Maximum Ice (30 page)

The past foreshortened into one lumpish misfortune. Perhaps his enemies had been right, that he was a bad captain. Perhaps achieving the post wouldn’t have driven him so hard if he’d had a family… if he’d had Zoya. But their affair was cut short; she’d gone back into stasis, saying,
Anatolly, find someone who doesn’t need to sleep so much
… He would give much, right at that moment, to have Zoya in his arms, and be young enough to make it worth her while. He would give much to be first mate to another captain, and a friend to the crew. A loyal first mate, of course. What other kind was there?

Janos Bertak’s kind, apparently

Officers’ quarters were a long walk and two decks away. He used the time to gather his thoughts.

If he thought it would be best, he’d call an election himself, or simply step down. But Zoya had been right—Janos must not lead. He was corrupt. Thrust into the politics of the homecoming, the sisters, the preserves—his leadership might damage the Rom irreparably. Janos might be young and vigorous, but surely the crew was not so fickle….

Janos had warned him the crew were discontent. God’s Mercy, that was obvious enough. The earth was desolate, the mantle growing before their eyes, its creep over the Sahel almost perceptible as one stared at the boundary

Janos had said,
give them something to live for…
Anatolly had failed to conjure up such a thing.

But perhaps Janos had not.

As Anatolly passed crew members, they saluted or nodded. Or turned away. Some couldn’t face him. It wasn’t just his paranoia. A mutiny was under way, an awful peaceable mutiny. Did they think him so ineffectual they needn’t even fight? He kept looking straight ahead. That it had come to this. Afraid to look his own people in the eyes! Oh,
Star Road
, he thought. He did love it. That surprised him, that it could grip him so, just when he was most despised.

He stood before the door to Janos Bertak’s quarters. Knocked.

“Yes?” came the voice through the audio node.

“It’s Captain Razo.”

The door slid open. That surprised Anatolly. But then, Janos clearly had nothing to fear from his captain, or he would not have dared so much already.

Janos stood. As usual, his suite was overdecorated. Janos looked about as comfortable amid the swags and gewgaws as a monkey wrench in a jewelry box. Tereza never did have any taste.

“You’ve come about Sandor,” Janos said.

That threw Anatolly off-balance. “Sandor?” What about his personal adjutant?

Janos pulled a long face. “I thought you’d heard.”

“I don’t hear as much as I once did, Janos. Suppose you tell me.”

Janos paused, noting the captain’s tone. “I’m sorry to tell you that Sandor’s dead. An accident. He had found a reason to be on the cargo deck, and must have released a lever somehow. A pallet fell on him.”

“I see,” Anatolly whispered. The shock of it took a moment to absorb. Sandor, dead. Then he looked back at Janos.
So that’s the price of loyalty to the captain, is it?

“Please, sit down, Captain.” Janos gestured toward a couch, opposite him. Anatolly found himself needing to get off his feet. He sank into the cushions.

Janos had the grace to remain silent. The silence stretched on.

At last Anatolly said, “You could just call for a Ship election, you know.”

Janos’s jaw slid sideways, and back again. He didn’t answer.

“I would welcome a vote,” Anatolly said, surprised at himself. “I’m not afraid of you, Janos Bertak. The crew will see you for what you are.” He wasn’t so sure, but the fact was, he had little to lose by a vote.

Janos kept his face dispassionate, but something seemed to fall away. The veneer—and a veneer it had been—of respect. “I do intend to. Soon.”

So. All out in the open then. It was more of a relief than Anatolly could have imagined. He looked around Janos’s quarters, as though seeing it for the first time. There was always something wrong with these rooms. Stuffed with furniture, decorations, figurines, pillows. And the colors. Janos was a man for browns and blacks. The room was awash with yellow, red, and green. Janos was out of place everywhere he went.

That was because his place, as he saw it, was as captain.

Anatolly wanted to upbraid Janos. But how could he do so without making himself look blind and stupid? No, no recriminations. “What have you promised the crew?”

Janos’s bald pate glowed under the chandelier. Perhaps he was sweating. Good.

“A fresh start.”

“Ah. False hope, then.”

“Not at all. Not false at all,” Janos said mildly.

“Janos Bertak tells the truth for once?”

Janos produced a defensive smirk. “Now, Anatolly…”

That
Anatolly
stung. No formalities, now.

“I’d like an orderly transition. No more deaths,” Anatolly said.

“Agreed.” Janos wasn’t bothering to deny the implications.

“Until then, I want the bridge back under my command. In exchange for my public call for an election.”

Janos stared at the floor.

Oh. It was worse than he thought. He was to be removed by mutiny, was he? “Well, Janos? I could have you confined for treason,” Anatolly threw out.

“That would force matters,” Janos murmured.

“Good.”

Janos shrugged.

“If you’re so certain,” Anatolly said, “why don’t you just step forward right away? You think you’ve got the whole crew behind you, apparently.”

“Soon,” the former first mate answered, forcing his eyes back up to meet Anatolly’s.

The man was supremely confident. But he was waiting for something. That little window of time was all that Anatolly had left. And he would have less than that if he called Janos’s hand.

The silence was interrupted as Tereza swept into the room from their personal quarters.

“Anatolly!” she sang with unabashed glee. “A nice visit.”

Anatolly was startled by her. The last time he’d seen Tereza Bertak, she’d been pale and hollow-eyed in hospital. Now she
was glorious, infusing the room with yet more decoration, each kink in her red hair catching a glitter of light. And she was clearly in a splendid mood. That in itself boded ill.

A noise behind her. She turned toward the room from which she’d just come.

The noise grew louder. Though he hadn’t heard the sound in a very long time, there could be no doubt in Anatolly’s mind.

It was an infant crying.

Without opening her lips, Nit managed to say, “I found her.”

“Where?” Kellian kept her eyes straight ahead as the double file of postulants walked to morning meal.

“Up.” Nit’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling.

They were in the rear of the line. At the next turn in the hall, the procession went on without one white robe and one dun robe.

They hadn’t seen Sister Patricia Margaret since she’d lost her position two days earlier. The word was, she had carried her protest of Sister Verna’s mission too far. That had not sat well with Mother Superior.

Nit led the way, ducking through a door, and lifting her robes as she ran down an aisle between shelves of supplies. Kellian charged after her, following her into a cramped storeroom.

At the farther end of the storeroom, Nit was peering out an archway. “Quick,” she whispered. And they were off across a darkened foyer that led onto an even darker stairway. “She’s on the ramparts.”

Kellian eyed the stairwell. “Good. Now go back to the dining hall, before you’re missed.”

“What about
you
being missed?” For all her fears, Nit was starting to enjoy playing cat and mouse with Hilde.

Kellian shrugged. “White robe.”

Then she began scaling the steps two at a time.

From behind her, she heard Nit call, “What shall I tell Hilde?”

“To go to hell.”

The noise behind her might have been a gasp or a giggle.

Stone steps led upward, turning at landings. She hurried upward, holding her robes away from her feet, eager to spill her news before it burst her open.

At the top of the stairs, a metal door stood ajar. Kellian pushed past it, stepping into a blast of sunlight.

She was on the roof of the Zoft. Past the chimneys and fans and generators, Kellian glimpsed the stone parapets of the Keep’s westward-looking frontage. On the opposite side, a sheer wall of Ice loomed close.

Sister Patricia Margaret stood at the parapets, looking out. The very picture of contemplation, detachment, and obedience.

Well, Kellian would see how deep that litany ran. Now that Ice had spoken.

Sister Patricia Margaret spoke without turning. “So, it’s you, Kellian.”

Kellian walked forward to the edge of the rampart. Before her, the landscape was a wide, white world, but far away and miniature. In the distance, the skewed towers of Seetol could just be discerned, and farther away, but more present, the stunning true ice slopes of Mount Raneem.

“How did you know it was me?”

Sister Patricia Margaret’s cheeks had a rouge from the breeze whipping off the Ice wall. “Who else would
run
up six flights of stairs?”

“I had to see you.”

The sister’s voice seemed far away, though they stood side by
side. “Well, now you have.” She gazed outward, unperturbed. “Whatever trouble you’re in, my girl, I’m afraid I can’t help you. They’ve retired me. I’m out of the halls of power, if I was ever in.”

Kellian reined in her excitement to attend to her teacher for a moment. “What will they do to you?”

Patricia Margaret’s mouth curled, but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “I’ve been given my retirement. Hilde will take over my work until a replacement’s found.”

“But they can’t retire you.” The thought of working under Hilde was grim. “What about our work? You’re not too old, you’re not senile!”

The sister pursed her lips. “Thank you.”

Kellian waited for more, then blurted, “Sister, we have to talk. Something’s happened, and I just…”

“Just what?” Patricia Margaret’s eyes clamped down on her. “You just what?”

“I just need advice.”

“So you expect me to counsel you? Are you in trouble again?”

Kellian felt the words like a slap. “Maybe a little, but…”

Sister interrupted, “Pay attention, girl. I’ve fallen from favor. Are you listening? I can’t protect you from yourself anymore. So you can’t afford to be witless from now on.” She let that sink in for a moment. “Yes, witless. You continue to believe—to act like—the Sisters of Clarity are about science. We’re not. We’re about power. If you wish to survive, you must learn the dance, my girl.”

Kellian drew a breath to protest.

The cane came off the floor, shaking in Kellian’s face. “Listen, Bourassa. I made my choice. I confronted Mother Superior under penalty of disfavor. I knew what was at stake. I did it with my eyes wide-open. But you. You’re a chick with your
eyes still glued shut.” The cane slowly descended, and she turned away, mumbling. “Open those eyes or you might fall from the nest.” Her eyes searched the plain before the battlements of the Keep. “Long way down, my girl.”

Kellian murmured: “I’m sorry about your friend. Sister Verna was sick. They shouldn’t have sent her.” If they
did
send her…

The sun glinted off the opaque tundra, rendering the plain before them full of light, yet hard to see.

The nun murmured, “She was too frail to go.” She lifted her arm and pointed out through the stone reveal. “See there? That’s the track of her sled. Toward the Koma preserve.” She frowned, pointing in another direction. “Unless it’s that one, heading to the mountains.” Her shoulders sagged. “In any case, she’s gone.”

“She’s your friend. I’m sorry.”

“No,” the older woman said. “She’s my sister. My blood sister.”

Kellian fell mute.

“So you see what I had to gain.” Sister Patricia Margaret’s profile grew more rigid. “I’m not sorry.”

“Maybe she’s not on a mission.”

A white eyebrow rose.

“Brother Daniel says…” But the nun stopped her cold.

“Brother? Brother Daniel?” She let out a shallow cry that might have been a laugh or a cough. “Oh my girl, you are more deluded than I thought. Breaking every rule in sight, are we? Oh, you will fall a goodly way when you topple.”

“But Daniel knows things! Like about those missions.” Kellian blurted the words before the nun could stop her.

Sister Patricia Margaret turned slowly and fixed Kellian with a raptor’s eyes. “And what about them?”

Kellian felt her mouth go cold and dry. “Well, he says…”

The eyebrow again.

“That…” Unfortunately she had Sister Patricia Margaret’s full attention. She mumbled, “That Mother Superior puts them in Ice as experiments.”

“In Ice.”

“Yes.”

“And how does she do that?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Didn’t say,” came sister’s voice, raspy and low.

“No.”

The sister turned back to look out beyond the Keep’s walls. She said, very low: “Verna and I came here when we were eight and thirteen years old. Our parents were dead. They took us in for charity’s sake. I rose in the order. Verna was content with simpler things. Perhaps she was happier, in the end.” Her eyes held tears that held on to her lids in the cold. “Happier than me. At least I hope so.” Her voice ended in a shadow.

“Maybe she’s not dead yet…”

The sister went on, not listening. “When I met you, I saw something that reminded me… of myself, when I was young. Call it passion—a certain fire. Something I thought I still had. But it had long fled. Going to see Mother Solange was my last flicker.” She smiled on the half of her face Kellian could see. “It was worth it. Make sure when you make your move that it’s worth it.”

“What move?”

Sister’s voice had a shred of the old taskmaster. “Whatever devilment you plan next.”

“I’m afraid I’ve already done it.”

From behind them came a voice. “Done what, pray?”

A woman stood there. Her short hair was a silver frame to a high-cheekboned face. By her posture she thought herself important.
Halls of power, Kellian thought. Here she is, then.

Sister Patricia Margaret bowed. “Mother Superior.”