Maximum Ice (44 page)

The metal ramp zinged under the electrical surge. The guards staggered, fell. One was down on the ramp. Another
had fallen to the ground. Swan dived for the second guard’s weapon, retrieving it. The entry hatch opened as crew rushed out. Swan pressed his hand onto Ice, for another jolt of electricity. It danced up the ramp, knocking a crew member down, and locking the door open, as the onboard electronics faltered. Swan dashed up the ramp, into the ship, where lights were just flickering back on. He was firing, catching crew in a spray of fire and blood. He was firing and firing the weapon.
Love to hear that she’s immortal. That’s a good one.
Not a good one. Oh, it wasn’t good, no, no, no, no. Nothing was good, would ever be good again.

Swan found himself crushed into the corner near a stowage locker. The corridor lay quiet, empty.
Parceling out her life. Periodic awakenings. A good one.

“Get out, get out, all of you,” he screamed. “Get out of here, or I’ll kill you.”

No answer, but for the bleating of the children.

He threw a line of fire into the cockpit area. “Get out, now.”

Eventually a few of them bolted for the door. Three nuns passed him, as well. Where had they come from? He let them go. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he wanted the ship. He would fly it into the atmosphere and crash it into the plague ship. Or just crash it into the mountains. “Get out!”

The children were marching past him.

They stared at him and his gun. Their big eyes, staring. They were young, lost boys, staring into big guns. He didn’t want to get the roles all mixed up. He was the innocent, not the one pointing a gun at children. How had it come to this? How had it ended so wrong?

A small boy stopped to look at him. Just at eye level, his large brown eyes gazing into Swan’s.

“Get… out,” Swan whispered.

But the boy didn’t move. That made him angry. The boy should mind him, the boy should die. He’d be better off than growing up, growing old, losing hope. He latched on to the little upper arm, yanked him around so he didn’t have to look in his eyes.

To his credit, the child didn’t cry or wiggle. Just stood there, stiff as a soldier.

“Let him go, Orr,” someone called. It was Mirran. He came to the foot of the ramp. “Let him go. Take me instead.”

He could just make Mirran out, in the dim light of the reserve generator lights. “Come up the ramp, then.”

Mirran obeyed. As he came through the hatch, Swan shoved the child over to him. Not a murderer of children. Not.

When they were alone on board, Swan had to sit quietly to gain his equilibrium. He hadn’t killed the boy. That proved he wasn’t what they thought. Wasn’t what
he
thought. No cannibalizing monster. He didn’t kill the boy, he hadn’t stooped that far. Since his life was drawing to an end, that was important.

He turned to Mirran. “You.” Swan gestured to the cockpit. The lieutenant hardly registered on Swan’s consciousness. He was the pilot function.

One last stop.

The wind lashed into Kellian’s face. Born on the escarpments of the Olom Mountains, it gathered speed as it stampeded over kilometers of bare Ice, coursing through the ruined city, and plowing into the Keep with nearly gale force.

Zoya had said walk north, but in this wind, Kellian’s only hope was to find shelter. She walked, arms wrapped around herself, to the pile of metal some two hundred meters away

The ruptured motor compartment and twisted runners told
the story of a high-speed impact. The windshield was intact, though pitted with teeth marks, like a pockmarked moonscape. Kellian had learned how Wolf had driven head-on into the tide of rodents, giving Zoya time to reach safety. The trader had been a welcome visitor at the preserve, bringing good trading and good stories. Now she gazed on his life’s blood, stained brown in the heavy dusk. Somewhere nearby, his bones were strewn across the Ice.

She gazed westward, listening for rats.

In that direction all she could see was the Ice storm, a vast plume of gilded green, both a laser storm and a mirroring borealis. It was time for something, Ice had told her, over and over. Kellian guessed the time had come.

The sled was lying on its side. Battery acid had seeped out, forming a small pit on Ice. The sled’s runners faced the wind, and the passenger compartment faced the nunnery

That small detail could save her life.

The windshield and body of the sled formed a small cave. Kellian crept into it.

Out of the wind, the cold bit less, but Kellian was shivering. Someone had told her that freezing to death was painless. Whoever it was, they’d never gone topside in a big wind. She tucked herself into a tight ball, pressing her hands into her armpits. This huddled misery wasn’t the grand trek into the frozen wasteland that she had imagined. She had a moment’s disappointment that her death might be so mundane.

As she gazed up through the open side of the sled, she saw the stars, looking like a hailstorm. Like they would fall on her. It would be a better death: quick and clean.

One of the stars was coming already, streaking across the sky. It was rumbling softly.

Kellian abandoned her huddle long enough to crane her neck out for a better view.

A boxy shadow approached, eclipsing the stars as it came. If it was Zoya’s ride, it was early. Then it passed over her, darkened, no running lights.

The nuns, she thought, wouldn’t like getting visitors in the middle of the night.

On the flight deck, Anatolly sat beside Janos Bertak, hands sweating enough to leave spots on his trousers. How in the cosmos did people muster the calm to lie?

“When Lieutenant Mirran arrives,” Anatolly said, “I want a general assembly. The crew should welcome the youngsters. A special event.” With no response from Janos, Anatolly pushed on, “We’ll make it an occasion. Something to celebrate.”

Janos continued frowning at the screen, where the continental storm raged a golden orange. The storm moved so slowly, it appeared stationary from orbit. But it was heading east. Losing radio contact with the shuttle wasn’t unexpected. But Janos worried anyway. “Too much fuss,” he said. “Might upset the youngsters.”

“Yes, but if it’s short, the children will hardly notice. The crew needs something to celebrate.” He relished throwing Janos’s own words back at him.

Now that Anatolly was insisting, Janos turned his attention to him. “Children don’t need ceremonies. They need parents.”

But I need the ceremony, Anatolly thought.

“Janos, you’ve been harping on me about crew morale. Now we’ve got an opportunity to celebrate. Lead the assembly yourself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried.”

Oh, but you should be.

A midshipman brought the bridge log for Anatolly to sign, which he managed to do in a tremulous hand. Janos didn’t notice. He was no doubt savoring his approaching triumph. Once the children were integrated into Ship families, his popularity would soar. The captaincy would be his.

Anatolly put petulance in his voice. “It’s just that I’ve given in about the orphans, and Zoya, and now you’re thwarting me on every detail. Really, Janos, this is not the cooperation I expected.”

“All right,” Janos said finally. “I really don’t care. I’ll say a few words to welcome the orphans. You’ll stand by my side.”
And keep your mouth shut
, was left unspoken.

“Good,” Anatolly said, face neutral. Playing the old Anatolly Peace at any price. By God, he liked the new man better.

Lieutenant Havislov entered the bridge. Right on time. He approached the command chair. “Captain, sir. Preparations are complete for the physio unit.”

Anatolly nodded. He made it known he would inspect Ship Mother’s physio unit and the amenities before she lay her head down. He’d ordered flowers. Janos was happy to keep him busy with such details. Zoya was to proceed directly from the airlock to the stasis chamber, no opportunity for sedition. We’d always need her as Ship Mother, Janos had said. Need her asleep, more like.

That was the one thing that Janos still needed Anatolly for. To get Zoya to lie down. How flattering, that Janos thought he could control Zoya. Sleep now, Ship Mother. Anatolly almost snickered, imagining her expression, after all that had happened.

As Anatolly left the bridge, he passed Midshipman Novic’s comm station. Novic was key to his operation. Radio operator. The two men didn’t look at each other. Novic knew his job.

Loyal to his captain. That should have been all their jobs. But no sense dwelling on
ought to. Better to concentrate on going to.

He followed Lieutenant Havislov into the corridor. The poor fellow was swallowing spit he didn’t have. Good man; he wasn’t used to lying.

Anatolly and the lieutenant passed the stowage locker on Deck Two. The lieutenant opened the locker. Inside was the equipment gurney holding tools, cleaning supplies, and one oversized bucket. Anatolly left Havislov in charge of the gurney and heard it rumbling behind him as he set a faster pace.

Janos Bertak had command of the bridge. Anatolly was ostensibly on his way to the physio systems suite to inspect the progress for Zoya’s
mothballing
, as she sometimes called it. The sense of normalcy was perfect, but it would only last a few minutes once the disruptions started.

Despite his nervousness, Anatolly felt decades younger. If people wanted a youth serum, they should try adrenaline.

On the officers’ deck, Midshipman Vessi approached Anatolly from the opposite direction. For sheer size—and loyalty—Vessi was worth any three crew members. And he was prepared to swing his ham-sized fists hard and fast, before others could make up their minds.

Vessi pressed the electronic probe onto the door’s lock mechanism. The door of Bertak’s private quarters slid open, and he and Anatolly entered. Anatolly asked the startled wet nurse, “Where’s Lieutenant Bertak? This is an emergency.”

The woman dropped her needlepoint, and stood in confusion. “He’s on the flight deck…”

In the intervening seconds, Vessi had crossed over to her, pinning her arms and slapping an adhesive pad over her mouth. He made short work of tying her up, as Anatolly strode
to the bedroom. Rebeka Havislov had assured them that Tereza would be engaged on Deck Six, training the volunteer teachers in child care. Rebeka hadn’t disappointed. The bedroom was occupied by only one person.

It had been forty years since Anatolly had held an infant. He leaned over the crib, hoping the baby would be asleep.

Big brown eyes met his own from the bundle of blankets. Damn. Awake.

Anatolly smiled at the baby. “We’re going for a buggy ride,” he said. “So try to keep your mouth shut.”

He reached in and folded the lump of blankets and baby into his arms, carrying the package like a nuclear warhead into the living room. The nurse was tied up, eyes frantic. Vessi had put a pillow under her head, but she didn’t look happy

He and Vessi stood in front of the door, hoping that when they opened it Havislov would be rolling by with the gurney Anatolly pressed the door release.

Havislov was standing there with the gurney, waiting for them. Anatolly’s heart sank. Too obvious.

Havislov looked stricken. “Hurry up.” Down the corridor, a group of people were heading their way.

Without ceremony, Anatolly plunged the baby into the bucket, and strode off down the hall. It wouldn’t do for him to walk next to a cleaning crew. He passed the crew members, who nodded in friendly fashion. He mustered a smile for them. Behind, came the rumble of the gurney, the squeakiest one they could find. It would mask the baby’s gurgles, if not his screams.

Anatolly prayed that the infant wouldn’t scream.

He pressed his wrist lex, indicating to Midshipman Novic that he was approaching the auditorium.

Within seconds, Anatolly’s prepared message jumped to every comm screen and lex on board. “Mandatory general
assembly regarding the arrival of the orphans. All nonassigned personnel to the main hall, on the double. Captain Razo.”

Janos and the flight crew knew very well that the shuttle hadn’t arrived yet. But all Anatolly needed was to throw them off a minute or two with the reference to the general meeting. Janos would storm down to the hall, no doubt, but he’d be delayed at least a few minutes. In any case, Anatolly was looking forward to seeing him.

Lieutenant Havislov rumbled the cart into the auditorium, Midshipman Vessi at his side.

Anatolly looked at the pail. The baby was quiet. “Is he all right? Not suffocated under the blankets, is he?”

Vessi piped up, “It’s asleep, sir.”

Anatolly wasn’t convinced Vessi knew a sleeping baby from a dead one, but he said, “Bring the bucket.” He climbed up onto the stage, where a large screen was already in place.

A few crew members began trickling in, then many of them, taking seats, and standing along the walls. A buzz filled the auditorium. Some had figured out the meeting was premature.

Anatolly’s wrist lex lit up, signaling that Janos had left the bridge.

On his way then. Let the festivities begin.

“Please be seated,” Anatolly urged the audience. He felt a little ridiculous standing onstage next to a bucket. He glanced down. The brown eyes were open again, above a quavering lip.

Anatolly gently lifted the baby from its nest. As he hugged the bundle against his shoulder, the volume of voices in the room doubled. He saw the crew in the front row. Sava Uril, Niko Borjana, Edvard Marusic. These were just the ones he most hoped to reach: those young enough to have small children of their own. But who didn’t have them.

Clearing his throat, Anatolly began: “This baby that Tereza

Bertak has been caring for is not an orphan.” Short and sweet. He had to get to the point. A better orator was on the way.

The baby began to cry a high-pitched screech that detracted from Anatolly’s posture as defender of children. Vessi was standing at his side, God bless him. He plunged on: “Neither are any of the children and infants scheduled for delivery to the Ship today. Their desperate parents sold them. People of the Road, we have entered into a flawed—an evil—bargain.”