Poseidon's Wake (15 page)

‘First,’ Goma said, trying to keep her voice as level as possible, ‘she wasn’t “poking”. She was conducting a structured scientific investigation based on a profound theoretical breakthrough in the understanding of the Mandala grammar. Second, I didn’t ask for a deep, meaningful conversation about my ancestors.’

‘Ah, and there was me thinking we’d turned a page.’

‘Don’t hold your breath.’

‘Regardless of what you think of me, I honestly admire what your grandmother did for us. All of us do – every human being on Crucible. Chiku’s martyrdom —’

‘Don’t put martyrdom on her – she deserves better than that.’

‘You speak as if she might still be alive.’

‘No one’s proved that she isn’t.’

‘Someone sent this message to us. No one would blame you for presuming a family connection. But it
has
been a very long time, Goma.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘I know many of us were alive at the time of the first landing, but your grandmother was already old by then.’ For a few seconds, Grave studied the alien machine, some of its holy blue radiance anointing his face. If it had not been so dark in the room she would never have tolerated him being so close to her. ‘I hope you find answers, anyway. I meant everything I said to you, when we first met. I do have great respect for your work.’

‘So you say.’

‘Believe me, Goma – nothing’s as black and white as you think. Our feelings towards the elephants are much more complex than you imagine. We regret what they were, we regret the mistake of them, but we also mourn for what became of them.’

‘Hate the sin but not the sinner?’

‘If you wish to put it in those terms. It was a terrible day, in any case – a stain on our collective history. Yet Mandala’s retribution could have been much more severe.’

‘You think this was about retribution? That Mandala was somehow acting
against
the Tantors?’

‘The facts are all we have,’ Grave replied. ‘Mandala was provoked, Mandala acted, and the uplifted elephants ceased to exist. I make no inferences. It is up to each and every one of us to draw such conclusions as we see fit.’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Goma said, after a silence. ‘I was starting to think I might be able to stand being in the same room as you, let alone the same ship. I was wrong.’

‘And I am very sorry that we cannot find common ground.’

‘There isn’t any. There never will be.’

She was speaking when the blue radiance increased its intensity by many factors. There was barely time to react, barely time for anyone in the room to do more than draw breath. Goma had an impression, no more than that, of the gaps in the Watchkeeper’s layered, armour-like plating opening up, the way a pine cone changed with the weather, permitting more of its internal blue glow to gush out into space. And then it was gone – not just the blue glow, but the entire alien machine.

It had simply disappeared.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kanu was unsettled. While Nissa slept, her ship operating itself, he made his way from window to window, pausing at each to survey his reflection – the cabin lights were dim but not totally off – and attempt to convince himself that he had not begun to slip into madness. What he saw in the reflection was the face of a profoundly troubled man with a desperate, searching stare in his eyes – as if the face in the glass expected answers of him, the man least capable of giving them.

He thought about what happened to him on Mars and everything he had been through since – the deaths of his colleagues, his own recuperation, the end of his political career. It would have been odd if he did not look troubled, like a man cast adrift from every certainty. But there was more to it than that, and as much as he tried to rationalise, he could not find a way to explain what he had dreamed. He had not known the name of her ship until she told him. So how was it possible that it had been prefigured during his dreams on Mars, when he never had the slightest intention of recontacting Nissa Mbaye?

Coincidence, he tried telling himself. His dreams had contained a set of random symbols, the senseless output of his subconscious mind, and by chance they gained an uncanny significance now that he knew the name of her ship. Had the name been different, he would never have returned to the content of those dreams – of him and Swift playing chess in heaving seas.

But that explanation was not sufficient. He felt that the symbolic connection was significant – a true portent of what was to come. Since he did not believe in precognition, that left an even less-palatable possibility: he must have known about Nissa’s ship somehow before he even left Mars.

And yet he had no recollection of thinking about her – and certainly no foreknowledge of her ship’s name. Could he have been thinking of Nissa, and her ship, and somehow misplaced the memory?

He thought back to Lisbon, to that moment of surprise when he recognised first her voice, and then her face. That memory was much closer to the present than his confused and episodic recollections of Mars. He could still see the sunlight in the gallery, the faces of the students gathered around Nissa, the strokes of their sketches. He could bring to mind the exact texture of the pastries they had shared in the upstairs café, when they had got over the shock of meeting. The shock had been genuine – he had faked none of it.

But something did not tally.

There was still the odd coincidence of their meeting in the first place. Life threw up its share of chance encounters, that was true. But to suddenly take an interest in his grandmother’s art and almost immediately stumble upon his ex-wife at the first exhibition he visited? He had been ready to put it down to caprice until now, but was it possible that their meeting had been intentional all along?

Kanu tore himself away from the reflection. None of this was helping. It was just sending his thoughts down ever-tightening spirals of paranoia and self-doubt. He had to trust himself. There had been no ulterior motive on his part.

He was sure of that.

His movements stirred Nissa. He was trying to be as quiet as he could, but it was her ship and her sleeping senses must have been acutely attuned to the presence of another human being.

‘What is it?’ she asked, laying a soft hand on his cheek. ‘You’re sweating like you’re running a fever. Shall I turn down the cabin temperature?’

‘I don’t think it’s that.’

‘Something’s bothering you. Bad dreams? No one’s going to blame you for having flashbacks, Kanu – not after what happened.’

‘I’m all right.’

They went up front. Nissa made warm chocolate for them both and insisted Kanu clear his head before returning to bed. She put on some music – an early recording by Toumani Diabaté, which she knew happened to be one of Kanu’s favourites. With the cabin lights back up to full strength, the readouts and navigational displays a riot of bright colours and symbols, and the reassuring chime-like cadences of the music, he started to feel the phantasms releasing their hold. He was just rattled, that was all. If anyone had a right to be, he did.

‘We should go back to Lisbon,’ Nissa said.

‘Now?’

‘I mean when we’re done with all this.’

‘I thought you were fed up with the place, after the exhibition.’

‘I’ll admit to being fed up with the routine of teaching those students, but it’d take more than that to put me off Lisbon.’

‘I like it there, too. It’s almost a second home to Akinyas.’

They made small talk, Nissa very deliberately steering the conversation away from anything directly connected to Mars or Kanu’s recent experiences. They spoke of favoured cafés, restaurants, the property prices in various quarters, the wisdom or otherwise of renting, all the while speeding through the solar system aboard a clever little dart of a spaceship, inside a bubble of six-hundred-year-old music.

Kanu felt some sort of ease. He wondered if she had slipped a mild barbiturate into the chocolate. Perhaps.

But when his dreams came again, they were no better.

He was in a white room, flat on his back on an operating table. He knew this because he was looking at his own body from the outside, seeing his own mangled form spread out on the sterile surface of the ellipse-shaped table. Surrounding the table, almost encasing it, was an array of surgical devices. They were also white, clearly medical, but their individual functions were unclear to him. Some of them were hinged or bent over, holding curved parts to his ruined body or pushing other parts of themselves through his flesh, or into the open horrors of still-raw wounds. The machines moved with deliberation. There was urgency, but not haste. They sucked at the wounds and he heard the occasional crack or flash of some cauterising process. Around the room, on the walls, diagrams of human anatomy flickered past at almost dizzying speed. They were black and white, drawn in ink, annotated with handwritten Latin.

Beyond this encirclement were more machines, all different shapes and sizes. There were pipes and tubes, white on white. Still another rank of machines stood behind the second, androform but otherwise featureless. They resembled snowmen, except thinner in proportion. Kanu sensed that his point of view must originate with one of these standing figures. He was among them, looking back at his own body.

He had never enquired too deeply of Swift as to the exact severity of his injuries, and when the human medics finally got their chance to look him over, it was hard for them to be sure how badly he had been hurt. In places, the traces of the robots’ surgery was easily discernible. In others, there was only the faintest hint that he had been worked on at all.

But Kanu could see himself now, and the human remains on that operating table made him want to scream. It had been worse, far worse, than even his gravest imaginings.

A voice said: ‘Threshold of consciousness.’

Another: ‘Inhibit commissural traffic.’

A third: ‘Inhibiting.’

The second: ‘He must not wake until completion.’

The second, he realised, was himself. And it was not language he was speaking, at least not in human terms, but rather a rapid exchange of symbols which served the same communicational function.

Threshold of consciousness. Not long now, and then he would be well again – or at least well enough to be spoken to in the human manner.

He glanced down at his white forearm. The blank material of his anatomy gained texture, form and colour. It became fabric and flesh – a hand and a sleeve, the garb of a man of learning of the late eighteenth century.

‘There’s something wrong with me,’ Kanu told Nissa when they were sharing breakfast, spooning grapefruit out of a bowl, the engines throttled back to a gee while they ate.

‘A few bad dreams? I think you’re allowed.’

‘It’s more than just bad dreams. Ever since I returned from Mars, nothing’s been quite right. I thought I was fine to begin with, but I was deluding myself. I feel on edge, not quite in tune with things. Have you ever had déjà vu?’

‘Once, but I had the oddest feeling it had happened to me before. Sorry – I can see you’re bothered by something.’

‘I don’t know what it is. It’s been worse since Tangiers. A sort of continuous feeling of . . . dread, dislocation, premonition.’

‘Premonition? Are you serious?’

‘Perfectly. And then there are these dreams. I’m not one to attach significance to such things, Nissa, but when a dream of mine appeared to prefigure the name of this ship? That was bad enough, and I can’t easily rationalise it away. But now I’ve started getting flashbacks to when I was injured.’

‘You were more than injured, Kanu. How can you have flashbacks to being dead?’

‘I don’t know. Except they’re vivid, detailed, and I’m not watching from my body’s point of view. I’m seeing myself being repaired – with machines standing around debating my state of consciousness. I’ve had nightmares but never like that. I’ve never seen myself from outside, a barely conscious thing on a slab.’

‘All right – I can understand why you’re bothered. Who wouldn’t be, by something like that? But it’s still just dreams.’

‘I’m worried they’re symptomatic. That sense of not being in my own body – maybe it’s telling me there’s something wrong in my brain’s wiring? That some core sense of my own identity isn’t quite working the way it should?’

‘The odd thing would be if you didn’t feel a little strange, given everything you went through. You lost friends and colleagues on Mars; you lost your vocation and the trust of people who matter to you. It’s no wonder if something’s snapped, Kanu – you wouldn’t be human otherwise. When I met you in Lisbon—’

‘I’m glad you mentioned Lisbon. We bumped into each other by coincidence. How is that not supposed to make me feel a little strange?’

‘Coincidences happen all the time. You took a late interest in your grandmother’s art and I’m one of her highest-profile scholars – our paths were on a collision course.’

‘When we were married, did I ever show much interest in Sunday’s work?’

‘People change. Especially after something bad happens to them.’

Kanu was silent. He wanted to accept this version of events, the smooth plausibility of this offered narrative.

‘I hope that’s the answer.’

‘The more you dwell on it, the stranger you’re going to feel. You think too much, merman.’

‘Fine words coming from you.’

‘I’m not the one twisting myself in knots with introspection and self-doubt. Look, an adventure will do you good. We’re going to Europa! We have Consolidation authorisation to land on the ice and attempt contact with the Regals! How can that not stir the soul? Surrender to it, Kanu. Let some fun into your life.’

He smiled meekly, though she had done nothing to assuage his doubts. ‘I’ll try.’

Nissa tidied the breakfast bowl away. ‘I was going to notch up the engines but we can leave them for a little while. You need something to take your mind off yourself.’

The transmission came in on a routine civilian frequency and encryption protocol – nothing about it to suggest the slightest diplomatic connotation. It was aimed at
Fall of Night
, but beyond that contained no clue as to its origin or purpose.

Nissa accepted it, expecting it to be from a friend or colleague, perhaps concerning some aspect of her ongoing curatorial work. Instead, she was confronted by a man she did not know but who carried the automatic assumption of authority that only came from high office. He was as grey and grave as a statue, and looked worn away, somehow, as if he had been left out in the weather.

‘I am Yevgeny Korsakov,’ the man explained, belabouring the syllables of his name, when Nissa established a two-way send. ‘I was a friend . . . a colleague . . . of Kanu Akinya. We were both on Mars – both of us hurt in the terrorist incident. I wanted to see how he was doing,’

Nissa explained the request to Kanu while her response – that Kanu was indeed with her – was crawling its way back to the sender.

‘Did I do the right thing? He said he knew you on Mars.’

‘He did,’ Kanu said, struck by an apprehension he could not quite pin down. ‘He was also largely responsible for the end of my career.’

‘I think your accident had a lot to do with that.’

‘Maybe, but Korsakov was the first to argue that I’d been tainted by my experiences. Of all of them, why did
he
have to survive?’ But the uncharitable nature of this sentiment left a sour taste in his mouth. Dalal, Lucien . . . they deserved better from him. ‘I’m sorry – you were right to answer the call, and you can be sure Korsakov knew I was here whether you confirmed it or not.’

‘Do you hate him?’ Nissa asked.

‘He’s not a bad man, it’s just that we were on opposite sides of the fence. Never really saw eye to eye.’

‘He sounded concerned.’

‘That’s what concerns me.’

But when Korsakov spoke to Kanu directly, he appeared genuine enough. ‘I hope I did not violate your privacy by tracing you to Nissa Mbaye’s ship,’ the man said. ‘It was easily done, all public information – Nissa had to name you as a passenger in her flight plan, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Kanu whispered in return, although the words would form no part of his actual reply.

‘I am very glad to see you getting on with your life, Kanu. After Mars, we feared the worst. It was one thing to know you had survived, been repaired by the robots . . . but to regain your spirit, your sense of life? That was by no means guaranteed. I heard about your kindness to the Dalal family. In truth, I expected you to spend more time on Earth. I would have thought you’d had enough of space travel.’

Kanu smiled tightly as he formulated his response. ‘Thank you, Yevgeny. It’s good to see your face again, and to know you are well. I’m touched by your concern. As for the Dalals, it was the least I could do. I see from your time lag that you’re on the Moon. I must come and visit sometime. It would be good to catch up.’

He hoped that might be the end of it, but Korsakov was not quite done with him.