Maximum Ice (4 page)

“Ship Mother asks to speak to you, sir.”

He glared at Sandor and continued his march to hospital. He would, by God, look in on Tereza, attempted suicide or not. A failure to visit a sick crew member was just the sort of thing people would remember and hold against him—especially someone like Tereza Bertak, who was fiercely popular among
the women for reasons that mystified him. That she was liked by the men as well was easier to understand, but rankled Janos.

Sandor persisted, “Ship Mother wants…”

“Yes,” the captain interrupted, “I’m sure she does.”

They had planned their shuttle landing near a concentration of radio transmissions for the express purpose of dealing with the—natives—and now, they had met two, with disastrous results. Janos had overreacted, using too much force; though it was true one of the natives was… demented. The story of cannibalism spread instantly through Ship, further demoralizing an already traumatized crew.

Now it was a face-off between Zoya and Janos. Each wished to be the one to travel to the nearest settlement. Janos was the obvious candidate. He was strong, with experience in command and negotiation. But Anatolly hesitated. He listened to Zoya. And Zoya said Janos must not go.

A voice intruded: “The general meeting of the crew, Captain?” Lieutenant Andropolous was relentless.

“No, no, and no,” Anatolly said. That shut him up, but the lieutenant acted hurt.

Anatolly must decide, and soon, whether for Zoya or for Janos. This fellow the shuttle had encountered, the fellow on the sled who called himself Wolf: He’d been willing to talk eventually, and now they knew 100 percent more than before.
But a 100 percent of nothing is still nothing.

Zoya’s language program had made a breakthrough, but it still took nine hours of groping before the story came together, of the so-called Ice Nuns and the underground cities, the
preserves.
As to the Ice Nuns, it was reassuring that a religious community endured—if the term denoted holy orders. On this most Catholic of ships, it came as welcome news.

Wolf had asserted that if they wished to speak to those with
authority, that would be the Ice Nuns. And they were far away except for a few who would be present at the preserve where he was headed with the body of the snow witch that had attacked the crew As to this marauder, apparently cannibalism was common among certain outlaws—a shocking, but perhaps understandable, accommodation of ostracized individuals to the wilderness of earth. Of course, the logic of it did nothing to calm people’s alarm over this event.

Wolf was eager to be off, and would carry a passenger. He had haggled over what he would take in payment, at first demanding pieces of the shuttle hull—the damn fool—and finally settling for a good jacket and two pairs of size thirteen boots. And while they bickered with him over price, Zoya and Janos squared off against each other over who would go, Zoya arguing for her linguistics, Janos for his leadership.

Anatolly tugged at his jacket to straighten it before entering hospital.

Mercifully, the flock of officers and hangers-on stayed outside, all but Sandor, his personal adjutant, without whom the captain could apparently do nothing.

Tereza lay on the bunk, her red hair gloriously disarrayed, her face pinched. When she saw Anatolly, she began wailing.

He turned to Kristof. “I thought you medicated her.”

“She
is
medicated.”

“Tereza,” Anatolly began, “Tereza my dear…”

“You mewling ape, you pig greaser, you…”

Kristof tried to quiet her, hovering with hands outstretched, as though trying to shove the words back into her.

“And
you.”
She propped herself up on one elbow, glaring at the doctor, sucking in a breath, but before she could summon her bile, Kristof pressed an ampoule into her arm and she swooned, managing just “backside of a loose-boweled cow…”

“Tereza,” Anatolly began again.

“I want to die,” she whispered, pawing at the front of his jacket.

Last year, Tereza had miscarried, and her depression still lingered. The barren earth had pushed her over the edge.

“Tereza, you’re young, you have everything to…”

“You clown! I have nothing, nothing to live for.” When she was angry like this, at least she wasn’t crying. He restrained himself from patting her hand.

When he didn’t react, she raised her voice for the benefit of the few other patients on the ward. “We’re all going to die! The earth is nothing but a snowball. I shit on God!”

Anatolly looked up at Kristof, blaming him for not managing his patient.

Kristof shook his head. No more sedatives. But to the captain it seemed she could stand a rather large dose.

“We’re dead already, Anatolly Razo,” she growled, “a fact you have failed to notice since you yourself have been dead for decades.”

The scene was attracting attention, as med personnel peered in from doors and the gaggle in the corridor pressed heads in to observe the fracas.

It was not going well, this little scene. The crew didn’t need this hysterical pessimism. At his side, Sandor was whispering for him to withdraw, to send flowers from hydroponics.

Anatolly turned from the distraught woman and addressed his real audience, the hospital staff and his officers.

“Now listen to me.” He had had enough. It was time for a speech, and a damn good one. Or a loud one, at any rate. “We’re not going to die. We’ve come too far for too long to give up now. We are going to do what we’ve always done, and that is to carry on.”

“Horse shit,” came Tereza’s comment.

Ignoring her, he raised his voice and swept the room with
his gaze, staring down the doctors and nurses, and the startled patients in their beds, as well as his gawking staff.

“We will set to work. We will immediately dispatch another shuttle and resume our research. The sooner we understand what we face, the sooner we will overcome it. I’m putting Lieutenant Jozsef Mirran in charge of the primary shuttle for immediate deployment to the surface. See to that.” He nodded at Sandor. “The rest of us will work with the samples Lieutenant Bertak’s shuttle is bringing in. And we will provide succor and strength to each other—especially to those recently bereaved— not hopelessness and despair.”

He strode from the room, muttering to Sandor, “Send flowers to that woman.”

Breaking through the knot of officers, Anatolly headed back in the direction of the bridge.

Lieutenant Andropolous latched on like a burr. “Sir, Janos Bertak wishes to speak to you.”

“Tell him I’m in the head,” the captain snapped. “And tell him my decision.”

“But what
is
your decision?”

“Zoya goes.”

He made for the head and slammed the door behind him. Walking to the sink, he doused his face in cold water. In the mirror he saw an old man with white hair and a few jowls. He drew himself up, tucking in his chin, but it was no use. Tereza was right, he looked halfway to the grave. Her words stung, because he felt the truth of them. He had been middle-aged when elected captain, and he was now older by far. He was always decades behind—or ahead of—the young and virile men who looked to him for leadership. What kind of grip could an old man have on
Star Road?
A weak one, he thought. But it depends on your high-wire act. Part of which was making tough decisions and staring down detractors, by God.

He dried his face and turned away from the sink. Zoya would go. She had language skills and the power of persuasion. She could not be intimidated, and yet her first thought would be to forge a peaceful tie. So Zoya was an emissary after his own heart, and Janos—was not. Besides, Tereza needed her husband beside her. Janos might rather fight snow witches than be at Tereza’s side in the mood she was in, but by God, he would follow orders.

Zoya would be their emissary to this underground city they called a preserve. And to these Ice Nuns, whoever they were. For the first time in centuries the People of the Road had others to deal with besides themselves. To risk Ship Mother in such a venture was no small matter. She had already sacrificed so much for them… all semblance of a normal life, for one thing. But to bring them home, it would all be worth it. Zoya had confessed as much in his arms many decades ago, as they lay drowsy and spent.

The decision, now that it was made, felt right.

He liked the symmetry of Zoya being the first to greet these ancient cousins of theirs. But he feared that the current denizens of earth had few solutions. From all indications, they had no advanced civilization. It would be Ship’s science team that must tackle the questions of survival, of a viable colony

In what lands remained. For as long as they remained.

CHAPTER TWO

Crouched behind a crystal information stack, Swan watched the woman. The nun, dressed in black robes, knelt in the center of the hall working with her instruments. She was oblivious to him, assuming herself to be alone. But he had been watching her a long time here in this place, this great hall of Ice. The heart of Ice.

The towering walls of the cavern were broad planes of Ice. Looking into their depths was like peering into an ocean from the side. It nearly took his breath away—what little breath he had in his present condition—to see how pure and deep Ice ran. And it was very bright with optical activity. Ice had not grown slothful in its gigantism. Here and there, towers and stubs extruded from the floor in variations of rhomboids and cubes.

It was not a good thing, that Ice had left that tunnel in place. But he’d known Ice had a tendency to follow existing shapes where it encountered them. It simply surrounded existing geometries, strengthening them with its own micro and macro shapes. It was why the preserves weren’t crushed. And why coretext wasn’t obliterated.

He ran his hand along the crystal facets near him, feeling their sharp edges. How thin his fingers were, like five sticks, and so pale. A little nourishment and sunshine were in order. It had been a long time.

The woman still labored with the device that Swan guessed to be an interface. It failed, of course. And from what he’d studied about her, this Mother Superior Solange Arnaud wasn’t used to failure.

She looked up at the planar, translucent ceiling, as though gazing heavenward for inspiration. Her short white hair glinted in the sporadic brilliance of the cavern. Though over sixty years old, her face had a mature beauty, her frame remained trim. Often women remained fine at sixty—and this one was beautiful. All to deteriorate, in the hands of time. That was the way of all flesh, a forlorn destiny

Now was a good time to reveal himself, when her failure might soften her. He knew Solange Arnaud was not often soft.

Swan didn’t look his best. His complexion was chalky, and his attire—well, decent clothes were low on his priorities when he’d made his preparations. In fact, his current state was little short of repulsive. He’d looked in a mirror. His long hair, once yellow, had bleached to pale silver. The impression was distinctly albino.

She spun around, sensing movement.

Swan stood, holding on to the stalagmite for support.

“Who are you?” she demanded. Her voice came off well in the hard-surfaced chamber. As she frowned at him, the fine lines around her mouth and eyes deepened, proving that good genes could only go so far.

“A friend,” he answered. “To you. To Ice.” His own voice sounded like shards of ice. He coughed to warm up his vocal cords.

She drew herself up, straightening her black robes. The finest cloth. Compared to most, the Sisters of Clarity lived well.

“How did you get here?” she asked. She was in fine control of herself, not to react to his physical appearance.

“I live here.”

She let that pass. “If you are a brother, tell me your name.”

“I’m not. But Swan.”

“A strange name, Swan.” Her voice was creamy, like her skin.

He had his bearings, and stood away from the wall. Solange was tall for a woman, but he had eight inches on her, at least. She had to raise her chin to look up at him, but still she showed no apprehension.

“Your interface failed,” he said. “Again. I understand your frustration.”