The Dreaming Void (17 page)

“Not a bit. A judge friend of mine has allowed us to expedite matters on account of the circumstances of the truly tragic hardship I claimed you're suffering. Your savings are now unfrozen, and we'll transfer Laril's money into your account at four o'clock this afternoon. Congratulations. You're a free and single woman again.”

Araminta was horrified that she was crying; her hands seemed to flap about in front of her face of their own volition.

“Wow!” Cressida put her arm around Araminta's shoulders, rocking her playfully. “How do you take bad news?”

“It's over? Really over?”

“Yep. Really. So what say you and I go celebrate. Tell your manager where to stick his menu, go pour soup over a customer's head, then we'll hit the coolest clubs in town and ruin half the male population. How about it?”

“Oh.” Araminta looked up, wiping tears with the back of her hand; the mention of Matthew made her realize she was supposed to be serving. “I need to get back. Lunch is really busy. They rely on me.”

“Hey, calm down, take a minute. Think of what's happened here.”

Araminta nodded her head sheepishly, glancing around the restaurant. Her co-workers were all trying not to glance in her direction; Matthew was annoyed again. “I know. I'm sorry. It's going to take a while to sink in. I can't believe it's all over. I've got to … Oh, Ozzie, there are so many things I want to do.”

“Great! Let's get you out of here and bring on the serious partying. We'll start with a decent meal.”

“No.” Araminta could see Tandra staring anxiously and gave her a weak thumbs-up in return. “I can't just walk out; that's not fair to everyone else here. They'll need to get a replacement. I'll hand in my notice properly and work the rest of the week for them.”

“Damnit, you are horrendously sweet. No wonder your filthy ex could take advantage so easily.”

“It won't happen again.”

“Too bloody true it won't.” Cressida stood up, smiling proudly.

“From now on I'm vetting anyone you date. At least come out for a drink tonight.”

“Um, I really do need to go home after this and work things out.”

“Friday night, then. Come on! Everyone goes out Friday night.”

Araminta couldn't keep the grin off her face. “All right. Friday night.”

“Thank Ozzie for that. And get yourself some serious bad girl clothes first. We're going to do this properly.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay, I will.” She actually could feel her mood changing, like some warm liquid invading her arteries. “Uh, where do I go for clothes like that?”

“Oh, I'll show you, darling; don't you worry.”

Araminta did work the lunch shift, then told Matthew she was quitting but was happy to stay on as long as he needed her. He completely surprised her by giving her a kiss and congratulating her on finally breaking free of Laril. Tandra got all teary and affectionate while the others gathered around to hear the news and cheer.

By half past three in the afternoon she had put on a light coat and walked out. The cool late spring air sobered her up, allowing her to think clearly again. Even so, she walked the route she so often walked in the afternoon. Along Ware Street, take a left at the major junction, and head down the slope along Daryad Avenue. The buildings on either side were five or six stories tall, a typical mix of commercial properties. Regrav capsules slid silently overhead, and the metro track running down the center of the avenue hummed with public cabs. The roads had few vehicles, yet Araminta still waited at the crossings for the traffic solidos to change shape and color. She barely noticed her fellow pedestrians.

The Glayfield was a bar and restaurant at the bottom of the slope, occupying two stories of an old wood and composite building, part of the original planet landing camp. She made her way through the dark deserted bar to the stairs at the back and went up to the restaurant. That, too, was virtually empty. Up at the front it boasted a sheltered balcony where in her opinion the tables were too close; waitresses would have trouble squeezing between them when they were full. She sat at one next to the rail, which gave her an excellent view along Daryad Avenue. This was where she came most afternoons to wind down after her shift at Niks, sitting with a hot orange chocolate and watching the people and the ships. Over to her right the avenue curved upward into the bulk of the city, producing a wall of tall buildings expressing the many construction phases and styles that had come and gone in Colwyn's hundred-seventy-year history. To her left the river Cairns cut through the land in a gentle northward curve as it flowed out to the Great Cloud Ocean twenty miles away. The river was half a mile wide in the city, the top of a deep estuary that made an excellent natural harbor. Several marinas had been built on both sides, providing anchorage to thousands of private yachts ranging from little sailing dinghies up to regrav-assisted pleasure cruisers. Two giant bridges spanned the water, one a single unsupported arch of nanotube carbon and the other a more traditional suspension bridge with pure white pillars a flamboyant three hundred meters tall. Capsules slid along beside them, but ground traffic was almost nonexistent these days and they were used mainly by pedestrians. They led over to the exclusive districts on the south bank, where the city's wealthier residents flocked amid long green boulevards and extensive parks.

On the northern shore, barely half a mile from the Glayfield, the docks were built into the bank and out into the mud flats: two square miles of cargo-handling machinery and warehouses and quays and landing pads and caravan platforms. It was the hub from which the Izyum continent had been developed, the second starport on the planet. There was no heavy industry on Viotia; major engineering systems and advanced technology were all imported. With Ellezelin only seventy-five light-years away, Viotia was on the fringe of the Free Trade Zone, a market that the local population grumbled was free for Ellezelin companies all right, but disadvantaged everyone else caught in its commercial web. There wasn't a wormhole linking Viotia to Ellezelin yet. But talk was that in another hundred years, when Viotia's internal market had grown sufficiently, one would be opened, allowing the full range of cheap Ellezelin products to flood through, turning them into an economic colony. In the meantime, starships from External worlds came and went. She watched them as she sipped her orange chocolate: a line of huge freighters, their metal hulls as dull as lead, heavy and ungainly, drifting down vertically out of the sky. Behind them, the departing ships rose away from the planet, brushing through Viota's legendary pink clouds, accelerating fast once they reached the stratosphere. Araminta gave them a mild grin, thinking of the anti-ingrav woman. If she was right, what would the starships' field effect be doing to the geology beneath the city? Maybe a simple wormhole would be the answer; she rather liked the idea, a throwback to the First Commonwealth era of genteel and elegant train travel between star systems. It was a shame that the External worlds rejected such links out of hand, but they valued their political freedom too much to risk a return to a monoculture, especially with the threat of Higher culture overwhelming their hard-won independence.

Araminta stayed at the table long after she usually packed up and went home. The sun began to fall, turning the clouds a genuine gold-pink as the planet's hazy mesosphere diffused the dying rays of the K-class star. Transocean barges shone brightly out on the Cairns, regrav engines keeping their flat hulls just above the slowly rippling water as they nosed out of the dock and headed for the open sea and the islands beyond. She always was soothed by the sight of the city, a huge edifice of human activity buzzing along efficiently, a reassurance that civilization did actually work, that nothing could kick the basics out from under her. And now, finally, she could begin to take an active part, to carve out a life for herself. The files from the property agencies floated gently through her exoimage display, allowing her to plan what she might do in more detail than she ever had bothered with before. Without money such reviews had been pointless daydreams, but this evening they took on a comfortable solidity. Part of her was scared by the notion. If she made a mistake now, she would be back to waitressing tables for the next few decades. She had only one shot. Eighty-three thousand was a tidy sum, but it had to be made to work for her. Despite the trepidation, she was looking forward to the challenge. It marked her life's true beginning.

The sun set amid a warm scarlet glow, seeming to match Araminta's mood. By then the first customers of the evening were starting to fill up the restaurant. She left a big tip and went downstairs. Her usual routine had her walking back to Niks, maybe doing some shopping on the way, and taking the trike pod home. But there was nothing usual about this day. There was music blasting through the bar. People were leaning on the counter, ordering drinks and aerosols. Araminta glanced down at her clothes. She was wearing a sensible skirt, navy blue, that came down below her knees, and a white top with short sleeves made from a fabric that was specifically wipe-clean so that she could cope with spills. Around her, people had made an effort to smarten up for the evening; she felt slightly downmarket by comparison.

But then, who are they to judge me?

It was a liberating thought of the kind she had not entertained since leaving Langham back when the future was full of opportunity, at least in her imagination.

Araminta sidled her way up to the bar and studied the bottles and beer taps. “Green Fog, please,” she told the barman. It earned her a slightly bemused smile, but he mixed it perfectly. She drank it slowly, trying not to let the smoldering mist get up her nose. Sneezing would blow away any remaining credibility.

“Haven't seen anybody drink one of those for a while,” a man's voice said.

She turned and looked at him. He was handsome in that precise way everyone was these days, with features aligned perfectly; she guessed that meant he had been through at least a couple of rejuve treatments. Like the rest of the bar's clientele, he had dressed up, a simple gray and purple toga jacket that cloaked him in a gentle shimmer.

And he's not Laril.

“Been awhile since I was let out,” she retorted. Then she smirked at her own answer, the fact she was bold enough to say it.

“Can I get you another? I'm Jaful, by the way.”

“Araminta. And no, not a Green Fog; that's a nostalgia thing for me. What's current?”

“They say Adlier 88Vodka is going down in all the wrong places.”

She finished her Green Fog in a single gulp, tried not to grimace too hard, and pushed the empty glass across the bar. “Best start there, then.”

“Are you awake?”

Araminta stirred when she heard the question. She wasn't awake exactly, more like dozing pleasantly, content in the afterglow of a night spent in busy lovemaking. Her mind was full of a strange vision, as if she were being chased through the dark sky by an angel. Her slight movement was enough for Jaful. His hands slid up her belly to cup her breasts. “Uh,” she murmured, still drowsy as the angel dwindled. Jaful rolled her onto her front, which was confusing. Then his cock was sliding up inside her again, hard and insistent. It was not a comfortable position. Each thrust pushed her face down into the soft mattress. She wriggled to try to get into a more acceptable stance, which he interpreted as full acceptance. Heated panting became shouts of joy. Araminta cooperated as best she could; the pleasure was minimal at best.
Out of practice,
she thought, and tried not to laugh. He wouldn't understand. At least she was doing her best to make up for lost time, though. They had coupled three or four times after going back to his place.

Jaful climaxed with a happy yell. Araminta matched him.
Yep, remember how to do that bit as well.
Eighteen months with Laril had made faking orgasms automatic.

Jaful flopped onto his back and let out a long breath. He grinned at her. “Fantastic. I haven't had a night like that for a long time, if ever.”

She dropped her voice a couple of octaves. “You were good.” It was so funny, as if they were reading from a script.

Picked up in a bar. Back to his place for a one-night stand. Compliment each other. Both of them playing their part of the ritual to perfection.

But it has been fun.

“I'm going to grab a shower,” he said. “Tell the culinary unit what you want. It's got some good synthesis routines.”

“I'll do that.” She watched him stroll across the room and into the en suite. Only then did she stare in curiosity. It was a chic city bachelor pad; that much was evident by the plain yet expensive furniture and contemporary art. The wall opposite the bed was a single window covered with snow-white curtains.

Araminta started hunting for her clothes as the spore shower came on. Underwear—practical rather than sexy, she acknowledged with a sigh—close to the bed. Skirt halfway between bed and door. Her white top in the living room. She pulled it on, then looked back at the bedroom. The shower was still on. Did he always take so long, or was he sticking with the part of the script that gave her a polite opportunity to exit? She shrugged and let herself out.