Read Online The Dreaming Void by Peter F. Hamilton - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter F. Hamilton
Ads: Link
after him, a simple ovoid just over a meter high. It extruded Rosaâs milk bulb through its neutral gray skin. Both he and his wife, Lizzie, hated the idea of a machine, even one as sophisticated as the housebot, caring for the child, so he settled her on his lap in the big chair at the side of the crib and started feeding her out of the bulb. Rosa smiled adoringly around the nozzle and squirmed deeper into his embrace. The housebot extended a hose that attached to the outlet patch on her sleepsuitâs diaper and siphoned away the nightâs wee. Rosa waved contentedly at the housebot as it glided out of the nursery.
âGoobi,â she cooed, and resumed drinking.
âGoodbye,â the Delivery Man corrected her. At seventeen months, Rosa had a vocabulary that was just starting to develop. The biononic organelles in her cells were effectively inactive other than reproducing themselves to supplement her new cells as she grew. Extensive research had shown that it was best for a Higher-born human to follow natureâs original development schedule until about puberty. After that the biononics could be used as intended; one of their functions was to modify the body however the host wanted. He still wasnât sure that was such a good idea; handing teenagers unrestrained power over their own physiology frequently led to serious self-inflicted blunders. He always remembered the time when he was fourteen and had a terrible crush on a seventeen-year-old girl. He had tried to âimproveâ his genitals. It had taken five hugely embarrassing trips to a biononic procedures doctor to sort out the painful abnormal growths.
When Rosa finished, he carried her downstairs. He and Lizzie lived in a classic Georgian town house in Londonâs Holland Park district. It had been restored three hundred years before, using modern techniques to preserve as much of the old fabric as possible without having to resort to stabilizer fields. Lizzie had overseen the interior when they moved in, blending a tasteful variety of furniture and utility systems that dated from the mid-twentieth century right up to the twenty-seventh, when ANAâs replication facilities effectively halted human design on Earth. Two spacious subbasements had been added, giving them an indoor swimming pool and a health spa, along with the tanks and ancillary systems that supplied the culinary cabinet and household replicator.
He took Rosa into the large iron-framed conservatory where her toys were stored in big wicker baskets. February had produced its usual icy morning outside, sending broad patterns of frost worming up the outside of the glass. For now, the only true splash of color to enjoy in the garden came from the winter-flowering cherries on the curving bank behind the frozen fishpond.
When Lizzie came downstairs an hour later, she found him and Rosa playing with glow blocks on the conservatoryâs heated flagstone floor. Tilly, who was seven, and Elsie, their five-year-old, followed their mother in and shouted happily at their younger sister, who ran over to them with outstretched arms, babbling in her own incomprehensible yet excited language. The three girls started to build a tower out of the blocks; the higher they stacked, the faster the colors swirled.
He gave Lizzie a quick kiss and ordered the culinary cabinet to produce some breakfast. Lizzie sat at the circular wooden table in the kitchen. An antiquities and culture specialist, she enjoyed the old-fashioned notion of a room specifically for cooking. Even though there was no need for it, sheâd had a hefty iron range cooker installed when they had moved in ten years earlier. During winter its cozy warmth turned the kitchen into the houseâs engine room, and they always gathered there as a family. Sometimes she even used the range to cook things that she and the girls made out of ingredients produced by the culinary cabinet. Tillyâs birthday cake had been the
âGoobi,â she cooed, and resumed drinking.
âGoodbye,â the Delivery Man corrected her. At seventeen months, Rosa had a vocabulary that was just starting to develop. The biononic organelles in her cells were effectively inactive other than reproducing themselves to supplement her new cells as she grew. Extensive research had shown that it was best for a Higher-born human to follow natureâs original development schedule until about puberty. After that the biononics could be used as intended; one of their functions was to modify the body however the host wanted. He still wasnât sure that was such a good idea; handing teenagers unrestrained power over their own physiology frequently led to serious self-inflicted blunders. He always remembered the time when he was fourteen and had a terrible crush on a seventeen-year-old girl. He had tried to âimproveâ his genitals. It had taken five hugely embarrassing trips to a biononic procedures doctor to sort out the painful abnormal growths.
When Rosa finished, he carried her downstairs. He and Lizzie lived in a classic Georgian town house in Londonâs Holland Park district. It had been restored three hundred years before, using modern techniques to preserve as much of the old fabric as possible without having to resort to stabilizer fields. Lizzie had overseen the interior when they moved in, blending a tasteful variety of furniture and utility systems that dated from the mid-twentieth century right up to the twenty-seventh, when ANAâs replication facilities effectively halted human design on Earth. Two spacious subbasements had been added, giving them an indoor swimming pool and a health spa, along with the tanks and ancillary systems that supplied the culinary cabinet and household replicator.
He took Rosa into the large iron-framed conservatory where her toys were stored in big wicker baskets. February had produced its usual icy morning outside, sending broad patterns of frost worming up the outside of the glass. For now, the only true splash of color to enjoy in the garden came from the winter-flowering cherries on the curving bank behind the frozen fishpond.
When Lizzie came downstairs an hour later, she found him and Rosa playing with glow blocks on the conservatoryâs heated flagstone floor. Tilly, who was seven, and Elsie, their five-year-old, followed their mother in and shouted happily at their younger sister, who ran over to them with outstretched arms, babbling in her own incomprehensible yet excited language. The three girls started to build a tower out of the blocks; the higher they stacked, the faster the colors swirled.
He gave Lizzie a quick kiss and ordered the culinary cabinet to produce some breakfast. Lizzie sat at the circular wooden table in the kitchen. An antiquities and culture specialist, she enjoyed the old-fashioned notion of a room specifically for cooking. Even though there was no need for it, sheâd had a hefty iron range cooker installed when they had moved in ten years earlier. During winter its cozy warmth turned the kitchen into the houseâs engine room, and they always gathered there as a family. Sometimes she even used the range to cook things that she and the girls made out of ingredients produced by the culinary cabinet. Tillyâs birthday cake had been the
Similar Books
