On a closer view, it was clear that Azelio was right: the lines on the rock face formed symbols. The sides of the ridges appeared softened and eroded, as if a generation’s worth of future dust storms had left their mark. But she could still make out most of the message.
‘. . . came here from the home world,’ she read. ‘To offer thanks and bring you . . . courage.’
Azelio said, ‘Who thanks whom for what?’
Agata had never been less discouraged; she had never felt less in need of this grace. But here it was: for Ramiro in his darkness, for Azelio and Tarquinia, for everyone back on the Peerless, for six more generations of struggling travellers yet to be born.
‘It’s from the ancestors,’ she said. ‘They’re going to come here and write this. They’re going to come here to tell us that everything we’ve done and everything we’ve been through was worth it in the end.’
23
As Tarquinia stepped aside, Ramiro moved closer and took his turn examining the rock face. He hadn’t doubted his crew-mates’ word, but since they’d had no reason to be carrying a camera there’d been room for him to wonder if they might have over-interpreted some random pattern that had formed as the explosion fractured the hillside.
‘It does look genuine,’ he concluded. ‘Genuinely artificial, that is; don’t ask for my opinion on the authorship.’ After geology, he was going to have to add time-reversed archaeology to the list of disciplines he’d sadly neglected.
‘We should leave now,’ Agata insisted. ‘As soon as the Surveyor’s ready.’
Ramiro turned away from the writing. ‘What about the wheat?’
‘The wheat doesn’t matter,’ Agata declared. ‘If there’s nothing left to fight about, there’s no reason for anyone to migrate.’
Tarquinia was sceptical. ‘You really think the Council’s going to switch off the messaging system on our say-so?’
‘What will they need it for?’ Agata was beginning to sound exasperated. ‘This proves that we make it to the reunion! There’s no question of the Peerless being struck by a meteor – or tearing itself apart in a war. How can the Council claim that they need their system for safety and security once we’ve shown them a message that could only be written if we’re safe and secure all the way to the home world?’
‘They could argue that the settlers will write it,’ Azelio suggested.
‘What settlers?’ Agata fumed. ‘How could the settlers write something that would undermine their whole reason for being here?’
‘If the Council doesn’t take it seriously, it won’t undermine anything,’ Azelio reasoned. Ramiro wasn’t sure if that was circular logic, but as self-serving political rhetoric it did have a horribly plausible ring to it.
‘You’ve all lost your minds!’ Agata moaned. ‘If you think this isn’t genuine, tell me what would count as proof of authorship. A message encrypted with a key that we’re supposed to prepare now and then keep secret until we deliver it to the ancestors at the reunion? Even if we found something like that, you could still claim that the key might end up in someone else’s hands along the way.’
Tarquinia said, ‘It’s not just a question of our own doubts; we have to take a broader view of this. If you and Azelio say the writing was there as soon as the rock was exposed, then I believe you – but all we’ll be able to show the Council is an image taken some time after the fact. That’s not even going to establish the sequence of events.’
‘My role here is as a witness for the messagers,’ Agata reminded her. ‘Why would I suddenly change my allegiance and start lying about something like this – just to try to get the system shut down?’
‘Twelve years isn’t sudden,’ Tarquinia replied. ‘They might think we corrupted you.’
‘Then what’s the point of doing anything?’ Agata retorted. ‘Why test the crops, when we might be lying about that, too?’
Tarquinia tried a more conciliatory tone. ‘Look, I might be wrong: they might listen to all our testimony and conclude that the message really is from the ancestors. But we can’t take that for granted. We need to stay long enough to assess the new soil. It’s just a few more stints; what harm is there in that?’
Agata looked away; she seemed to be struggling to calm herself. ‘You’re right,’ she said finally. ‘We came here to see if Esilio was habitable. And you risked your life for this experiment; it would be foolish not to wait for the results.’
‘We’ll spend some time imaging the site every way we can,’ Tarquinia promised. ‘We’ll gather as much evidence as possible to put to the Council. Then Azelio can plant his crop – and whatever the outcome, it won’t take away from the significance of the message.’
‘That’s true,’ Agata agreed.
Hearing the disillusionment in her voice, Ramiro felt a pang of guilt. She’d run all the way to the Surveyor in a state of ecstasy, convinced that she’d just been handed the solution to all of the Peerless’s problems. He couldn’t fault her sincerity, or the generous spirit in which she’d brought him the news. She really had believed that it would spare him from the prospect of dying on this benighted world.
But ever since he’d seen the writing for himself, he’d been unable to stop wondering if the message suited him too well. As far as he could recall, he’d never consciously planned to commit any kind of hoax – exploiting Agata’s longing to commune with the ancestors in the hope that in her innocence she’d sell the lie convincingly to the people back home.
What he didn’t know was exactly what his lack of preparation meant. The words were there, Agata had seen them, nothing could change that now. But with every moment that passed it seemed more likely to him that the ancestors had nothing to do with it, and that he would find a way to write the message himself.
Ramiro winced. ‘Please don’t do that.’
Tarquinia ignored him and continued to palpate his abdomen. ‘You definitely have some kind of mass in your gut. Maybe we should think about cutting it out.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic. It will pass through me soon enough.’
‘Not if the wall of the gut is paralysed.’
‘I think I’ve had something like this before,’ Ramiro lied. ‘When I was a child. It only lasted for a couple of days.’
Tarquinia gazed down at him, puzzled and concerned. ‘I’d thought we’d passed every influence we had back and forth to each other, long ago. Where does a new disease come from, after six years in isolation?’
‘Maybe I caught it from the settlers,’ Ramiro joked. ‘Maybe the first time-reversed influence evolves here, shortly after they arrive.’
‘No eating, no work, just rest. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
Tarquinia gave him a stern, reappraising stare. ‘If you’re faking this to get out of helping with the cooling system—’
‘Faking a lump in my gut?’ he protested. ‘Seriously, I won’t eat, I promise. Last time I tried it made the pain unbearable.’
‘All right.’ She squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’ll be wearing an audio link, so if you need anything just yell.’
‘Thank you.’
When she’d gone, Ramiro turned in his sand bed, trying to find a half-comfortable position. The smear of sealing resin he’d spread through the loaf had been tasteless and odourless, but the effects had exceeded his expectations. All the other substances he’d tried in similar doses had either been inert or had caused him to vomit up the meal immediately. So long as his gut did eventually regain the power of peristalsis, he’d have no qualms about sharing this ‘influence’ with Agata: she’d be laid low for a day or two, but the precedent of his own recovery would spare her from too much mental anguish.