He had known his mother had died that day — known even that she was outside — but he had never been told exactly how it had happened.
‘Is that the reason you brought me out here?’
‘Almost.’
The taxi banked, executing a wide turn which took it back towards the Santiago. Sky felt only a small stab of disappointment. He had dared to imagine that this trip might actually take him to one of the other ships, but such excursions were rare things indeed. Instead — wondering if he should try and force some tears now that the topic of his mother’s death had been raised, even though he did not actually feel like crying — he waited patiently for his home ship to enlarge, coming in out of the dark like a strip of friendly coastline on a stormy night.
‘Something you should understand,’ Titus said, eventually. ‘The fact that the Islamabad’s gone doesn’t really threaten the success of the mission. There are four ships left now — say four thousand settlers for Journey’s End — but we could still establish a colony even if only one ship arrived safely.’
‘You mean we might be the only ship to get there?’
‘No,’ his father said. ‘I mean we might be one of those which never arrives. Understand that, Sky — understand that any one of us is expendable — and you’ll be a long way to understanding what makes the Flotilla tick; what decisions might have to be taken fifty years from now, if the worst comes to the worst. Only one ship needs to arrive.’
‘But if another ship blew up…’
‘Agreed, we’d probably not be hurt this time. Since the Islamabad went up, we’ve moved all the ships much further apart. It’s safer, but it makes physical travel between them harder. In the long run, that might not be such a good idea. Distance can breed suspicion, and it can make enemies hardly worthy of consideration as human beings. Much easier to consider killing.’ Titus’s voice had grown cold and remote, almost like that of a stranger, but then he softened his tone. ‘Remember that, Sky. We’re all in this together, no matter how hard things become in the future.’
‘You think things will?’
‘I don’t know, but they’re almost certainly not going to get easier. And by the time that any of this matters — when we get close to the end of the crossing — you’ll be my age, in a position of senior responsibility, even if not actually running the ship.’
‘You think that could happen?’
Titus smiled. ‘I’d say it for certain — if I didn’t also know a certain talented young lady by the name of Constanza.’
While they had been speaking, the Santiago had grown much larger, but now they were approaching it from a different angle, so that the bulbous sphere of the command section loomed like a miniature grey moon, filigreed by panel lines and the boxy accretions of sensor modules. Sky thought of Constanza, now that his father had mentioned her, and wondered if — perhaps after all — this trip might have impressed her. After all, he had been outside, even if it had not been quite the surprise to her that he had originally hoped. And what he had been shown — what he had been told — had really not been so hard to take, had it?
But Titus was not done yet.
‘Take a good look,’ his father said as the darkened side of the sphere rotated into view. ‘This is where your mother’s inspection team was working. They were attached to the hull by magnetic harnesses, working very close to the surface. The ship was spinning of course — just like she is now — and if luck had been on their side, your mother’s team would have been working on the other side when the Islamabad went up. But the rotation had brought them right round into full view when she detonated. They caught the full blast, and they were wearing only lightweight suits at the time.’
He understood now why his father had brought him out here. It was not simply to be told how his mother had died, or to be initiated into the chilling knowledge that one fifth of the Flotilla no longer existed. That was part of it, but the central message was here; on the hull of the ship itself.
Everything else had just been preparation.
When the flash had hit them, their bodies had temporarily shielded the hull from the worst excesses of the radiation. They had burned quickly — there had probably been no pain, he later learned — but in that moment of death they had left negative shadows of themselves; lighter patches against the generally scorched hull. They were seven human shapes, frozen in postures which could not help but look tortured, but which were probably just the natural positions they had been working in when the flash had hit them. They all looked alike in every other respect; there was no way to tell which shadow had been cast by his mother.
‘You know which one was her, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Titus said. ‘Not that I found her, of course — someone else did. But yes, I do know which one belonged to your mother.’
Sky looked at the shadows again, burning their shapes into his brain, knowing that he would never have the courage to come out here again. Later he would learn that there had never been any serious attempt to remove the shadows; that they had been left as a monument not just to the seven dead workers, but to the thousand who had died in that soul-flensing flash. The ship wore them like a scar.
‘Well?’ Titus said, with the tiniest trace of impatience. ‘Do you want to know?’
‘No,’ Sky said. ‘No, I don’t want to know, ever.’
SEVEN
The next day Amelia brought my possessions to the chalet and then left me alone while I went through them. But as curious about them as I was, it was difficult to focus on the task. I was troubled by the fact that I’d dreamed about Sky Haussmann again: an unwilling observer to another incident in his life. The first dream about him that I clearly remembered must have happened to me during my revival; now I’d experienced another, and while there seemed to be a large gap in his life between them, they had clearly happened in chronological order. Like instalments.
And my palm had bled again, a hard new encrustation of dried blood over the wound. Spots of blood marred the sheet.
It didn’t take a massive leap of imagination to see that the two were connected. From somewhere I remembered that Haussmann had been crucified; that the mark in my palm signified his execution, and that I’d met another man with a similar wound in what seemed simultaneously like the recent and the infinitely remote past. I seemed to remember that the man had suffered the dreams as well, and hadn’t been an especially willing recipient of them either.
But maybe the things Amelia had brought me would explain the dreams. Trying to put Haussmann temporarily from mind, I focused on the task at hand. Everything I owned now — apart from any holdings back around Swan — lay in an unassuming briefcase which had come with me on the Orvieto.