Syzygy

by Michael G. Coney

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Military Sci-Fi

Synopsis

Once every fifty-two years Arcadia's six erratic moons come together in a constellation that plays havoc with the ecological balance of the planet. As a marine biologist at Riverside Research Centre, Mark Swindon is chiefly concerned about the effect of catastrophic tides on his precious fish pens. Then, without warning, a wave of seemingly motiveless violence sweeps through the normally sleepy colony - and Mark too feels himself drawn against his will into a mysterious cycle of death and rebirth.

Release date: May 20, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 142

Sample

One evening, about one Arcadian year before the onset of the Relay Effect, Sheila and I attended a dance in the Riverside Recreation Dome. The place was full—a jostling crowd of humanity determined to enjoy themselves, cavorting grimly to the imperfect beat of an inferior band. The Master of Ceremonies had been brought in especially for the occasion; he was, so we were informed, great fun—a genuine character who would make any party go. On hearing this I tried to make some excuse not to attend, but Sheila was insistent. Everybody, it appeared, was going; and it was tacitly understood that this was to be the beginning of a new relationship between the Research Station and the private colonists of Riverside.

At midnight the dance was at its peak, the band deafening, the trumpeter swaying and blasting in imminent danger of a coronary. I sat with Sheila at a side table drinking while she watched wistfully as the packed floor performed an old-fashioned dance from Scotland, on Earth. I did not know this dance. The rhythm irritated me. People jigged about in small circles, taking it in turns to move into the centre and perform.

One young man caught my eye; I watched with interest as he pranced on the circumference of his little group, his face pink and sweating, living this moment of great joy which would only be surpassed when he got into the middle of the circle. His chance came after two false starts, and he capered forward, arms upraised as though at gunpoint, leaping and posturing, all the while uttering falsetto yelps like a maimed dog. At last he retired, eyes bright, sweat streaming, and clapped rhythmically while a large woman attempted to emulate these antics. He fascinated me, this young man. I wondered what was motivating him—in his normal role he was an eminently serious young scientist at my Research Station.

The number ended, there was a burst of applause from the participants, the MC took the mike. He was a large dark man with an aggressive smile and a hypnotic manner. “Now, Ladies and Gentlemen!; he bellowed. He paused for that microsecond of time which arouses speculation, then confidently shouted: “It’s the Snake! Everybody on the floor!”

Tumultuous approval. People began. to writhe. I heard delighted cries of “Oh, the Snake!” as there was a mass exodus from the tables to the floor. They had forgotten the Scottish dance; they wanted to do the Snake. The Snake was the most. I felt Sheila tugging my hand, and looked up. Her eyes were glazed with anticipation; she was standing and obviously took it for granted that I wanted to do the Snake. Everyone loved the Snake …

I stood resignedly. I obediently began to writhe, slightly out of rhythm. I looked around, embarrassed, at everyone writhing. The pink young scientist was particularly happy; one complex manoeuvre took him almost to his knees.

I said sarcastically: “If they like the Snake so much, why not do it all night? Why bother with the other dances?”

Sheila stared at me uncomprehending, writhing.

The dark sea was quietly calm and the ripples touched with crimson by the terminal rays of the setting sun. In my hand the tiller was gently alive, nudged by the wavelets, quivering to the muted putter of the 5½ horse-power outboard. There was little wind, just a light kiss against our faces as Jane and I sat in companionable silence in the small cockpit of Carousel. Above us the boom swung idly to the lullaby rocking of the boat; the carelessly-rolled sail hung limp. I like the old-fashioned sailing boat; there is still a place for it despite the advantages, often described to me by Riverside fishermen, of the latest hover-trawlers, which they cannot themselves afford. It takes many generations for a new colony to attain Earth standards.…

To the south, the last of Arcadia’s moons crept towards the horizon. “There goes Gimel”, I observed. My voice was an anachronism in the evening quiet.

Jane turned and gazed after the small silver disc. “It’s a strange feeling,” she, said. “I’m nineteen years old, and I’ve never known a moonless night. I can’t imagine it. Just black. Nothing up there.” A kite-bug—a tiny glowing beetle suspended from a triangular phosphorescent web—drifted past the masthead.

“There’s always the stars,” I reminded her.

“It’s not the same thing. There’s something so … final, seeing the last moon go down. As though everything was finished.”

I laughed. Jane has a tendency toward an overactive imagination. “Remember, they can see all six moons on the other side of the world. And the moons will be overhead here, tomorrow. You may not see them in daylight, of course. But we’ll know they’re there …”

“You mean the tides?”

“I think we’re ready for them.”

Nevertheless I was concerned. Arcadia’s moons describe erratic orbits: the phenomenon which would take place over the next few weeks occurred once every fifty-two years. We could only hope that all precautions had been taken. A further complication was the sketchiness of the records concerning the previous occurrence. I’m a fifth-generation Arcadian. The planet, nine-tenths water with a single equatorial continent and a few scattered islands, was colonized by Earth one hundred and thirty years ago. I am thirty-two years old and had not witnessed the unique grouping of the six moons before.

Some of the older members in the settlement of Riverside remembered it, but they were curiously reticent. All that was known was that inexplicable riots and drownings had taken place. Some of the elderly had ridiculous theories; they spoke of a werewolf effect—God knows who dreamed that idea up, but it certainly captured their imaginations. A few weeks earlier I had been talking to Jed Spark in the Social Club. He’s sixty years old—third-generation Arcadian—and he speaks with an authority born of senility.

“It stands to reason,” he said. “When you get all six moons lined up together it’s bound to affect folks’ minds. There’s a gravitations pull on the brain; it sends you queer. I remember—I was only a kid—the last time this happened it was Christmas or thereabouts. My folks gave me a present, a big parcel. I looked at it, and I looked at them, and suddenly I knew what was inside that wrapping. When I opened it up, I was right; it was an old-fashioned train set with a red engine, imported from Earth. It must have cost them a fortune. But that feeling of having looked right through the wrapping put me off a bit, I can tell you.” He shivered dramatically and extorted a beer from me as compensation for mental distress.

At the time I had smiled, but a few weeks ago four men arrived at the Research Station. I knew one of them slightly, a man named Arthur Jenkins; I’d met him at a science convention nine months ago. Although our fields are poles apart we had enjoyed an interesting conversation during a particularly boring lecture. I am a marine biologist and he found the subject fascinating—but I’ve hardly seen him during this last two weeks. Obviously Arthur and his men constitute some sort of team, and the subject of their investigations is being kept dark. One thing I do know—Arthur is a psychiatrist. Which suggests that they are investigating us, the people of Riverside, and our reaction to the fifty-two-year phenomenon. Oddly enough, it appears that the reaction, whatever it is, only occurred among people in the coastal areas. Oldhaven, our nearest large port, was burned to the ground; people were attacking their friends on sight, so it is said …

I watched idly as a vociferous flock of junkers disputed a fish one of their number had caught after a typically clumsy dive. Around them the tiny newlers hovered above the surface—marine humming-birds, their diet consists of plankton snatched from the sea in their pointed, needle-like bills.

I brought myself back to the present—Jane was speaking: They say the rise and fall is going to be over a hundred feet,” she remarked. Under the normal scattered distribution of Arcadia’s moons the tide is negligible.

“That’s all right. We’ve got it all worked out. A few residents will have to evacuate to units on higher ground, and we’ve arranged temporary accommodation at the Research Centre, and with other people around there. After the tides have finished, we’ll all go down and lend a hand cleaning out their units. It’ll be a case of communal effort. I think everyone will help.” Riverside has a population of about five hundred, of which about one-fifth are employed at the Station; the subcolony is grouped at varying altitudes on the steep slopes at the head of the estuary. I expected about thirty units to be rendered uninhabitable for a period of at least two weeks—indeed, many of the lower-lying dwellings were already submerged at each tide.

“But what about the fish?” Jane asked.

This was a major problem. The private colonists of Riverside depend on fishing and agriculture for their income. At one time fishing was entirely carried on by a fleet of eight small trawlers; these still set off down the two-mile estuary every day, returning in the evening loaded to the gunwales. But five years ago I arrived on the scene and the Riverside Biological Research Station was set up. Our first project was to investigate the feasibility of fish farms along the lines of those on Earth. We have to move with the times; a colony cannot stagnate, technology-wise, despite the abundance of natural food resources on Arcadia. With a minimum budget and a wealth of local opposition I got the project under way, and there are now sixteen pens to the west of the estuary mouth covering an area of almost a thousand acres. I was now facing the biggest problem yet. At low tides the fish would be overcrowded and starving—the Arcadian fatty has a high metabolism—whereas at high tides they would be able to swim over the tops of the pens and thereby escape.

“We’re going to feed them each high tide,” I explained. “We motor over the tops of the pens and drop pellet fodder overboard. It sinks to the bottom. This will encourage the fatties to stay in the pens and feed from the ground. Even when the tide goes out and they get crowded, they’ll still have plenty to eat.”

“That’s going to be a big job. How can we manage sixteen pens?”

“I’ve requisitioned the trawlers. They’ll anchor at the mouth of the estuary, load up with fodder there and take it to the pens, scattering it like seed.”

Jane laughed. “I don’t suppose that’ll make you very popular with the fishermen.” The fishermen feel—and rightly—that the fish farm will eventually put them out of their jobs. This is the main reason for the undercurrent of feeling between the private colonists and the Research Station.

“They can’t use the trawlers for anything else. Soon the estuary will dry out at each low tide, apart from a few pools. At high tide the ebb and flow will be so strong that they’ll be risking their lives if they try to put to sea. I don’t suppose they’re sorry, really. And it gives them a chance to complain about the authorities, which is their favourite sport.”

“So that’s why you’ve been taking all that stuff along the track to the point. You had all this worked out months ago.”

“I couldn’t really say anything. Fortunately, the Riverside fishermen aren’t far-sighted. If they’d known what I intended, they’d have applied for a grant to widen and concrete the track, and then trucked their fish from the point to the colony. It’s too late now. It’s as much as you can do to get a tractor along there with a trailer. It took me over a hundred journeys to accumulate the stockpile of fodder.”

Jane fell silent. Her face was thoughtful in the light from the cabin, and I felt the familiar sickness of longing as once again I noted her resemblance to Sheila …

We were moving between the tall headlands at the estuary mouth; they appeared threatening, jagged in the unaccustomed gloom. The tide was receding fast, and Carousel made slow headway in the black swirling water. From the bows, a V wave of bright phosphorescence angled into the darkness.

“The water must be almost solid with plankton,” I observed, forcing my mind free of unhappy memories. The mewlers were all over the water, feeding rapidly and uttering piping cries.

“I’d noticed that. It seems that the things stay in the creek, whatever the state of the tide. At low water the channel’s like soup. Billions of them, fighting the ebb. There seem to be more every night.”

Around the boat were other ripples—blue, fast-moving trails with the occasional glimpse of a triangular fin. “Blackfish too,” I said. “They seem to be gathering in the creek. I hope they don’t get into the pens.”

The blackfish is the Arcadian equivalent of the terrestrial shark, Slim, swift and incredibly ferocious, they prey on the fatties and are the bane of the trawler fishermen, ripping the nets to shreds with their needle teeth. A blackfish at large in one of my pens can decimate the fatty population in a few hours. They kill instantly, sinking their teeth into their prey immediately behind the head, then moving on to the next without a pause. They kill indiscriminately, blindly, apparently for the fun of it, pausing to eat only rarely. The fishermen wear girdles of soluble repellent when at sea; the solution is not always effective … As I watched a blackfish rose in a glittering leap, snatched a hovering mewler and sank beneath the surface again.

The last faint reflections of Gimel were silvering the mud-flats as we drove up the final mile, the engine labouring in the swift current, the air salty with stranded plankton and acrid with petrol fumes. On either side the gathering hills bulked black, relieved directly ahead by the friendly lights of the colony. I began to think of the warm atmosphere of the Social Club and the cool clean tang of beer.

I eased the tiller over, following the channel. It swung to the right, close beside a steep rocky stretch of shore where, decades ago, a section of the rugged outcrop at the top of the long ridge had broken loose and tumbled down to the water’s edge to lie in heaped, meaningless confusion. Time had softened the bleak stone; moss clung to the boulders, and lower down, seaweed. Gnarled trees had crept determinedly among them, in places right to the river’s edge, where they dipped tentative toes into the water from the security of stances dry at any normal state of the tide. For the next few weeks, however, these trees would find their position dangerous, as the rising water drowned even their topmost leaves. In a month’s time they would be irrevocably poisoned by the saline tide and, later in the year, would topple across the water, breaking loose from their roots, to drift against the steep bank and lie there half-submerged, like…

“Don’t think about her, Mark.”

I jumped stupidly, startled by Jane’s sudden command. “ How…?” My involuntary question petered out. I knew how she knew.

“You always do. Whenever we pass Anchor Pool in the dark you think of Sheila. It’s time you thought of somebody else. There are plenty of nice girls in the colony. Stop being a hermit and get around a bit, go to dances and things. It’s no use spending your evenings in the Social Club and your mornings sleeping it off. At first you were sorry because of her, but now you’ve become more sorry for yourself. I’m sorry too; after all, she was my sister. But I’ve got over it. It’s about time you got over it too.”

I stared at her. I was astonished at the vehemence of her outburst, which seemed in rather bad taste. She was gazing grimly up the creek, and the cabin light emphasized the determined set of her round chin, Sheila’s chin … But Sheila’s hair had been shoulder-length and blonde, whereas Jane’s was short and auburn. And their personalities were quite different, Sheila’s easy-going charm contrasting sharply with Jane’s forthright, sometimes crude, down-to-earth attitude.

“I was in love with her,” I said mildly and sadly, conscious that I was acting, that I was trying to shut her up by appealing to her sympathy.

“So fall in love again,” she retorted roughly, unabashed. “You’ve proved it can be done.”

We were passing the first of the Riverside dwelling units. A neat triangle of lighted windows denoted Mrs. Earnshaw’s place among the trees. She was probably engaged in one of her interminable bridge evenings with the more wealthy of the private colonists. She herself was a wealthy woman living with a hired companion, and her unit was an Aladdin’s cave of expensive imported furniture and knick-knacks. I had met her only once. I found her forbidding, with her mastiff countenance and foghorn voice; somehow she made me feel as though I had incorrectly trumped her ace. It was with regrettable pleasure that I remembered her unit was below the expected high-. . .