Poseidon's Wake

by Alastair Reynolds

  Technically, Goma and Ru were both subsumed into Loring’s team of specialists – they were now the resident experts on large fauna and interspecies communication. But in practice (as Mposi had assured Goma) neither would be required to answer to anyone but Gandhari. That said, Goma took an immediate liking to the elegant Loring and looked forward to contributing to the team.

  Next was Maslin Karayan, head of the twelve-member Second Chance delegation. Maslin Karayan was a bullish, barrel-chested man, bearded and patriarchal, perhaps the oldest person on the ship after Mposi. He had been close to Zanzibar when it was destroyed, narrowly avoiding death, and by all accounts took the whole incident personally.

  ‘I don’t know why she’s bothering introducing them,’ Goma said to Ru. ‘It’s not like we’ll ever need to talk to each other.’

  Ru smiled. ‘Everyone’s useful – even believers.’

  ‘Thank you, Gandhari, for your kind sentiments,’ Karayan said, sweeping the room with wide, challenging eyes set under a prominent brow. So much of his face was covered by his beard that it was hard to read his expression, which was perhaps the intention. ‘I speak for my family and friends when I say that we are very glad indeed to have assumed our place in the expedition. The hand of history lies heavy upon us, and its retribution will be merciless should we fail in any respect. We must have courage, yes –’ he was still looking around the room, his gaze settling for a moment on Goma, or so it felt to her ‘– but courage is not in itself sufficient. We must also exercise prudence and caution – those higher faculties of judgement – to the very limit of our abilities.’

  Officially they were a coalition of conservative political interests with a common desire not to repeat the errors of the past, from the Mechanism to the Mandala event. They had been instrumental in keeping Ndege under lock and key when more enlightened voices called for a relaxation in the terms of her incarceration. Unofficially, they tolerated – even encouraged – a strain of superstitious thinking which Goma considered profoundly objectionable. She had nothing against untestable belief systems per se. She just did not care to share a ship with people who subscribed to them.

  ‘God-botherers,’ she whispered.

  If Karayan heard her, no sign of it perturbed his leonine mask of a face. ‘Great challenges lie ahead of us. Scientific puzzles. Mysteries and wonders, no doubt. Temptations.’

  Goma rolled her eyes.

  ‘But with the right frame of mind, the right spirit, we may overcome our worst appetites for mere knowledge. The moderating influence of my friends may never be called upon, yet—’

  ‘You’ve won your victory by being on the ship,’ Goma said, finally unable to contain herself. ‘Now will you let someone else have their say?’

  ‘I think we can all agree,’ Mposi said, rising from his seat, ‘that these last few days have been extraordinarily taxing. Against our better nature, we may say things that we regret an instant later. Isn’t that right, Goma?’ He was looking at her with fierce intensity, as if branding his thoughts directly into her brain. ‘Isn’t that right, Goma?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, at a prod from Ru. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I accept your apology,’ Maslin Karayan said, making a tiny bow in her direction.

  ‘I would add,’ Mposi went on, ‘that I entirely echo Maslin’s sentiments. We must all do our best to act with intelligence and caution. We will be tested, I know, but I do not doubt that we have it in us to succeed.’

  ‘Mposi speaks wisely,’ Gandhari said, her voice slow and oratorical. ‘There will be challenges, certainly. But if we can avoid tearing each other limb from limb, at least for a few weeks, I think that would make for an excellent start.’ Then, with a deliberate shift in tone, she added, ‘We will remain in orbit, completing final system tests, for another five or six days. You have until then to decide your place in this expedition. From the moment I light the Chibesa drive, no force in the universe will make me turn this ship around.’

  In that promise, Goma saw, was a glint of the steel she had guessed must be there. Gandhari be damned – this was Captain Vasin in all her pomp and authority, and she was all the more magnificent for it.

  ‘I do not think,’ Mposi said, ‘that any of us will take you up on that chance to leave, Gandhari, but it is good to know it is there.’

  Their captain made a few more introductions before wishing the best for everyone, thanking the people of Crucible again and finally dismissing the assembly. ‘Go! You have a ship to explore. But don’t explore too much of it in one day – we all need to leave a few surprises for later!’

  Like all the married couples on the expedition, Goma and Ru had been given a cabin to themselves. It was a decent size, with an en suite bathroom and toilet, even a small kitchen area where they could prepare food when they did not feel like eating in the communal spaces. The walls were capable of displaying any colour or pattern, and pictures and murals summoned from the central library. Goma had already taken out the two wooden elephants Ndege had given her and set them within a low alcove.

  The room was large enough, but there was also a ship to explore. There were many levels, many sections, and not all of them would be routinely accessible. Instead of keys, Goma and Ru had bangles around their wrists which opened the doors they were allowed to use. Every crew-member’s bangle was set to allow different levels of access. Only Nasim Caspari’s technical crew were permitted anywhere near the rear sphere, and there were few good reasons for an ordinary passenger to enter the connecting spine. But this still left hundreds of rooms and bays to explore, some of them as large as any enclosed space Goma had known on Crucible.

  The Knowledge Room quickly became one of her favourite haunts. She quickly began to feel a claim on its territory, especially as it was not often visited by Ru or the other crew-members. Perhaps that would change when they were under way, but for now it was hers. The room itself was a circular chamber, the centre of which was occupied by a well-shaped projection device. The device was about four metres across, walled around by an opaque material and virtually filled to the brim with a level transparent substance.

  Beneath the surface of the well – embedded in the transparent matrix – floated a representation of their current total knowledge of the Gliese 163 system. In its neutral state, the display had the form of an orrery, with the star at the middle and its family of worlds ticking around on their orbital paths. Much was known about the star, but then stars were simple things, their physical natures dependent on only a handful of parameters – mass, metallicity, age. The essential nature of Gliese 163 had been common knowledge for over half a millennium.

  Worlds were a different matter, however, their histories contingent on a billion random factors. They did not fit into neat categories; they did not readily disclose their secrets, especially across many light-years. All of the larger worlds in the Gliese 163 system had been studied from Earth’s solar system using the swarm of telescopes called Ocular. Ocular data had proven the existence of Mandala and sent the first wave of holoships on their way.

  But that data had been deliberately tainted, and when people eventually learned the truth, they tore Ocular apart in their fury and fear. Nothing like it had been constructed since, in any solar system. That said, the data was still archived and available for analysis. Goma was given to understand that it had been cleansed of any bias, intentional or otherwise.

  Gliese 163 was nearly twice as far from Earth as Crucible so the images were never going to be as sharp. Crucible had also been observed more intently over a longer period of time, allowing for data to be synthesised across many planetary rotations and season cycles. No such effort had been expended on the more distant system since there had been no reason to expect any benefits from such extended study. The planetary globes looked sharp enough, delicately jewelled marbles, but when Goma pushed her hand into the image – feeling the cold suck of the membrane as it slid over her fin
gers and up her wrist – she could conjure any of the planets or moons to a much larger size and pluck them out of the well like apples, at which point the fuzzy nature of the data became very obvious.

  Near the star, for instance, was something the annotation labelled a ‘superterran waterworld’ called Poseidon. It was the second world out from Gliese 163, and the first that was habitable by any stretch of the definition.

  They knew the size of this planet and could infer its surface conditions and predict the make-up of its atmosphere even from a distance, but none of its features was sharp. ‘Habitable’ was also a relative term. Poseidon was hot – its coolest areas were equivalent to the warmest parts of Crucible – and its surface gravity was half as strong again. On its ocean-covered surface, conditions would be near the upper limit for the long-term viability of multicellular creatures, although that did not preclude the existence of extremophile organisms. There was oxygen in the atmosphere, so presumably some form of photosynthesis was occurring in or on the ocean, and since the planet had apparently escaped a runaway greenhouse effect, there must be thermal-regulatory mechanisms in play, keeping the atmosphere from turning into an incinerating furnace. While humans could endure such an environment for a short period, it was no place to consider making a home.

  There were gas giants and smaller, rockier worlds in orbits circular and eccentric, some close to Gliese 163, some much further out. Since no hard data was available on the gas giants’ moons, it was difficult to say whether they might have any connection with the signal. Goma thought it more likely that the answer might lie with one of the terrestrial planets – worlds with names like Paladin and Orison. They moved in small, circular orbits – this was a very compact solar system. But there was little or no data on them or such moons as they might possess, or on the many smaller bodies orbiting Gliese 163.

  The well, Goma knew, was actually a soup of nanomachines. When her fingers closed around a marble, the well sensed her intention and organised its resources – the Knowledge itself – to produce a ‘solid’ image, a ball composited from nanomachines at a much higher density than those in the transparent matrix. When she hauled her glowing prize from the well, the machines making up the sphere were reflecting the horizon of human knowledge at that moment in time. She could tear away a rind of crust, expose the best-guess for the planetary interior – cherry-red core or stone-dead, nonmagnetic heart.

  But the nanomachines guarded themselves jealously and the prize was as ephemeral as a fairy-tale gift. Even as she held it in her hand, the machines began to seep through her grip, back into the pool. If she tried to take her prize beyond the limit of the device’s rim, the globe would collapse into liquid and drain away in a gush of colour. There was no harm in trying to beat it, and she tried again and again, hoping to hold a tatter of a world in her palm. But it was to no avail, for the machines were swifter than thought.

  It pleased Goma that no one else appeared to be interested in the Knowledge Room – at least not yet. She enjoyed tossing the worlds back into the well, watching them shrink and return to their proper orbits. Which of these planets or moons, she wondered, had sent the signal to her mother? No one knew.

  Exiting the room after one visit, she saw two men come bustling along the corridor on which it was situated. Both were Second Chancers, obvious from their dark red clothing. It was not quite a uniform – the styles varied from Chancer to Chancer – but close enough to convey a sense of kinship and shared purpose. One of the men was the burly, bearded Karayan, the other a younger and slighter man.

  Goma desired no contact with these people, so her first instinct was to duck back into the Knowledge Room. But that would have been far too obvious and cowardly a gambit. She decided to brazen it out – they were going to keep bumping into each other, after all.

  ‘Ah,’ said the bearded man. ‘The redoubtable Goma. Could you not have stayed your tongue, at least for the duration of Gandhari’s introduction?’

  ‘I said what was on my mind.’

  ‘Yes, we noticed.’ Maslin Karayan’s eyes narrowed at her from beneath his formidable brow. ‘Crucible is a democracy, in case you didn’t realise. And we are aboard this ship by mutual consent – as entitled to our places as you or any of the other scientists.’

  ‘I didn’t say you weren’t.’

  ‘You also made no secret of your ill-feelings,’ Karayan said.

  ‘I’m entitled to them,’ Goma said, feeling a certain shameful thrill in her own studied belligerence.

  The younger man had been silent until now. He had a pale complexion and a mop of blond hair which sat on his scalp in tight curls, save for a cowlick covering half his forehead.

  ‘Do you really hate us that much, Goma? Just because we have a slightly different set of values from your own?’

  ‘I must go on ahead and meet my wife,’ Karayan told the other man. ‘I will see you at the evening gathering, Peter.’

  ‘Thank you, Maslin.’

  Karayan touched a big hand to the younger man’s shoulder and proceeded down the corridor, leaving Goma alone with the man named Peter.

  ‘I’m not stopping you from leaving,’ Goma said.

  The man smiled, although there was more sadness than amusement in his expression. ‘I am Peter Grave, for what it’s worth. Yes, I’m a Second Chancer and I respect Maslin, but I’m also hoping you and I might become friends, at least while we’re stuck inside this ship.’

  ‘Why would you want that?’

  ‘Because I admire you. Because I know what you did, to spare your mother from this.’

  ‘The last thing I want to hear is a Second Chancer talking about my mother.’

  ‘Ours is a broad alliance. Not everyone holds Ndege to the same accountability.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think there are always grounds for forgiveness.’

  ‘Then you’re wrong. My mother didn’t need forgiveness. Forgiveness is only required when you commit a crime.’

  ‘And your mother’s deeds don’t count as a crime?’

  ‘She was trying to do something good.’

  ‘I don’t dispute that, but good deeds alone can’t excuse mistakes that kill hundreds of thousands of people.’ Grave offered her the palms of his hands. ‘Look, the last thing I want is to get into all that. I just feel that if we can at least agree to rub along together, it’s going to make life a lot easier for all of us. Maslin’s not such an ogre, you know – none of us is.’

  ‘Do you believe in a god, Peter Grave?’

  ‘My beliefs or otherwise don’t lend themselves to simple answers.’

  ‘That’s a yes, then.’

  ‘You are doing me a disservice, Goma.’ He averted his eyes, looking regretful. ‘Honestly, I was hoping for better from you. Open-mindedness, a willingness to accept differing viewpoints—’

  ‘There’s only one viewpoint.’

  ‘The infallible wisdom of science?’

  ‘Call it what you like.’

  ‘It might surprise you to know that I’m a great admirer of science. I’ve even read some of your work.’

  ‘I suppose it helps to know your enemy.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ At last he raised a surrendering hand. ‘Never mind. Point made. Point very excellently made. I’m sorry I detained you – sorry one of us wasn’t ready to begin building a bridge. You’re wrong, though – wrong about me, wrong about all of us. I just hope it doesn’t take the rest of the voyage for you to see your way past your prejudice.’

  Goma blinked in surprise. ‘I’m the prejudiced one?’

  But Peter Grave was already easing past her. ‘Goodbye, Goma Akinya.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kanu had been travelling on Earth for a week by the time he reached Lisbon. That time seemed improbably full of incident: the visit to the grieving Dalals, the airship flight across the Ara
bian sea, the warm reception in the aqualogy, his dismay at the plight of his old friend Leviathan. With his obligation to the Dalals discharged, and having paid a courtesy visit to the merfolk, he at last felt that he could afford to slow down and spend some time in one place. Finding lodgings had taken the better part of a day; now, rested – and no longer finding Earth’s light and gravity quite so burdensome as when he had first arrived – Kanu had no grand plans for his day beyond a trip to the quayside and a visit to an art show. He set out in a water taxi, a buzzing electric thing that conveyed him and a handful of fellow travellers the short distance to the concrete jetty, built around the feet of a Provider robot.

  The towering, crane-sized robot had been there since the Mechanism fell, still poised halfway out into the Tagus River, where it was working at the time. Much too vast to move or economically dismantle, it now formed a permanent if unintentional sculptural installation. Accepting the inevitable, the city had put a landing deck on top of the Provider and jetties around its feet, then run elevators and staircases up the inside of its tripedal legs. Within its body and the bulges of its limbs’ articulation points, thousands of tonnes of useless machinery had been torn out to make way for multi-purpose event spaces. It was here, inside the Provider, that one of the most significant Sunday Akinya retrospectives in recent years was taking place.

  Kanu had bought a ticket and joined the line on the jetty waiting for the elevators. Despite his diplomatic status on Mars and the link between his name and artist’s, he was no kind of celebrity on Earth. He moved through Lisbon in blissful obscurity, barely attracting a second glance. If he was noticed at all, it was only because merfolk always drew a certain amount of attention wherever they went. He had dressed in simple clothes, slung a shabby second-hand satchel over his shoulder and bolstered his anonymity with a pair of antique sunglasses. He was not even the only African-Aquatic in the line.

  He entered the cool of the lift, which carried him up the leg to the exhibition level. He lingered in the windowed entrance lobby for a few moments, enjoying the view of Lisbon from this elevated vantage point. There was nothing to rival it anywhere in the city itself, and as he traced the maze of streets and squares around his pension, he felt the slow uncoiling of old spatial memories. Many years had passed since his last visit, but Lisbon was like the sea. It could change, and change again, yet in its eternal changefulness, the city would never be entirely unfamiliar to him.