Alastair Reynolds - Poseidon's Wake

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?’

‘I don’t care about posterity.’

‘Then you’d be content for your work to be published anonymously? Perhaps it already is?’ He looked suddenly thoughtful. ‘No, it can’t be, or else I wouldn’t have heard of it, wouldn’t have been able to read it.’

‘You think you know my work?’

‘Well enough to be impressed by your intellectual integrity.’

If that was meant as a compliment, it had a backhanded quality that left her bristling. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Your honesty in facing up to the worst. You of all people must have wanted nothing more than to find evidence that the elephants’ cognitive decline wasn’t permanent, that it could be arrested or even reversed. Who would blame you for that? Yet you’ve done the good and noble thing — you’ve presented the data and allowed it to speak for itself. None of your strategies has made any difference to the elephants — and yet you haven’t tried to gloss over that, or to present the data in a way that suggests a more favourable outlook. That’s admirable.’