Praise for The Map of Time
“A brilliant and breathtaking trip.”
—Scott Westerfeld, New York Times best-selling author of Leviathan
“A singularly inventive, luscious story with a core of pure, unsettling weirdness. With unnerving grace and disturbing fantasy, it effortlessly straddles that impossible line between being decidedly familiar, and yet absolutely new.”
—Cherie Priest, author of Boneshaker
“Palma makes his U.S. debut with the brilliant first in a trilogy, an intriguing thriller that explores the ramifications of time travel in three intersecting narratives.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Readers who embark on the journey . . . will be richly rewarded.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Lyrical storytelling and a rich attention to detail make this prize-winning novel an enthralling read.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Palma is a master of ingenious plotting.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A big genre-bending delight.”
—The Washington Post
“Palma uses the basic ingredients of steampunk—fantasy, mystery, ripping adventure, and Victorian-era high tech—to marvelous effect.”
—The Seattle Times
“A thought-provoking and entertaining read.”
—The Boston Globe
Praise for The Map of the Sky
“The unreal becomes real, fantasy becomes history, and the reader is thoroughly entertained by an unending parade of bafflements and surprises. This book is a complete delight.”
—K. W. Jeter, author of Infernal Devices
“A top-notch sequel . . . Fans of intelligent science fiction as well as historical thrillers will be rewarded.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The wondrous Palma genre-hops to great effect in this worthy sequel.”
—Booklist
“The Map of the Sky keeps the reader guessing, checking, and thinking, all the while providing many sidelights on the literary history of sci-fi itself.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“A cross-genre masterpiece.”
—Associated Press
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CONTENTS
EPIGRAPH
WELCOME
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART TWO
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART THREE
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
To my parents and their literary work, whose pages continue to grow.
DO I BELIEVE IN GHOSTS? NO, BUT I’M AFRAID OF THEM.
—Marquise du Deffand
IF WE COULD SOMEHOW CONTROL THESE PROBABILITIES, ONE COULD PERFORM FEATS THAT WOULD BE INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM MAGIC.
—Michio Kaku, Parallel Worlds
LORD KNOWS WHAT IT WAS THAT I DREAMED, EEXPERIENCED, AND THEN DREAMED ONCE MORE, UNTIL I AM NO LONGER ABLE TO TELL DREAM AND REALITY APART.
—Eric Rücker Eddison, The Worm Ouroboros
WELCOME, DEAR READER, AS YOU PLUNGE INTO THE PAGES OF OUR FINAL MELODRAMA, WHERE FRESH ADVENTURES AWAIT YOU EVEN MORE ASTONISHING THAN THE LAST!
BEFORE EMBARKING UPON THIS STORY, BE SURE TO GO TO THE END OF THE BOOK, WHERE YOU WILL FIND THE CAST OF CHARACTERS WHO WILL ACCOMPANY YOU.
IF TIME TRAVEL AND MARTIAN INVASIONS WERE NOT ENOUGH TO QUICKEN YOUR PULSE, YOU ARE INVITED TO VENTURE INTO A WORLD INHABITED BY GHOSTS AND OTHER MONSTERS OF THE MIND.
YOU MAY WISH TO RECONSIDER BEFORE READING ON. HOWEVER, IT IS MY DUTY TO WARN YOU THAT IF YOU LOSE COURAGE, YOU WILL NEVER DISCOVER WHAT LIES BEYOND THE WORLD YOU THINK YOU KNOW.
PROLOGUE
THE DEBATE WAS DUE TO commence in fifteen minutes when they glimpsed the Palace of Knowledge silhouetted against the golden canvas of twilight. The tiled domes of the vast edifice, soaring above the pointed rooftops of the London skyline, fragmented the sun’s last rays into myriad shimmering reflections. Bloated zeppelins, aerostats, ornithopters, and winged cabriolets circled around like a swarm of insects, bobbing amidst the clouds. In one of those very carriages, gliding majestically toward the building, sat the eminent biologist Herbert George Wells, accompanied by his lovely wife. Or should I say, his intelligent, dazzlingly beautiful wife.
At that moment, the biologist looked down from his window. An agitated crowd thronged the narrow streets that snaked between the lofty towers studded with stained glass windows, and connected by suspension bridges. Gentlemen in top hats and capes prattled to one another through their communication gloves, ladies walked their mechanical dogs, children whizzed by on electric roller skates, and long-legged automatons made their way through the torrent of people, stepping over them with calculated agility as they went diligently about their errands. From the waters of the Thames, gilded by the sunset, tiny Nautiluses manufactured by Verne Industries would occasionally rise to the surface, like globefish, to disgorge their passengers on both banks of the river. However, as they drew closer to where the palace stood in South Kensington, the teeming anthill appeared to be moving in one direction. Everyone knew that the most important debate to be held in the Palace of Knowledge in the last ten years was taking place that evening. Just then, as if to remind the ornithopter’s passengers, a mechanical bird flew by announcing the event with pompous enthusiasm before gliding toward the nearest building, where it continued its refrain perched on a gargoyle head.
Inside the flying machine, Wells took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself and wiped his clammy hands on his trouser legs.
“Do you think his hands are sweating as well?” he asked Jane.
“Of course, Bertie. He has as much invested in this as you. Besides, we mustn’t forget that his problem makes it—”
“What problem? Oh, come now, Jane!” Wells interrupted. “He’s been seeing the best speech therapist in the kingdom for years. It’s high time we stopped thinking he has a problem.”
As though considering the matter closed, Wells settled back in his seat and gazed absentmindedly at the rows of sunflower houses colonizing Hyde Park, turning on their pillars in search of the sun’s last rays. He wasn’t going to admit to Jane that his rival suffered from that insidious problem (which, if necessary, he fully intended to make use of), for if the
man trounced him, his defeat would be doubly shameful. But Wells wasn’t going to fail. Whether or not the old man had his little problem under control, Wells outstripped him as a speaker. If he gave an inspired performance that evening, he would beat the old man hands down, and even if he didn’t he would still triumph. Wells was slightly concerned that his opponent might win the public over with some of the syllogisms he used to spice up his rhetoric. However, Wells trusted the audience would not be blinded by a vulgar fireworks display.
Wells smiled to himself. He truly believed that his was the most significant generation to have walked the Earth, for, unlike those that had gone before, his held the future of the human race in its hands. Right or wrong, the decisions it made would reverberate through the centuries to come. Wells couldn’t hide his enthusiasm at belonging to this exhilarating period of human history, when the world’s salvation was to be decided. If all went well, that evening his name might be recorded for all time in the annals of History.
“It isn’t vanity that makes me want to win, Jane,” he suddenly said to his wife. “It is simply that I believe my theory is correct, and we can’t waste time proving his.”
“I know, dear. You are many things to me, but I have never thought of you as vain,” she fibbed. “If only there were sufficient funding to back both projects. Having to choose between them is risky. If we’re mistaken—”
Jane broke off in mid-sentence, and Wells said nothing more. His was the winning theory, he was certain of that. Although there were times, especially certain nights as he observed the lights of the city through his study window, when he wondered whether finally they weren’t all mistaken; whether his world, where the quest for Knowledge controlled everything, really was the best of all possible worlds. During those moments of weakness, as he referred to them in the cold light of day, he toyed with the idea that Ignorance was preferable to Knowledge. It might have been better to allow Nature and her laws to remain shrouded in darkness, to carry on believing that comets heralded the death of kings, and dragons still dwelled in unmapped territories . . . But the Church of Knowledge, the sole religion on the planet, whose Holy See was in London, brought together philosophy, theology, politics, and the sciences in a single discipline. It ruled men’s lives from the moment they were born, encouraging them to decipher the Creator’s work, to discover its components. It even compelled them to solve the riddle of their own existence. Under the Church’s auspices, man had transformed the quest for Knowledge into his reason for being, and, in his eagerness to unravel each of the mysteries that made the universe beautiful, he had ended up peeping behind the curtain. Perhaps they were now simply paying the price for their recklessness.
A red carpet had been rolled out in front of the palace doors, and on either side a noisy crowd was brandishing every sort of placard while a dozen bobbies tried to contain their fervor. Since its construction, the cathedralesque building had been the stage of great symposia regarding the dimensions of the universe, the origins of time, or the existence of the super-atom, all legendary debates whose most memorable phrases and parries had passed into common usage. The ornithopter circled the palace towers, hovering for a moment before alighting on a clear area of street cordoned off for that purpose. The cleaner-spiders had made the windows gleam, and the mechanical pelicans had devoured the garbage in the gutters, leaving that part of the city spotless and crying out to be sullied anew. When the ornithopter had finally landed, a liveried automaton went to hold open the door for its occupants. Before stepping out, Wells glanced at Jane with a look of combined resolve and fear; she responded with a reassuring smile. The crowd burst into a unanimous roar of jubilation as he emerged from the vehicle. Wells could hear shouts of encouragement mixed with the booing of his rival’s supporters. With Jane on his arm, he crossed the gauntlet that was the red carpet, following the automaton and waving to the public as he tried hard to project the serenity of one who considers himself far superior to his opponent.
They walked through the portal, which bore an inscription in huge bronze lettering: “Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.” Once inside, the automaton led them along a narrow corridor to a dressing room and then offered to take Jane to the VIP box. It was time for them to part. Jane went over to Wells and straightened his tie.
“Don’t worry, Bertie. You’re going to be fine.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he mumbled.
They closed their eyes and gently joined foreheads for a few seconds, each honoring the other’s mind. After that intimate gesture, with which couples conveyed how necessary and enlightening the other’s company was for them in their collective journey toward Knowledge, Jane looked straight at her husband.
“Best of luck, my dear,” she told him before declaring: “Chaos is inevitable.”
“Chaos is inevitable,” Wells repeated diligently.
He wished he could leave his wife with the slogan used in his parents’ day: “We are what we know,” which so faithfully summed up the aspirations of their generation. However, since the discovery of the dreadful fate that awaited the universe, the Church had imposed this new slogan to raise awareness that the end was nigh.
After saying good-bye, Jane followed the automaton to the VIP box. As Wells watched her walk away, he admired yet again the miraculous sequence of genes that had created this woman, slender and lovely as a Dresden figurine, a sequence he had been unable to resist secretly unraveling in his laboratory, despite feeling that there was something oddly obscene about reducing his wife to an abstract jumble of facts and formulas. Before she disappeared at the end of the corridor, Jane gave him a final smile of encouragement, and the biologist experienced a sudden desire to kiss his wife’s lips. He instantly chastised himself. A kiss? What was he thinking? That gesture had long been obsolete, ever since the Church of Knowledge deemed it unproductive and subversive. Gloomily, he resolved to examine his response at length once the debate was over. The Church encouraged people from an early age to analyze everything, including their feelings, to map out their inner selves and learn to repress any emotion that wasn’t useful or easily controlled. It wasn’t that love, or passion, or friendship was forbidden. Love of books or a passion for research was heartily approved of, provided the mind was in charge. But love between two people could take place only under strict surveillance. It was possible to abandon oneself freely to love (indeed, the Church encouraged young people to mate in order to perpetuate the species), but it was also necessary to spend time analyzing love, examining its hidden motives, drawing diagrams of it and comparing them with those of a partner, presenting regular reports on love’s origin, evolution, and inconsistencies to the local parish priest, who would help scrutinize those treacherous emotions until they could be understood, for understanding was what made it possible to control everything. And yet, none of those emotions survived such scrutiny. The more you understood them, the fainter they became, like a dream fading as you try to recall it.
Wells couldn’t help admiring the Church of Knowledge’s ingenious solution to this thorny issue. By insisting love be understood, it had created the perfect vaccine against love. Prohibiting love would have elevated it, made it more desirable, capable of fomenting uprisings, wars, and acts of revenge. In short, it would have brought about another Dark Era, which would only have stood in the way of progress. And what would have become of them then? Would they have gotten that far had they allowed their feelings to govern them? Would they have amassed all that Knowledge, which as things stood might prove their only route to salvation? Wells didn’t think so. He was convinced that the key to the survival of the species lay in the judicious act of bridling mankind’s emotional impulses, unshackling humans from their feelings just as thousands of years before they had been freed from their instincts. Yet there were times, when he watched Jane sleeping, that he couldn’t stop himself from having doubts. Contemplating the placid abandon of her lovely face, the extreme fragility of her body momentarily depri
ved of the admirable personality that infused it with life, he would wonder whether the path to salvation and the path to happiness were one and the same.
Brushing aside these thoughts, he entered the dressing room, the tiny space where he must spend the last few minutes before walking out onstage. He stood in the middle of the room, choosing not to sit on any of the chairs. The door opposite led to the auditorium. Through it filtered the excited roars of the crowd and the voice of Abraham Frey, the celebrated moderator, who at that moment was welcoming the various dignitaries attending the event. Soon they would announce his name, and he would have to go out onto the stage. Wells ruefully contemplated the right-hand wall. He knew that on the other side of it, in the adjoining dressing room, his rival was doubtless listening to the cries of the audience resounding through the amphitheater with the same feigned determination.
Then Wells heard his name and the door opened, inviting him to abandon his sanctuary. He took a deep breath and strode forth onto the back of the stage. Seeing him, the crowd burst into feverish applause. A couple of the recording orbs floating above the auditorium whirled over and began circling him. Wells raised his hands in greeting as he gave his most serene smile, imagining it being reproduced on the communication screens in millions of homes. He walked over to his lectern, which bore the stem of a voice enhancer, and spread his hands over its surface. One of the spotlights located above the stage bathed his puny figure in a golden glow. Five or six yards to his right, his opponent’s lectern stood empty. While acknowledging the applause, the biologist took the opportunity to examine the stalls, separated from him by the pit, where a mechanical orchestra had started to play an evocative melody. Music creates order out of chaos, he thought, recalling the words of a famous violinist who had received the Church’s blessing. Amidst the audience, Wells noticed banners and signs sporting his image as well as some of his famous sayings. Up above the rows of seats, beneath an enormous pennant with an eight-pointed star emerging from two concentric circles, Queen Victoria sat on her wheeled throne, in which she traveled everywhere of late. Next to her, on a less sumptuous throne, sat Cardinal Violet Tucker, the highest authority in the Church of Knowledge, who would preside over the debate. Her entourage sat in a cluster on her left, a flock of bishops and deacons with stern, embittered faces, who, together with the cardinal, made up the Budgetary Commission. That gaunt old lady, dressed in a black robe with gold silk buttons, and a sash and beret likewise gold, the color of Knowledge, would ultimately decide his fate. Wells noticed the goblet cupped in her right hand, which if the rumors were correct contained her anti-cancer medicine. On either side of the theater stood the boxes reserved for the authorities and prominent attendees, most notably Jules Verne, the French entrepreneur; Clara Shelley, the heiress to Prometheus Industries, a leading manufacturer of automatons; and various members of the scientific community. Wells could see Jane in the VIP box. She was talking to Doctor Pleasance, the wife of his rival, a handsome woman of about forty who, like Jane, worked as project director in her husband’s laboratory.
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