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  The Commissary’s pronouncements went on and on, seeming to Mary to meld into a kind of repetition of the details of the previous session. It struck her how little thought had been applied to the material presented to this court, how little analysis had actually been done on the charges and the evidence, such as they were. The sheer anti-intellectual nature of the whole proceedings offended her.

  And Alicia, kneeling, was rocking slightly, her face blanched, as if she might faint. The reality of the situation seemed to be dawning on her, Mary thought. But with a sinking heart she thought she saw a kind of stubborn determination on Alicia’s face. Was the girl preparing to defy the court?

  At last Boniface seemed to be reaching the end of his peroration. ‘Therefore, involving the most Holy name of Our Lord Jesus Christ and His most glorious Mother, ever Virgin Mary, and sitting as a tribunal with the advice and counsel of the Reverend Masters of Sacred Theology, we say, pronounce, sentence and declare that he, Charles Darwin, had rendered himself according to this Holy Office vehemently suspect of heresy, having held and believed a doctrine that is false and contrary to the divine and Holy Scripture, namely the doctrine known as “natural selection”. Consequently, he has incurred all the censures and penalties enjoined and promulgated by the sacred Canons and all particular and general laws against such delinquents.

  ‘For adhering to the doctrine of the Origin of Species, let Darwin be anathema.’

  The chroniclers scribbled, excited; Mary imagined the telegraph wires buzzing the next day to bring the world the news that Charles Darwin had been formally, if posthumously, excommunicated.

  But Alicia still knelt before the panel. The clerk came forward, and handed her a document. ‘A prepared statement,’ Xavier whispered to Mary. ‘She’s not on trial herself, not under any suspicion. She’s here to represent Darwin’s legacy. All she has to do is read that out and she’ll be free to go.’

  Alicia, kneeling, her voice small in the room before the rows of churchmen, began to read: ‘“I, Alicia Rosemary Darwin, daughter of James Paul Darwin of Edinburgh, arraigned personally at this tribunal and kneeling before you, most Eminent and Reverend Lord Cardinals, Inquisitors General against heretical depravity throughout the whole Christian Republic …”’ She fell silent and read on rapidly. ‘You want me to say the Origin of Species was heretical. And to say that my uncle deliberately defied the order to modify it to remove the heresy. And that I and all my family abjure his memory and all his words for all time.’

  Boniface Jones’ gravel-like voice sounded almost kind. ‘Just read it out, child.’

  She put the papers down on the floor. ‘I will not.’

  And this was the moment, Mary saw. The moment of defiance Anselm had coached into her.

  There was uproar.

  The chroniclers leaned forward, trying to hear, to be sure what Alicia had said. Anselm Fairweather was standing, the triumph barely disguised on his face. Even the cardinals were agitated, muttering to one another.

  Only Boniface Jones sat silent and still, a rock in the storm of noise. Alicia continued to kneel, facing him.

  When the noise subsided Boniface gestured at the clerk. ‘Don’t record this. Child – Alicia. You must understand. You have not been on trial here. The heresy was your distant uncle’s. But if you defy the will of the tribunal, if you refuse to read what has been given to you, then the crime becomes yours. By defending your uncle’s work you would become heretical yourself.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ She poked at the paper on the floor, pushing it away. ‘I won’t read this. My family doesn’t “abjure” Charles Darwin. We honour him. We’re not alone. Why, the Reverend Dawkins said only recently that natural selection is the best hypothesis anybody ever framed …’

  Mary whispered to Xavier, ‘And I wonder who put that in her mouth?’

  ‘You mean Anselm Fairweather.’

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘He’s hardly delicate in his operations.’

  ‘This is exactly what Anselm and his spooky friends want, isn’t it? To have this beautiful kid throw herself to the flames. Smart move. I can just imagine how this will play back home in Cooktown, and around the world.’

  Xavier frowned. ‘I can hear how angry you are. But there’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  ‘Mary, this is the Inquisition. You can’t defy it. We can only wait and see how this is going to play out.’

  His words decided her. ‘Like hell.’ She stood up.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Injecting a little common sense from Terra Australis, that’s what.’

  Before Xavier could stop her she strode forward. She tried to look fearless, but she found it physically difficult to walk past the angry faces of the cardinals, as if she was the focus of God’s wrath. She reached the bench. Boniface Jones towered over her, his face like thunder.

  Alicia still knelt on the floor, the pages of the statement scattered before her. Mary reached out a hand. ‘Stand up, child. Enough’s enough.’

  Bewildered, Alicia complied.

  Mary glared up at Boniface. ‘May I address the bench?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ Boniface asked dryly.

  Mary felt a flicker of hope at that hint of humour. Maybe Boniface would prove to be a realist. ‘I hope we all still have choices, Father. Look, I know I’m the outsider here. But maybe we can find a way to get out of this ridiculous situation with the minimum harm done to anybody – to this girl, to the Church.’

  Alicia said, ‘I don’t want your help. I don’t care what’s done to me—’

  Mary faced her. ‘I know you’ve never spoken to me before in your life. But just listen, if you don’t want to die in prison, serving the dreams of your so-called lover.’

  Alicia frowned, and glanced at Anselm.

  Mary turned to Boniface. ‘This is a spectacle. A stunt, so the Church can show its muscle. Even death doesn’t put an enemy out of your reach, right? So you dug up poor Darwin here and excommunicated him posthumously. But in your wisdom, and I use the word loosely, you decided even that wasn’t enough. You wanted more. But it’s all unravelling. Can’t you see, Commissary, if you prosecute this innocent kid for being loyal to her family, how much harm you will do to the Church’s image – even in your home territories, and certainly outside? If you punish this girl, you’ll be doing precisely what your enemies want you to do.’

  ‘What would you have me do, Lector?’

  ‘Your problem is with Darwin, not his remote grand-niece. If excommunication’s not enough, punish him further. There are precedents in history. In the year 1600 Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for his various heresies. But the punishment didn’t end there. His bones were ground to dust! That showed him. So take Darwin’s mouldering corpse out of that box and hang it from Tower Bridge. Grind his bones and scatter them on the wind. Whatever – I’m sure your imagination can do better than mine in coming up with ways to debase a dead man. Then you’ll have the public spectacle you want, without the cruelty.’

  Boniface considered, his eyes hooded over those flaps of blackness. ‘But the holy court heard the girl defy me.’

  Xavier approached now. ‘I for one heard nothing, Holy Father. A cough, perhaps, a muttered apology. I’m sure there is no reliable transcript.’

  Boniface nodded. ‘Hmm. Lector Mason, you should consider a career in politics. Or the Church.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said vehemently.

  ‘I must consult my colleagues. You may withdraw.’ He turned away, dismissing her.

  Mary grabbed Alicia by the arm and walked her away from the bench. ‘Let’s get you out of here, kid.’

  Anselm followed, agitated. ‘What did you do? Alicia, you need to go back – Lector, let her go.’ He reached for Alicia.

  Xavier said, ‘I wouldn’t ad
vise it, Mr Fairweather.’

  Mary hissed, ‘Back off, kid. You’ll get your martyr. Darwin’s as much an intellectual hero as Galileo ever was. How do you think it’s going to reflect on the Church to have his very bones abused in this grotesque way? You’ll get the reaction you want, the anger, the disgust – with any luck, the mockery. And, look – you heard me speak about what the Aboriginal astronomers have discovered back home. The expansion of the universe, building on Galileo’s own work? We have proof. The truth has a way of working its way out into the open. The Church has clung on for centuries, but its hold is weakening. You don’t need to sacrifice Alicia to the Inquisition.’

  The blood had drained from Alicia’s face. Perhaps she saw it all for the first time.

  But Anselm still faced her. ‘Come with me, please, Alicia.’

  Alicia looked from Mary to Anselm. ‘Lector Mason – if I could stay with you – just until I get my thoughts sorted out.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Xavier leaned forward. ‘Go away, Lyncean. And I’d advise you, boy, never to come to the attention of the Inquisition again.’

  Anselm stared at the three of them. Then he turned and ran.

  Mary looked at Xavier. ‘So how long have you known he was with this Academy?’

  ‘A while.’

  ‘You’re lenient.’

  ‘He’s harmless. You know me by now, I prefer to avoid a fuss. The Church survived the fall of Rome, and Galileo and Darwin. It will survive a pipsqueak like Anselm Fairweather.’

  ‘So will you help us get out of here?’

  He glanced back at Boniface. ‘I suspect the court will find a way to close this hearing gracefully. Nothing more will be asked of Miss Darwin. Umm, her clothes …’

  ‘I don’t care about my clothes,’ Alicia said quickly. ‘I just want to get out of this place.’

  ‘You and me both,’ Mary said. ‘You can borrow my coat.’ She started walking Alicia towards the door.

  ‘Anselm set me up, didn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, dear.’

  ‘He said no harm would come to me if I refused to say anything bad about Charles Darwin. I believed him. Of course I did. He was my lawyer, and my, my …’

  ‘Don’t think about it now. Come see my hotel room. It’s got a great view of the Place de Louis XVI. You can see right up Napoleon’s nose. You know, I’m planning a trip up to Edinburgh. You have family there? I hear the air is cleaner. Why don’t you come? And then I’m thinking of booking an early berth back home. Maybe you can come visit.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not? After all, your uncle Charles was a traveller, wasn’t he? Maybe it’s in the blood. I think you’d like Terra Australis …’

  Talking quietly, following Xavier through the warren under St Paul’s, Mary led Alicia steadily towards the light of day.

  MARS ABIDES

  Hell City, Mars. 4 July 2026.

  Well, at least one of us lasted long enough to see the fiftieth anniversary of the first human hoofprints on this rustball. My hoofprints. That’s something, isn’t it?

  And I decided it’s a good enough time to finish my autobiography, such as it is, and read it down the comms link for the benefit of a silent universe, and then bury the text in this tin chest in the Martian dirt in the probably vain hope that somebody will find it some day. Who, though? Or what? Maybe some radioactive super-roach from the ruins of Earth, or some smart semi-motile Martian of a future volcano summer, will read about our mistakes, and not repeat them.

  Mars abides. Yes, I know the Bible verse (and by the way, I stowed Verity’s copy of the Good Book in this chest): ‘One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the Earth abideth forever.’ Ecclesiastes one, four. I always found that line a comfort, in the darkest days, and I always told Verity that it was a by-product of her Bible reading groups, although I have to admit I picked it up in the first place from the title of a pretty good science fiction novel.

  But I digress. If you want to learn the story of me and Mars, and Verity and Alexei, and all the rest, you’ll have to begin at the beginning.

  Mount Wilson Observatory, Los Angeles, California. 21 July 1964.

  The city lights washed to the foot of the hill on which the old observatory stood, but that night the sky above was crisp and cool and peppered with stars. The opened dome curved over Verity’s head, a shell of ribbing and panels. I suppose that old dome is crushed like an eggshell now. The telescope itself was an open frame, vaguely cylindrical, looming in the dark.

  I’d always been an astronomy buff. But I only had eyes for Verity Whittaker.

  I was fussing around the telescope, talking too fast and too much, as usual. ‘This is the Hooker telescope. When it was built, in 1906, it was the largest telescope in the world. These days it’s not hard to book time on it. Most observers want better seeing conditions than you get here now. The city lights, you know … I guess it doesn’t much look like what most people think a telescope is supposed to be. I mean—’

  ‘You mean it’s a reflector,’ Verity murmured. ‘Come on, Puddephat; I studied basic optics.’

  ‘Sure.’ I laughed nervously; in my own ears it was a painful, grating sound.

  She walked around the small, cluttered space, more glamorous in her USAF uniform than Marilyn Monroe, in my eyes. I was twenty-one, a year younger than Verity, with my hair already thinning at the temples. Why, she was already all but a combat veteran, having flown patrols over Germany and gone toe-to-toe with the Soviets. What could she see in me? She wasn’t even interested in astronomy, which was a subject for old men.

  But we were both attached to NASA’s long-term Mars programme, though both of us were at bottom-feeder level. And to fly the spaceships of the future, pilots like Verity Whittaker were going to have to learn astronomy from dweeb science-specialists like me.

  So here she was, having responded to my invitation to come share some study time, and my heart was pounding. Even the heavy crucifix she wore on a chain around her neck didn’t put me off.

  Restless – she was always easily bored by science stuff – she went over to a small bookshelf laden with a range of volumes of varying ages and degrees of decrepitude. Mars as the Abode of Life by Percival Lowell, 1909; Mars and its Canals by Lowell, 1906 …

  ‘Not too scientific,’ I ventured. ‘Old Lowell. But oddly prophetic in his way.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She picked out a fiction title: Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles.

  I asked, ‘You like science fiction? Me too. That’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘Too realistic for my taste. I grew up with Barsoom.’

  ‘Maybe we could discuss books some time.’

  She didn’t actually say no. She put the volume back.

  I got out of the chair. ‘Come on over; I have the instrument set up.’

  She sat in the chair and craned her head back. It took her a few moments to figure out how to see. You had to keep one eye closed, of course, and even then you had to align your head correctly, or your view would be occluded by the rim of the eyepiece. But when her lips parted softly – man, I could have kissed her there and then – I knew what she was seeing. A disc, washed-out pink and green, with streaks of lacy cloud, and patches of steel-grey ocean that would glint if the sun caught them at the right angle. All this blurred, softened, as if depicted in watercolour.

  ‘I’m looking at Mars?’

  ‘Right. We’re nowhere near opposition, but the seeing is pretty good.’ Her lips closed in a frown, and I knew she didn’t know what I was talking about. ‘At opposition Mars is almost opposite the sun, seen from Earth. So the planets are at the closest they get in their orbits. Verity, to do their jobs astronomers have always had to be able to figure out where they are in relation to the rest of the universe. Just the skills you interplanetary pilot he
roes are going to need. Anyhow, I thought it was appropriate for us to see Mars tonight. It kind of ties in with the main thing I want to show you.’

  She pulled back from the eyepiece. She looked suspicious, as if I was about to whip out my dong. ‘And what’s that, Puddephat?’

  I went to a desk at the back of the observatory, and came back with a fat folder. ‘Up until just a few days ago, that view of Mars was pretty much the best we had. But now everything’s different. Look at this stuff.’

  She took the folder. It contained photographs in grainy black and white. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘The pictures radioed back by Mariner 4. The NASA space probe that flew by Mars last week. Mariner sent back twenty-one pictures in all. They cover maybe one per cent of Mars’s surface. Classified, but I’ve got contacts at NASA Ames,’ I boasted desperately.

  The first photo showed the limb of the planet, seen from close to; there was a curved horizon. Verity stared. In contrast to an astronomer’s view, the misty, unreal disc, this was how Mars would look to an orbiting astronaut. I could see her imagination was snagged.

  The next few monochrome images looked like aerial pictures of a desert. ‘It’s hard to make out anything at all.’

  ‘You have to remember the geometry, Verity; the sun was more or less directly overhead here, so there are no shadows.’

  ‘High noon on Mars. It looks kind of like Arizona, maybe, seen from a high-flying plane.’

  ‘Well, you’d know.’