Poseidon's Wake

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‘You did say there were no good options — I suppose sleeping is as good a way to pass the time as any other. But you’ll be asleep as well, won’t you, Swift?’

‘I’m afraid so. Skipover will suppress all Kanu’s higher brain functions, including those useful to me. But we need not worry. Icebreaker already has a high level of autonomy. It will wake us if there is a development.’

‘Such as what?’ Nissa said.

‘I have no idea,’ the figment answered. ‘I can tie our systems into Fall of Night’s and continue transmitting our recognition signal via Nissa’s ship. It will be less powerful, and less capable of detecting a weak return signal, but we will lose nothing by trying.’

‘Nothing will answer us,’ Kanu said, struck by a sudden gloomy fatalism. ‘If they meant to, it would already have happened.’

‘Nonetheless, we may as well keep trying. Nissa: I will provide you with a range of solutions for the transfer orbit — each will put a different strain on Fall of Night. I will leave it to you to make the final selection and handle the operation itself.’

‘That’s very good of you, Swift,’ Nissa said, drenching her answer in sarcasm.

Swift gave an obliging smile. ‘One tries.’

Nissa was easily capable of using her ship as a tug. They agreed on an option which provided for rendezvous with Paladin in just over eleven months, with fuel in reserve for the corresponding orbital correction at the other end of the manoeuvre. Not that it really mattered if they used up all of Nissa’s fuel: if they could not replenish Icebreaker’s initialising tanks, they would be going nowhere anyway.

Inside the larger ship, it was hard to believe there had been any course correction at all. Such was the difference in the masses of the two ships that even with its drive at maximum output, Fall of Night could provide only the gentlest of accelerations. But the push was sustained over several hours, and when it was done, Swift confirmed that they were on course.

Kanu spent a restless couple of days making sure the repair systems were working as intended. When that was not on his mind, he kept transmitting his recognition signal, this time sending it via Fall of Night’s much smaller antenna. He had announced his arrival to every obvious body in the solar system; now he was ready to consider anything larger than a pebble. But still the signal went unanswered. He was starting to imagine something in that silence: not the simple absence of an answer, but something more sinister, a kind of purposeful withholding. A decision not to speak, a deliberate and calculated refusal to acknowledge his presence.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be so surprised,’ Nissa said as his mood began to darken again. ‘The message wasn’t meant for you and Swift in the first place.’

‘They could at least do us the courtesy of answering, after all the distance we’ve travelled.’

‘It’s not how far you’ve come that matters. It’s where you’ve come from.’

After that, there was nothing to do but sleep.

Kanu reviewed the orbital transfer again and programmed their caskets for an interval a few days short of the end of the crossing. It would give them time to adjust to their surroundings, make renewed efforts at contact and generally recover from skipover before they arrived at their destination.

He put Nissa to sleep, watched her casket seal itself over her body, monitored the medical readouts for the smooth transition to unconsciousness, and then observed her gradual decline into cryogenic suspension. He touched a hand to the casket’s cool side, feeling an intense protectiveness for her. He loved her and wanted to make amends for the wrongs he had done her, from the failings of their marriage to the recent deceits concerning his intentions for Europa and beyond. It would please him very much if Nissa Mbaye were to start seeing him as a good man again.

Perhaps there was still time.

Almost without thought, he programmed the same sleep interval into his own casket. They would awaken together. Whatever the shard held for them, they would face it as partners.

And so Kanu submitted himself to the cold once more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The airlock was set into the side of the largest dome, near the transmission tower. It was a high-capacity lock with a lofty ceiling, large enough to take a big vehicle. The chevroned door opened and they all passed through at the same time, Goma studying Eunice’s mirrored visor, trying to glimpse the face behind the glass.

Beyond the lock was a gently sloping corridor leading to lower levels. Eunice guided the party a short distance along it until they reached a secondary door set into the corridor’s wall. It was not an airlock, but was clearly capable of holding pressure in the event of a blow-out. She opened the door and invited them to step through.

They entered some kind of accommodation area with metal-lined walls and several passages leading off in various directions. There was a table and a set of chairs, although not nearly enough for all of them. Around the metal walls were shelves and cabinets, and various utensils and implements set upon the shelves.

Eunice lowered herself into the grandest chair at the table, then bid the others to take such chairs as were available.

‘We don’t need to sit down,’ Vasin said. ‘Not yet. We’ve come a long way and what we’d like first is an explanation.’

‘It’s rude not to sit,’ the spacesuited form said. ‘But look at me! Calling you rude and I haven’t even had the common courtesy to remove my helmet.’

She reached up with both hands, undid some latching mechanism on the neck ring and lifted the helmet free of her head. She placed it before her on the table and beamed at them over its crown.

Goma should not have been surprised — she had seen this woman’s face in the earlier transmission, after all — but a transmission could easily be faked or doctored. Yet here was the unmistakable face of Eunice Akinya, a figment from history, strikingly real and human-looking down to the last details.

‘There. Fresh air. I hate suit air. Always have, ever since I took that long trek on the Moon. Well, what about the rest of you? Are you going to stand there like fools?’

Nhamedjo was glancing down at his cuff readout. ‘The air looks good. Perfectly breathable, in fact — no trace toxins, according to the filters. I think we are safe to remove our helmets.’

‘No,’ Vasin said.

‘Oh, but I insist,’ Eunice said. ‘No — really. I insist. You want answers from me, meet me on my terms. Take off your helmets. I want to know who I’m dealing with.’

‘Worried we might be robots?’ Goma asked. But she had already taken a leap of faith and was reaching up to undo her own helmet.

‘Goma!’ Vasin said. ‘Don’t do it!’

‘You heard her. I want answers. If this is what it takes, so be it. I don’t think she’d drag us seventy light-years just to play a nasty trick with poison gases.’

‘Good girl.’

Goma lifted her helmet off and the air gushed in. It was cold, but nothing about it smelled or tasted suspicious. She gulped a load of it into her lungs and waited for some ill-effect to manifest.

Nothing. No headache, no light-headedness, no sense that her thoughts were in any way affected.

‘The air is breathable,’ Eunice said, looking not at Goma but at the rest of them. ‘The gases’ ratios won’t differ greatly from those on your ship, I expect. There are no biological toxins or radiological hazards. If there were, I’d already know about them.’

‘Why would a robot care about biological toxins?’ Dr Nhamedjo asked. ‘For that matter, why does a robot need airlocks or a spacesuit? You’re a construct. You could walk out there naked and not feel a thing.’

‘Those are cooking utensils,’ Goma said, nodding at some of the tools she could see racked and shelved around the room. ‘That is a stove. Why would you need cooking utensils? Why would you ever need to cook anything?’

‘A woman’s got to eat. Why else?’

Ru lifted the lid on a plastic container, then sprang away in revulsion. ‘Worms!’

‘Mealworms,’ their host corrected. ‘Very tasty. Very good source of protein. Practically all we ate on Mars in the early days. You should try them. Go well with a little curry powder — stops them wriggling off your chopsticks, too. Now — since you’re staying — will you be good guests and remove the rest of your spacesuits?’

‘Why?’ Vasin asked.

‘Manners, dear Captain.’

They obliged, stripping down to their inner clothing layers, and set the spacesuit parts in neat piles by the door. Then, in plain view so there could be no possibility of substitution or subterfuge, she also discarded the outer elements of her spacesuit, removing the parts neatly and methodically, as befitted a veteran space explorer who had come to trust her life to the complex, interlocking components of the garment, and who accorded them the respect and care which was their due.

Beneath the suit she wore a sleeveless ash-grey top and tight black leggings. She resumed her position at the table and offered one arm across it to Dr Nhamedjo, her palm raised.

‘Go ahead. Feel my pulse. Poke and prod to your heart’s content.’

Nhamedjo moved to touch his fingers to her skin, but hesitated at the last instant. He glanced at his colleagues.

‘She cannot be living. We know what she was when she left. This is not open to debate.’