Authors: Alastair Reynolds
“The
very experiments that rip societies apart, and keep the wheel of history turning.”
“But
if we weren’t like that, we wouldn’t be human. Every culture in the Galaxy has
the means to engineer itself into social stasis tomorrow, if the will were
there. Some of them have probably tried it. But what’s the point? We might stop
the wheel of history turning, but we wouldn’t be human anymore.”
“I
agree,” Purslane said. “Meddling in human nature isn’t the solution. But
imagine if the intellectual capacity of the entire human Diaspora could somehow
be tapped. At the moment those cultures are bumping around like random atoms in
a gas. What if they could be brought into a state of coherence, like the atoms
in a laser? Then there’d be real progress, with each achievement leading to the
next. Then we could really start
doing
something.”
I
almost laughed. “We’re immortal superbeings who’ve lived longer than some
starfaring civilisations, including many Priors. If we choose, we can cross the
Galaxy in the gap between thoughts. We can make worlds and shatter suns for our
amusement. We can sip from the dreams and nightmares of fifty million billion
sentient beings. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“It
might be enough for you and I, Campion. But then we’ve always had modest
ambitions.”
“But
what about Burdock?” I asked. “He isn’t linked to the Advocates, as far as I’m
aware. I don’t think he’s been actively frozen out, but he certainly hasn’t
spent any time cultivating the right connections.”
“I’ll
have to review the recordings again,” Purslane said. “But I’m pretty sure none
of his enquiries were directed at known Advocates. He was targeting people on
the fringe: line members who might know something, without being directly privy
to the big secret.”
“Why
wouldn’t he just ask the Advocates directly?”
“Good
question,” Purslane said. “Of course, we could always ask
him.”
“Not
until we know a bit more about what he’s involved in.”
“You
know,” Purslane said. “There’s something else we could consider.”
The
tone of her voice prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. “I’m not going to
like this, am I?”
“We
could examine the records on his ship and find out what he was really up to.”
“He’s
hardly likely to give us permission to do that.”
“I
wasn’t talking about asking his permission.” Purslane’s smile was wicked and
thrilling: she was actually enjoying our little adventure. “I was talking about
going aboard and finding out for ourselves.”
“Just
like that, without so much as a by-your-leave?”
“I’m
not saying it would be easy. But you did make this venue, Campion. Surely it
isn’t beyond your immense capabilities to engineer a distraction.”
“Flattery,”
I said, “will get you almost anywhere. But what about breaking into his ship?
That won’t exactly be child’s play.”
Purslane
pressed a dainty finger to my lip. “I’ll worry about the ship. You worry about
the distraction.”
We
maintained our vigil on Burdock over the coming weeks, as our dangerous,
delicious plan slowly came together. Burdock kept up the pattern of behaviour
we had already noted, asking questions that probed the nature of the Great
Work, but never directing his queries to known Advocates. More and more it
seemed to us that there was something about the Work that had alarmed him;
something too sensitive to bring to the attention of those who had a vested
interest in the thing itself. But since Purslane and I were none the wiser
about what the Great Work actually entailed, we could only guess about what it
was that had unnerved Burdock. We both agreed that we needed to know more, but
our suspicions about Burdock (and, by implication, Burdock’s own suspicions)
meant that we were just as incapable of putting direct questions to the
Advocates. Day by day, therefore, I found myself making surreptitious enquires
much like those made by Burdock himself. I endeavoured to target my questioning
at different people than the ones Burdock had buttonholed, not wanting to spark
anyone else’s curiosity. Purslane did likewise, and—even as we planned our
utterly illegal raid on Burdock’s ship—we pieced together the tidbits of
information we had gathered.
None
of it was very illuminating, but by the same token little of it contradicted
Purslane’s conviction that the Great Work was related to the emergence of a
single, Galaxy-spanning Supercivilisation. There were dark, glamorous rumours
concerning the covert development of technologies that would bring this state
of affairs into being.
“It
must be related to the slowness of interstellar communication,” I mused.
“That’s the fundamental objection, no matter which way you look at it. No
signals or ships can cross the Galaxy quickly enough to make any kind of
orthodox political system possible. And the lines are too independent to
tolerate the kind of social engineering we talked about before. They won’t
accept any kind of system that imposes limits on human creativity.”
“No
one takes faster than light travel seriously, Campion.”
“It
doesn’t have to involve travel. A signalling mechanism would be just as useful.
We could all stay at home, and communicate via clones or robots. Instead of
sending my body to another planet, I’d piggyback a host body that was already
there.” I shrugged. “Or use sensory stimulation to create a perfect simulation
of the other planet and all its inhabitants. Either way, I wouldn’t be able to
tell the difference. Why would I care?”
“But
in two million years,” Purslane said, “no culture in the Galaxy has come close
to developing faster-than-light communication or travel.”
“Lots
of people have tried, though. What if some of them succeeded, but kept their
breakthrough secret?”
“Or
were wiped out to protect the status quo? We can play this game forever. The
fact is, faster than light travel—or signalling, for that matter, looks even
less likely now than it did a million years ago.
The
universe simply isn’t wired to permit it. It’s like trying to play chequers on
a chess board.”
“You’re
right of course,” I said, sighing. “I studied the mathematics once, for a
century. It looks pretty watertight, once you get your head around it. But if
that’s not the answer . . . ”
“I
don’t think it is. We should keep open minds, of course . . . but I think the
Great Work has to be something else. What, though, I can’t imagine.”
“That’s
as far as you’ve got?”
“I’m
afraid so. But don’t look so disappointed, Campion. It really doesn’t become
you.”
Then
something odd happened to Burdock. The first hint of it was his flawless
navigation of the Mood Maze.
It
was customary to sprinkle harmless entertainments and diversions through the
nights of the Reunion. On the afternoon of the eight hundred and seventieth
night, I opened the maze on one of the high balconies, with a modest prize for
the line member who found their way through it the fastest. The maze would
remain in existence until the nine hundredth night; time enough for everyone to
have a try at it.
But
the Mood Maze was no ordinary labyrinth. Based on a game I had discovered
during my travels, a Mood Maze was sensitive to emotional states, which the
maze detected using a variety of subtle cues and mildly invasive sensors. As
long as one remained perfectly calm, a Mood Maze held a fixed geometry. But as
soon as the walls detected the slightest suggestion of frustration, the
geometry of the maze underwent a sly modification: walls and gaps moving to
block one route and open up another. The more frustrated one became, the more
tortuous the labyrinth made itself. Extremes of anger could even cause the maze
to form a closed-loop around the hapless player, so that they had no choice to
wander in circles until they calmed down. Needless to say, it was considered
very bad form to enter a Mood Maze with anything other than baseline human
intelligence. Extreme faculties of memory or spatial positioning had to be
turned off before participation.
The
Mood Maze was a pleasant enough diversion, and popular with most of those who
took a chance on it. But I’d had more than that in mind when I set it up. I’d
hoped that the maze would tell me something about Burdock’s state of mind, if
only he would participate. Since it was voluntary, I couldn’t be accused of
violating his mental privacy.
But
when I ran the maze, Burdock sailed through it, with the walls registering
hardly any change to his emotional state. Cheating could not be ruled out,
though it was unlikely: a Mood Maze was designed to detect most forms of
subterfuge and punish them accordingly. And if he had that much to hide, it
would not have been hard to avoid the maze entirely.
What
surprised me was the degree of frustration I saw in some of the other
participants. When a group of Advocates wagered among themselves as to who
would beat the maze the quickest, it was Fescue who ended up with the
humiliation of being trapped in a closed-loop. His rage built to a crescendo
until I tactfully intervened and allowed him an exit.
I
greeted him as he left the maze. “Challenging little devil,” I said lightly,
trying to calm things down.
“A
childish little prank,” he said, spitting fury. “But then I shouldn’t have
expected any better from you.”
“It’s
just a game. You didn’t have to take part.”
“That’s
all anything is to you, isn’t it? Just a game with no consequences.” He glanced
at the other Advocates, who were looking on with amused expressions. “You have
no idea what’s at stake here. Even if you did, you’d shrivel from any hint of
responsibility.”
“All
right,” I said, holding up my hands in defeat. “I’ll forbid you from taking
part in any of my games. Will that make you happy?”
“What
would make me happy . . .” Fescue began, before scowling and making to turn
away.
“It’s
Purslane, isn’t it,” I said.
He
lowered his voice to a hiss. “I’ve given you fair warning. But to what purpose?
You continue to associate with her to the exclusion of others. Your sexual
relations verge on the monogamous. You spit on the traditions of the line.”
I
kept my voice level, refusing to rise to his bait. “All this because of a maze,
Fescue? I never had you down as quite that bad a loser.”
“You
have no idea what is at stake,” he repeated. “Change is coming,
Campion—violent, sudden change. The only thing that will hold the line together
is self-sacrifice.”
“Is
this about the Great Work?” I asked.
“It’s
about duty,” he said. “Something you seem incapable of grasping.” He looked
back at my maze, as it willing it to crumble to dust. “Keep playing with your
toys, Campion. Fritter away your days in idleness and dissipation. Leave the
important things to the rest of us.”
Fescue
stalked off. I stood blinking, regretting the fact that I had mentioned the
Great Work. Now my interest in it was known to at least one Advocate.
A
hand touched my shoulder. “I see the old fart’s giving you a hard time again.”
It
was Samphire, pushing into my personal space. Normally I would have edged away,
but for once I relaxed in his presence, glad to unburden myself.
“I
don’t think he was thrilled about the Mood Maze,” I said.
“Don’t
take it personally. He’s been acting odd for weeks, giving everyone hard
stares. What’s his problem?”
“Fescue
doesn’t like me spending time with Purslane.”
“Only
because the craggy bastard couldn’t get a shag out of her.”
“I
think there’s a bit more to it than that. Fescue’s mixed up in something. You
know what I mean, don’t you.”
Samphire
kept his voice low. “No idea at all. Other than that it’s a
work
and
it’s
great.
Are you any more clued up about it than me?”
“I
doubt it,” I said. “But whatever it is, Fescue think it’s a lot more important
than the kind of lazy, self-indulgent things Purslane and I tend to get up to.”
“Has
he tried to rope you in?”
“Not
sure. I can’t work out whether he totally disapproves of me on every level, or
whether he’s just bitterly disappointed that I waste so much potential talent.”
“Well,
I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Fescue’s just a wasted old bore. His strand
didn’t exactly set the island ringing, did it?”
“Nor
did mine.”
“Difference
is Fescue obviously expected more. Between you and me . ..” Samphire hesitated
and looked around. “I think he was just a tiny bit economical with the facts.”
I
frowned. “You’re saying he fiddled his strand?”
“A
few details here and there. We came close to meeting around the Hesperus Veil:
near enough to exchange recognition protocols.”
I
nodded. There’d been a supernova near the Hesperus Veil, and a number of us had
planned close approaches to it. “That’s not enough to prove that he lied,
though.”
“No,”
Samphire said. “But according to his strand he skipped the Veil altogether. Why
lie about that? Because either before or after that he was somewhere else he
didn’t want us to know about. Probably somewhere a lot less exciting than the
places that showed up in his strand.”
I
felt a tingling sensation, wondering if Fescue might also be implicated in the
Burdock business. Could the two of them be accomplices?
“That’s
a pretty heavy accusation,” I said, my mind reeling.
“Oh,
I’m not going to make anything of it. I’ve already edited down my own strand so
as not to embarrass him. Let him trip himself up. He’s bound to do it one of
these days.”
“I
suppose you’re right,” I said, not quite able to suppress my disappointment.
The idea of seeing Fescue publicly humiliated—revealed as fabricating chunks of
his strand—tasted shamefully delicious.