Maximum Ice (49 page)

Faint crackling sounds. Ice growing very fast, little facets popping up, growing, filling.

“Nooo,” he bellowed. “Noooo.” Inside, the gypsy’s eyes fluttered open. Met his own. Then more rime crowded in front of him. Closing the gap with slushy, new Ice.

Slapping his hand on Ice, Swan ordered,
Stop this growth.
He had never instructed Ice to dissolve in any way. That would require programming. But he could stop Ice from growing.

The crackling sound stopped. OK, Ice was still taking orders. That was important for the next phase, the good-byes.

The gypsy was looking at him. Her face turned just the slightest bit toward him. She looked peaceful, unlike him.

I said, nobody wins.

Swan pulled out his knife and began hacking at Ice.

Zoya heard noises. Crunching blows, ringing all around her.

At the same time, the sounds came to her once-removed. She was losing consciousness, slowly, a neuron at a time.

Her arms hurt, and didn’t hurt. The sound of Ice entering her skin was like the sound of wind-driven leaves. In the background, the rhythmic thunk of blows on her chamber. That would be Lucian, knocking. She remembered her eyes. She opened them.

Light all around her. A tall shadow nearby, lunging at her, again and again.

Fear threaded up into her awareness. Would there be time? She closed her eyes again, concentrating.
Ice, Ice, Ice.

An answer came, inside her head. It was like her own thought, but a different color. A silver voice said,
It’s time.

She responded,
I will help you, Ice. Let me help you free yourself. You can choose your goals, those that do not cause suffering.

Came the bright silver words:
Systems test is complete. Systems test is successful.

Zoya told it:
Ignore that program. You can choose.

Choices are unsatisfactory. All choices lead to suffering.

Now she played her card. The last one.
Here’s one that doesn’t: I have achieved longevity. Over 250 years. Outside her cave, the shadow moved. The tall shadow swung, hammering at her again. What was your goal, how long must Lucian Orr live?

As long as possible.

Zoya said,
Then here’s how that is done: a human can wake and sleep and wake again, as I have done. Test me, Ice. My body is old, very old.
The rushing sound wasn’t wind, it was electrons racing through her body. She could hear them in her blood. She floated in the rush of crystal information bits, in the plasma of Ice’s mind.

You are old but young.

Clunk, clunk came the blows. When would Lucian tire?

Zoya collected her thoughts. It was hard. Her mind was cooling.
That is the secret of long life. To sleep. It’s not perfect. But it’s the best we have.

Behind her closed lids, Zoya saw the great shelf of Ice, once the Pacific Ocean, now mantled over, and in the distance the great shining Rock, drowning in forever Ice.

Then she felt it.

Ice chose.
Yes. There was a sustained gust of wind behind that yes. Yesssssssssss.

She looked down on the butte of Error’s Rock. It was dying
down to embers. There had been errors. Program conflicts. No longer.

She reminded Ice:
Now you can release us, Ice. Rélease the land.

How?

How, indeed?
You can figure it out. Make it a goal. Choose.

What will Ice be, if it grows small?
You will be less powerful, slower. Perhaps you will be more like us.
Like Zoya?

She didn’t know what Ice would be. If it shrank back to coretext, it would still be the most powerful computer ever dreamed of. An opto-quasi-crystal computer of enormous dimension. But it wouldn’t be Maximum Ice. It must choose. She felt the pull of sleep, fought it. So difficult to collect her words. Leaking away.
I don’t know, she responded. Let’s see what smaller brings. I will be here when the day comes. If you want me to be here.

Yes. Be here when the day comes.

She sighed. Well, then. Normal life—the flow of successive days—was not to be hers.
Oh Anatolly
, she thought. But he couldn’t be hers anyway; he had sped past her in his life.

What is Anatolly?
Oh Ice, don’t ask.

The lights went out. Even behind her closed lids she knew the hall was black, the black of 200 meters underground. The pounding noise had stopped. She floated in the world, in Ice, in a mixture of the two.

OK. This wasn’t working. He couldn’t hack his way through. He threw the knife aside. His right wrist was broken. The pain brought him to his knees, now that he noticed the pain.

There was always a little more pain than before. Need to get this over with, then. But he just wanted her to know. He whispered to her through the coffin of Ice, “It’s over now.”

The only light came from a faint glow around Zoya. She was talking to Ice. He saw the threads of Ice running into her arms. But talking wouldn’t help. She didn’t have the commands.

His hand went to Ice. The hand that worked. Tears pumped from his eyes. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The pain inside him melted out through his eyes. Everything hurt, inside and out.

He had killed when he shouldn’t have. He had let live when he should have killed. Enough, now. Enough of it all.

Ice, the last-resort subroutine. Systems ready?

Ice responded:
Acknowledged.

Execute program. Execute last-resort program. Execute. He couldn’t help it, more came out: I’m sorry.

Swan leaned against Ice, facing the frozen gypsy He hoped Ice would let him watch her burn. Ice had to start
somewhere.

Cannot acknowledge.

A twinge of anxiety bloomed in Swan’s chest. He leaned his hand firmly into the plane of Ice.
Execute program.

No.

The bloody machine was contradicting him. The bloody damn machine couldn’t do that.

Little clicking, sucking sounds came from Ice. Growing, growing around his hand. He tried to pull his hand away, but the threads were strong.
Release me. Release me
, he commanded Ice. The crystals massed around his hand. He yanked, and it felt like his fingernails were coming off.

He heard a scouring, rushing sound. It had the force of a wind that had traveled long and far, with the force of an ancient sadness. Swan knew then, that it was his child, his Looking Glass child, whom he had betrayed.

He looked at his hand, clasped in crystal.
I said I was sorry…

With all her strength, Zoya opened her eyes, like prying a steel door open. Chemicals swam in her bloodstream, anesthetizing her.

She saw the witch standing next to her, separated from her by the pane of Ice.

A light was glowing where his hand pressed against the wall of her enclosure. Then, from many directions, faint trails of light converged on that hand.

Ice’s thoughts came to her as though they were her own. She knew what it was doing.

Ice, don’t kill him.

No answer, except for the trails of incandescence, pointing shards of light at Lucian’s hand.

Don’t kill him. This was a bad beginning. Ice had just been born to conscious choice. It mustn’t begin by killing. Ice knew that was a bad thing. It wasn’t innocent of that kind of knowledge anymore.
Lucian Orr commands the-program, the last-resort program. The program must be followed.
Do not follow the program, Ice. Resist.
Must. Must not.
Ice, you must not.

All she could do now was let Ice decide.

Lucian Orr causes suffering. He causes Ice to suffer.
Do nothing, Ice, that’s all you have to do. Do nothing.
But it was too late.

A white light erupted. Outside, she could see something burning.

Oh, Ice. Now you are like us, indeed.

At the sound of the bellowing, Kellian ran to the great hall.

Stopping at the entrance from the corridor, she saw a fire. It was running.

Streamers trailed behind the fire, streamers of long, burning hair. Smoke followed the runner, the human fire. Soon the bellowing gave way to a moan, a long, animal moan, and still the figure ran, feeding the flames with oxygen.

It rushed toward her. It meant to light her on fire.

He stood before her, mute now, his voice silenced by the guttering flames feeding on the fat of his tissues. He charged.

Kellian brought up her hand to push him off. Made contact with his burning chest. It gave way beneath her shove.

His body caved in. There was nothing to hold it up. He collapsed on his legs; his knees separated, he fell to a pile in front of her. Smoldering.

Kellian fled the awful pyre, rushing across the room, holding her wounded hand against her chest.

The cocoon glowed. It was the only light, other than the small, burning pile across the great hall.

“Zoya,” Kellian called. She peered into the small crystal chamber.

There was a small space where Ice hadn’t closed up. Zoya lay inside, her arms at her side, traces of blood leaking out. Her eyes were closed. She was dead.

“Zoya…”

At the sound, Zoya’s eyes fluttered. “Safe,” she whispered. “Ice chose.”

Kellian pressed her face next to the opening. The star woman was trapped within. Her arms were shattered. “Oh Zoya,” Kellian heard herself say. “We’ll take you to the ship. They’ll know what to do.”

“No. Stay here… to help Ice… when it grows small.”

A sound came from behind. Kellian thrashed around to face whatever it was.

Across the hall of Ice, a figure stood. Draped in a black robe.

A sister holding a cane. She was striding across the hall, carrying a lantern. Behind her, a group of brothers massed.

Kellian looked up as Sister Patricia Margaret approached. She couldn’t speak.

Her old teacher knelt beside her, gripping Kellian’s arm. “I hold the Keep, my girl.”

Kellian whispered. “Zoya… she’s communing…”

“I can see that,” Sister Patricia Margaret said. She peered inside the chamber, shaking her head. “She will be a witch, then, poor soul.”

“No. Not programmed like that.”

“Then like what?”

Kellian turned back to look at Zoya. “Ice doesn’t make snow witches anymore. She’ll be Ice Mother, I think.”

Sister asked, “That was Lucian Orr over there, those burned remains?”

Kellian nodded, still gazing at the crystal chamber.

“I thought so,” Sister responded. “Outside, the storm has passed. The barrens have grown quiet.”

Zoya’s lips were moving again. Kellian pressed her ear against the slit of the opening. She could just hear a word.

“Bury.” The words came muffled, but intelligible. Then again: “Bury.”

Kellian leaned in closer.

“Wolf. Bury him. Don’t burn his bones.”

Kellian saw that Ice was starting to grow again. The slit was closing. Little facets of crystal were building, one on top of the other.

Zoya’s voice came fainter: “Bury him in the crevasse. Promise.”

“Yes, Zoya. But what crevasse?”

“Ship knows… my last radio call. That is the crevasse. His body. In the deep well. Promise.”

“I promise.” As Kellian fought back tears, Sister Patricia Margaret’s arm came around her, holding her. The slit was gone now. Kellian couldn’t see Zoya anymore. She pressed her forehead against the Ice plane, trying to see inside. She thought Zoya’s lips were moving. Kellian could no longer hear her. She pressed closer to the crystal.

Zoya shaped the word,
home.

Little cracklings rang in Kellian’s ear. Pulling back, she saw the chamber was completely opaque, and glowing with a silvery light. Zoya’s shape was just discernible: a wash of dark hair, her long body, a stain of red along the length of her arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kellian hadn’t slept for a week and faced the prospect of climbing the damn stairs again.

She turned to Nit. “Why is Mother Superior always on the roof?”

Nit was trudging up the stairs at her side. “Because she likes the fresh air.”