Stephen Baxter: Anti-Ice

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.

The Phaeton set down as gentle as an eggshell. Without waiting for the nozzles to cool I undogged the hatches, lowered a rope ladder and scrambled to the deck.

I was dazzled by the strengthening sunlight. (By now it was past eight-thirty.) As the noise of the engines echoed away the inhabitants of the Promenade Deck, soldiers and citizens alike, began to approach us. Every one bore a rifle—even, I was shocked to see, a woman! This extraordinary person wore the remnants of a silk gown reminiscent of that worn by Françoise on the launch day; but the gown was bloodied and torn, revealing expanses of undergarments that, in less grisly circumstances, might have seemed indiscreet. Her face obscured by shadow and dirt, she held a chassepot before her, the muzzle pointed in my direction, with as much evidence of competence and command as any of her male companions.

From this suspicious crowd emerged the officer who had earlier cleared the deck. He was a tall man of about thirty who bore well the brown tunic and white sash of his regiment, and his fierce brown eyes and pencil moustache, all framed by a brass chinstrap, spoke of strength, intelligence and competence. But his eyes were deeply shadowed, and his face was covered with the stubble of several nights. He introduced himself as a Captain of the Second Hussars, and inquired as to our business; but before I could reply a sound like a suppressed cough came from the eastern horizon.

The Hussar dropped to his face, as if felled; Traveller and I followed his lead more slowly. Traveller whispered, “Prussian artillery.”

“What? Are we close enough?”

“Undoubtedly. Let them find their range and—”

A whistling shriek tore the air, somewhere to my left; a shell fell to earth some distance from the sea of French troops and exploded harmlessly, evoking a ragged cheer from the Albert’s passengers.

But they were less keen to applaud when a second shell plowed into the ground perhaps a quarter- mile behind us, scattering troops like skittles. The deck shook beneath me, and before my horrified eyes a great gout of rust-colored soil spewed into the air. The mingling of earth and human flesh was such that it was as if the Earth herself had been wounded.

“Traveller, is this war?”

“I’m afraid so, lad.”

The Hussar officer turned to us and said, in rapid French, “Gentlemen, you can see how we are fixed; if you do not wish your fancy toy blown to pieces I suggest you fly to some quieter spot.”

I grabbed his arm. “Wait! We are seeking a passenger on this ship; she was trapped here when—”

But the Captain shook away my hand with angry impatience and hurried to his troops.

I turned to Traveller. “I must find her.”

“Ned, we have but minutes. One good shot by those Prussians—”

I grabbed his shoulders desperately. “We’ve come so far. Will you wait for me?”

He pushed me away. “Don’t waste time, boy.”

I wandered as if in a nightmare over the Deck. Within, I could not accept any image of Françoise save that of trapped passenger, of victim. And so I searched for her in places where she might be cowering, or might be locked away. I peered down stairwells which led into the interior of the ship; but where once champagne and glittering conversation had filled the air, now I was reminded of nothing so much as the interior of one of Lord Nelson’s battleships. Artillery pieces protruded like the muzzles of dogs through pushed-out hull panels, and everywhere there was the stink of cordite, the fumes of formaldehyde, the heaped bandages of an improvised field hospital. I found the Grand Saloon—or what was left of it; where the funnel had once passed through the room concealed by decoration there was only an obscene, gaping chimney, and the interior of the Saloon was uniformly blackened and destroyed. But men and women moved purposefully about, tending weaponry. The elegantly painted panels, battered and charred, looked down with exquisite incongruity over scenes their painters had surely never anticipated.

But there was no sign of Françoise. My tension and anxiety wound to snapping point.

I climbed back to the Promenade Deck. All around me there was shouting. Peering beyond the rim of the Deck to the field below I could see that the ragged French formations were already exchanging rifle shots with their Prussian opponents. Shells continued to whistle over us, splashing into the bloodied ground throughout the body of Frenchmen. The Albert’s guns had also begun to speak now; and with every shell they blasted away, the whole fragile edifice of the liner bucked and shuddered.

Then I heard, like the note of an oboe amid the din of a great orchestra, the voice of Traveller, calling my name. I looked back toward the Phaeton. When the engineer saw he had my eye he pointed skywards. Squinting against the climbing sunlight I made out a line of white, like a very thin cloud, sketched across the heavens and arcing past the Little Moon. The line was growing, as if being writ by the hand of God… and it was passing over our battleground in the direction of Orléans. This apparition made no noise, and went unnoticed by the eager and terrified troops on the ground.

The meaning was clear. It was an anti-ice rocket. My heart sank, not only out of personal fear, but out of shame to be British at that hour.

I shook my head and returned the focus of my attention to the growing chaos around me, wondering how I could complete my search in the few moments the anti-ice shell had left me.

I espied the woman “soldier” I had noticed earlier. This ferocious damsel had now lodged herself at the rail at the bow of the ship and had raised her rifle to her shoulder, aiming at the Prussians. I resolved to speak to her. Surely the few remaining women on board the craft, no matter what their attitudes to this conflict, would help and support each other in this arena; and so perhaps this modern Joan would be able to direct me to Françoise, whose rescue had become my only fixed point in all this turmoil!

I made my way forward. It was slow going. Excitable Frenchmen rushed from side to side of the craft, the scent of Prussian blood in their nostrils, more than once bowling me over. Prussian shells continued to burst in the air all around, and every few seconds I was forced to duck, or flatten myself to the plates of the Deck.

But at last I reached the warrior lady; by now she was squeezing off shots with clinical efficiency, and when I laid a hand on her shoulder she turned to me and snapped, in rapid Marseilles-accented French: “Damn you! What do you want?…” Then her voice tailed away and her eyes narrowed—sky- blue eyes which were still, behind their mask of dirt, quite lovely.

I stepped back, oblivious to the falling shells. “Françoise? Is it you?”

“Obviously! And who the Hell—Ah, I remember. Vicars. Ned Vicars.” Her face seemed to recede from me, as if my eyes had been transmuted to telescopes; my face felt numb, and the crash of battle seemed far away.

So it was true. As Holden had suspected, as Traveller’s quick insight had discerned, as I in my foolish naпvety had refused to accept.

She shook her head, wonder briefly breaking through her tension and anger. “Ned Vicars. I thought you were dead in the explosion.”

“I was aboard the Phaeton, and she was not destroyed. Frédéric Bourne stole her. We flew off—Françoise, we flew to the Moon!”

She looked at me as if I were mad. “What did you say?… But what of Frédéric?”

“He survived; and is safely locked away. But you—” I laid my hands on her shoulders, and felt only knots of muscles. “Françoise, what has happened to you?”