Century Rain

by Alastair Reynolds

  “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side,” Tunguska said. He squeezed her hand. “In the meantime, good luck. Give my regards to Niagara. I wish I could deliver my sentiments in person.”

  “I’ll make it count for both of us,” Auger said.

  Departure was routine. When they were an hour into the flight, Auger turned to Floyd and said, “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “Can it wait until we’ve dealt with Niagara?”

  “There might not be enough time then.” The script—the words she had prepared in her mind—dried up somewhere in her throat. All she could manage was, “What are you going to do now?”

  He looked at her as if it was silliest question anyone had ever asked. “Now?”

  “With the rest of your life, I mean. Now that you know… everything. Now that you won’t be able to take a breath without remembering that nothing around you is really what it seems.”

  “I guess I’ll do what everyone else does: get on with my life and forget the big questions.”

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “It’s the truth. I still need shoes on my feet. I still need to feed myself and take care of the electricity bill. I still need to put a roof over my head, no matter what’s above the sky. Anyway, that isn’t to say I haven’t got a few plans.”

  “Plans you want to tell me about?”

  “My first duty is to Custine,” Floyd said. “I still have to get the police off his case. That means dealing with Maillol, and maybe finding some leverage over Inspector Belliard. There’s at least one dead war baby in the tunnel at Cardinal Lemoine. Maillol may need a live one before he can do anything for me. But I won’t know until I telephone him.”

  “That won’t take for ever.”

  “That isn’t everything I’ve got planned. After that, I’m going after the other fish—whoever they are.”

  “Other fish like Caliskan’s brother?”

  “If he’s there, I’ll find him. And if I find him, I’ll make him talk.”

  “These are dangerous people,” Auger said.

  “I know.”

  “They’re organised and willing to kill to protect their secrets. They have no qualms about attempting to murder three billion people. They’re not going to lose any sleep over one little detective.”

  “Then maybe they won’t see me coming. And I won’t be alone. I’ll have Custine on my side. Maybe Maillol, if I can talk some sense into him. Between us, we might make a difference.”

  “You’ve already made a difference,” she said. “If you hadn’t taken Blanchard seriously, everything that Susan did would have been lost. We’d never have known about Niagara’s plan.”

  “It was a case,” Floyd said, with an easy shrug. “It needed closing.”

  Floyd felt the shuttle shudder as the first missile unglued itself and sped away, riding a spike of flame like a splinter chipped from the sun. It was six hours since they had departed Tunguska’s ship, but it had felt more like twenty. There had been nothing to do but wait as the shuttle positioned itself for the strike; nothing to do but worry that Niagara was going to pull some last-minute trick that would throw all of Tunguska’s careful stratagems into disarray. But the chase had unfolded with meticulous obeisance to the attack simulations, right down to the last moment before missile release. Niagara had nothing else to offer; no alternative but continue his race towards E2’s atmosphere and hope that he arrived there first. He must have known that it had become a suicide mission for him; that even if he succeeded in dropping the Silver Rain spore on to E2, he would never survive to see their murderous effect.

  The two ships were now close enough to accommodate the limited range of the makeshift missiles. Niagara’s shuttle was on a forced parabolic that had already carried it to within a thousand kilometres of E2’s surface, while the Twentieth’s shuttle lagged behind by less than half that distance.

  They watched the thrust trail of the missile stab down towards the cloud-flecked hemisphere of the Pacific Ocean. None of the instruments aboard the shuttle were capable of displaying the disposition of the missile, but Cassandra’s machines ferried a constant commentary directly into Auger’s head; a ceaseless babble of telemetry that occasionally made her wince in protest as the numbers overwhelmed her ability to process them.

  Floyd looked at her, waiting for an update.

  “Closing,” she said. “Still looking good.”

  Below, against the backdrop of the ocean, Floyd could just make out the glint of the ship they were chasing. It was still five hundred kilometres away, but—apart from the missile—it was the only thing moving against the face of E2, spitting a brilliant, quivering flame as it continued to make evasive course changes, still trying to dodge anything they might throw at it.

  “Four hundred kilometres,” Auger said. “Missile still looking good. Tunguska might have built it in a hurry, but he did a pretty good job.”

  “I’m glad he’s on our side.”

  “Me, too. Floyd: this might not be the ideal time—”

  “When is it ever?”

  “Whatever happens from hereon in, I’m not sorry we met. I’m not sorry we had this adventure.”

  “Really?”

  “Never in a million years.” Then she frowned as the machines delivered another bulletin straight into her skull. “Two hundred klicks and closing. Niagara knows there’s a missile on his tail now.”

  Floyd saw the little spark of Niagara’s drive flame become even more agitated, lashing from side to side like a feather in the wind. He wondered what that kind of swerving meant for anyone still alive in that ship. Perhaps Niagara and his associates were all dead by now, mashed by the forces of the escape, sacrificing themselves so that their cargo might still find its way to E2.

  Or maybe he was still alive, and in pain.

  Floyd knew which option he preferred.

  “Something’s changing,” Auger said. “The albedo of Niagara’s ship…”

  Floyd saw it too: that moving glint becoming a moving smudge of silver light, just for an instant.

  It looked as if Niagara’s ship had blown up. He dared to believe that might be the case, that the missile had somehow leapt across space faster than it was meant to. But the spike of the drive exhaust continued to burn, sharp and clean as a stiletto.

  “What just happened? Did we—”

  “No, we didn’t. He just sloughed a large part of his hull, discarding it like an old skin. That can only mean one thing, Floyd: he’s ready to drop the spore.”

  The ship shuddered. The second and last missile was away.

  “First missile closing… sixty klicks… forty… twenty…”

  Floyd stared down, willing an outcome with all the strength he had. But the silver smudge kept moving.

  “Zero,” Auger said. “Zero. Fuck.”

  The first missile cleaved into the atmosphere, pushing down into the skies above some spray of mid-Pacific islands Floyd didn’t recognise. “Can’t turn it around in time,” Auger said.

  “Try it.”

  But the missile had already selected its own fate. A pinprick of light blossomed, rapidly becoming bright enough to hurt, and just as quickly faded.

  “Warhead self-detonated. This isn’t good.”

  “Second fish?”

  “Homing. Closing on three hundred klicks.”

  The moving smudge of Niagara’s ship suddenly reversed its direction of thrust. Even without magnification, Floyd saw the craft visibly alter its crawl across the backdrop of the ocean. The great sea was as bright and clear and smooth as a marble, clouds and islands dappled across its unblemished face with painterly precision, in broken lines and elegant curves. It was his world, as no one had ever seen it before, and it was enough to make him gasp.

  He was sorry. It was a wonderful, glorious sight, but there just wasn’t time to enjoy the view.

  Maybe next time.

  “Bastard’s slowing,” Auger said.

  “He�
��s ready.”

  “Two hundred and fifty klicks. Missile slowing.”

  “Slowing?”

  “The missile’s learning from its mate, trying not to make the same mistake.”

  “I really hope it knows what it’s doing.”

  “Two hundred klicks… still slowing. Maybe it’s malfunctioned. Oh shit I hope it hasn’t malfunctioned.”

  “If it has, we need to think about ramming with this thing.”

  Auger looked back at him. He couldn’t tell whether her expression was impressed or horrified. “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “I’ve already got the intercept programmed in.”

  “Nice of you to tell me.”

  “I’d have got round to it.” She blinked, started to say something. Floyd could almost feel the torrent of numbers sluicing through her head.

  “The fish, Auger?”

  “Slowing to one hundred kilometres… No, wait.” She hesitated. “Wait. It’s sprinting again.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “It’s too late. It’s not going to…”

  The second warhead detonated. The same pinprick of light, swelling in size and brightness… but this time it kept on swelling. Floyd jammed his eyes shut and still that did no good, the light pushing through his skin, through his bones, cleansing every thought in his head save the acknowledgement of its own intolerable luminosity, like a proclamation from God.

  And then a slow, stately fade, and then nothing.

  Just empty skies.

  “There were no dampeners on that detonation,” Auger said, her voice distant and disconnected, like someone speaking in a dream. “It made no effort to limit its blast. It must have been confident it could make the kill.”

  “There’s nothing out there.”

  “I know.”

  “That means we did it,” Floyd said. “It means we saved the Earth.”

  “One of them,” she corrected.

  “One’s enough for today. Let’s not get greedy.”

  FORTY-TWO

  It was daylight over the Pacific, and therefore night over Paris. Clouds wrapped the city, fog choking its streets with cold, constricting coils. The shuttle dropped through the weather like a stone through smoke, conserving fuel, retarding its descent with the minimum expenditure of thrust. Closer to the ground, it reconfigured its flight surfaces and became passably aerodynamic. Hypersonic, then supersonic, then subsonic, until the shuttle lowered itself through the main swell of clouds into a gloomy window of clear air. Districts of the city, picked out in the lights of buildings, streetlamps and moving cars, poked through the low quilt of fog. Here the swell of Montmartre and the Sacré-Coeur; there the dark ribbon of the Seine; there the glowing carnival of the Champs-Elysées, like a river of light.

  “Look,” Auger said, with a childlike glee. “There’s the Eiffel Tower. It’s still here, still intact. It’s still standing.”

  “Everything’s still here,” Floyd said.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It grows on you.”

  “We never deserved this second chance,” she said.

  “But sometimes you get what you don’t deserve.”

  The console chimed. Auger strained forward and answered the call.

  “Tunguska here,” they heard. “I must offer my congratulations. We saw the kill strike even at a distance of three light-seconds.”

  Auger let him finish speaking before asking, “The spore? Could Silver Rain have survived the blast?”

  His reply crawled back six seconds later. “Unlikely.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I hope I am, too.” He sounded more amused than alarmed, as if he had exhausted any final reserves of worry. “I suppose at this point, all one can realistically do is hope for the best. Are you both intact?”

  Auger flashed Floyd a glance. “As intact as we’ll ever be.”

  “Good. You did well. I’m afraid, though, that there isn’t much time to dwell on your success. The wound is closing fast. Our bleed-drive is a little unsteady, but we can begin to limp our way to the exit.”

  “Go, then,” Auger said.

  “The thing is,” Tunguska said, “I was rather hoping you’d come with us. There’s also the small matter of you now being Cassandra’s custodian, and I would like nothing better than for her to return to Polity space.”

  Floyd leaned over, straining against his harness. “She’s keeping that appointment, Tunguska.”

  “Floyd…” Auger said.

  “Start your limp home,” Floyd told Tunguska, “but be prepared to pick up this shuttle at the last minute. As soon as Auger’s dropped me off, she’ll be on her way back to you immediately.”

  “Telemetry suggests you have sufficient fuel,” Tunguska said guardedly. “If you begin your return journey practically as soon as you land. If you delay, there are no guarantees. I hope I make myself clear.”

  “In Technicolor,” Floyd said.

  It was a strip of vacant ground between two abandoned churches, somewhere south of the Longchamp Hippodrome. If anyone had seen the shuttle lower down through the fog, screaming out of the night on vertical thrust, they had elected not to stay around for the end of the performance. Perhaps a few vagrants, drunkards or gypsies had seen it arrive… before scratching their heads and deciding that this was really not the kind of thing they needed to be involved in, especially given the city authority’s usual attitude to people poking their noses where they weren’t welcome. Whatever it was, they would have concluded, it was very unlikely to be there in the morning.

  Now the ship sat on its lowered undercarriage, gleaming in reflected lamplight like a chromed egg, the fog swirling around its hot exhaust ports in curious little eddies, while the ship ticked and cooled like an old oven. The flying-horse logo of Pegasus Intersolar seemed to strain towards the sky, anxious not to spend a minute longer on the ground than necessary.

  Floyd and Auger stood under the ship, at the base of its lowered access ramp.

  “Did you remember the strawberries?” Auger asked.

  Floyd held up the little bag. “As if I’d forget.”

  “You never did tell me who they were for. Or the UR you persuaded Tunguska to give you.”

  Floyd fingered the little glass vial in his pocket. It contained a harmless-looking silvery-grey fluid, tasteless and odourless. But slipped into the right person’s diet, it would infect their body with a billion tireless machines, which would identify and cure almost any illness known to Slasher science. It was bottled immortality.

  Well, not quite. Tunguska had quailed at the thought of giving him the kind of full-strength UR that would keep someone alive for ever. At the time he had handed over the gift, they were, after all, still trying to prevent someone else from introducing a plague of tiny machines into E2. The UR would heal someone of any illnesses they had at the moment of ingestion, and the tiny machines would endure long enough to steer them to full health and through a period of grace thereafter. But then they would quietly disassemble, flushing themselves from the person’s body as so much microscopic metallic dust. That person might go on to live for many more years, but by the same token they might fall ill of some other complaint a month later. If they did, the machines would not be around to save them a second time.

  So it wasn’t immortality. But from where he was standing, it was a lot better than nothing.

  He took his hand out of his pocket, leaving the vial where it was. “You have to go now, Auger.”

  “What if I said I was staying?”

  He smiled. She was putting on a brave face, but deep down he knew she had made her mind up. He just needed to make her feel better about it.

  “You have a life back home.”

  “This can be my home.”

  “You know it can’t. Not now; not ever. It’s a nice dream, Auger. It was a nice vacation. But that’s all it was.”

  She pulled him closer and kissed him. Floyd kissed her back, not letting her pull away, emb
racing her there in the fog as if by force of will he could hold back time, as if time itself might make a compassionate exception in their case.

  Then, gently, he pulled away from her. She was crying. He wiped her tears away with his sleeve. “Don’t cry.”

  “I love you, Floyd.”

  “I love you too, Auger. But that doesn’t change anything.”

  “I can’t just leave you like this.”

  “You have no choice.”

  She looked back at the waiting ship. He knew what she was thinking—how every second now counted against her escaping from the ALS. “You’re a good man, Floyd. I will see you again. I promise you that. We’ll find another way in, another way back to Paris.”

  “Maybe there is no other way.”

  “But I won’t stop looking for one. Not just for you, but for the other agents stuck here—the people you and I have never even met. They’re still out there, Floyd: still somewhere in the world, in America or Africa, unaware that there is no way home. Maybe some of them got enough of a warning to start their journeys back to Paris… but they won’t have got here yet. Some of them won’t arrive for weeks or months. When they do, they’ll make their way to Cardinal Lemoine, or Susan’s apartment… anywhere they think they might find an answer. They’ll be confused and scared, Floyd. They’ll need a friend, someone who can tell them what happened. They’ll need someone who cares, someone who can give them hope. Someone who’ll tell them we’re coming back, no matter how difficult it is, no matter how long it takes.” She pulled him closer, but it was just a hug this time. It was past the time for kisses.

  “You should go,” he said at last.

  “I know.” She let go of him and took one step on to the ramp. “I meant what I said, about not regretting a minute of this.”

  “Not even the dirt, and the bruises, and the part where you got shot?”

  “Not a damned minute.”

  Floyd lifted a finger to his brow, in salute. “Good. That’s exactly how I feel. Now please—would you get the hell off my planet?”

  She nodded, saying nothing more, and walked back up the ramp, keeping her face turned to him. Floyd took a step back, his eyes welling with tears now, not wanting her to see them. Not because of some stupid male pride in not crying, but because he didn’t want to make this any harder on the two of them than it already was.