A 2019 Locus Award finalist A USA Today Bestseller Fix the past. Save the present. Stop the future. Master of science fiction Alastair Reynolds unfolds a time-traveling climate fiction adventure in Permafrost . 2080: at a remote site on the edge of the Arctic Circle, a group of scientists, engineers and physicians gather to gamble humanity’s future on one last-ditch experiment. Their goal: to make a tiny alteration to the past, averting a global catastrophe while at the same time leaving recorded history intact. To make the experiment work, they just need one last recruit: an ageing schoolteacher whose late mother was the foremost expert on the mathematics of paradox. 2028: a young woman goes into surgery for routine brain surgery. In the days following her operation, she begins to hear another voice in her head... an unwanted presence which seems to have a will, and a purpose, all of its own – one that will disrupt her life entirely. The only choice left to her is a simple one. Does she resist ... or become a collaborator? Alastair Reynolds was born in Wales in 1966. He has a Ph.D. in astronomy. From 1991 until 2007, he lived in The Netherlands, where he was employed by The European Space Agency as an astrophysicist. He is now a full-time writer. Alastair's books include the Revelation Space novels and Permafrost. Permafrost By Alastair Reynolds, Jonathan Strahan Tom Doherty Associates Copyright © 2019 Alastair Reynolds All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-250-30356-1 Contents Title Page, Copyright Notice, Begin Reading, About the Author, Books by Alastair Reynolds, Copyright Page, CHAPTER 1 After I shot Vikram we put our things in the car and drove to the airstrip. Antti was nervous the whole way, knuckles white on the steering wheel, tendons standing out in his neck, eyes searching the road ahead of us. When we arrived at the site he insisted on driving around the perimeter road twice, peering through the security fencing at the hangars, buildings and civilian aircraft. "You think he's here?" "More that I want to make sure he isn't." He drove on, leaning forward in his seat, twitchy and anxious as a curb-crawler. "I liked Miguel, I really did. I never wanted it to come to this." I thought about what we had to do this morning. "In fairness, you also liked Vikram." "That took a little time. We didn't click, the two of us, to start with. But that was a long while ago." "And now?" "I wish there'd been some other way; any other way." He slowed, steering us onto a side road that led into the private part of the airstrip, at the other end from the low white passenger terminal. "Look, what you had to do back there ..." I thought of Vikram, of how he'd followed me out into the field beyond the farm, fully aware of what was coming. I'd taken the artificial larynx with me, just in case there was something he wanted to say at the end. But when I offered it to him he only shook his head, his cataract-clouded eyes seeming to look right through me, out to the grey Russian skies over the farm. It had taken one shot. The sound of it had echoed back off the buildings. Crows had lifted from a copse of trees nearby, wheeling and cawing in the sky before settling back down, as if a killing was only a minor disturbance in their daily routine. Afterward, Antti had come out with a spade. We couldn't just leave Vikram lying there in the field. It hadn't taken long to bury him. "One of us had to do it," I answered now, wondering if a speck on my sleeve was blood or just dirt from the field. Antti slowed the car. We went through a security gate and flashed our identification. The guard was on familiar terms with Antti and barely glanced at his credentials. I drew only slightly more interest. "Trusting this old dog to take you up, Miss ..." He squinted at my name. "Dinova?" "Tatiana's an old colleague of mine from Novosibirsk," Antti said, shrugging good-humouredly. "Been promising her a spin in the Denali for at least two years." "Picked a lovely day for it," the guard said, lifting his gaze to the low cloud ceiling. "Clearer north," Antti said, with a breezy indifference. "Got to maintain my instrument hours, haven't I?" The guard waved us on. We drove through the gate to the private compound where the light aircraft were stabled. The Denali was a powerful single-engine type, a sleek Cessna with Russian registration and markings. We unloaded our bags and provisions, as well as the airtight alloy case that held the seeds. Antti stowed the items in the rear of the passenger compartment, securing them with elastic webbing. Then he walked around the aircraft, checking its external condition. "Will this get us all the way?" I asked. "If they've fuelled it like I requested." "Otherwise?" "We'll need to make an intermediate stop, before or after the Ural Mountains. It's not as if I can file an accurate flight plan. My main worry is landing conditions, once we get near the inlet." He helped me ab