Poseidon's Wake - Страница 26

‘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 question, 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?’