Poseidon's Wake

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘I can tell this is your ship,’ he said.

  ‘I should hope so. There’ll be hell to pay if we’ve docked with someone else’s.’

  ‘The smells and colours remind me of our old house. I’d forgotten them until now. You chose everything in here, just as you did back then.’

  ‘You never had much of an opinion, Kanu. It was up to me to make the decisions.’

  There were more system check-outs to complete. Kanu could operate a ship but it was clear that Nissa had a great deal more experience than he did, especially with Fall of Night’s particular idiosyncrasies. He watched over her shoulder, weightless, as she sat buckled into the pilot’s position and reviewed status updates. Screens had petalled around her, bright with diagrams and scrolling tables of numbers as the ship roused itself to full life. Pumps whirred, fuel lines ticked, engines ran through start-up cycles.

  ‘Why don’t you go and do something useful?’ Nissa asked, twisting away from the screens to look at him. ‘Make us some chai. You’ll be on tea duty until we reach Europa.’

  Kanu obliged.

  Nissa cut in the engines for departure. They broke orbit at half a gee, then ramped up to one and a half until they were clear of UON jurisdiction.

  ‘Can you tolerate two gees?’ Nissa asked.

  ‘If I start make choking noises, you’ll know the answer.’

  The engine reached maximum sustainable output. They would be on two gees all the way to Jupiter, flipping for a thrust reversal a little more than halfway to their destination. Nissa had programmed in an aerobrake passage to shave off the rest of their speed. ‘That’ll be bumpy,’ she cautioned, ‘but no worse than those seas off Freetown.’

  At night he had the dream again. They were on the converted cyber-clipper, weathering the swell off Freetown. By the dream’s disfigured logic the stars were blazingly bright and clear overhead, even as the sea moved to the thrust and parry of storm winds. The merfolk were singing sea shanties. Nissa and Kanu lounged in deckchairs, a small table set between them. Although the ship rolled and pitched, they were still soldiering on with a game of chess.

  The game had reached a decisive moment. Kanu was about to move his knight. He reached to pick up the piece, victory in his sights. But the ship tilted and the knight began to slide across the board, square to square, even though the other pieces were curiously unaffected. Kanu tried to stop it, but his hand moved sluggishly. The knight sped to the board’s edge and toppled off. Still Kanu attempted to catch it. But the knight fell to the deck and continued its slide, out to the drainage slot cut into the ship’s gunwales. Kanu rose from the table and went to the side of the ship. He saw the knight drop into the waves. In an instant he was overboard, in the water, chasing the chess piece. It was sinking again, down into still, stormless black. Kanu could not swim fast enough to catch it. The water was thickening, resisting his passage, turning to iron.

  He watched the knight’s descent into darkness. And woke with a single phrase on his lips.

  Fall of knight.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Goma was worried, but at least she no longer had to keep her emotions to herself. News of the Watchkeeper was now public, and Goma’s apprehension was now something shared by the entire crew. The Watchkeeper had drawn a horizon across their fears, making it pointless to think beyond the next couple of days. Every other consideration – the performance of the drive, their chances of surviving skipover, the mystery around Gliese 163 – was now secondary.

  Captain Vasin called a special assembly. It was early morning by the ship’s clock and not everyone was fully awake. The night-shift technicians, on the other hand, were red-eyed with weariness and keen to return to their cabins. Goma could not help noticing that Vasin looked more tired than she had been at the start of the voyage, a dark puffiness under her eyes, a weariness in the set of her mouth.

  ‘An hour ago, I was approached by Maslin Karayan.’ She nodded at the Second Chancer, seated close to her podium. ‘Maslin wished to share his concerns about the Watchkeeper. That was his right, and I agreed to listen. Maslin – would you like to state your request now, so that there need be no ambiguity?’

  Karayan rose and stood next to the captain. ‘In the light of the Watchkeeper’s approach, I asked Captain Vasin – I mean Gandhari – to disengage the drive and make preparations for our return to Crucible.’ Despite his powerful build, he was not quite as tall as Vasin and had to cock his head when addressing her. This gave him a questioning, pugnacious look. ‘I believed it would be a prudent action, given our circumstances.’

  ‘Exactly what were your fears, Maslin?’

  ‘I wouldn’t characterise them as fears, Gandhari. Reasonable concerns, perhaps. This expedition has been years in the making and the construction of this ship has taken decades. There is no haste to make it to the other system.’ He was looking around at his audience, nodding in agreement with himself, encouraging everyone else to nod along with him. ‘A year here, a year there, it will make no difference. Until we have a better understanding of the Watchkeeper’s intentions, we should take no unnecessary chances. We have barely left our home! There would be no shame in returning now.’

  ‘No shame, and also no point,’ Vasin said. ‘If we return to Crucible, the Watchkeeper may leave us alone. But we’ll have gained nothing, and sooner or later we’ll have to try again. And then what? We’ll be back out here, having exactly this conversation.’

  ‘Always knew there was a chance this would happen—’ said Loring.

  Vasin raised a gently silencing hand. ‘I think it fair that I explain my decision to Maslin – and the rest of you. We will not be slowing, or turning around. Not while I remain in command. I have sent another transmission back to Crucible and stated my position. If our government dislikes my choice, I will turn the ship around. I will even resign, if it comes to that. But until then, we hold our course and hold our nerve.’

  ‘We should debate this,’ Karayan said. ‘Put it to the vote.’

  ‘I am not silencing debate, but this is a starship, not a democracy. We have barely begun to be tested, and already this is too much?’ Vasin shook her head in dismay and frustration, and an edge entered her voice. ‘No. We hold the line. Let the Watchkeeper do with us as it will, but we will not be cowed or intimidated. We have as much right to move through space as they do – and while my hand is on the wheel, we will exercise that right.’

  Mposi coughed gently and rose from his seat. ‘Thank you, Gandhari. And thank you, Maslin, for raising your concerns in the manner you did. We respect your right to do so and sympathise with your position. This is a difficult moment for all of us, regardless of ideology or belief. And I do not mind admitting that I am fearful of the Watchkeeper.’ He turned his hands palm up, emphasising the sincerity of this confession. ‘We would all be mad if we were not fearful. But Gandhari is right: to turn back will gain us nothing. Not a shred of new data. But if we succeed in leaving the system, we will acquire useful knowledge. And if we fail, if we are destroyed, that will also be useful knowledge to our friends back on Crucible. They have another starship. It will help them decide how best to use it.’

  ‘This was never meant to be a suicide mission,’ said Peter Grave, the young Second Chancer Goma had already spoken to.

  ‘No, but it was never without risk,’ Mposi countered. ‘We’ve all accepted that. When Nasim switched on the Chibesa drive, there was a chance of it blowing up in our faces. What were the odds, Nasim?’

  ‘One in a thousand,’ said Caspari. ‘Maybe a little worse.’

  ‘Those are not great odds! I wouldn’t bet my life on the roll of a thousand-sided dice! But we all did exactly that when we boarded this ship. And skipover – some of us won’t make it out on the other side, after one hundred and forty years. That’s a statistical certainty! Isn’t that the case, Saturnin?’

  Dr Nhamedjo smiled at Mposi’s questi
on, but he looked uncomfortable about being drawn into the argument. ‘There are risks,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, my team will be doing their utmost to minimise them – and I do not believe you could find yourselves in safer hands.’

  ‘Fine,’ Mposi went on. ‘But what if we were to run into a piece of debris at half the speed of light? Our shielding will absorb the most likely range of collisions, but it won’t protect us against a freak event. The Watchkeeper is the same – just another calculated risk.’

  ‘Sooner or later, though,’ Grave said, ‘there will be a risk that we should turn back from.’

  ‘I don’t disagree,’ answered Vasin. She waited a breath, gathering the silence she wanted. ‘I have a mission to execute, but I also have a ship and a crew to protect. Always those considerations must be balanced. That is what I do. That is what a captain is for, and why none of you really wants my job.’

  True to her word, Gandhari allowed everyone a chance to have their say. Goma sat back and held her silence, unsurprised by anything she heard. The Second Chancers were all of the opinion that turning around was the thing to do, but then again none of them thought the expedition was a good idea to begin with. Of course there were nuances within that uniformity of opinion, but nothing that altered her basic view of them. On the other hand, all the other technicians and passengers were in broad agreement with Vasin. Again there were nuances. Nasim Caspari was willing to attempt a course change, if it were deemed wise. Mposi was adamant that they should not deviate a hair’s width from their intended trajectory. Dr Nhamedjo appeared anxious to project an image of scrupulous neutrality and merely reiterated his earlier statement that the medical provisions were as good as they could possibly be.

  Ru looked bored – she just wanted the whole thing done with.

  The hours stretched, with sleep offering little respite. Everywhere Goma went, the Watchkeeper was the only subject of conversation. The commons areas, the lounges and galleys, were busier than they had been since departure, full of people trading rumour and opinion. Meanwhile, intelligence and analysis arrived from Crucible, but it brought little solace. The government had backed Captain Vasin, and that vote of confidence ought to have silenced Maslin Karayan. But the Second Chancers were still not placated. Goma saw them gathered in twos and threes muttering and whispering. She hated them for being so brazen about it, when they could easily have kept their plotting behind closed doors.

  Against all that, it was good to hear from Ndege.

  ‘I can’t be with you, daughter, and I wish it were otherwise. But you will be all right. I am sure of this.’

  How could she be sure of anything? Goma wondered.

  ‘When we were first on Crucible, the Watchkeeper took my mother into itself. When it was over, she said she felt as if she had been probed, dissected and deduced. That was the point when they would have destroyed us if they hadn’t liked what they found in Chiku Green. They knew us then, and they know us now. I have no idea whether they have our best interests in mind, or if they really care. But I do not think they fear us, not yet. I think we may be useful to them, on some level we don’t yet understand – or may never understand. But while that usefulness lasts, they won’t harm us.’

  Snakes are useful to people, Goma thought. We milk them for venom. But usefulness has its limits.

  She thanked her mother for her kind words, told her not to worry, that the mood on the ship was actually quite positive, that most people were more excited than frightened, that it was in fact something of an honour and a privilege to be offered this close-up view of one of the aliens . . .

  Ndege would know she was lying, of course. But it was the thought that counted.

  Machine eyes, spread throughout the system, tracked and imaged the Watchkeeper. Nothing on Travertine could compare with the capability of the system-wide sensor network, with its huge baselines, but even their own instruments were able to acquire a steadily sharpening picture of the approaching machine. They showed it on the walls in the commons, accompanied by a dismayingly tiny barbell-shaped silhouette which was the true size of their own ship in relation to the alien robot. Goma stared it with listless fascination. Fear was almost beside the point now. Whatever the Watchkeeper meant to do with them was surely already ordained.

  She spent time in the gym, finding that exertion was good for blanking out bad thoughts. Usually she had the place to herself, even Ru preferring a different schedule.

  One hour she arrived at the door to find Peter Grave sitting on an exercise cycle. He was finishing a programme, mopping at his brow with a towel.

  ‘Goma,’ he said, smiling. ‘At last, fate brings our orbits back together.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it fate, Peter. I’d say there aren’t enough gyms on this ship.’

  ‘Cutting.’

  ‘I’m not one for sugaring my pills. I’ll give you the time of day, but that’s as far as it goes.’

  Grave’s smile was pained. ‘If this is you giving me the time of day, I’d hate to see your idea of a cold shoulder. Are you irritated because Maslin said what we’re all feeling, and I had the temerity to agree with him?’

  ‘I expected nothing else from you.’

  ‘Whatever you think, we’re going to have to start getting along. I’ve been talking to Aiyana Loring, you know. While I’m aboard, I’d like to at least sit in on some of the scientific meetings. Aiyana says that request is reasonable.’

  A kind of dread opened up in Goma. She had come to think of the scientific gatherings as the one area of shipboard life where she would not have to put on a diplomatic face in the presence of Second Chancers.

  ‘What interest do you have in science?’

  ‘The same interest any of us has! When we reach Gliese 163, I want to feel capable of sharing in the same spirit of discovery as the rest of you. Why is that so hard for you to grasp?’

  ‘You’re with Maslin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then what else do I need to know? That makes you a believer, doesn’t it?’

  Grave climbed off the exercise cycle and threw his towel into a disposal slot. He filled a glass of water from the wall spigot and sipped quietly before answering. ‘Belief is a complex thing, Goma. We both agree that the universe is comprehensible. Where we differ is in the point of that comprehensibility. Forgive me if I sound like I’m putting words into your mouth, but you’d agree, wouldn’t you, that in your view there is no ultimate purpose to that comprehensibility – that it’s just a happy accident, a chance alignment between the laws of physics and the limits of our own sensory capabilities? Our minds come up with mathematics, and the mathematics turns out to be the right tool – the only tool, in fact – for making sense of anything? That we happen to be smart enough to figure all this out, but there’s no reward at the end of it for all that smartness? No higher truth, waiting to be illuminated? No deeper reason, no deeper purpose, no greater wisdom, no hint of a better way of being human?’

  Against her wiser judgement, she allowed herself to be drawn in. ‘And your take is?’

  ‘I cannot accept a purposeless universe. Science is a wonderful edifice of knowledge, beautiful in its self-consistency. But it cannot simply be the means to its own end. Nor is it an accident that mathematics is supremely efficient at describing the play of matter, energy and force in our universe. They fit together like hand in glove – and that cannot be coincidence. Our minds have been given science for a reason, Goma – to guide us as we progress towards an understanding of the true purpose of our own existence.’

  ‘There is no purpose, Peter.’

  He studied her with a certain shrewd detachment. ‘You say that, but do you really mean it?’

  ‘I’ll decide what I mean, thanks.’

  ‘You accept the uncanny connection between mathematics and phenomenology without question – and yet you can’t begin to admit that there might be a purpose
to that interdependence?’

  ‘I don’t need a spiritual crutch to deal with reality.’

  ‘Nor do I. But you say that you accept a purposeless universe. Deep down, though, are you sure you understand the implications of that statement?’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Then why would you even bother with science, if there is no purpose to anything?’

  ‘To understand it.’

  ‘But there would be no point to that understanding. It would be an empty, futile act – like miming in a cave.’

  ‘Maybe the point is to understand. For matter to start making sense of itself.’

  He brightened. ‘A teleological position, then. Implicit purpose in the act of the universe turning an eye on itself?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Grave conceded. ‘But something drives you to this task. The satisfaction of adding a small piece to the larger puzzle, maybe. Placing another stone in the fabric of the cathedral even though you’ll never live to see the thing finished. But would that matter if your name was enshrined, passed down through the ages?’

  ‘I don’t care about posterity.’

  ‘Then you’d be content for your work to be published anonymously? Perhaps it already is?’ He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘No, it can’t be, or else I wouldn’t have heard of it, wouldn’t have been able to read it.’

  ‘You think you know my work?’

  ‘Well enough to be impressed by your intellectual integrity.’

  If that was meant as a compliment, it had a backhanded quality that left her bristling. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Your honesty in facing up to the worst. You of all people must have wanted nothing more than to find evidence that the elephants’ cognitive decline wasn’t permanent, that it could be arrested or even reversed. Who would blame you for that? Yet you’ve done the good and noble thing – you’ve presented the data and allowed it to speak for itself. None of your strategies has made any difference to the elephants – and yet you haven’t tried to gloss over that, or to present the data in a way that suggests a more favourable outlook. That’s admirable.’