Anti-Ice

by Stephen Baxter

  I laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we are not your enemies. We are risking our own lives in this theater of war; we are searching for someone.”

  With a stab of curiosity he demanded, “Who?”

  “Have you heard of the Prince Albert?” I explained the circumstances of the craft’s stealing by franc-tireurs, and the accounts of its moving south toward Paris.

  But Nandron shook his head. “I know nothing of such a vessel,” he said dismissively. “And in any event our franc-tireurs are now much more profitably employed on the disruption of the Prussians’ long supply lines back to Berlin…”

  Disappointed by this fresh failure, I nevertheless spent the remaining minutes waiting for Traveller’s return drawing further details from this haughty young Parisian of the condition of his city. He told me, for example, how even now the program to rebuild the thirty-year-old defensive walls was beset by wrangling and delays as rival groups of engineers argued over the selection of the most elegant and appealing design. I could not help but recall my brother’s accounts of the simple but efficient earthwork fortifications thrown up by the Russians around Sebastopol.

  In the calm, fading light of that rustic French afternoon I found it difficult to accept as truth the harrowing details of Nandron’s tales.

  Paris’s best hope of salvation seemed to lie with the Minister of the Interior, Gambetta, who some weeks earlier had ballooned out of Paris. This Gambetta had, it seemed, raised a new army from the very earth of France itself, and had already struck at the Prussians with some success, at Coulmiers, close to Orléans. Now Gambetta was making for Orléans where he intended to make a fresh stand against the invaders. But vast Prussian forces, formerly kept busy by the siege at Metz, were moving to meet him; and it appeared that Orléans might become as decisive a battlefield as Sedan.

  Traveller returned and efficiently applied a poultice to Nandron’s leg. As Sir Josiah worked Nandron went on, “It is said that General Trochu”—the head of the provisional government—“has no fears for the future of France; for he believes that Sainte Geneviиve, who delivered the country from barbarians in the fifth century, will return to do so again.” He laughed with some bitterness.

  I asked, “You do not share his beliefs?”

  “I would rather have truck with the rumors flying around the bars of the city which state that Bonaparte himself has returned from the dead—or perhaps did not ever die at all, in his place of British exile—and is returning in a great chariot to join Gambetta’s armies at Orléans and drive out the Prussians.”

  I nodded. “Old Boney himself, eh? What a charming idea…”

  But Traveller waved me silent. “This ‘great chariot’,” he snapped in his broken French. “Do these street tales bear any details?”

  “Of course not. They are the gossip of the ignorant and ill-informed—”

  I looked at Traveller with a new surmise. “You think this chariot could be the Albert?”

  Traveller shrugged. “Why not? Imagine the great anti-ice vessel driving through the fields of France, piloted by these intrepid franc-tireurs. Might not news of such a development reach the desperate city of Paris in a garbled form, becoming mixed up with this nonsense about the Corsican?”

  “Then we must make for Orléans!” I said.

  But Nandron snapped, “Your analysis is wrong. No self-respecting son of France would have any truck with the gaudy machines of the British. For it is the opinion of the Government of National Defense that the technological invasion of France by Britain is every bit as odious as that of the Prussian barbarians—”

  “If a little harder to define, eh?” Traveller said cheerfully. “Well, my boy, you may despise the very name of Britain; but unless you accept British help now it is going to take you rather a long time to reach Tours on that foot, despite my miraculous healing powers.”

  The Frenchman said frostily, “Thank you; but I would prefer to make my own way.”

  Traveller slapped his forehead in frustration. “Is there no limit to the stupidity of young men?”

  In heavily accented English, Nandron said, “You must understand that you are not welcome here. We do not want you. We must throw off the hand of the Prussians with the blood of Frenchmen!”

  I scratched my cheek. “I wish you’d tell that to Gladstone.”

  He looked puzzled. “What?”

  “Never mind.” I straightened up. “Well, Sir Josiah; that seems to be that.”

  “To Orléans?”

  “Indeed!”

  We bade Nandron a goodbye which was not returned, and set off once more across the neat vineyards; my last view of the stubborn deputy showed him struggling on one sound leg to gather together the papers and other materials he had transported with such difficulty from besieged Paris.

  14

  THE FRANC-TIREUR

  “We have not an hour to lose,” I insisted to Traveller. “Even now the Prince Albert may be closing with the Prussian forces; and we can be sure that when battle is joined the situation of those innocents on the cruiser will become even more perilous.”

  Traveller rubbed at his chin. “Yes. And your foolhardy plans to extract Françoise will scarcely be aided by Prussian and French shells lacing the air. We must aim to rendezvous with the liner before it joins with the Prussians. And there is another cause for urgency which may not occur to you.”

  “Which is?”

  He clenched one bony fist. “The anti-ice weaponry.”

  I said, “Surely the preparation of the devices you have described will take some time—especially since you have removed yourself and your expertise so precipitately from England.”

  He shook his great head. “I fear not. Various rocket craft—prototypes for the engines of the Phaeton—lie completed in my laboratory. It would not take long for Gladstone’s men to adapt them. And Ned, you must not exaggerate my personal importance: the principles of my anti-ice engines would have been comprehensible to Newton; a few minutes’ examination should more than suffice for any competent modern engineer. Even my more original contributions, like the gyroscopic guidance system, are hardly opaque.”

  His remarks were troubling. “My God. Then we must take off at once!”

  “No.” Traveller indicated the failing light—it was already five of an autumn afternoon. “It would hardly be practical to land the Phaeton in the middle of a battlefield in the pitch dark. And besides,” he added, “this has been a long day for both of us; it is barely a few hours since I greeted Old Glad Eyes in my study.”

  I argued against this delay with all the force I could muster; but Traveller was unmoveable. And so it was that we prepared to spend another night within Phaeton’s aluminum walls. I scraped together a meal from the replenished stocks of pressed meat; Traveller poured globes of his fine old brandy; and we sat by the light of the mantles in the Smoking Cabin, just as when we were between worlds.

  The centerpiece of the Cabin, the elaborate model of the Great Eastern, had been replaced by a replica, as far as I could see an exact match in every detail. Traveller’s little piano remained folded in its place, a sad reminder of happier moments.

  For a while we reminisced on our voyage into space, but our minds were too full of the morrow. At length I proposed, “It is not, of course, merely the availability of your experimental rockets which will determine the schedule of this war. For the government will surely use the diplomatic channels available. The knowledge of British determination to use anti-ice will focus the minds of these continentals wonderfully.”

  He laughed. “So, merely on Old Glad Eyes’ admonishment, they will lay down their arms like good chaps? No, Ned; we must face the facts. Bismarck knew all about our possession of anti-ice before he provoked this awful war, and must therefore have discounted Britain’s will to use it. Only the detonation of an anti-ice shell in the midst of his battle lines will convince him otherwise. And as for the French—Ned, these fellows are fighting for their lives, their honor, and their p
recious patrie. They are scarcely likely to respond to the abstract possibility of a British super-weapon. Again, only the deployment of such a device is likely to change their minds. So diplomacy is meaningless; there is no argument for delay. And this, I am sure, is the calculation which Gladstone and his Cabinet have made.”

  His words were somber; I pulled a deep draft of brandy. “Then you feel all the arguments are for the use of anti-ice.”

  His eyes roamed around the flickering mantles. “I can see no alternative.”

  I leaned forward. “Sir Josiah, perhaps you should have stayed in England and argued against this course of action. Perhaps your force of argument might have made some difference.”

  He looked at me, a flicker of amusement in his cold eyes. “Thank you for that well-thought-out and rounded piece of advice: from the man who gave me no choice but to accompany him away from the scene! But in any event, my presence would have made little difference. Gladstone did not come to my home to debate the issue, but to force me to comply with his decision.”

  So the evening passed.

  As darkness closed in we settled down once more into our narrow bunks. I lay still all night, but, my head whirling with the possibilities of the morrow, failed to sleep a wink.

  We both rose as the first graying of dawn reached the windows. The Little Moon was high in the clear sky, a beacon of brilliant white illuminating the awakening landscape.

  With few words we washed and dressed ourselves, ate a hasty breakfast, and—not an hour after dawn—took the Phaeton once more into the skies of occupied France.

  * * *

  The old city of Orléans is situated some fifty miles south of Paris, on the banks of the Loire. Four centuries ago it was relieved from an English siege by Joan, called the Maid of Orléans; now it was in the front line of another war, with France in still more desperate peril.

  Traveller insisted that the water tanks needed filling, and—to my intense irritation—put down the Phaeton on the river bank. Grousing loudly, I helped him wrestle lengths of hose to the reedy water’s edge and stood by impatiently while the craft’s pumps sucked up the liquid the motors required.

  We reached Orléans a little before seven-thirty. Despite Gambetta’s recent victory at nearby Coulmiers, Orléans herself was still occupied. And, as we hovered perhaps a quarter of a mile above the rooftops and spires of the city and inspected the upturned faces of the citizens through our telescopes, everywhere we saw Prussian troops and officers. One soldier—a cuirassier, splendid in his white metal breastplate and dazzling cockade—raised his rifle to us and let off a shot. I saw the flash of the muzzle and heard, a few moments later, the distant report of the explosion; but the bullet fell harmlessly to earth.

  There was no sign of the Prince Albert. I suggested landing to seek fresh news, but Traveller pointed out Prussians emerging from billets all over the city into the early morning light; a column was forming up in marching order on the northern outskirts of the town. “I think discretion is the wisest course,” he said. “A blundering descent by the Phaeton would scarcely put at ease these battle-ready Germans.”

  “Then what should we do?”

  The engineer, lying in his control couch, snapped a fresh eyepiece to his periscope. “I would say the Prussian column is making ready to march to the west—perhaps toward Coulmiers, there to engage the French once more. Our best chance of encountering the Albert surely lies in that direction.”

  “And if we fail again?”

  “Then we will indeed need to put down and hope to acquire more information without getting our heads blown off. But let us meet that difficulty when we come to it. To Coulmiers!”

  From Orléans, Traveller traced the shining path of the Loire to the west, then veered off north, crossing a broad plain crudely delimited by hedgerow. But as we neared the town of Coulmiers itself I noticed on the approaching horizon a great carpet which lay across these dull French fields, a blue- gray sheet of dust and motion and the glint of metal. Soon I could discern that this sea of activity was making its way slowly but purposefully to the east, back toward Orléans!

  So we came upon the French Army of the Loire, Gambetta’s new levée en masse.

  We swooped like some bird of prey over the advancing army. Close to, this great ragged force was less impressive. Artillery pieces labored like horse-drawn rafts of gunmetal in a river of soldiery; but the infantrymen’s dark blue greatcoats, their red caps, their battered white haversacks and bivouac tents, all showed the signs of many nights’ hard usage in the fields. And their faces, young and old, seemed full of fatigue and fear.

  Once again potshots were fired at us, to no effect; but when an artillery piece was halted and its muzzle raised toward us Traveller rapidly increased our altitude.

  As the soldiers merged once more into a monstrous sea of humanity my sense of the scale of this force returned; it seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon, a tide set on sweeping away the cockaded Prussians like so many Canutes.

  “Dear God, Traveller, this is surely an army to end all armies. There must be half a million men here. They will crush those Prussians once more by sheer weight of numbers.”

  “Perhaps. This Gambetta chap has obviously done well to raise such a force. Although some of those artillery pieces look a little elderly; and did you notice the wide variety of rifle makes? One wonders about the availability of ammunition to these brave fellows, too.”

  I had observed none of this. I said, “Then you are less optimistic about their chances of success against the Prussians today?”

  He pushed away his periscope and rubbed at his eyes. “I have seen enough of war to know more than I would wish to know about its science. Numerical superiority, while a significant factor, is far outweighed by training and expertise. Look at the poor Frenchies’ formation, Ned! As they march they are already deployed into their battle units. Clearly they are incapable of short-order maneuvers; and so their commanders must draw them together like so many sheep and herd them off into battle.

  “Meanwhile the Prussians are marching comfortably and competently to meet them…

  “Ned, I fear we are about to witness a day of blood and horror; and if it is decisive it can only be in favor of the Prussians—”

  But I was scarcely listening; for on the eastern horizon I had made out something new. It was like a fortress whose walls loomed over the flashing bayonets of the French soldiery; but this was a fortress which rolled with the infantry across the plain…

  Unable to contain my excitement I turned to Traveller and grabbed his shoulder. “Sir Josiah, look ahead. Will those Prussians not turn and flee before—that?”

  It was the Prince Albert. We had found it at last!

  The land liner was an ingot of iron adrift in this ocean of greatcoated humanity. Behind the vessel we could make out tracks of churned earth stretching in a perfect straight line to the horizon. Traveller was pleased by this, seeing it as proof that his anti-ice propulsive system had performed as desired.

  There were clearly plenty still left aboard the Albert who understood its provenance, and its link with the extraordinary aerial boat which hovered above; for we were greeted with cheers from the Promenade Deck and from soldiers who walked close to its muddy tracks. I waved back, hoping I could be seen through the Phaeton’s dome. It was, I reflected, a pleasant change from potshots.

  But Traveller’s expression was grim; he inspected through his periscope the damage his craft had suffered.

  Five of the six funnels still stood, though their proud red paintwork was scarred and mud-spattered; where the sixth had stood there was only a black and gaping wound which led, like the mouth of a corpse, into the dark stomach of the ship. Peering into this wound, and recalling the details of the ghastly August day of the craft’s launch, the blood surged to my head with an almost audible rush.

  The rest of the damage seemed more superficial. The glass-covered companionways which had once adorned the flanks of the craft had been hac
ked away to be replaced by rope ladders—for speed of retraction in case of attack, I supposed. A thousand irregularly-placed slits had been knocked through the hull. Through these slits I could see—not the elegance of salons or the delicate wrought- iron work which had characterized the ship’s sparse elegance—but the ugly snouts of small artillery pieces.

  The land liner had indeed been transformed into a machine of war.

  Traveller’s anger was deep and bitter. “Ned, if the Prussians only realized how fragile the Albert truly is, they surely would not have allowed it to penetrate so deep into France unchallenged.”

  “But you can see it’s an icon, a rallying-point for these Frenchie infantry.”

  “It’s a symbol, but can be no more. Ned, it’s more likely to lead these poor lads to their early deaths than victory.”

  I frowned and turned to the east-facing window. “Then we’d better land without further delay, Sir Josiah, for—look!”

  On the horizon, under the gleaming Little Moon, was a line of glinting silver, of dark blue tunics, of the looming mouths of artillery pieces, of the nervous movements of horses: it was the Prussian Army out of Orléans, drawn into battle order.

  War was perhaps half an hour away.

  * * *

  Albert’s ornamental pond had been boarded over, and its garden reduced to a pool of mud punctuated by the snapped stumps of trees. The whole upper deck swarmed with artillery pieces and soldiery; these assorted troops ranged from the magnificence of Hussar officers, in their sleek black lambswool busbies, to citizens—both men and women—in the ragged remains of fine clothes. On seeing these last my heart gave a leap; if such noble folk had stayed with the ship since its ill-fated launch, perhaps there was indeed a chance of finding Françoise still alive.

  Traveller held the Phaeton steady for some moments, until his intention evidently became apparent; and one of the Hussar officers began to clear a landing area.