Frozen Hearts: The Ionia Chronicles: Book One

by Pamela Stewart

  “Flowers are beautiful. Like you.”

  She smiled again. His basic companion protocol told him she would respond in this manner to a positive comparison, but his programming did not explain the tightness in his chest. She had lowered her outer garment’s hood, and her gold hair hung down in waves, untended. Her eyes caught the light and sparkled. Her cheeks flushed with blood and washed color into her tawny skin.

  It wasn’t a falsehood. She resembled a beautiful flower, fascinating and fragile and fine.

  “I would think that was a lame line from anyone but you.” She tilted up on her toes and pressed her warm lips against his cheek. The spot felt branded with the outline of her mouth.

  Yes, less emotion would be ideal.

  “Be done with ya.” The half man flung his hand toward them as if scooping them toward the door.

  “We can take a hint, come on Den,” she said, loudly enough for the patron to hear, then whispered, “we are not coming back anytime soon. Surly man. I know he has his issues, but there was no need to take it out on his customers.” She grabbed Den’s arm and pulled his ear down to her mouth. “It would be the heat to live here though. Wouldn’t it?”

  Den nodded, his emotion card shot an unpleasant zing of longing into his system.

  Ionia liked the greenhouse. He could sense it in her biochemistry. If she needed a place to call home after her acquaintance’s party, this place, the maintenance, and upkeep of the greenhouse with its colors and smells would be perfect.

  He could easily care for the flora and Ionia would enjoy the bounty and beauty. If she wished it, this would be an ideal location. But it was not his place to make suggestions. He followed Ionia back to the exit. She gathered a kabob and darted back out into the marketplace. He trailed her without a glance at the tiny world of possibility left behind.

  Chapter Six

  The Feinstein’s porch could have held five of the fugees’ shacks and had room for a grill beside. The motion sensitive safety light in each corner burned Ionia’s eyes. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth and dry. She flexed her fingers and fidgeted. Even with her gear on, a chill trickled down her spine.

  She rang the door chime, held her breath, and waited. What if they sent her away? Where would she go? She had other friends but not as close. Maybe she would have to stay in one of the shacks on the ice. Her shoulder muscles bunched and wouldn’t relax.

  It would be fine.

  But the tiny voice piped up a whispered echo. What if it wasn’t?

  The door swung open. A tiny girl opened the door. She looked about thirteen, so thin, and so waiflike that she was more of a shadow. Her face was pale and China-doll expressionless until her eyes settled on Ionia. Miranda dove forward and wrapped her arms around Ionia’s neck.

  “Miranda, you are choking me.” Ionia squeaked out through strangled vocal cords.

  “How did you get here? Who is that? Why are you here a day early?”

  “Need to breathe now.” Ionia’s voice was hoarse but had the tint of laughter. Her heart seemed to fill her entire chest cavity.

  Miranda released her death grip on her friend’s neck, and they shared a tamer but no less enthusiastic hug.

  “God, it is good to see you.”

  “When we didn’t hear back we thought you couldn’t come. Where is your mom? How’d you get here?” Miranda didn’t seem to need oxygen as the questions piled.

  Too much danger in answering that. Ionia broke eye contact and turned up her smile. “What’s with the Galaxy of Questions shake down? I’m here, and this is my companion droid, Den.”

  Her giant brown eyes grew larger, “You got a sex bot?”

  “Companion. Didn’t Simon tell you? I told him right before you showed up when I called.”

  “Simon doesn’t tell me anything.” Her bottom lip jutted out like a small child who had found a No Girl’s Allowed sign on the clubhouse.

  “You guys fighting?”

  Miranda snorted out air in disgust. “He and Daddy think they always know what’s best for me. You shouldn’t go outside; it could make her Syndrome worse. You shouldn’t go to market or school. Don’t even breathe. What the hell, Ionia? The reason we came here was because of the air.” She raised a hand skyward as if for an answer to her family’s insanity. “I’m going on and forgetting my manners. Please come in, your...companion too.”

  “His name is Den.”

  Miranda clasped Ionia’s arm and dragged her into the house, or as Ionia referred to it, the Snow Palace. Ionia had been here many times when she still lived in Mac Town, but that had been three years ago before the solitary confinement of SPS. The house seemed posher, ritzier, and if possible, bigger.

  The vaulted ceiling loomed over them, with crystal lighting fixtures shimmering and flickering like candles, and the marble floor all shone so bright it look like virgin ice. Miranda took Ionia’s jacket and bag and led her into a giant common room. After all of the station’s cramped quarters, the space felt too big, like the wind and snow would assault them without the close swaddle of the walls’ protection. But the room was warm. It must cost a whole lot of credits to heat the mini palace.

  They sat on the ornate furniture next to the actual wood burning fiWith, lit with a real fire, not one of the common gas powered ones. She could smell the wood and hear the merry crackling. She shook her head. Burning wood for heat? Insane.

  “You hungry? Thirsty?”

  The dry air made her thirsty, and the long walk through town had only made her dehydration worse.

  “Sure. Whatever you got.”

  Miranda left, leaving Ionia on the couch and Den standing at the entrance of the living room. She let her eyes roam and rest on the opulent pieces now that ‘Randa had left. It was weird to ogle with her friend right next to her, but alone, she let her curiosity guide her.

  Urns, gold trim around the edges of the ceiling, cloth upholstered furniture, real fine art. She stood up and examined one of the paintings, a young boy with a fishing pole, four to five hundred years old, exquisite. Miranda and Simon’s dad certainly knew his art.

  Above the white fiWith hung a portrait, done in paints. Not photografia made to look like paint. The portrait was of a solemn woman, hair pulled back with a severe center part, dark clothes, but wearing an angel smile. Her dark brown eyes looked almost black and danced with some secret joke. She didn’t look like she enjoyed sitting for the picture, but maybe enjoyed the artist.

  “That was made two years before she passed.” A voice as cold and deep as a glacier crevice startled Ionia. She spun around.

  The man stood about the same height as her father had been, jet-black straight hair longer in the front, the epitome of style, dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a white undershirt. He looked like Simon, only older and more manly, more confident in the way he stood, and the way he held her steady gaze. She pressed a fist to her chest willing her heart to slow down. Damn, he was intimidating.

  “Hello, Mr. Feinstein.” Ionia fought to keep her voice even.

  “You have arrived early… how nice. I trust Miranda is making you feel at home.”

  “She is.”

  “Is your mother here as well?”

  “No. She couldn’t come.”

  “Really? Why?”

  She had to change the subject and hopped on to the first thing she could think of. “That picture is fabulous.”

  A ghost of a smile skittered across his face and disappeared. “She hated sitting for it, too. But I’m so glad she did. We thought the air here would help, you see.” He walked past Ionia and stood with his back to her. The fire at his feet reflected in his eyes, giving them a yellow-red cast. “It was too late for her. But it seems to be helping my dear ‘Randa.”

  Miranda appeared with a tray of drinks and halted. Her step jerked as if she had tripped on the rug, her dark eyes rounded.

  “Ionia arrived early, and I went to fetch some drinks.” She wheezed, and her knees buckled. The tray wobbled, and her father
flew to her side, steadying her and grabbing the beverages. “I’m okay, Daddy.” Miranda’s smile barely tipped the corners of her mouth and faltered, as if it took all her strength to maintain.

  Emotions played across his face, worry, anxiety, then it fell back into resolve. He helped her to sit on the couch and placed the drinks on the antique coffee table. “I’m calling the nurse. Especially if Ms. Sonberg is staying.” He raised his head and fixed a cool, blue stare on Ionia. “You are staying tonight?”

  Ionia nodded. “If it’s all right. And I’ve brought my droid along. He won’t be any trouble.”

  Feinstein twisted his head back around and locked on Ionia. “Droid? Let me see it.”

  “Him. Den come in here, would you?”

  Den entered his attention on Ionia.

  “Oh, a fleshie, but he looks to be an older model.” One eyebrow quirked up. “Companion droid?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and flicked a hand in Ionia’s direction. Obvious dismissal. “Fine, fine. The more, the better. Make yourselves at home. I wish your mother could have made it, but at least we have you.” He double clicked his thumbnail. “Nurse on call, report to Living Area B. Now.” His tone left no room for disobedience. Less than a minute later, a stout woman with dark hair barreled into the room, scooped up Miranda and ushered her out of the living room.

  Ionia followed and motioned Den to tag along behind. She glanced back once they were outside the double doors and saw Mr. Feinstein. He faced the fiWith, hands clasped vice-like behind his back and stared into the flames. The only life in his eyes seemed to come from the fire’s reflection. Caterpillar-legged tingles ran along Ionia’s skin and raised the hair on her neck. No matter how nice he seemed, the man was scary.

  She followed the nurse and Miranda through the hall and wide atrium. The house was abuzz for the coming party.

  Fine, white tablecloths and crystal drinking glasses were laid over the long buffet style table. Massive arrangements of Stargazer lilies perfumed the air. She walked close to one while tailing the surprisingly spry nurse.

  Real flowers in Antarctica cost more credits than she’d seen in her life, but the Feinsteins didn’t understand lack and no and can’t. Wealth solved all their problems. She wanted to snatch one of the flowers and save it, like a piece of the world beyond, but that was just silly.

  The nurse mounted the circular staircase that followed the eastern wall. There was a twin of it on the opposite side of the room. Ionia kept pace with the squat woman, letting her eyes wander. Every place she looked oozed elegance, refinement, and buckets filled with credits.

  They arrived at Miranda’s room. The nurse lay the girl on the bed and examined her.

  Miranda pushed up on her elbows. “This will take a while. You should go find Simon.”

  “No, I’ll wait.” She felt weird just sitting and watching Miranda get some clear gunk pumped into her arm, but wandering alone around the mansion always held a creep out factor. Beautiful, but haunted and spooky.

  “Really, this is just routine. Go find him. I know you want to.” Miranda’s voice dropped to a harsh sandpaper whisper, either the remedy was making her uncomfortable or the subject of her brother.

  Ionia’s heart twisted like a German pretzel. She’d nearly forgotten with all the excitement.

  Simon.

  She hadn’t even looked at herself in a mirror since the plane trip, and she’d been up all night and most of the next day. She must look a sight, but she wanted to see him. Bad. “Yes, I’d love to see him.”

  Miranda’s head drooped, and her mouth turned down in two harsh lines. “He’s in the West Wing near the wall. So he can use his telescope.”

  “He always loved that thing.”

  “Still does. But Daddy doesn’t.” Miranda’s face paled, and one of her hands clutched at the bedspread to hold herself. “I’ll be better shortly. Go on.”

  Ionia felt strange leaving Miranda. But Simon was her friend, too. Maybe more than friends some days. Their friendship was never defined. There had been looks, fleeting touches, hinted words. So the thought of seeing him sent a wave of jitters up and down her spine.

  Sometimes it seemed Miranda was jealous of her relationship with Simon. Of Simon in general, of his freedom, of his being the chosen heir to the empire, of his health.

  Miranda had always been sick and fragile, and for someone with such a tough spirit and a sharp mind, it was torture. ES was a wicked playmate and limited everything in her life.

  The Eviron Syndrome. ES people called it. Poisons in the air, water, and food affected the sensitive and those with low immunity. The disorder tended to run in families. Miranda’s mother had had the same problem, and it had killed her. But Miranda was young and strong, those were going in her favor, and living in a pristine environment had to be helping.

  Or at least not hurting.

  She left Miranda’s room and moved west. Den followed as if tied to her by an invisible string.

  A wiggly worm worked its way through her stomach at the thought of Den and Simon together in the same room. She didn’t like it.

  “Den, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Wait here. Okay?”

  He paused a long moment. “I will patrol,” Den said.

  “That should be fine. You don’t have super protection kill-kill mode on. Right?”

  “Correct. My level is on the lowest setting.”

  “Good.” What could possibly be dangerous in the Feinstein Fortress? “Just stay out of trouble.” She rose onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You’re the pure heat.”

  He placed a hand on the cheek where she had kissed it.

  He moved down the hall, then the panic hit Ionia.

  She was safe. Today. Her lungs squeezed like someone had messed with the oxygen level in the house.

  She had nowhere to go after tomorrow. Sooner, if Cam decided to break her promise and contact her mother. She took a breath, down deep to the bottom of her stomach, and let it go.

  But she wasn’t hopeless. She had her dad’s coin collection and Den. If she’d stayed one more second in the station, with her mother, she would have been hopeless and desperate and alone.

  Here she had friends and hope, and she was about to see the cutest boy in Mac Town. She stopped moving. But not like this. She needed to get cleaned up.

  She tried a few doors looking for a bathroom. She tried a few rooms and found a large closet with cleaning materials on floor-to-ceiling shelves, a guest room only slightly smaller than Miranda’s, and a-- gun room?

  Not just protect-the-house kind of weapons, but automatics, large, ominous, piled in stacks, and mounted on the wall. Fear wiggled into her heart.

  She really, truly hated weapons. So easy to destroy. She’d been around them all her life, and they still gave her the atomic willies.

  Why would he have so many guns? SPS didn’t have half as many. She shook her head. Mr. Feinstein probably needed more firepower to be the town magistrate and to defend his oodles of valuables. The flowers alone could finance the budget of a small country.

  Her stomach dipped and she swallowed hard. She didn’t want to know the details of the stockpile. None of her business.

  She shut the door and tried the next one. Finally, she found an opulent washroom. The tiles were a mix of sand and stone, brushed to glisten. On the wall was a wide pedestal sink, large enough for two, and a toilet with a bidet. Miranda had explained its uses years ago on one of her first visits. And they’d had a grand time testing the flow on many objects, both inanimate and animate. Ionia let herself smile.

  She washed her face and found a drawer with a comb, a sanitized no-water toothbrush, still in its package, and a deodorizer to eliminate all that trapped in sweat smell on her clothes. She worked out the tangles in her hair, pulling it as straight as she could muster, and sanitized her teeth. Her face looked slightly paler, but she looked passable.

  She wondered if her mother had figured out she’d run away yet. Not that it wo
uld bother her, by leaving she had solved all her mom’s problems. No more potential for station breakdown, no more having to hound Ionia about how stupid or forgetful she was, no more killer droids. Ionia’s freedom made everyone happy.

  She left the restroom and followed the golden-piped carpet until she reached the far wall and knocked at the door.

  The door flew open, and Simon’s eyes narrowed behind his horn-rimmed glasses. His hair porcupined in all directions. He had the vague, hazy look of someone who’d just woken up from a cat nap. “Ionia?” His mouth fell open.

  “Hi.” Her voice was small and wary. Was he happy or annoyed?

  “Hey!” His face split into a grin so wide it seemed to expand past his face. He opened his arms and pulled her half against his chest. It was awkward. Stiff and uncomfortable.

  But it was a hug.

  Which meant he was happy, or at least, not displeased to see her.

  They separated, and Ionia looked down at her Sparknight boot then back up through her eyelashes. “I had to catch a ride, so I came early.”

  He pushed his glasses up his nose as if he just remembered he was wearing them. “Come in. You see Randa?”

  His room looked like a royal outer room for a prince. Which, he kinda was. No one in Mac Town had the clout or the cash that Mr. Feinstein did. And one day, Simon would be magistrate, or as close to king as you could get in West Antarctica.

  He motioned for her to follow him. She took a step, and her boots sank into the dark blue, heated carpet.

  So cozy, so soft, she wanted to curl up on it and take a nap like a dog by a fire, but that would be mental. Instead, she let the sensation seep into her boots and warm her toes.

  The outer room could have held two of Ionia’s. The conversation area had two couches and a wall-sized display screen. The tech attached to a wall on a small shelf, everything from 4D to EX vision. She’d never seen one in reality, but it was said to provide a full hands-on live experience of whatever show you were watching.