Maximum Ice (43 page)

She passed all the people that she had known here. Sister Gretchen, Sister Roselyn. They looked at her with stony eyes. She was coming up on her dormitory. There was Alb, Jace, Mar, eyes glittering, was that with malice, or might it be tears? Then
she saw an odd sight. Hilde withdrew her hands from the folds of her sleeves, and made a sign of a zero and a one with her fingers. And so did Jace and Mar. They were signaling her. Incredibly, they were saying, had found a way to say,
we believe you.

Nit stood at the end of the dormitory line. She watched Kellian approach, her face red, her eyes puffy. Her fingers formed a zero and a one.

Now it was all Kellian could do to maintain her composure. As her pace lagged, the brothers grasped her arms, pushing her onward. The corridor wasn’t nearly as long as it had once been.

Now she was in the rotunda. Mother Solange Arnaud stood there, immobile as a statue. At her side were Sister Helena, Sister Elisa, Sister Marta-Jean, and the rest of the inner circle. The hall was lit with meter-high candles, marking the high rite.

Kellian and her escort stopped in the center of the hall facing the senior nuns. Sister Patricia Margaret Logue stepped from a mass of black robes.

“Kellian Bourassa,” she began. Her voice was amplified in the marble rotunda, though she spoke softly. “I brought you among us for training in the contemplative life. To my shame, you have failed your apprenticeship. I renounce you.” Though Kellian knew it was a sham, the words still hurt. She put on a defiant face.

Then it was Mother Superior’s turn. Solange Arnaud looked appropriately calm and regretful. Her contralto voice rang out in the hall: “Kellian Bourassa, you have betrayed our trust in you. You are incapable of detachment, contemplation, and obedience. Therefore, I expel you from our sisterhood. I withdraw our protection. I banish you from our presence. I excommunicate you.” Her arm came up like a black flag, pointing to the great double doors. “Let the barrens bring you clarity.”

The brothers grasped her arms and turned her to face west. Then they began walking toward the great doors, where
brown-robed guards slid out the bolts. The hinges groaned as the doors came open.

A biting wind slapped her face, and the smell of fresh air. Kellian paused on the threshold. She made eye contact with her escorts, and they allowed her to turn.

She swept her gaze around the hall. “I think God pities you,” she said, her voice resounding in the hall. “But I’m not sure, because it’s mostly Ice that answers me.” She shrugged. Turned. She hoped the brothers wouldn’t ruin her last moment by pushing her into the snow.

They didn’t. She walked straight out the door.

She hadn’t gone far onto Ice when food pellets started hitting the ground around her.

Rat food.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Swan approached the shuttle. On foot, so as not to alarm them.

The children were already on board. It mustn’t look like he was stalking them, so he had waited until they were transferred, and the nun’s sled had departed.

Above the mountains, the sun was giving up for the day. A sunset swelled purple and green like a contusion. It was the systems test. Swan had commanded a test, just in case. But he hadn’t expected it to look like this.

“Please do not approach farther,” a voice from the shuttle boomed at him.

Swan put up his hands. “I’ve come to trade information.” He thought that sounded rather normal. Trading. Information. Words the crew could relate to. And it had the fine advantage of being true.

A long pause ensued. OK, they were studying him. Dressed in good furs, his hair pulled back, a pleasant expression on his face.

“Who are you?”

What the hell. “Lucian Orr. Scientist. Programmer of Ice.” They were words he’d been longing to say. The very globe was altered by his programs. Not a perfect opus, but a spectacular one. Why shouldn’t he take credit?

The Olympics swallowed the sun. The western sky bounced neon colors off thin, shredded clouds. And the intensity didn’t subside with the sun. It grew.

“What is your preserve?”

Swan pointed south. “Seattle.” They would know the old name.

Another long pause. They might think he was a snow witch. Surely they could see he was rational and normal, not some gibbering, tongue-tied mutant. But this Lieutenant Mirran would be cautious. Swan had listened to his every communication with the ship. Mirran was careful. By the book.

The amplified voice persisted: “The programmers of Ice are long dead.”

He was prepared for skepticism. Crouching down, he drew off a glove. He brushed aside a sprinkling of snow, clearing a small spot. Math was the easiest demo, to get the lasers worked up. He called on Ice for a calculation that might impress. A red beam of light lanced across the territory, converging on his hand.

He was sure they were watching him. “If I have your attention,” he called out, “I’ll try another demonstration. How about the trajectory angle of your incoming flight relative to the earth’s orbit plane?” He subvocalized the question, and Ice snapped a response. “Thirty-five and a half degrees, I believe?”

The shuttle remained silent.

“Do let me know if that’s a tad off. I’m always interested in calibration opportunities.”

A new voice came from the shuttle. Swan guessed this was Mirran himself. The voice washed over the tundra. “What do you want with us, Lucian Orr? Clarify now.”

No doubt he was anxious to get home with the load of jittery children, and back to his research. Especially with that ugly light show climbing up the sky

“Lieutenant Mirran, I wouldn’t postpone our chat if I were
you. This is a onetime offer. I propose a technology swap, one highly in your favor. May I approach?”

The outside spot lights came on, creating brilliant ice flows in their pools. “Approach. Stay well clear of the ramp.”

Swan’s boots crunched against real ice, the remnants of the recent snowfall. The damn stuff was slippery. Slowly, he made his way across the darkening flats. He was in a hopeful mood. They had no reason to deny him the immortality drug—or the longevity treatments—or whatever they used. If it was expensive, he could pay. In the back of his mind he worried, though. If the gypsy had lied… But they had no children. How else did they continue?

His worry was tinged with hope. Emotions collided. It surprised him, the pleasure he found in the prospect of relinquishing Ice’s secrets. Ship would certainly retrieve its stored knowledge before they tried to eradicate it. Some larger good would come of Ice. He would have a place in history, not as a pariah, but a patron.

Ice’s retreat would have to be gradual, of course. Something would have to be done with the bulk of it, the detritus left behind. All these were long-term practical questions. While they solved them, they could profit from Ice as a computational platform. As it got smaller, it would lose computing power. But its stored knowledge would not be jeopardized for decades, even centuries. Ice stored information redundantly now; no need for efficiency when you can sprawl as you like.

A wind came up as the sun set. It blew the furs around his hood and chilled his face. But it felt fine. He was a little hungry, but he felt fine. He let the breeze blow through him, through his pores. Cold, scouring wind. It cleansed him of sin and error. He had always wanted to be not only grand, but good.

A man in a big parka stood a few meters away. Two armed
guards stood on the top of the shuttle ramp, aiming their guns at him.

“Lieutenant Mirran, I presume?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Listening to your radio communications. Ice collects all kinds of data for me.”

Mirran sized him up. He looked at Swan’s hand, searching for something mechanical. The interface.

“Do you work with the Sisters of Clarity?” Mirran asked.

Swan coughed. “We do talk… but they’re dependent on me. Like you, they can’t break Ice’s encryption.”

Mirran frowned. “I’m not empowered to make decisions for my ship, Mr. Orr. I report to my captain. If you tell me the nature of your proposed trade, I’ll discuss it with Captain Razo.”

“You really should learn to make decisions, Mirran. Not everyone is patient with red tape.” He smiled. “Me, for instance.”

Mirran looked wary, even alarmed, by Swan’s smile.

Swan felt a pang of annoyance. “Look here, Mirran. You realize, don’t you, that I have access to Ice’s programs? Put me to any test you like. I can teach you to interface.”

Mirran looked down at Swan’s hand.

Swan murmured, “My interface is subcutaneous. Yours doesn’t have to be if I disable the encryption. You’ll need to put together a good interface and compiler; I can help you with coding, if you need it.”

“What do you want from me that can’t wait?”

Swan glanced up at the men with the guns. “Mirran, after all that I’m offering, I don’t expect to be kept out here freezing my ass off. And threatened with your guns.”

Mirran narrowed his eyes. “We’ve had deaths out here. From strangers.”

“Yes, yes, snow witches. They’re dangerous. You’ve seen
how they can’t talk, half-crazed? That’s not me, as should be clear by now.” He decided against the disingenuous smile. “What will the captain think if you pass by this opportunity? Ask him.”

Mirran jerked his head in the direction of the green glow. “Storm’s knocked out our communications.”

Swan sighed. “Well, then. That appears to leave the two of us.”

Mirran was still giving him an impudent, blank gaze. “Tell me what you propose,” the lieutenant said.

Swan collected himself. “Ice has grown too far. It was the inevitable price for some of its calculations, but I can bring it back in line. And I’m willing to hand it over. It’s too much for one man, alone.”

Mirran’s face was stupidly blank. Get to the point, he seemed to be saying.

“In return, you divulge your own secrets. Biological, physiological. Whatever you’ve learned.” As Swan licked his lips, the wind dried them again.

“I don’t understand what you’re driving at.”

“Mirran, I’m talking about your damn long lives.” Now the man looked even more confused. “It’s not right to keep that kind of technology for a few. Is it?”

Mirran glanced up the ramp, toward his armament.

“And I can pay, of course. Anything you want, if that’s your demand.”

“Long lives?”

Swan had to pause to take in a cooling breath. This lieutenant wasn’t keeping up with the conversation. He wasn’t paying close attention. Or maybe he was trying to withhold what he knew, keep the best for himself, push others away.

“Let’s be straightforward,” Swan said. “Zoya Kundara has made claims. Can we put aside the pretenses?”

“Claims?”

Was the man a moron? “I grow impatient with you, Lieutenant. Let me be clear: I’m interested in Zoya. Her talk about immortality.” He cocked his head. “Was she lying?”

Again, Mirran glanced up at the ramp. Turning back, he said, “Perhaps you misunderstood her.”

“I don’t think so.” Swan’s mouth was so dry, the wind blew straight down his throat. “She said she was immortal,” he croaked. “Perhaps something you learned on your long travels?”

Mirran wiped his forehead. He glanced back at the growing disk of the storm. “We may have much to trade, Mr. Orr. But not that particular item. Zoya isn’t long-lived. She’s been parceling her life out in periodic awakenings, as ship counselor.”

“Parceling out?”

“In stasis.” He shrugged. “I suppose that’s a kind of immortality.”

Swan shuddered. “Parceling out. Her life.” No, that wasn’t
a kind of.
It was nothing at all. It was a patchwork thing, a damnable thing, a lying thing.

“That’s it. Sorry.” Mirran smiled for the first time. “She’ll love to hear that she’s immortal. That’s a good one.” He glanced up at the men on the ramp, sharing the moment’s humor.

Mirran’s open mouth looked like a red cave, his laughter like a seal barking.

Swan’s fist took him in the side of the head.

Mirran buckled, crumbling to his knees at the force of the blow. Swan crouched behind him, hand on the ground. On Ice. Calling for a bit of a jolt, present square meter excepted.