Maximum Ice (45 page)

Someone shouted: “What does Commander Bertak have to say?”

Anatolly had to raise his voice, startling the baby, who screamed louder. “Janos says you’ll pay any price to start families. From what I know of you, my friends, that just isn’t true.”

“Where are the other children?” a woman shouted. Many others joined in that refrain.

Anatolly held up one hand, the hand that wasn’t holding a twenty-kilo baby. “They’ll be here soon. When they arrive, you’ll have to decide. On the price you’re willing to pay.”

At that moment, Tereza Bertak stormed into the auditorium, dragging her nurse with her. Anatolly could see her red hair lit up like an emergency light. Her voice carried from the back of the room. “You stole my baby, Anatolly Razo. You beat up this poor woman and kidnapped my baby.” She stormed down the aisle toward the stage. “Who do you think you are?”

Anatolly was prepared for
that
question. “Your captain, Tereza Bertak, that’s who.”

“Kidnapper!” she countered. Lieutenant Havislov blocked her access to the stage stairs. She turned to the audience. “The man is unstable. Look at him—putting a baby in a bucket!”

Heads turned as someone else entered the auditorium.

Janos Bertak stood gazing down the length of the auditorium at Anatolly. He managed to make eye contact, like a laser beam.

“So, Anatolly,” Janos said, “using force, now, are we?” He began a slow walk down the center aisle, calming the uproar to a gentle murmur as he walked. “You’ve been under some strain. I understand. But you have to let that baby go back to his mother.”

Assenting voices rose again.

Vessi was blocking the stairs, but Janos looked ready to vault up onto the stage.

Anatolly said, “This baby’s mother sold the infant for the equivalent of eighteen Euros.” There was more Anatolly had planned to say, but he deemed it the right moment to call in reinforcements.

The screen lit up. The face of Father Donicetti took over the stage.

The priest fixed his audience with a withering glare. “Normally,” his voice boomed out, “I stay out of Ship politics. Not this time.” Anatolly hadn’t had time to coach him on what to say. He hoped he’d stick to the point.

“I haven’t seen some of you at confession for a long time.”

Mother of God, a sermon.

“After this, some of you will
need
to come.” He cleared his throat and went on: “Since you seem to need an unbiased mediator, I have taken it upon myself to do some investigating.”

Janos made the leap onto the stage. Agile, he was. Vessi rushed to restrain him, then Janos’s supporters were moving to his side. Their presence on the stage obscured the screen, but the priest’s voice droned on.

“I asked the leaders of Ancou preserve where Tereza Bertak’s baby came from, and they freely admit the babe was sold.
Sold.
Lest you think I’m siding with Anatolly Razo, let me introduce you to Worley leader of the Ancou preserve.”

Worley’s florid face filled the screen. “… a fair price,” he was saying, amid the commotion in the hall.

The noise subsided as people stared at the screen.

Worley went on: “We try to limit our population, but we do have excess children despite all we can do. Our people are only too happy to sell the excess for a good price. The nuns are our best customers. But we assure you, we won’t take advantage of your—plight. The ship can count on fair prices.” The man smiled, a wobbly grin banked in double chins. “We look forward to doing business with you.”

Now Donicetti came back on the screen, driving home his point. He was not in a good mood. His lecture was actually a good one, even inspired. Unfortunately no one heard the rest, as the auditorium erupted in voices and arguments.

Anatolly held up his hands for calm. “Please, please,” he called out. “You’re frightening the baby.” Actually, the baby had begun settling down as Anatolly jiggled the infant against his shoulder, something he remembered doing about a hundred years ago.

A few people resumed their seats, and the room quieted. He turned down the volume on Donicetti’s sermon. Every now and then, Anatolly heard a word, like, “parents,” “decency,” “white slavery.” But the focus of the audience was on Janos.

Janos Bertak turned to face the auditorium. “They live in squalor. Starving.” Under hostile gazes, his voice sounded forlorn. “We’re doing them a favor.”

Donicetti’s sermon ended, plunging the hall into total silence.

Tereza knew his moment was over. She glared at her husband. “You miserable pig,” she growled. “You told me he was an orphan.”

Janos turned to face her, his face tender for the first time since Anatolly had known him. “I thought you wanted a baby,” he said. He looked at his wife miserably. “I thought it would make you happy.”

The look on her face was terrible. Even Anatolly had to look away.

Carefully settling the infant back in its bucket, he waved the security guard forward. It was time to put Donicetti’s speech to the test.

“Janos Bertak,” Anatolly said, summoning his most commanding voice, “I accuse you of crimes against this Ship and our people. Of the death of Sandor Laslo. Of kidnapping and conspiracy to mutiny.” He lifted his chin to signal the guard to come forward. He waited a few beats.

“Take him to the brig.” It was a line Anatolly had been practicing in his head for days.

Janos looked up at Anatolly. His voice was low and steady. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Anatolly smiled. “Neither did I.”

Janos swept a gaze through the hall, gauging his support. There wasn’t any. He shook off the hands coming around his arms to guide him. They took his lex from his wrist, and he marched up the aisle amid a profound silence.

Anatolly turned to Tereza. “Come here, Tereza Bertak.”

The woman climbed the stairs and crossed the stage. To her credit she came with head held high, red hair on fire in the projection lights.

“Until we get this straightened out,” Anatolly said, “I’m putting you in charge of this baby. Will you care for him a few more days?”

She nodded. Her eyes weren’t on Anatolly, but on the infant. This wasn’t going to be easy on her. Perhaps her least of all. She reached out for the bucket.

He handed it to her, noting the big brown eyes still watching him. Tereza took the bucket and swept off the stage like a diva. A few people in the audience clapped, for whatever reason.

Anatolly shook hands with Vessi and Havislov. Then he descended the stairs and moved through the crowd, stopping to talk to the crew, taking time to answer questions and listen, and listen some more. They were his people. But it had been some time since he’d been among them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The land sang with silent light. The optical storm fired the ground, reversing the normal order of things: luminous land, darkened sky. Abandoning the shed shelter, Kellian felt herself drawn to stand in the midst of it, a witness to the outpourings of Ice. All around the sled, spread out before the Zoft, and throughout the basin, streams of light surfaced and vanished, again and again. Giga beams of red and violet shot forward from point to point, crystal to crystal, in geographic rays.

Overhead a molten curtain hung from the stars, a borealis so massive Kellian thought she felt the wind from its surging folds. Bolts of laser light streaked over the barrens in all directions, orange and red and a hundred others. Her dark skin took on the overtones of the land. She was an instrument on which Ice played its rhapsody of light. Those who worshiped Ice were wrong, yet Kellian felt an awe of this thing. Alone on a snowy basin amid such a shining thing, she could only feel how small she was, how temporary. Despite her peril, she felt oddly grateful. Not grateful to Ice, exactly, but grateful for her life, whatever was left. The Keep’s walls loomed stark and tall, spotted with feeble windows. Such a great wall, but such a dead thing. Kellian spread her arms, closing her eyes, letting the lights play on her eyelids, tapping, tapping as though to get in…

A scrunch on the Ice behind her. She whirled.

A radiant shape stood a few paces away, gown fluttering in the wind. It flickered gold and purple, a flame sprung from crystal. Struck dumb, Kellian nearly buckled to her knees. Colors radiated from it. It was the ghost of the world, the angel of Ice, come to enunciate a great purpose…

The shape drew nearer. It was a woman in a robe. A white robe, like Kellian’s former one. It was Hilde. Her white robe flickered with reflected color.

She came forward, carrying something. Then she threw a heavy cape over Kellian’s shoulders.

“It’s time,” she said.

Kellian heard the words. It was as though Ice itself spoke them, as though Hilde were under Ice’s rapture. Her eyes felt like frozen balls, melting at the edges. Hilde gripped her around the shoulder. “Steady,” she said.

Kellian whispered, “Time for what?” The robe was hideously cold, but she clutched it to herself.

“To nip at their feet.” Hilde glanced at the sled. “Is his body in there? The sled driver’s?”

Kellian shook her head. He was scattered on the barrens. “Why?”

Hilde paused, scanning the surroundings. “Sister Patricia Margaret’s looking for something he wore. A medallion around his neck.” She looked back at Kellian. “Never mind. We’ll find it later. You look half-frozen.”

Hilde led her toward the Keep, pulling her along faster than her aching feet wanted to go. They were headed to the refuse pile.

“We had to let them put you out. But we always had a plan. We’re going to nibble away at them. Guerrilla tactics.”

It was only just registering on Kellian that she was going to make it. Her voice croaked, “Guerrilla?”

“Sister says its a term of war. We’re using guerrilla tactics, like the Hall of Horrors.” She smirked. “We’ve got a new display up.”

They were coming up on the ancient refuse heap of the Keep. It was strictly nonedible, to discourage rats, but it was a profound heap, just the same.

“A new one?” The Hall of Horrors hadn’t altered for thousands of years.

“This one shows the nuns themselves. Cutting open snow witches to find their interface.”

“Solange will have your head.”

“Only our converts know how to activate it. It’ll be discovered soon enough, but by then, we’ll have made our point.”

They stood in front of a small door cut in the stone. It was big enough for them get in, one at a time. The nuns brought small refuse through this door. Bigger things were shoved off the ramparts.

“The alarm’s disabled for a few minutes, but we’ve got to hurry.” Hilde knocked, and the handleless door swung open. Nit was crouching there.

The youngster took a quick look at the pulsating barrens. Then held out her hand to Kellian.

Kellian scrambled in, embracing her friend. She kissed her on the cheek. Her lips were so cold she thought they might leave burn marks. Then she pulled back, looking at Nit. “Breaking the rules, I see,” Kellian said.

“Yes. Rule 604. ‘No rescuing outcasts.’ ” Nit smirked, then led the way. “Hurry.”

As the three of them scurried, stooped over, through the narrow rock passage, Kellian said, “Thank you.” It was a simple phrase, and not enough, but it needed saying.

From behind, she heard Hilde snort. “You may not thank us when you see what comes next.”

Zoya was climbing endless stone stairs. Brother Daniel led the way up and up, their shadows jumping around them from his handheld light.

This was the young man she’d seen at Solange’s apartment yesterday. When Sister Patricia Margaret handed her off to Daniel, Zoya was heartened that the conspiracy included some of the brothers as well as the postulants.

He carried her satchel over his shoulder, and still he hardly registered the aerobic challenge of rushing up hundreds of stairs. “Hurry,” he said. “Before they find your cell empty.”

“If I go any faster, you’ll have to carry me the last flight,” Zoya huffed. She wasn’t in the best of shape. Given her lifestyle, it couldn’t be helped.

Someday she would lead a normal life amid gravity and mundane events. That is, if she wasn’t excommunicated by the nuns or her Ship. Ah, the prospect of a normal life… days in true succession, daily chores, domestic happiness. What most people took for granted—but it was a wonder. It filled her with plans and hopes, and not for the first time, either. At one time she might have married Anatolly Razo, after all. And, recently, she had also considered a certain tracker of witches. Had considered the strength of his body, and the fire of his heart. But it was a heart given to someone else. And buried now, in the snow of days.