Century Rain

by Alastair Reynolds

  “This could be a trap,” Floyd said.

  “I’m trying very hard not to think about that possibility,” Auger replied.

  Cassandra’s face became glazed as she absorbed a welter of data concerning their approach to Paris. “Trap or not, we’re in the thick of the clouds now. Slowing to subsonic speed. I think this is about as low as I want to go in this ship. The particulate density is already rather on the high side for my liking.”

  “Can we release the Twentieth’s shuttle?”

  “Now is as good a time as ever,” Cassandra said. “Follow me.”

  They howled through clouds as thick as coal, bellowing with thunder and flickering with lightning in slow, pink-tinged bursts.

  “Still tracking Caliskan?” Auger asked.

  “With difficulty,” Cassandra said, turning briefly away from the antique control console. “Did you have any more luck with figuring out who that de Maupassant fellow Caliskan mentioned is?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think I know exactly what he meant. It doesn’t matter if we lose his trace—we can still make the RV.”

  “Couldn’t he have just told you where to land?” Floyd asked.

  “Caliskan likes his little games,” Auger said, smiling thinly. Around them, the hull creaked and groaned like a very old chair.

  “Cloud density is lessening,” Cassandra said. “I believe we’re nearly through the worst of it.”

  Through the cabin windows, the grey took on a rushing, streamlike quality, evoking great speed. The ship slammed through two or three final scarves of attenuated cloud before entering clear air above the city. This was a true Parisian night, as dark as it ever got except when there was some calamitous failure of ground-side power. The only sources of steady illumination were the artificial lights installed by Antiquities, mounted on buildings and towers or slung from hovering dirigibles and drone platforms. Now and then, lightning flickering above the clouds shone through the circuitlike patterns via which the clouds communicated, etching a negative ghost of those patterns on to the icebound streets and buildings laid out below.

  They were about five kilometres up, a high enough elevation for a panoramic view of the entire city, right out to the artificial moat of the Périphérique defences.

  “I don’t know whether you’re going to like this,” Auger said to Floyd, “but welcome to Paris. You’ve never been here before.”

  Floyd looked down through the small windows set into the lower part of the cabin. “I guess this means you were telling me the truth all along,” he said, struggling to deal with the enormity of that final realisation.

  “Did you still have doubts?”

  “I still had hopes.”

  She directed his attention to the edge of the city, where the tower-top beacons of the perimeter defences flashed red and green in sequence. “That’s the Périphérique,” she said, “a ring of roads encircling Paris. It didn’t exist in your version of the city.”

  “What’s the wall?”

  “The ice cliff. It’s armoured with metal and concrete, sensors and weapons, to keep the larger furies out, the ones that are big enough to see. Most of the time, it more or less works. But they still get through now and then, and when they do, they come in quickly.”

  That was the problem with Paris: the spiderweb of Métro and road tunnels offered numerous swift routes in from the perimeter. It didn’t matter that half of those tunnels were blocked by cave-ins: the hostile machines would always find an alternative route, or burrow their way into the older system of water and sewerage tunnels. The smallest of them could slip through telegraphic conduits, optical-fibre trunk lines and gas pipes. If push came to shove, they could even drill new tunnels of their own. They could be stopped—they could even be destroyed—but not without inflicting unacceptable damage on the very city that the researchers were trying to preserve and study.

  “I don’t recognise much,” Floyd said.

  “You’re looking at a city frozen more than a hundred years after your time,” Auger said. “Even so, there are still some landmarks you should recognise. It’s just a question of learning to see them, under all the ice.”

  “It’s like the face of a friend under a funeral shroud.”

  “There’s the curve of the Seine,” Auger said, pointing. “The Pont Neuf. Notre Dame and Ile de la Cité. Do you see it now?”

  “Yes,” Floyd said, with a sadness that ripped her open. “Yes, I see it now.”

  “Don’t hate us too much for what we did,” she said. “We tried our best.”

  Above, the clouds rippled and surged with a strange, oblivious intelligence. The ship pitched and yawed, sinking lower. “Might I trouble you for the landing site?” Cassandra asked.

  “Take us south of the river,” Auger said. “Do you see that rectangle of flat ice?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the Champ de Mars. Line us up with it and hold altitude at three hundred metres.”

  She felt the ship respond almost before she had finished speaking. Servo-motors made a crunching, grinding sensation under her feet, as flight surfaces were redeployed.

  “Is there something significant about this area?” Cassandra asked.

  “Yes.”

  A bolt of lightning chose that moment to punch through the clouds, landing very close to the mangled, attenuated stump of the Eiffel Tower, at the limit of the Champ de Mars.

  “That’s where we’re headed,” Auger said.

  “The metal structure?”

  “Yes. Bring us down on the upper stage, as best as you can.”

  “It’s sloping. I’m not sure if I trust that metal?—”

  “It’ll hold,” Auger said. “You’re looking at seven thousand tons of Victorian pig iron. If it survived two hundred years under ice, I think it can take our weight.”

  For two centuries, the ice had swallowed the lower third of the three-hundred-metre-high tower. Some forgotten, unwitnessed catastrophe had ripped the upper seventy-five metres into history, leaving no trace of the wreckage within the excavated bowl of Paris. The first two observation decks remained, plus most of the much smaller third stage, which was perched atop a slanted, corkscrewed stump of twisted metal leaning far out towards the frozen Seine.

  “I can see a parked spacecraft on the third level,” Cassandra said. “Thrusters are still hot. Size and function matches the type of shuttle Caliskan was using.”

  “That’s our meeting point. If he’s being nice, he’ll have left us enough space to park.”

  “It’ll be tight,” the Slasher said.

  “Do your best. If necessary, you only have to hold station while we disembark, or bring Caliskan aboard.”

  “And Mr. de Maupassant?”

  “He won’t be joining us. He’s been dead nearly four hundred years.”

  “Then I confess—”

  “Caliskan’s little joke,” Auger said. “He knew I’d get it. De Maupassant despised that tower. In fact, he hated it so much that he insisted on having lunch in it every day. Said it was the only place in Paris where it didn’t spoil his view.”

  The tower thrust up below them, its distorted lean even more apparent now that they were hovering directly above the third stage. From this perspective, the latticed metal shaft curved inward, like an eroded cliff, while the far side was bent so far from its intended angle that the ironwork had begun to curl away in buckled sections, like the hackles of a dog.

  Lighting stabbed close again. The play of shadow and light made the entire structure appear to move, wobbling like jelly.

  “Bring us in, Cassandra,” Auger said. “The sooner we’re down, the happier I’ll be.”

  The third-stage observation deck was an apron of square metal tilted at five or six degrees to the horizontal, pierced by the jagged uprights of severed girders and the shafts that had once carried the elevator cars to the top of the tower. Buckled metal railings were still in place around much of the perimeter. Caliskan’s barb-shaped shuttle was parked
in one corner, its tail jutting out into empty space.

  “That’s his ship,” Auger said. “Can you land?”

  “I can try.” Cassandra threw a bank of levers. “Landing skids are down and locked. We’ll burn fuel in VTOL mode, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  The ship hovered, sliding from side to side as Cassandra feathered the vectored thrust nozzles. They dropped a little, held station, then dropped again. Nearing the platform, the backwash from the thrusters sent loose metal scurrying across the deck, smashing through the railings and over the sides. Then they were down, the landing skids absorbing the impact with a bounce of pneumatics.

  Cassandra powered down the engines, conserving every drop of fuel. “We should be all right for the time being,” she said.

  “Good job, that,” Auger said. “For your next trick, can you re-open a channel to Caliskan?”

  “Just a moment.”

  One of the screens flickered, then filled with Caliskan’s features. He pushed unkempt white hair back from a glistening brow. “Are you secured?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Auger said, “but I’m not sure there’s enough fuel left in the shuttle for us to make it back into orbit.” She glanced at Cassandra, who made an indecisive face and an equivocal hand gesture.

  “How many of you are there aboard?” he asked.

  “Three,” she said, “plus the cargo. But Cassandra’s hoping to fly the shuttle back on her own. Only Floyd and I need to come with you.”

  “There should be enough room for all three of us, and the cargo. Do you think you can make the crossing?”

  “Depends on the fury count,” Auger said.

  He glanced away, consulting some concealed read-out. “It’s low enough not to be a problem, provided you wear normal environment gear. No special precautions necessary. Just watch your footing.”

  “Why did you bring us here? I mean, I understand why orbit wasn’t the safest place—”

  “Precisely because of the fury count, Auger. The big machines never get this high. Monsieur Eiffel’s monstrosity is the safest place in the city.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Floyd and Auger stepped on to the leaning floor of the third-stage observation deck. Above, the constant motion of the clouds created a dizzying sense that the entire structure had chosen that exact moment to topple over. Floyd had never been good with heights, and this predicament seemed to encapsulate every vertigo-tinged nightmare he’d ever had. They were walking on a slippery, sloping, rickety surface pocked with holes and weak spots, almost three hundred metres in the air… in a gale… in heavy suits that made vision limited, every gesture clumsy, every step perilous, and they were also carrying four heavy boxes between them loaded with paper, books and phonograph records.

  “You all right, Floyd?” Auger asked. Her voice was shrill in the diving-helmet affair the Slasher had just bolted into place over his head.

  “Put it this way, Auger: when I last got out of bed, staggering around on the mangled wreck of the Eiffel Tower wasn’t exactly on my list of things to achieve by sunset.”

  “But look on the bright side, Floyd. Think of the great stories you’ll have to tell.”

  “And think of the fun I’ll have finding someone prepared to believe me.”

  With an appalling and very audible groan of stressed iron, the deck suddenly lurched, its angle of tilt increasing. Loose debris came skidding towards them, squealing across the metal surfaces. Floyd dived to one side, dropping one of the boxes in the process. Before he could reach for it, a girder slid by and snagged on the side of the box, dragging it along for the ride. While he fumbled for a solid purchase—something to prevent him from sliding the same way as the box—he watched it cruise all the way to the edge of the deck and out into empty space. The box tilted, spilling books, magazines, newspapers and records into the air above Paris.

  “Floyd! Are you all right?” shouted Auger.

  “I’m fine—but I just lost one of the boxes.”

  He heard her swear, then bite down on her anger. “Can’t be helped. But this whole structure feels as if it’s about to give up the ghost. Must be the weight of the ships.”

  Lightning strobed the horizon, brighter than before.

  “That looks like a bad electrical storm,” Auger observed. “I’d really like to get out of here before it arrives.”

  “Me, too,” Floyd said with feeling, standing up. “I’ve seen enough of the view for one lifetime. It gets old real quick.”

  Caliskan’s ship had slid a little closer to them before its movement had been arrested by the obstruction of the ruined elevator shaft, its truncated iron cage pushing up through the floor. From this angle, Floyd made out a stepped ramp folded down from the silver barb of the ship. A suited figure leaned out at the top of the ramp, beckoning them closer with a gloved hand. Then the figure started down the steps, meeting Auger halfway. She handed him the first of her two boxes, then waited while he loaded it into the ship and took the second from her. Then she crossed back to Floyd and helped him with his one remaining box. He joined her on the laddered ramp, recognising the face of the man in the spacesuit as the one he’d seen on various Slasher screens. It was Caliskan.

  He directed them aboard into a small double-doored room the size of a pantry. The outer door closed, silencing the storm like the needle being pulled from a record. The boxes were piled up in one corner, like so much junk waiting to be thrown out.

  When they had passed through the inner door, Caliskan removed his helmet, indicating that they should do likewise. “You made it,” he said, palming his white hair back into some approximation of order. “That was a little touch and go, wasn’t it?”

  “Can I speak to Cassandra?” Auger said. “I want to tell her to get out of here.”

  “Of course.” Caliskan ushered them into the narrow forward section of his little ship. It was all exposed metal, pipes and spars, about as warm and snug as the inside of a midget submarine. “The link is still open. I’ll see her actions receive appropriate recognition once this mess is sorted out.”

  “Cassandra, can you hear me?” Auger said.

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Save yourself. We can take care of ourselves from now.”

  “Can Caliskan get you out of there?” she asked.

  Caliskan leaned into the field of view of the camera. “I’ll take care of them, don’t worry.”

  Now that he was seeing Caliskan in the flesh, Floyd felt more certain than ever that he had met him—or possibly his brother—before. Still wearing most of his spacesuit, Caliskan leaned down to peer through a circular porthole in the side of his ship. “Why isn’t she lifting off? Doesn’t she know how unstable this structure is?”

  Lightning flashed again, painting Caliskan’s face with harsh highlights, like a retouched photograph.

  “That storm’s getting closer,” Floyd observed.

  “Cassandra,” Auger said, assuming that the link was still open, “is there a problem?”

  There was not even a crackle of response. The screen was blank. With a worried look on his face, Caliskan settled into his flight position and started throwing controls, methodically at first but with increasing urgency. “Something’s wrong,” he said, after a minute of this.

  “Fury infiltration?” Augur asked, alarm clear in her voice.

  “No… the counts all looked low.”

  “And now?”

  “Everything’s dead, including the monitors. The ship’s switched to reserve power—basic functions only.” He nodded towards the porthole. “Given the age of that ship you arrived in, Cassandra may be experiencing the same difficulties.”

  “But if it’s not furies…” Augur began.

  There was another flicker of lightning, brighter and closer and more violent than before. A metallic rumble shook the observation deck, transmitting shockwaves through the parked ship. It felt like a passing freight train.

  “I don’t know what’s happening out there,�
� Auger said, “but we have to get out of here before that storm hits, or this tower collapses, or both.”

  “We’re not going anywhere for a while,” Caliskan said. “I don’t think those are lightning flashes.”

  “If they’re not lightning flashes…” Auger began, her mouth suddenly drying up with fear.

  When Floyd caught a glimpse of her face, her expression was enough to put the fear of God into him. “What is it?” he asked, reaching out to her.

  “Scorched earth,” Auger said. “It’s begun. Missile bombardment from orbit.”

  “I fear she’s right,” Caliskan said. “Those flashes look rather like nuclear strikes to me. Hundreds of kilometres away… but they seem to be coming closer. That may or may not be deliberate.”

  Auger buried her face in her hands. “As if we haven’t screwed this planet up enough as it is.”

  “Let’s worry about the planet later,” Floyd said. “Right now our necks have priority. How do we get off this thing?” Why aren’t the ships working?”

  “Electromagnetic pulse damage,” Caliskan said. “These ships are Thresher designed, with a heavy reliance on electrical subsystems. They’re not built to tolerate that kind of thing.”

  Floyd had no idea what Caliskan was talking about, but he assumed it was serious. “Will they fly again?”

  “I don’t know,” Caliskan said, continuing to work the controls, as if they might come back to life at any moment. “Some of the systems are trying to revive themselves, but they keep falling over because the other systems aren’t awake. If I can juggle the reboot sequence…” His fingers danced with manic speed across a keyboard, while pale numbers and symbols marched in columns across a ceiling-suspended screen.

  “Keep trying,” Auger said, jamming her helmet back on. “I’m going to see if Cassandra’s having any more luck.”

  “No need,” Floyd said, looking back through the porthole at the other ship. “She’s on her way over.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “See for yourself. She must have decided it was too risky to stay aboard.”