hair back from his face. Two small girls were crying, hugging each other, convulsed by huge shivers. One man said that the boy had got out of his
depth in the river. Other people talked in low voices. No one dared disturb the terrible eloquence of the woman’s grief. The Child stood amongst the crowd, watching everything.

At last, one of the priests, Father Caetano, came along the twilight beach in his black soutane. Two paramedics from the hospital followed him, hauling their gear. They prised the drowned boy
from his mother and worked on him for some time; at last they looked at each other across his body and one of them shook his head. The boy’s mother shrieked, pushed away a woman who tried to
comfort her, was caught and held tight by another. Father Caetano knelt, recited the Prayer for the Dead, and took out a small vial of oil and with his thumb drew a cross on the boy’s
forehead. Then the paramedics lifted the body on to their stretcher and covered it with a blanket and put their equipment on its chest and carried it up the beach, followed by Father Caetano and
the boy’s mother and a ragged tail of onlookers.

The Child lingered at the river’s edge after everyone else had gone. Watching the dark water slide past, head cocked as if listening for something.

Late that night, Maria returned from the hospital and looked in on her daughter and found the bed empty. She checked the other rooms in the bungalow and went outside and woke
Ama Paulinho. The two women went to the shed where the Child kept her menagerie, and then they searched the rest of the compound. The private gate was locked; the watchman at the public gate at the
front of the hospital apologised and said that he had not seen the doctor’s daughter. With the help of two night nurses, Maria and Ama Paulinho searched the wards and surgical rooms, the
kitchens and storerooms, the offices and the pathology lab, the pharmacy and the out-patient clinic. They found the Child at last in the mortuary, asleep on a chair near the rack of refrigerated
drawers where those who had died in the hospital or in accidental or suspicious circumstances were stored before being autopsied.

The Child said that she’d wanted to keep the dead boy company, and despite close questioning by her mother would say nothing else. She never told anyone the real reason why she’d
kept watch over the body: that she had believed the boy might have been seduced by the River Folk, that his death by drowning had been the first stage in his transformation. In her mind’s
eye, she’d seen him waking in the cold dark of the mortuary drawer, had seen herself freeing him, helping him back to the river, earning the gratitude of the River Folk. A fantasy that seemed
foolish the next morning, but left her with one unassailable conviction. Green saints and gene wizards could extend their lives by a century or more, and people cheated death time and again in her
ama’s stories. She was certain that she would find a way to cheat it too.

2

I was on my way to harrow a hell when everything changed. This was on Maui, a no-account worldlet at the trailing edge of the Archipelago. The Trehajo clan had turned it into a
resettlement centre for refugees who had fled the last big push by the Ghosts, some hundred megaseconds ago. A family of ice refiners had stumbled upon an active fragment of the old Library, and
before informing the resettlement authority they’d taken a peek inside, no doubt hoping to uncover a tasty chunk of data that they could sell on the grey market. They’d woken a minor
demon instead, and it had turned them. Luckily, the resettlement authority had realised what was happening, and had moved on the family’s tent habitat before things got out of hand. I’d
been tasked with the final clean-up.

Maui wasn’t much different from the farm rock where I’d spent my early childhood. A dwarf planet about three hundred kilometres across, just large enough to have been pulled into a
sphere by its own gravity: a rough ball of water ice accreted around a core of silicate rocks, contaminated with pockets of methane and nitrogen ices, coated in layers of primordial carbonaceous
material and spattered with craters, one so big that material excavated by the impact covered half Maui’s surface with a lightly cratered debris shield. Two fragments lofted by that impact
still circled Maui’s equator, a pair of moonlets kindled into sullen slow-burning miniature suns by Quick construction machines during the short-lived world-building era immediately after
their seedship had arrived at Fomalhaut.

The Quick machines had extensively gardened the worldlet too, planting vacuum organisms in seemingly random and wildly beautiful patterns utterly unlike the square fields of my
foster-family’s farm. Huge tangles of ropes, crustose pavements, clusters of tall spires, fluted columns and smooth domes, forests of wire. Mostly in shades of black but enlivened here and
there with splashes and flecks of vivid reds or yellows, sprawled across crater floors, climbing walls and spilling their rims, spreading across intercrater plains, sending pseudohyphae into the
icy regolith to mine carbonaceous tars, growing slowly but steadily in the faint light of Fomalhaut and Maui’s two swift-moving mini-suns.

Once, when the Quick had been the sole inhabitants of the Fomalhaut system, these gardens had covered the entire surface of the worldlet, inhabited by only a few contemplative eremites. Now,
they were scarred by tents built to house refugees, the monolithic cubes of fusion generators, landing stages, materiel dumps, missile emplacements, strip mines, refineries, and maker blocks. My
transit pod was flying above a region scraped down to clean bright water ice when my security delivered a message. Report to the Redactor Svern when you are finished.

‘Report?’ the Horse said. ‘As in talk? As in face to face?’

The Horse was my kholop. We were crammed thigh to thigh in the pod, dressed in pressure suits, our securities overlapping.

I said, ‘I don’t know of any other way of talking to him.’

‘Then you’re going home. We’re going home.’

‘It may not mean anything.’ ‘It may mean your exile is over. That you’ve worked out your penance. That we’re done with minor demons and their petty little hells.
We’re done with cleaning up other people’s mistakes—’

‘I doubt it.’

‘It has to mean something.’

‘It probably means that he’s found an assignment so crufty it will make fighting a horde of demons seem like a picnic in paradise. We’ll find out soon enough. Show me the
dispersal pattern of those walkers.’

‘It’s the same as all the others,’ the Horse said. ‘Generated by a pseudo-random drunkard’s walk algorithm. If demons ever started learning from the mistakes of
their brothers we’d be in real trouble.’

‘Show me,’ I said.

The close horizon tilted up as we worked the data, growing into a ridge that cut off half the sky. It was the rim wall of the big crater that put a serious dent in the worldlet’s northern
hemisphere. We flew straight towards it, skimming the smooth contours of its crest and flying out above chiselled cliffs twenty kilometres tall. The pod spun on its axis and shuddered, firing up
its motor, braking, falling in a long arc towards a shattered plain spattered with secondary craters and patchworked with vacuum-organism thickets, landing close to a military pinnace on a rise two
klicks north of the ice refiners’ tent.

‘For once, I’m eager to see what fresh hell this is,’ the Horse said as the restraints of our crash couches snapped open. ‘I know you think me a fool, but I have a good
feeling about that message.’

We crossed to the pinnace for a brief conference with the shavetail lieutenant in charge of perimeter security. She was young and scared, and very unhappy about the Horse’s presence; the
Trehajo clan, old and highly conservative, had no time for Our Thing’s new-fangled idea that the Quick might be something more than property. I assured her that he’d bee