Frozen Hearts: The Ionia Chronicles: Book One

by Pamela Stewart

  The image of when they found her dad scrambled her head. His frozen face. All the joy and color had drained from his body from days in a crevice, leaving nothing but a mist colored shell, less than a ghost.

  First Dad, now Den. No. She couldn’t lose him, too.

  “He’ll be okay. You’ll fix him.” She touched Simon’s arm, and he turned to face her.

  “I’ll try.”

  Simon withdrew a smooth box the size of a deck of cards from his pocket. He slid Den’s arm control panel back and plugged it in a small outlet.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mobile generator, five times faster than a connector.”

  “How did you know where it was?”

  “I read the manual.”

  She really should have gotten around to listening to the whole thing or at least DLing most of the content. But when she DLed info directly into her brain, it was just pure information without reflection or learning, like a computer having a file it didn’t know how to execute. You still had to go through the process of figuring it out. Hence, the reason they still had enclass, and why lazy students still didn’t know squat.

  The wire attached to him sizzled and made a loud popping sound. Den’s body shuddered, and he sat bolt upright. He jerked the wire out like a junkie who was done with his fix. “Hoss, I think the hanging party is a comin’, we best be moseying on out of here.” He sounded like he had an eighteenth century American West accent.

  “What the hell?” Ionia scrambled back, crawling on her hands and feet. Den didn’t seem to see her or be able to control his words, but at least he was vertical.

  “Make like a tree and leave.” Den’s voice changed to a 1950’s greaser.

  “What did you do to him, Simon?”

  “Nothing.” Simon placed a hand to his forehead and rubbed. “Maybe too much power at once overloaded his circuits?”

  Den wobbled upright, and Ionia followed. He raised both his hands reaching to her palms up. “Trouble. Big trouble in River City.” She thought that might be a line from a play, but wasn’t sure.

  “You’re okay. Just settle down.” She leaned back closer and patted his forearm. “We are safe here.” It was like they were playing the guessing game again, but this time he had no control.

  He shook his head no, but couldn’t seem to come up with any more words to tell her why.

  “Is he going to be ok? Go back to normal?” She needed Den. She liked Den. Losing him would be like losing a piece of herself.

  “I’m not sure. He has that self-repair function that may fix the internal malfunction.”

  Simon was naturally overly cautious. Den would be all right. He had to be. All right. But the tight, breathless, uncomfortable feeling didn’t fade.

  The house intercom buzzed, and the vid screen appeared. Mr. Feinstein’s face flashed so brightly it appeared as if he was standing in the room with them. “I have received a call from Dr. Sonberg.” His eyebrows pinched together, and his eyes narrowed. “It seems Ionia does not have permission to attend our party tomorrow. Here, let me transfer the call.”

  The tightness in Ionia’s chest became spears that impaled her lungs and stopped her breath all together. Her head spun and tingles spread down her arms, until she forced herself to suck in a gasp of air. It wasn’t as if she didn’t expect her mom to find out, but not so soon and not with Den out of commission.

  The screen shimmied, and her mother’s small features appeared in grainy, flat, two dimensions, but her expression was easy to read, lips pressed, a stare that bored into Ionia like dual ice drills.

  “Ionia Sonberg. You will come home, and when you do, we will discuss your future.”

  Her future? Discuss her future? No, she would tell her what horrible punishment she would have to endure. At that moment, she didn’t care who was listening or what would happen next. “We won’t discuss anything. You have nothing left to threaten me with. If you take me back; I will just leave again.”

  Then the words she’d thought for the last year, bitten back a hundred times, rode the wave of anger right out of her mouth. “I wish Dad were here. Why couldn’t it have been you instead of him?”

  She wanted it back as soon as it came out. Her mom’s face twitched, a small pull in the cheek, her pupils widened, her eyebrows lowered a hairs breadth. Ionia had seen the expression before, after her mom had accidently crushed a beaker and sliced her hand. Pain.

  “You will come here to pack. Then you are moving to Facility F.”

  The air left Ionia’s lungs, and her brain did a whirling 360 inside her skull. Her mother had to be kidding. Some kind of joke.

  But Ionia knew. The woman never ever joked. “I didn’t mean it, Mom. Be reasonable.” A boarding school for the military situated in an outpost that was in the center of nowhere, surrounded by deserts. She’d be scrounging for food and fighting the elements, with only weapons and tactical training and lots and lots of discipline. It would be a change of venue at best, but not of situation.

  No, this was not happening. Could not happen.

  All of Ionia’s friends were here in Mac Town. Any hope she had of a normal life was in Mac Town.

  “Mr. Feinstein assures me, as magistrate, you will be returned as soon as the weather is clear. South Pole Station out.” The portion of the display went dark, but Ionia kept staring at the frizzing screen, and everyone in the room stared at her. Ionia swallowed the hard, thick lump that had grown to the size of a polo ball in her throat.

  “It will be okay.” Miranda grabbed Ionia’s forearm in a tight grip. “She didn’t mean it. I’m sure.”

  “Big Trouble in Little China!” Den seemed to agree with Ionia. Her plan was broken, Den was broken, the world was broken.

  “You can stay the night, and in the morning I will send a few men to escort you home.” Mr. Feinstein sounded mildly annoyed but calm and nonjudgmental.

  Ionia scoffed but didn’t engage in an argument. He was just doing his job. Not his fault her mother was a fascist.

  The vid screen vanished. Simon and Miranda both looked away, and Ionia looked down at her own bare feet. How weird it was to be able to not wear shoes and socks at all times. And how temporary it was. It all had been a fever dream.

  Simon’s lips pressed together, and his arms crossed his body. “Sorry, IO. Want me to keep working on your droid?”

  “Yes.” If she had any shot of escaping before the morning, she’d need a fully functional droid.

  “The game is afoot,” Den said.

  Was that good or bad? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t decipher his new code or gibberish. She needed a minute to figure out what to do next. “Let me know when he’s working. It’s important.”

  Simon nodded.

  She needed Den if she was going to make another break. The town magistrate’s house or not, she had to get out. Then, with Den’s help, she could blend into the fugees and hop a transport when the weather broke. Whatever it took, she wasn’t ever, ever, ever going home. And if somehow the constables took her there, she’d just escape again.

  “Let’s go camp out in my room and talk.” Ionia tried to keep her voice, fun and light, but it sounded like she was trying too hard.

  Miranda led Ionia to her guest bedroom. The red lamé dress hung limp, all the fire and flash gone, a reminder of everything she’d miss.

  Simon herded Den down the hall in the opposite direction. Den stopped abruptly and turned to face Ionia. “Constant vigilance.”

  “Den. Go with Simon. He will fix you.”

  Den’s eyes narrowed. She could read the disdain on his face even as he said, “As you wish.”

  ###

  Three point five hours later, Den lay prostrate as a child toyed with his inner workings. The situation did not amuse him. Very ill advised. If only the boy would leave him alone and let his own internal repair, but no, he had to--the square root of 5000 was 70.7106781187. The boy hit a math cell. Clod. “Please, cease and desist.”

  “I’ll s
top when you quit speaking in vidclip quotes.”

  “Some of my quotes are literary as well.”

  “Hey, there you go. Now if I can just--” He twisted one wire to another. A savage electric current surged through Den, and he convulsed.

  “Too much.” The human’s mouth quirked to the side, and he scratched his head. He leaned down and rummaged in his bag of tools.

  Den’s hands trembled with the aftershock. He did not like, enjoy, or want to be near this human. He wanted to get back to Ionia and warn her, tell her about-- Tell her. Tell her what?

  The process just stopped right before he understood what he must tell her. Maybe once he repaired the remainder of his inner working, and this insipid human stopped trifling with his circuitry, he would be able to retrieve the information.

  “I feel I am fully functional on a basic level now. No more repairs are necessary. I am capable of the remainder of the chores.”

  The human’s wrench drooped in his outstretched hand. “Sure, I guess. I just wanted to observe a Montenagro 5.5 processor in action. Expensive. We can’t even afford a droid with one. They say it’s almost as good as a human brain.”

  “It’s better.” An emotion Den categorized as pride welled from his CPU. “Longer lasting and faster processing.”

  “Ah, but still unable to make intuitive leaps, and it has shown creativity only at the most basic level.”

  “I see the value in those abilities, but my Montenagro gives me access to a hundred thousand pieces of facts, and downloadable skills and my hardware could endure a hundred years beyond that of a human brain.”

  “That’s the total heat.”

  “I also have a backup sent to the Cortex every few hours to ensure functionality.”

  “Your entire CPU?”

  “Yes.” Den sat up straighter. His processor felt almost normal, and the boy could not possibly understand the complexity of his cyber brain. “I must go to Ionia. Thank you for your assistance.” He used polite protocols, but no emotion accompanied the sentiment.

  “Wait, I’m coming with you.”

  Den maintained his casual demeanor, but a shot of emotion that burned hotter than his external injuries seared through his processor. He ignored the sensation and led the way to Ionia’s room.

  ###

  A buzz at the door jarred Ionia. She swung her legs to the edge of the bed reaching for the floor, and tumbled onto her face.

  The floor had moved.

  Damned bed was higher than the one back home. “Lights.” The room glowed in muted tones due to the hour. The Feinsteins had all the best stuff. Sometimes annoying, but definitely the best.

  Ionia pushed up, moshed her feet into her boots, and pulled on her thermal jacket. Miranda and the party clothes had gone back to her private room, leaving Ionia dressed in her outdoor clothes, still awake, waiting for Den.

  If she was going to escape it had to be now, but she needed Den in tip-top android shape. If anyone could fix her companion, it was Simon. She pressed the manual button and the door slid open.

  Den and Simon stood side by side.

  Den was whole except for the scorch marks on his forearm. He made immediate eye contact with her, even gave her a twitch of a smile.

  Simon, eyes hollow, hair ruffled, had a sleepless, exhausted air. His mouth twisted to the side. “Leaving so soon?”

  “What other choice do I have? You heard her. Facility F.”

  “She didn’t mean it,” Simon said.

  “She did. You don’t know Commandant Sonberg.”

  “Where are you going to go? It’s not safe on the streets, even with the constables.”

  “You sound a bit like my mom right now.” She needed to shut this argument down and get out. She changed the subject. “How’s Den?”

  A line formed in the center of Simon’s forehead. “Your droid is mostly functioning. He has a great self-repair system, so I didn’t do much.”

  “I am as fine as wine,” Den spoke, then bit his lip. His pale complexion flushed.

  “Still speaking in clichés?” Poor Den, he must hate being out of control. She put a hand on his whole forearm, which brought his tentative smile out full force, then she turned back to Simon. “But overall he is functioning?”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “IO, you should just stay here. I’ll speak to my dad. Maybe we can work something out.”

  Sweet Simon trying to help. What he didn’t understand was there was no reasoning with her mother, no middle ground, no win-win. It was golden-plated mom way or no way. “Your dad wants me to return to the SPS and I can not--I will not go back. I have Den, and I’ll get credits soon.”

  “But where will you go?” His voice sounded worried, like a friend-maybe-more type person should in this situation.

  “I’ll probably go to CONUS or the Continent. I have an aunt in the India Annex.” Staying in Mac Town wouldn’t work if Daddy Feinstein wanted her to go back home.

  “That sounds incredibly…” He rolled his lips in. “Can’t decide between brave and stupid.”

  She snorted. “Probably both. But it is what I’m going to do. If you can help me one more time.”

  Simon smoothed his fingers over his mouth, then across his jaw. “What do you need?”

  Den stood, a silent sentinel looking back and forth.

  “Just a code to get out. I know your dad has this place locked down now he knows I’m --displaced.”

  “A runaway.”

  “Tomato, potato. You call it running away. I call it running toward.”

  Simon waved a hand and looked to the ceiling. “I’ll help, but God help me if my dad finds out. Come on.” He led her down the stairs and through the dining area.

  With all the party décor, the empty glasses and plates, the unfilled food containers and bowls, the floral arrangements, the rooms looked abandoned and forlorn. The hall’s open space was full of shadows.

  Ionia and Den followed Simon and entered another cavernous room with lots of metal, and ambient lights flicked on.

  “Damned motion detector.” Simon’s voice was a low, frustrated whisper. He didn’t look back at Ionia, but his shoulders tensed.

  A kitchen surrounded them with industrial-sized, plasticmetal everything. The space looked capable of supplying a small army with food, and a place to eat it. Everything glistened, organized, and confined to its perfect place.

  Simon approached a side door and looked back at her. “I know the cook's code for deliveries. That should not trip any alarms, but you should hurry. The lights might draw one of the staff.”

  “My, my, there is a bit of rebel in you.” Ionia smiled. “Thank you.” She grabbed his shoulders and pressed herself to his chest. He felt warm against her but tense as he hugged her back. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

  “I’m expecting to hear from you,” Simon said, all joking gone from his voice. “Be careful and send me a wave.”

  “I will.”

  Simon pressed the code, and the door swung open. She held her breath, waiting for someone to jump out, or an alarm to sound. But nothing disturbed the perfect silence, except the pounding of her over-excited heart. She took a step into the ice-covered side street.

  Alarms sounded, blaring throughout the house. Lights flashed washing the snow in the alley next to the house in slaughterhouse red.

  “Go! Go!” Simon waved them through the door.

  She put her hand in Den’s, pulling him out into the alley, and ran in the general direction of the marketplace. She cast a glance back at Simon through the window, maybe seeing him for the last time. A spear of sadness fought with the adrenaline that forced her legs to run. They skidded around the corner. She stuffed the sadness down and didn’t look back again.

  ###

  The alarms shrieked. Ionia ran, gripping Den’s hand as if it were a life preserver. This early in the morning the streets were almost vacant and would remain so until shift change in the mines or when there was a flicker of actual light from
the sky. There was something about 0300 hours that just drove people indoors.

  This morning the sirens had disturbed the restless peace.

  The volume decreased the further away from the good section of town they got, and then stopped completely. The tattoo of their boots echoed against the rough buildings. Ionia was at a heart-gurgling level of exhaustion. She had crap cardio from being cooped up in the station. She finally pulled on Den’s hand and waved him to stop, so she could catch her breath.

  “Where is our destination? Hideout? Sanctuary?” Den asked.

  She doubled over, sucking in air and letting her heart retreat to yellow-alert level. “I need--to trade--in my dad’s coins.” She panted. “Somewhere in the marketplace. I know. There’s a dealer. Fast, before Feinstein can--can put out a tracer on me.”

  Den nodded, and scooped her up into his arms, gently cradling her, his arms secure behind her back and legs. He raced toward the bad part of town. The buildings flew by. People, roused by the alarms, jerked their heads toward the seemingly human man running past. All kinds of not good.

  “Den. We are drawing attention!” She smacked his chest to get his laser-droid-focused attention from the road ahead back to her.

  He stopped, and she jerked forward from the momentum. “Lo siento. I extrapolated you needed assistance.” He placed her on the ground.

  “It’s fine.” But she didn’t feel fine. The open-air market, that had seemed like freedom a few hours ago, was mostly deserted. Standing in the middle of the avenue, a hundred eyes could be looking at her, calculating if she was the girl who ran away, wondering if there was a bounty.

  People stirred, blurry-eyed, stumbling from their buildings. One man looked like he had a half a haircut; another gripped a half-full bottle of whiskey and teetered away. All looked around for what may be causing the disturbance. A few eyes fell on them.

  “Let’s keep moving.” She drew her hood over her face, locked arms with Den, and drew him to the side. Feinstein would put out a tracer on her soon, maybe with a reward. She would have to change her look, hair color at least, and maybe Den’s too, but first she needed credits. “We are looking for a pawn shop.”