Century Rain

by Alastair Reynolds

  “You dying, you mean?”

  “No one died. Especially not Auger. But it’s not Auger speaking right now.”

  “You feeling all right, kid?”

  “You’re talking to Cassandra,” she said. “The tiny machines you saw belong to me.”

  “But we saw you die.”

  “You saw my body die. But the machines got out in time. They fled my body at the moment of death, before Niagara’s aggressors were able to subsume and interrogate them. Now they’re using Auger as an emergency host.”

  “You just… did that?”

  “There’s nothing trivial about it,” she said, with a touch of defensiveness. “These machines can encode and transfer no more than a shadow of my personality and memories. Believe me, dying isn’t something I take lightly, especially here.”

  Floyd looked up again, certain that the silver men could have killed him by now if that was their intention. But they had stopped their slow advance. They were hesitating, pinned between their ship and the quarry they sought.

  “Maybe we should talk about this later,” he said.

  “I wanted you to know what was going on, Floyd. I’ll continue to control Auger until we’re out of this mess. Then she can decide what she wants to do with me.”

  “What will her options be?”

  “She can continue to harbour me until we find a suitable Polity host, or she can order me to leave and I’ll die. Whatever happens, I assure you she will come to no harm.”

  “Did she give her permission for this?”

  “There wasn’t time to ask. Matters, as you’ve doubtless noticed, are at something of a head.”

  The huge Slasher ship was under attack. Smaller ships—two of them, at least—were strafing it with lines of slicing light. The light gouged painful hyphens into Floyd’s eyes, as if someone was slicing them with razors. He forced himself to look away.

  “Is this your cavalry?” he asked.

  “Yes. I requested assistance as soon as we left Mars, but I didn’t know how many ships would be able to respond.”

  “Are we going to win this one?”

  “It’s going to be close.”

  The larger vessel was fighting back. Through narrowed eyes, Floyd risked a glimpse, watching parallel lines of light surge from undamaged gunports along its flanks, connecting with the aerial attackers. All three ships in the engagement were protecting themselves with movable shields: curved sheets of translucent material that sped from one part of the hull to another, flexing and flowing to adjust to the changing shape beneath them. Wherever a beam touched, one of the shields would dart into place, absorbing the damage, glowing along its edges like paper about to burst into flame. After a few seconds of this, the shield would erupt with light and shatter into a million little sparks that rained down towards the Champ de Mars.

  Gradually, though, it became clear that the big ship was taking the worst of the damage. Its shield movements were becoming increasingly frantic, yet still too sluggish to parry the darting assaults from the smaller craft. A third of the way along its length, an explosion ripped through the translucent blubber of its hull, puckering it out in petalled folds like an exit wound from a bullet. Bright grids of machinery shone through the gash. A smaller chain of explosions chased each other to the tail of the ship. The luminous symbols under the translucent layer began to warp and flow, losing sharpness.

  “She’s dying,” said Cassandra, speaking through Auger.

  The quintet of silver men broke up into individuals, severing the connections between their armour. Three of them rushed to the cargo boxes, gathered them up and headed for the ramp leading back into the wounded ship. The other two resumed their unhurried stroll towards Floyd and Auger, unconcerned—it seemed—by whatever was happening to their compatriots or their one means of escape.

  The access ramp was sliding back and forth as the ailing ship struggled to hold station next to the tower. For one moment, it looked as if the three silver men would miss their step and fall into the abyss, taking the cargo with them. Somehow they made it, dashing inside as the access ramp slowly hinged back into the ship, like the closing jaw of a sated whale.

  More explosions peppered the length of the ship. The tail was now hanging lower than the nose, as if—absurdly—she was taking on water. One of the attacking ships had sustained a fatal strike and was slowly losing altitude, with ink-black smoke—or something that looked very like smoke, at least—billowing from a gash in its flank. Floyd followed its progress down as it gradually lost height in a gyring death-spiral, until it finally exploded somewhere near Montparnasse.

  The two silver men had nearly reached the top of the stairwell. In a few seconds they would be within easy sight of Floyd and Auger.

  “Listen to me now, Floyd.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We need to leave. I’ve sent small clusters of machines into both shuttles, in an effort to regain some degree of control.”

  “And?”

  “Both ships are beginning to wake up from the EM pulse. Our best hope is Caliskan’s shuttle: it’s smaller, faster and less likely to be picked up by interdiction weapons.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Across the ruin of the observation deck, something pulled Floyd’s attention to the embattled ship. A slot opened in its back and something jetted out, emerging quickly and gaining speed with every second. At first he assumed it was some new, last-ditch weapon. But the pip-shaped object continued to rise, squirting fire from one tapered end.

  “What was that?”

  “An emergency escape vehicle. But whoever’s in it won’t get far.”

  The one small ship that remained peeled abruptly away from the larger vessel, making an obvious effort to intercept the other vehicle. There was a brief exchange of fire between the two vessels before the escape craft punched through the geometrically textured quilt of the clouds. The clouds lit up with a hard-edged flash, chased by a drawn-out peel of thunder. Through a crack in the clouds, Floyd caught a momentary glimpse of the pip clawing its way back towards orbit, cutting across the night like a shooting star.

  “You want to rethink that?”

  “They won’t get much further. The interceptors in near-Earth space will take care of them.”

  The main ship could no longer maintain station or attitude. It had tilted to forty-five degrees, spewing smoke and fire, its hull feverish with a dance of scrambled symbols. It began to rotate, bringing its lower extremities into contact with one of the four main supports holding up the observation deck. The entire structure slid sideways a few metres, accompanied by a terrible metallic rending noise. Through the gap where the stairs ended, Floyd saw tons of metalwork hurtling down towards Paris. But the dying ship wasn’t dead yet. It was still rotating, pushing against what remained of the tower’s uprights. Another lurch ensued—almost enough to throw them from the narrow sanctuary of the stairwell.

  “Look,” Floyd said, aghast.

  Calsikan’s little barbed vessel slid over the edge of the landing stage, dashing itself against the tower as it fell. It dwindled, tiny as an egg, tumbling end over end and occasionally bouncing against the latticed metal legs of the tower. Somewhere near the bottom it blew apart in a veined, brain-like fireball. Floyd felt the tower rock with greater force than ever before. The other parked ship—the one they had arrived in—had slid towards the middle of the deck as the angle of tilt altered, but it would only take another resettlement to send it toppling over the edge.

  “Bang goes our preferred escape route,” Floyd said.

  “Then we’ll have to take the other ship. We’ll only know if it’s capable of flight when we get there. By then we won’t have the option of returning to this hiding place.”

  “I’m ready to take my chances.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Auger left the cover of the stairwell with Floyd hard on her heels. They crab-walked against the shifting force of the wind, ducking behind obstacle
s as often as they could. Auger used the gun again, firing it with the same inhuman precision she had shown before. Sometimes she didn’t even look in the direction she was shooting, but she still managed to hit her targets unerringly. The weapon was inflicting only superficial damage on the two remaining members of the search party—either the gun was running out of juice, or the men had beefed up their armour—but at least they no longer had the hovering ship to assist them. Instead they were advancing on the Twentieth’s shuttle and extending a tentacle of silvery light from their merged armour to block access to the door. The tentacle flexed and undulated in the air, its tip widening to form a more efficient obstruction. At the same time, another pair of thinner tentacles was creeping through the air towards Auger and Floyd, lashing above them like two loose hawsers. Auger kept on shooting, targeting both the tentacles and the main body from which they’d emerged. Her accuracy was still spot-on, but even Floyd could tell that she was being more sparing with the shots. It was all she could do to ward off the two tentacles above them.

  “They’re definitely weakened,” she said, between breaths. “They can’t keep extending their armour indefinitely. Unfortunately, I’m running out of power.”

  They were only a dozen paces from the shuttle, taking temporary shelter behind a mass of collapsed metal. The door was still blocked by the flexing form of the main tentacle. There was no way they’d get through that alive, not after what the armour had done to Cassandra.

  “We can’t give up,” Floyd said.

  “We’re not going to. But these controlled bursts aren’t doing enough. I’ve got enough charge left in the weapon for six shots at normal discharge strength. I’m going to blow the whole lot in one go. It’ll fuse the weapon, but that doesn’t matter now.”

  “Do whatever you must.”

  “It won’t kill them,” she said. “It’ll only take the wind out of their sails.”

  She made the necessary adjustments to the weapon. “No matter what happens,” she said, “I want you to run like hell for that airlock. Get inside the ship and don’t hang around if I’m not behind you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  “The machines will take care of you. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  The tentacles lashed above them, and then began to extend themselves downwards, narrowing to sharp, rapierlike blades as they descended.

  “Whatever you’re going to do,” Floyd said, “now would be a good time to do it.”

  She levelled the gun, holding it at arm’s length, and aimed at the merged body of the Slashers. The gun fired just as it had before, but with much greater intensity. The beam of light daggered into the conjoined figures, boiling off layers of armour in a flash of hot silver. Then the gun itself erupted with light, flaring in Auger’s hand. She held on until the discharge ended and then flung the molten, spitting thing away with a howl of anger or pain.

  “Run!” she shouted.

  Before it died, the weapon had clearly inflicted grave harm on the two Slashers. Their armour was wobbling, oscillating around them like jelly. The sharp-edged tentacles had pulled back into the main mass, while the tentacle guarding the door had been severed and was thrashing around like a decapitated snake. The shuttle door was now unguarded. Floyd dashed over to it and pulled down the chunky striped handle that was obviously meant to be used for opening the door from the outside. To his relief, the door slid up, recessing into the hull and admitting him into the small compartment where the air was exchanged. He looked over his shoulder, expecting Auger to press against him at any moment.

  But she wasn’t there. She had barely moved from the position where she had fired the gun. She lay on her side, one gloved hand a scorched black ruin where the gun had destroyed itself. She was crawling across the iron decking, one pained centimetre at a time.

  “Floyd,” she said, with obvious difficulty. “Leave now.”

  “I’m not leaving you here.”

  “I’ll take care of Auger. Just get yourself out of here.”

  He looked back at the remnants of the search party. One of them—the man Caliskan had injured earlier—now lay on the ground, devoid of armour. The remaining volume of armour had huddled around the other Slasher, but there was something nervous and imperfectly co-ordinated about the way it flowed and shaped itself, as if the armour, too, was hurt. But the severed piece was still writhing and whiplashing its way back towards the main mass. When it got there, the armour would probably become stronger again…

  Floyd left the shuttle and ran across the observation deck to Auger.

  “Get out of here,” she said.

  He knelt down and picked her up. The effort was nearly too much for him—they were both wearing heavy suits and Floyd hadn’t exactly been training for this kind of thing.

  “No one’s leaving anyone behind,” he said, trying to shift her weight in his arms so that they wouldn’t both topple over when he stood. “I noticed you weren’t in a hurry to abandon Auger the way you did your own body.”

  “My body was mine to throw away,” she said. “You just don’t do that with someone else’s.”

  Staggering as he stood, Floyd found his footing and started back towards the waiting ship. “Even if it kills you?” he gasped, the exertion making his breathing ragged.

  “Don’t talk, Floyd. Just walk.”

  He reached the door of the shuttle and lowered Auger into the internal chamber. He forced himself into the same tight space and found the counterpart to the striped handle he’d pulled on the outside. He yanked it down and waited for the door to lower itself.

  Down below, at the base of the tower, the stricken Slasher ship had finally reached the ground. As the door slid down, Floyd watched it die, burying its nose in ice and fire. The carcass collapsed in on itself, blossoming with a thousand miniature explosions. Next to it, the tower rattled in sympathy, dislodging even more of its rickety superstructure.

  “I think Guy de Maupassant’s about to get his dying wish,” Floyd said.

  He had one last view of the tower and the Champ de Mars as the shuttle hauled itself into the clouds. Enormous explosions ripped open what remained of the body of the crashed Polity ship. Perfectly circular shockwaves raced away from the scene, out towards the perimeter shield. Paris quivered. Slowly, like some great wounded giraffe, the tower began its terminal collapse. One of the legs supporting the third-stage deck buckled, splintering into a million iron shards. The other three legs could not support what remained of the structure, although for a few seconds it looked as if they might. But a process had now begun that could have only one outcome. After centuries of stalemate, gravity was winning over twisted iron girders and rusted iron bolts. The tower began to lean more acutely, and the remaining legs slowly began to bow under the conflicting stresses. Hundred-ton girders popped free, twanging into empty space like flicked playing cards. As thousands of tons of metal slammed into the ground, a veil of powdered ice rose hundreds of metres into the air. It served as a kind of screen, camouflaging the tower’s final moments. Floyd saw the third observation deck tilting into that whiteness, caught in a stutter of jagged lightning, and then he looked away, some part of him unable to watch until the end.

  He decided, for all its faults, that he preferred his own Paris.

  It was such a shame that he would never see it again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “I appreciate that circumstances might be better,” said the man in the white captain’s uniform, resplendent with epaulettes and sleeve braids, “but I still want you to feel at home on this ship.”

  Tunguska offered Floyd a cigar from a little wooden humidor. Floyd declined the cigar, but accepted a shot of whisky. They sat in upholstered armchairs in the luxuriously appointed parlour room of what was either an ocean liner, airship or transatlantic flying boat. Through the square windows, only a rain-washed darkness was visible, and the droning hum of engines was sufficiently nondescript that any of the possibilities could have
applied. Ceiling fans stirred the air above them, rotating with laboured slowness.

  Floyd drank half his whiskey. It wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted, but it still took the edge off his day. “What’s the news on Auger?” he asked.

  “She’s stable,” Tunguska said. “The physical injury from the malfunctioning weapon was easily attended to, and ordinarily wouldn’t have caused any difficulties.”

  “But on this occasion?”

  “She went into shock. It’s quite possible that she would have died without intervention from Cassie’s machines. As it is, the machines have consolidated their hold on her. It’s like a coma.”

  “How long is she going to be like that?”

  “No telling, I’m afraid. Even when one of us willingly accepts to become the host to someone else’s machines, it’s still a process fraught with pitfalls. The kind of field transfer that Cassandra achieved down in Paris…” The captain jogged his cigar sideways, by way of illustration. “It would have been difficult even if Auger had been another Slasher, with years of preparation and the requisite structures already present in her head, ready to accept the new patterns. But Auger is only human. To compound matters, she was injured shortly after the takeover.”

  “If Cassandra hadn’t taken her over, we’d both have died down there, wouldn’t we?”

  “More than likely.” Tunguska helped himself to another cigar, snipping off the end with a clever little silver guillotine. He hadn’t smoked the first, or even appeared to grasp its basic function other than as a social accessory. “By the same token, Cassandra would have died without Auger as a host.”

  “I don’t think she exactly volunteered for that job.”

  “Trust me,” Tunguska said, “there would have been a degree of negotiation, no matter how fleeting. It isn’t etiquette to storm someone else’s head, no matter what the crisis.”

  “What are Cassandra’s chances now?”

  “Better than they would have been without a host. Her machines would have survived, but her personality would have begun to break up without the anchoring effect of a physical mind.”