Frozen Hearts: The Ionia Chronicles: Book One

by Pamela Stewart

  Den scanned the man. No weapon, thirty percent body fat, shrunken lungs indicative of a recreational drug user. Non-lethal force suggested. Den grasped the man’s fingers and twisted up and back until the attacker bent at the waist and screeched.

  The entire process took less than three seconds.

  Ionia whirled around. Her mouth made the shape of a perfect zero. “What?”

  “Threat detected.”

  The male spat and whined in his throat. Den turned his thumb an extra millimeter.

  The man squeaked but stopped spitting. “I didn’t do nothing. Leave me be or I’ll call a constable,” he said in an unnaturally high-pitched voice.

  Ionia’s eyebrows folded and her lips pressed, then her face relaxed into a smile that Den considered to be just for his benefit. “Are you going to leave me alone?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Just make your bodyguard let me go.”

  Most of the other humans continued their games, but a few had stopped to watch. Den’s threat meter ticked up. They needed to eliminate the threat and move on before more danger appeared. He detected a heightened testosterone level in the watchers. “What action would you have me take?”

  Ionia’s grin widened to a level he knew indicated her mischievous nature was manifesting. The smile transformed into a mock-frown, and she tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “See, I knew you could handle anything that happened. I suppose you may let him go.” Her tone mimicked a royal command.

  Den released the street dweller. The man scurried off into a darkened alley, and Den’s sensors lost track of him in the crowd.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here. I don’t like the look of this area.” They moved on, Ionia clinging closer to his side.

  The fugee settlement was dotted with dwellings, some with walls too thin to hold out the below negative ten Celsius air. They headed toward the part of town where more permanent structures stood, and he wholly endorsed the idea.

  A group of three, all dressed in less than adequate external coverings, hunkered near the self-defrosted asphalt street, throwing small multi-sided objects and vocally exclaiming. Blood pressure and heart rates elevated. He did a search. He was 89.5 percent certain they were playing a version of dice.

  A larger group gathered in the street in front of a warming station. He noted a pattern in their clothing, a red band of material tied to their right upper arms. His scan did not present a context for this information. Most of the individuals had traits indicating Asian descent. He could not gauge if this information would prove dangerous. He attempted to connect with the public Cortex and could not establish a link.

  “Ionia, my history files do not indicate what the meaning of the clothing of that group is. Many violent gang or military units use such for indications of solidarity or fraternity. Is this true of that group?”

  “You mean the red bands? They’re just exiled NAR soldiers or people who picked up the used jackets for cheap at the market.”

  “NAR?”

  “North Asia Republic. You’re history DL must not cover the last 20 years. The Asian state joined to consolidate resources. The red band shows their solidarity. I think it’s stupid we don’t have a world government by now.”

  “Are you a citizen of NAR?” It might make a difference if they became embroiled in an altercation.

  “I hold no allegiances to any country. Never stayed long enough in one locale. At the bottom of the world, it really doesn’t matter. Not enough good land to fight over, so they pretty much leave us alone and dump their fugees here.” Her eyes darted from building to building, from lights to people, her tone energized beyond anything she’d used at the station.

  They moved past the cluster of humanoids. Nearly half of the group’s attention followed Ionia, but she remained oblivious. He scanned the crowd, blood pressure, and heart rates elevated. Three guns loaded in holsters within his reach, two different potential escape routes, and one very excited mistress.

  “Why are we in a new location? I fear there are multiple potential threats.”

  She stopped walking and looked up at him. Her face was not symmetrical like an android. One eye was bigger on the left and her lower lip was fuller and jutted out from the top, but he found when she smiled the mixture of the imperfect parts suddenly became something that made his positive ions flow. “I have some business here, and I have you. No one will hurt me while you are here--right?”

  Another push of emotionally-coded ions, he believed he would label this one pride. “No one will hurt you as long as I’m active.” Another imperfect smile from her and they walked down the overly bright street.

  ###

  Mac Town glowed like a real wood fire on Christmas morning. The energy from the volcano made everything cheaper from power to food and entertainment, and the lucky bastards who lived close to town took full advantage. Ionia felt like jumping up and down and clapping her hands together like a kid.

  The streets never slept, nonstop scrambling from one booth to another, trading seal fur and fish for manufactured clothes or fruit or whatever struck a fugee’s fancy.

  It was warmer in the marketplace. Not just heat strips underground to ward off snow, but fans that circulated air and made her toes toasty. Music plunked an old miner’s tune on a steel handbow. Her chest vibrated with the beat, and she couldn’t stop the bounce in her step. “This. This is it.”

  Den lengthened his stride to keep up with her. “This is what?”

  She hurried in front of the droid and twirled, grabbing his hands and spinning him. “Life! People. Movement.” She pointed. A twenty-foot post with flood lamps attached from mid-point to tip with varying colored fluorescent lights filled the avenue with a display that rivaled the Southern Aurora.

  “Lights and color. Breathe it in.” The scents of the market drowned her senses, not all good. Armpit stink, the odor of sizzling seal and penguin, made her gag, but then the toasted nuts, and then lavender and other dried herbs tickled her nose.

  “Humans can not smell colors, they are light wave frequencies and--”

  She laughed and clutched his warm hands, rolled them into hers and placed them against her chest. “I’m glad I didn’t DL any b.s. into you. I love watching you learn. We don’t smell them. It’s a saying.”

  “Oh.” He gave a short nod like he was taking notes. He probably was, probably had a little internal notebook with all her quirky remarks. Poor android. It would be a large notebook.

  She released him and skipped ahead. A fur vendor stopped her. She paused and removed her gloves to run a hand over a table of soft pelts. A few of the boatmen and miners shot her narrow-eyed, what’s-with-the-crazy-girl looks. But she couldn’t keep her face from smiling. This. Was. Awesome. Freedom, a friend, and a world to explore.

  The next stall sold jewelry. Ionia dangled a pair of silver earrings next to her face and glanced in the mirror. Silver clashed with her sandy skin and blonde hair. She needed gold. But not now. She wasn’t in the market for bobbles; she wanted to see more. “My dad used to take me to a plant vendor, and he had the best veggie kabobs. I wonder if he’s still here.”

  She sprinted on, cutting through the crowd. Den kept up like she knew he could. He’d proven his agility when he whooped Rod, and when he spent time with her alone in her room. Her heart did a fluttery thing, and her face warmed. Good memories with Den in that room. She looked out of the corner of her eye at him, handsome and her personal protector. No one would bother her with him at her side.

  Two lanes over and down to the end stood the shack or wobbled the shack.

  Three years ago, the building had seemed sturdier, bigger, like the gardens of Versailles to her fourteen-year-old mind. The walls looked like weathered wood and metal shackled together with bits of chain and string. The backyard was still the same, polyplastic bones covered with a layer of weather resistant cover and lit with sunlight glowers. The heat wafted and hit Ionia like a ray of sunshine.

  The proprietor faced away from the lane, a l
ump in a stitched together fur overcoat. He was huddled in the back of the shop near the entrance to the greenhouse, snipping at a tree plant with vicious looking shears.

  Ionia paused, panting. “Wonder why there’s no crowd? There was always a crowd.”

  They walked up to the front of the booth; the lump did not turn. A twist of hunger shot through her stomach. She was starving. The protein mix that Cam had given her was long digested, and the smell of roasted vegetables was driving her crazy.

  “I detect that you have an elevated ghrelin hormone,” Den said.

  “What?”

  “You are hungry.”

  The chill of the night crept through the street warming fans. Zero credits in her account. She had her dad’s coin collection, but she’d have to find a dealer to get credits for it. Her stomach ya-arched. “No credits, yet. Nothing to trade,” Ionia whispered.

  “You do have something.” Den’s voice rose at the end. “You have me.”

  “I’m not trading you for food. We will find another way.” The thought shoved a sharp pain into her chest. Den was hers. She would never, ever trade him. “I can always eat at the Feinstein’s.” If they hadn’t gotten info about her runaway status. Then she might be in a bit of trouble.

  Den laughed, a deep rumble, and his lips turned up ever so slightly. “I can earn you sustenance. I have many skills.”

  “I could move heavy objects, enable mechanical repair, do translations or advanced calculation, provide pleasure for females--”

  “Whoa, whoa there sailor, no messing with other girls, ‘k?” Her heart did a little turn and squeeze. Den was--a friend--and he should keep all his attention on her. Doing some kind of work for credit or fair trade sounded good, but not what they did together. No.

  The greenhouse owner turned from his worktable and faced Ionia and Den. She sucked in a breath, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  Over half his face was a wreck of intense burns, a muddled mess of what once was skin, and his eye was pale and sightless. The other was metal or metallic alloy, and the rest of his face was obviously a transplant and didn’t match. He placed both hands on the counter, one red and scarred, the other too perfect to be real. Ionia could hear the whirring of his Withment joints. Her stomach squeezed, and she pressed her mouth shut.

  Like looking at an animated cadaver.

  He laughed, or it sounded like a laugh, a strangled he-he-he escaped his mouth like a wheeze. “First time in the shop, eh? First time seeing ole, Quasimodo?”

  “No,” she said then regretted it. What little emotion she could read from his face was sad.

  “You came before I got my nickname, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, my dad used to bring me.” The question burned in her throat, but she knew better, knew the answer could not be good.

  She paused too long, and the vendor said, “You want to know what happened, eh?”

  “Yes.” Ionia realized Den hadn’t moved or spoken since the man had turned. His attention focused on the deformed vendor.

  The man’s strained voice returned. “I was tending my babes.” He used his mangled hand to gesture to the plants. “The energy from the volcano spiked. Old Quasi didn’t have a suppressor, so my energy box blew. Took my booth. Took my hand and face. Took my babes. They said I was lucky to be alive. Pssst.” He whistled through what was left of his teeth. “Some days I wish they’d let me--.” He drew an invisible line across his throat with his damaged thumb.

  “What? Let you what?” Den leaned in over the counter enraptured by the crippled man.

  “Die.” Ionia filled in. “It must be hard. I’m so sorry. Do the prosts help?” Why did she have to speak? Sometimes her mom was so right. She didn’t know when to shut up. She should have said so sorry and moved on with Den, but she had that damned curiosity.

  “I didn’t have the big credits for full integration. These are scrap, extras, forgotten, discontinued. Like me.” He cough-laughed and waved his flesh hand. “I still get around even with this hooked to me. It serves its purpose.”

  Ionia forced her mind back to the problem. “Can we trade for whatever smells so delicious?”

  He shuffled to the side, and a small grill with vegetable kabobs came into her sight.

  “What do you have to trade that I do not have? Credits. I need credits.”

  “But Den can lift heavy-”

  Quasi picked up one of the spare iron skewers and squeezed. The metal wavered against his grip and bent. Ionia could feel her eyes widen and her stomach grew more wobbly. His prosthetic was scary strong, like Hercules strong. Then again so was Den, and that didn’t confound her. It was the odd mixture of broken human with raw machine, like a failed splicing experiment.

  She wanted to leave, run away, avert her eyes from the circus freak, and then the desire to see, to know more, grabbed her, strange or not.

  “What else can you do? With only one robotic hand it must be difficult,” Ionia said.

  Another whistle and Quasi said, “Wish I could get rid of it.”

  Den took a step closer and gripped the wooden counter. “Why? It’s obviously superior to your injured appendage.”

  The vendor’s blind eye narrowed and his machine eye’s pupil shrank to a small red dot, focusing on Den. “You are a fleshie, eh?” A smile that looked more like a frown stretched his features. “You don’t get what feeling really is.” The man ran his injured hand over the top of the tomato plants with a feather-soft caress that would have been suitable for an infant’s cheek. “That is feeling.” He moved his mechanical hand over the same plants. “That is sensing.”

  “I feel.” Den’s tone was defiant, his I-know-this-to-be-true voice.

  “You sense.” Quasi turned his head to Ionia. “So, he’s your pet?”

  “No. My friend.” She loved most interaction, but this confrontation felt too much like dealing with her mom and conflict and everything she’d been trying to leave. “Let’s go. I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “Wait.” Den said. “The item sitting behind you--the hyponateor for your greenhouse--you’ve not been able to move it because it can not be tilted and you have only one Withment limb. I will help you in exchange for food.”

  The man’s face crunched in, and his bottom lip jutted out. “Yeah, that’d do. Just one kabob though.”

  Den nodded, and Ionia took the food. She didn’t want anything from this bitter, old, prune-man, especially since he’d been mean to Den, but her belly roiled and churned. She imagined biting into the zucchini and held back a moan.

  “Deal,” Ionia said.

  Finding food had worked out--this time. True, she had Simon and Miranda for a while. But what would she do after they found out?

  She shook herself and tilted her chin up. Dad’s collection would give her enough credits to survive and maybe buy passage on a ship to the continent with Den. She’d find work as an artist. A small tingle, a quiver, ran through her, up her arms and spine. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Everything would be fine, absolutely fine.

  ###

  Den pulled on his booster joints to help the cyborg human lift the 452-kilo machine. His specs stated he could lift 1000 kilos, so he was not concerned. They scooted the hyponateor to the vestibule and Den waited.

  He scanned his reference material, pulled on the Cortex, ran a dozen simulations. What the vendor stated made no logical sense. How could a life with enhanced abilities be worse than ceasing to exist?

  He opened his mouth to question the man but shut it again when the vestibule doors closed, and the greenhouse door slid open.

  The inside defied his vocabulary, and he had access to numerous sources of words. The color of the flowering plants, the greens, red, pinks, vibrated down to the cellular level, vivid. It was the most enrapturing sight he had imparted since he first viewed Ionia. He instantly categorized and classified the plants into annuals and perennials, fruit bearing, conifers, and deciduous. But it was more than just the radiation. It was the life, present an
d available.

  The vendor shuffled backward into the greenhouse holding his machine, and Den followed down the center aisle easily holding his side.

  The greenhouse sprawled wide and deep, two additional lanes with another path that lead below ground level. At one time, it had been a well-appointed hydroponic facility, but the blast had taken out half of the useable space.

  The temperature of the interior hovered at twenty-five degrees, slightly higher than the markets. Den’s skin perspired until he adjusted his cooling levels. Unfamiliar scents assaulted his sensors as they shuffled down the center aisle between vines heavy with apples, tomatoes, and a myriad of other foodstuff.

  Ionia gasped from the entry. He inferred from the tone and the timbre of the sound that she enjoyed the greenhouse too. The deduction made a pleasant wave of photons flow over his centers of emotion.

  The human reached the location for the hyponateor, and together they nestled the machine into the spot. Den’s job was done. The man attached the vents and wires, struggling to use his human appendage.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to use your upgraded limbs?”

  “If I was a ‘bot like you maybe, but I’m human.” His words strangled through his scarred voice box. He said human like it was somehow an improvement.

  Den turned and found Ionia stood near, one row over, her nose stuck in a Rosa berberifolia. She noted his attention and her face transformed. A smile spread across her features that made her eyes crinkle, an indication of real delight. Another flutter of electrons coursed in him. Sometimes he wished Ionia hadn’t set the switch for emotion so high. He was coming to expect and crave these jolts of pleasure. And as a companion, that was not his function. His function was to please the mistress. Ionia. Always. Now and until he no longer functioned or she ceased to exist. That was another logic path that he did not wish to tread. He stopped running the internal scenarios and joined her.

  “Have you smelled these? You can smell, right?” He nodded, and she sniffed again and shoved a shaft at his face. “I think I miss flowers the most. Beautiful, you know. Like summer caught in a moment, right in your hand.”