Alastair Reynolds - Century Rain

“That goes double for me,” Floyd said.

“We all share a collective responsibility for Niagara’s crime,” Tunguska said.

“Then let’s hope he doesn’t get a chance to commit it.”

“Can you forgive us, Auger?”

She thought about it for a moment. “I think we all need a little forgiveness, don’t we?”

“Some more than others.”

She took Tunguska’s big hand in her own. “I know what I’m doing here. So does Floyd. Don’t wait around for us. The minute you get that bleed-drive back up and running, haul yourselves out of here.”

“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.