Maximum Ice (42 page)

Incised in Kellian’s memory was the scene of the snow witch’s flailed arms, the face of wild pain. Sister Patricia Margaret said the snow witches had interface pathways in their arms so that they could communicate with Ice through their fingertips. They couldn’t be anesthetized because then the mental commands couldn’t be traced in the nerve pathways. There was always a good explanation for such things.

Maybe the moral criteria should be, if you have to explain it, it’s wrong. Well, she was no ethicist. But neither, by God, were the nuns.

Upholding their supposed moral principles, the sisters justified her expulsion on the grounds that she had subverted their
enterprise in the north wing; conducted spurious research; contaminated Ice with corrupt data. No mention of the suicide of the snow witch in the chapel. The bloody and flailed body vanished; the evidence against her was an adolescent’s diary

Kellian’s finger traced a zero on the stone floor. Then a one. If the stones could speak, binary might be their language. She thought that, given time, the time she didn’t now have, that Ice could have been her life’s work. The new Ice, the Ice that had begun to think. Perhaps consciousness was an inevitable property of complexity. Or perhaps, to evolve higher, it must be subjected to stress. Comfortable bacteria would never crawl from a warm pond. Ice was stressed, and now crawled toward some new state….

A tap on the window. She had visitors. Kellian jumped up.

“Kellian, my child.” Zoya Kundara spoke to her. Standing alongside, Sister Patricia Margaret, head bowed.

Kellian drew close to the viewing window. “Zoya…” Here was the woman of the great ship. She stared at Zoya, speechless.

The star woman’s face was sober, but her eyes were afire. “I’ve heard your story, Kellian. You are braver than the rest. Your friend—Nita, is it?—your friend has been speaking out for you. No one listens.” She paused. “But don’t lose hope.”

“No,” Kellian whispered. She glanced at Sister Patricia Margaret. From her expression, there was no reprieve.

Zoya came closer to the window. “Walk due north, Kellian. Don’t walk westward onto the barrens. I’ll search for you when I leave here tomorrow. But walk north, along the Keep walls, and along the base of the Ice massif.”

Sister Patricia Margaret was choosing to ignore Zoya’s words. Maybe there was some feeling left in the old nun.

If Kellian could survive one night, there was hope… But of course, the nuns threw food over the battlements to call the horde. So there was little chance of salvation walking north.

Still, she smiled, grateful for the kindness. “There’s something you could do for me in return.”

When Zoya nodded, Kellian said, “My mother, at the preserve. Tell her that I didn’t lie down with rats. She’ll know what I mean.”

Zoya smiled. “Yes, she will.”

The star woman fixed her with a steady, dark gaze. “Kellian. Now you must help
me.”
She nodded. “You have something to tell me. Now is the time.”

“I talk to Ice,” Kellian said simply

“I know.” Zoya moved quickly past that remarkable statement. “What I want to know is, how.”

Sister Patricia Margaret tapped on her cane, impatient, disapproving.

“We just use ordinary language. A tronic, on-screen conversation.” Kellian could see what the sister thought of
that
notion. Her former pupil talking like a zealot. But Zoya was listening. “You don’t need code. It learned natural language. Maybe it learned it just to talk to me, or maybe it taught itself long ago. And I think its size, its global extent, has brought it to a level of consciousness.”

“Consciousness?”

It was an outrageous claim. Kellian knew how she must sound: eager and foolish. But she went on: “At first, Ice was a storehouse of facts, with limited logic capability. It was accessed by its programmers, amplifying their intelligence. But then Ice came to a stage where it integrated the facts it stored. It could relate one thing to another.” She could see Zoya frowning, concentrating.

“Go on, Kellian. We don’t have much time.”

Kellian plunged on, grateful to spill her story. “In the north wing, at my node, Ice asked me a question.” Kellian faced the
star woman eye to eye. “It asked me who I was.” Kellian came closer to the window, touching its cool surface, trying to get through to Zoya. “I had downloaded my obo program, and it must have found that—interesting. Then I sent it my diaries. That resulted in lots of questions, especially about snow witches. Ice is troubled by snow witches.”

Zoya said, “Ice has bigger trouble than that.”

Kellian could only stare. “It does?” Now even Sister Patricia Margaret was paying close attention.

“Kellian,” Zoya said, “I can’t explain everything now, but we face something terrible. Time is running out. I must talk to Ice. Is there a way?”

“Yes. But what threat?”

Zoya sighed. “Ice’s programs are caught in a logic loop. It has to do with preserving the life of a man named Lucian Orr. Do you know this name?”

When Kellian shook her head, Zoya continued, “He’s responsible for a program working on antisenescence. I believe that snow witches are experiments in longevity, failed experiments. But overcoming this failure creates an endless logic loop. Lucian Orr has had an extreme reaction to this failure. He might be able to do a lot of damage.”

Kellian saw that sister was getting ready to interrupt. “Zoya,” she said, “go to the north wing. Go there and key in my name. It can’t tell who it’s talking to.” Kellian glanced at Sister Patricia Margaret. “Help us, Sister.”

The old nun snorted. “I’ve
been
helping you, young dolt.” Kellian and Zoya stared at her. “But you won’t get into the north wing. And you don’t have to. You have an interface, Zoya.” Sister raised an eyebrow. “In your satchel.”

Zoya had turned to her, and was looking at sister warily “One that doesn’t work.”

Sister’s mouth pressed into an ironic smile. “According to my pupil here, Ice isn’t as deaf as we once thought.”

Kellian found that Sister Patricia Margaret looked years younger when she didn’t hang her head and look at the floor.

Patricia Margaret nodded at Kellian. “My girl, you were right about Verna. She’s not on a mission. I’ve seen where she is.” Sister clutched her cane. “It was rather a long walk, but Brother Daniel showed me.” Her face collected its expressions, in what looked like an act of will. “I saw the snow witch in the chapel, too. I had closed my ears to those screams for too long.” She looked at Zoya. “I’m afraid our order is guilty of the worst science—lacking a moral compass. Lacking compassion.”

Sister turned back to Kellian. “I’ve chosen to believe your claims. I can’t put you to the test, but Nita convinced me. We may fall down together. But I’m in.”

The sister raised her cane, silencing Kellian’s response. “Now comes the hard part, Kellian. You must accept your sentence. I’m not strong enough yet to intervene. Many nuns— and brothers—are dissatisfied, but to grow we need secrecy That means you must walk out of those doors tomorrow.”

In the reflection of the pane of glass, Kellian saw herself smile. “Yes, Sister.”

“There’s an Ice storm coming,” Sister continued. “Ice could be dangerous.” She turned to Zoya. “If you’re going to find Kellian, best to do it quickly tomorrow.”

“What happens in an Ice storm?” Zoya asked.

Sister Patricia Margaret paused. “Electromagnetic surges. But we’ve never seen one this size. Nothing even close.” She looked down at her cane, twirling it once. “I don’t know about this logic loop of yours, but I think Ice is rushing to judgment.”

“Then let’s get started,” Zoya said.

Sister Patricia Margaret said, “I believe the ramparts of the Zoft might be the fastest connection.”

Kellian said, “Hurry, before the storm comes.” She said it not for herself, but because if Ice was rushing to judgment, she was afraid of what it might conclude. It didn’t have many moral resources, as the nuns liked to say. It had been using
her
as a resource. On its own, Ice was dreadfully inept.

Sister Patricia Margaret took Zoya’s arm to guide her from the room. Then the nun turned back to Kellian. “Don’t give us away, my girl. Try to look abject. As challenging as that may be.”

Kellian saw by her reflection that her expression was far from abject. It was more like relief, or triumph.

Anatolly wore a parka and woolen hat, for this particular Ship’s corridor was empty and cold. No one had walked down this deck for over a hundred years, making it one of the few places on
Star Road
where he could be truly alone.

There, no one would come up to him, gaggling, advising, questioning, complaining. Until this moment he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed ordinary silence.

As he walked, his footfalls echoed off the corridor walls. He passed stowage lockers, cabin doors, an old payload bay, its latches closed. Everything snugged up. Shipshape. Eventually he stopped looking for inspection items, as was his unbroken habit, but just strolled, as though he weren’t captain, not in charge. Chipped paint and a few pieces of cast-off equipment bespoke abandonment, but it felt fine. A fine, cold quiet. His mind, rather than thinking better, simply stopped thinking. It was a relief.

Walking by a viewing porthole, he caught a glimpse of the planet. By happenstance, the gathering optical storm winked at him, catching him despite his resolve to stop staring at it. He paused, looking out. The vast Pacific was the worst view: uninterrupted by mountain spines, the relentless white looked
more like a frozen moon than a habitable planet—except for that curious band of ocean, spread like a wicked grin.

Turning away, he walked down to the old galley. Counters were littered with coffee cups. He thought of crew taking a final swig, leaving the cups where they were in a lonely act of sloppiness. Why bother? No one was going back there.

Anatolly found himself sitting at one of the mess tables, head in his arms.

Weariness kept his head down. He thought he could hear someone cough down the hall, perhaps feet shuffling… a Ship memory of crew members preparing to shut down the whole deck. Don’t need the room. Conserve ship resources. Say good-bye. That had all been long ago, before his time. His father described it, the shutting down of Deck Four. They’d argued for years before deciding on it. The captain had outwaited them, until the opposition simply vanished. Or until he spied his moment to give the order. Timing, that was everything.

Or perhaps not everything. Courage was a thing, as well.

Anatolly dragged himself from the chair and wandered through the galley to the observation station. In a convex bubble, it allowed a view in three directions. Anatolly stood, watching the earth’s dark side, where the lights came and went, leaving behind trails in his mind’s eye. At the horizon line, the corona of the storm looked like a sun flare.

The damn thing was in his eye. It was like a thought that won’t get born. Or that was born over and over every day as the globe turned. He was sentenced to watch it until…

He closed his eyes. Watch it until…

Until he got it.
Pay attention for once, Anatolly.
Without all the clucking geese, without all the unsolicited advice, the press of events. Just notice.

So he watched the spot dawn over the rim of the world. He didn’t have a clue what the optical storm really was or what it
meant. But somehow he knew if he just kept watching, something would be clear to him. To him. Not to Janos, not to the priest. To him.

The storm came on, an unfolding polyp of light.

When, he asked himself, had it become so important to win? Why hadn’t he noticed that, in thwarting a man who didn’t deserve to be captain, Anatolly had become just like him? When had he let Janos Bertak take over his soul? The answer came: because
somebody
had to.

It stinks, Anatolly, can’t you smell it?

Tears puddled in his eyes. “Stinks,” he heard himself whisper. A tide of self-recrimination moved through him. And out the other side. The thing was, it wasn’t too late.

He stood, gripping the cool wall of the viewing statíon. He turned back to face the galley.
Clean up this mess. You there. This is your captain speaking.
Someone had to say the things people didn’t want to hear. Christ’s Blood, if you want to feel good, hire a publicist.

But a captain, now. That meant making some enemies.

He left the galley and headed down the hall, in a hurry, suddenly, to get to the flight deck. He’d have a stop to make along the way.

Under the circumstances, he might need a well-placed ally Someone who could handle a touchy matter of politics and timing. He knew just who to go to, by God.

The next day, just prior to dusk, the brothers came for Kellian. They were big, beefy boys. It was strange that the nuns thought three huge men would be needed to restrain her. She glared at them when they clamped onto her arms, but they paid her no mind.

“It’ll look more merciful,” Kellian snapped, “if you let me accept my penance willingly” She could see one of them wrinkle his forehead underneath his cowl, registering thinking in process. He nodded at his helpers, and they released her arms.

Despite her lack of sleep, Kellian drew herself up into her best posture and set out down the passageway with her escorts. “I talk to Ice, you know,” she said.

No answer.

She would have her fun with these fellows. And it was more realistic, to rebel. Too passive might look suspicious.

“It doesn’t like you torturing the witches. And it does know what you’re doing.” That probably wasn’t quite true. But it might give them pause.

The sound of their heavy feet on the stone floor was her only answer.

Just before they turned onto the main corridor of the east wing, Kellian turned to them. “Don’t worry about me. What happens to me isn’t your fault. But you should keep your eyes open.” She didn’t expect a response, and she was right.

They began walking down the familiar hall of chandeliers and arched doorways.

There, waiting for her, were postulants and nuns in two long lines. She began walking down the middle. Far away, a gong sounded with every third footstep. She had been awake all night thinking about this moment. Now that it was here, it felt like something she remembered, instead of something she was doing. Behind the lines of watchers, brooms rested against the walls. They would sweep up after her, and shove it all out the door.