Alastair Reynolds - Poseidon's Wake

‘Come and join us,’ Vasin said, indicating a space at her coffee table, which was set with a formation of playing cards, evidence of an interrupted game. ‘This will be made public within the hour, but given your centrality to the expedition, I thought you should know about it immediately.’

Goma settled into the seat between Mposi and Maslin Karayan, the only vacant position.

‘It’s a Watchkeeper, isn’t it?’

Vasin nodded at the schematic of the solar system still on her wall, clotted with symbols and numbers. ‘I suppose that’s a bit of a giveaway. Apparently we finally have their interest. Taken long enough. As I said to you the last time we spoke, I almost dared to hope we’d managed to slip under their radar.’

‘Not very likely,’ Goma said.

‘With hindsight, not remotely. Aiyana — do you want to summarise the findings, for the benefit of Goma and Maslin?’

‘This Watchkeeper broke its position eight hours ago,’ ve said, touching a stud on her bangle that made the schematic spool back in time, then begin moving forward again, covering hours of movement in seconds of real-time. ‘Nothing unusual in that? They move around. Acceleration small to begin with, but increasing? Hard to extrapolate trajectory to begin with, but numbers firming up. Course intercepts our own — no chance of that being coincidence.’

‘When?’ asked Karayan, scratching idly at his beard.

‘Best guess, Maslin, fifty hours?’

‘I’d sooner it were five. At least let the judgement be done with.’

Goma made to speak, intending to quibble with that choice of term, but a glance from Mposi convinced her to think better of it.

‘Crucible will send us better figures,’ Vasin said. ‘That may shift the projection by a few hours. But for now we work on the assumption that it will be on our position in just over two days.’

Goma looked at Mposi. Her uncle was impassive, his emotions bottled. She wondered how long ago he had been informed of this news, hoping it was minutes rather than hours. She did not like the idea of him keeping it from her, even if that had been Vasin’s express instruction.

‘Can we change course, outrun it?’

‘It would be a gesture, nothing more,’ Vasin said. ‘We know from the records that they can easily outpace and outmanoeuvre us, probably without breaking a sweat. The only thing we can do is maintain our intended course.’

Goma’s eyes settled onto the landscape painting again, with its shards of light emanating from a bright central focus. It was like a hammer-blow against brittle glass, a spidery fracturing along radial lines.

If the artist had meant to celebrate the sun’s return after night, they had instead produced an image of brutal cosmic obliteration. It struck Goma as less a depiction of renewal than a fierce cleansing annihilation — space itself breaking down, or returning to a more primal, basic condition.

‘And what happens when they get here?’ she asked.

‘As your captain, I wish I had something concrete to offer you. If pushed, I’d say there are two distinct possibilities. The first is that we are scrutinised and then ignored, in the same way that the Watchkeepers appear happy to ignore almost all of our day-to-day activities.’ Vasin moved two of the playing cards which were still set out on her coffee table.

‘And the second?’ Goma pressed.

‘It destroys us. From what we know of previous encounters, it will at least be quick, and probably painless. Chances are we won’t even have any warning.’

‘We’ll take our mercies where we find them,’ Mposi said.

‘What are you hoping to get from Crucible?’ Goma asked the captain.

‘Chai and sympathy, not much more than that. Really I am waiting for them to tell me not to attempt evasive action, because we all know how much good it would do.’ She moved another card. It was a coping strategy, Goma decided, not a reflection of her lack of concern. ‘Of course we will transmit our intentions to the Watchkeeper, in every language they have ever been exposed to — for all the good that will do: “Please ignore us, we mean no harm.”’

‘What about the other Watchkeepers?’ Karayan asked. ‘Are they doing anything?’

‘Just this one,’ said Aiyana Loring.

‘Maslin is right,’ Vasin said. ‘Better five hours than fifty. But better fifty hours than have this hanging over us for the rest of our expedition. None of us wants this fear inside us all the way to Gliese 163.’

‘I think we’d all agree with that sentiment,’ Nhamedjo said. ‘I have fifty-four largely sane individuals to look after — including myself. Confined surroundings, the routine dangers of space travel, the knowledge that whatever world we return to, it will no longer be our home — those are bad enough stressors for the human psyche. I would much rather not add years of anxiety to the melting pot. Whatever that Watchkeeper means to do with us, let it be done, and let it be quick.’

By the time the exhibition wrapped up Kanu was not sad to be moving on from Lisbon. He had always been fond of the city — it had provided sanctuary to his mother for many years, and much of her own affection for the place and its people had rubbed off on him — but after his time in the embassy he had no desire to be rooted to one place for very long. As it transpired, Nissa had a gap in her commitments, so they agreed to be tourists for another three weeks. Nissa, for her part, had identified a number of small museums and galleries they could visit during their travels, each of which contained works by his famous ancestor Sunday Akinya.

‘Not the real treasures,’ she cautioned. ‘They’ve all been sucked up by the Lisbon show, and it’ll take a few months for those pieces to get back to their home collections. But there should still be enough to broaden your education.’

‘I have a lot of catching up to do,’ Kanu said. But his frame of mind was agreeable and receptive.

From Lisbon they travelled to Seville and Gibraltar, riding the great suspension bridge to Morocco. In Tangiers they visited a small private collection housed in the lower rooms of a salmon-coloured town house constructed around the cool geometry of a lovely shaded courtyard. Kanu had been doubtful about intruding on someone’s privacy, but the family owners were flattered to have the attention of the renowned scholar Nissa Mbaye and threw open their doors accordingly. Kanu and Nissa were treated splendidly, finally conceding to remain as guests of the household so they might enjoy a little more of Tangiers.

Their hosts, the Al Asnam family, were born on the Moon but had returned to Earth fifty years ago. After selling a tract of valuable Fra Mauro real estate, they moved into art, a shared fascination.

‘I’m as pleased as anyone to see Sunday receive the recognition she was due in her lifetime,’ said Mr Hassan Al Asnam as they dined on couscous in an upstairs room, its walls hung with carpets. ‘But as a relative, Mr Akinya, you must wonder how it would have changed her, to have received this acclaim when she was alive.’

Kanu chose his thoughts and words carefully. They were speaking French, since their hosts were fluent and Kanu’s French was not as dreadful as his Arabic.

‘I barely knew my grandmother,’ he said. ‘She visited Earth precisely once in my lifetime, and that was only very near the end of her life. But I can tell you this.’ He took a moment to pour more honeyed mint tea for Nissa and their hosts. ‘She did not feel for a second that her genius had been overlooked. She spent part of her life being an artist and she made a modest living from it, but when the time came she was perfectly willing to turn away from it.’