Rings of Ice

by Piers Anthony

  The rain continued; two months, three months, four. Wurm had now had time to join Mindel and Riss, prolonging the deluge. The water scoured the exterior of the bus and dug out the ground beneath it. Every day they shoveled material back in to shore it up, and carried the largest rocks they could handle, but it was a losing battle against the indefatigable elements. If the rain did not abate soon, the bus would start its slide down the mountain. Already the palisade was gone, and Gordon’s grave, and all the wood that had not been tied together and anchored to the bus.

  Thatch was always punctual—until the day he did not return. “The terrain could have changed,” Karen said. “Maybe the roof of a river caved in, and he has to circle back the long way.”

  “Maybe he’s hurt,” Gus said. “Somebody should go after him.”

  Not Gus himself, obviously. And not Floy; her coordination would merely get her in trouble, too. And Zena was now six months pregnant.

  “I agree,” Karen said. “And I am the one. But there’s something you should know.”

  “We know it,” Floy said. “You’re out of insulin.”

  Zena was horrified. She had buried the knowledge that Karen’s time was running out, and had almost convinced herself that the crisis would never come. “Oh, no!” she cried. “Is that true?”

  “True. I have been rationing it, but there are limits. I have enough for only a few more days. I have been able to function well enough because I have not been eating much. But if I have to go out in that storm, I need to be fully alert—and that means eating a big meal and using all my remaining supply in one dose.”

  “No,” Zena said firmly. “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m not making excuses,” Karen said. “I have been resigned to my situation for some time. The number of days remaining is less important than the use to which they are put. I had hoped to be on hand to help with the baby; now I know that is not to be. I think I ought to go look for Thatch; you need him for survival. But if I fail—”

  Gus had seemed not to understand the nature of the dialogue. Now he came to Karen. “You’ll be all right,” he said reassuringly. “You don’t need that stuff. Maybe a few days withdrawal pains…”

  “Maybe so,” Karen agreed with a half-smile.

  Zena exchanged glances with Floy. Both knew that the end of the insulin meant the end of Karen. Gus was fooling himself, and Karen was going along, rather than aggravate the situation. It was easier—for everyone—if the truth were suppressed—until the end.

  “Come on back,” Gus said.

  Karen went with him. Zena was disgusted.

  “What is it like?” Floy asked, watching them go. “I can see Karen likes it. Gordon said I was a child, so he never…” Her face clouded up, as it did whenever she remembered Gordon, and she was unable to continue.

  “I can’t tell you,” Zena said. “I only did it to get pregnant; I never felt anything.” Except discomfort, she added mentally, and disgust.

  “You’re such a damn prude!” Floy cried.

  Zena slapped her, hard.

  The reaction was unthinking, but she did not regret it. They had been cooped up for a long time. The nerve of this child!

  Zena had half expected Floy to burst into tears, but the girl reacted like her fighting cat. She crouched, flung back her wild hair, and raised fingers like claws.

  Zena remembered that eyeball, and suddenly she was afraid.

  Then Floy relaxed. “Aw, you can’t help it,” she said with infinite scorn.

  Zena found herself crying. That one sentence defined her so accurately! There was something seriously wrong with her reactions to men, and she couldn’t help it. She was as crippled as Floy, or Karen, or Gus.

  Where was Thatch? Without him the group was surely doomed! Karen was the only other really competent member, and she would soon be gone.

  Zena was carrying Thatch’s baby. Surely that meant something. What would be the fate of that infant if its father died?

  Could Thatch be dead already? There were a thousand perils in that deluge. Every day the landscape changed; now torrents cut through new channels, tore out new chunks of acreage. And the strange new insects were multiplying, many of them huge and slick, at home in the rain but hungry for blood. If he had blundered into a nest of Mindel hornets…

  “I must find him,” Zena said.

  Floy moved over to the door, barring the way. “You can’t. Karen’s the only one can do it.”

  “I must.” Zena approached the door. “Move—or be moved.”

  Again that catlike crouch, the bared claws. They were all overreacting to the slightest stimuli, ready to duel on any pretext, yet the aggressive forms had to be honored. Zena saw herself as much as victim as Floy—and yet would not yield.

  “I’m sorry we fought,” Floy said. “But we need that baby. There may never be another in this world. You’re staying here.”

  Did the girl appreciate the ironies? No matter! Zena drew her knife. The blade was sharp and the point hung inches from Floy’s face. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “But I will not be balked by a child.” She was not certain which child she meant.

  Again Floy relaxed. “I guess not,” she said. “But I’d better come with you.”

  Strange girl! But she had backed off when that was necessary, showing good judgment “If I can’t find him, how could you?”

  “It’s not him I’m thinking of.”

  “Well, why don’t you think of what’s inside the bus? If Thatch is lost, and I don’t come back, in a few days there’ll be only one possible source for a baby.” Dirty fighting, but a point that had to be made sometime.

  Floy’s eyes widened. “God, yes!” she said.

  Zena went on down and out. The rain hit her like the blast of a waterfall, knocking her back against the bus. The tempo had increased! It was now four of five times as great as the rate during the Gunz deluge. Mighty Mindel, whose strength was as the strength of… never mind! She opened her mouth to breathe, and the liquid poured in. She spat it out and tried to breathe through her nose, but that was worse.

  Finally she dropped her head and sucked in air through her teeth. She shaded her eyes with one hand, peering about. The rain and fog were so dense it seemed like night; effective visibility was ten or twelve feet. The ground was all water.

  She went out in it, treading carefully to find the rock inches beneath her, making her stagger. One foot landed in an unseeable hole, and she fell.

  She was unhurt, but fear for her baby made her decide that for the time being four feet were better than two. She proceeded to the edge of the level area that had been the palisade enclosure. Here the water streamed away downhill, disappearing into the misty ambience.

  “Thatch! Thatch!” she cried, but her voice was lost in the roar of storm and rapids. How could she ever find him?

  She scrambled on, clinging to whatever offered. There had been a time when she could have managed such travel well despite the barrage of water, but now she was six months along.

  A stone gave way. Suddenly she was rolling helplessly, carried along by gravity and the flow of water. The roaring grew louder, signaling the proximity of a cataract, therefore her demise.

  “Thatch!” she cried while choking on water. Her voice as she heard it sounded the way Gus’s had, that first time he had been hurt at the start of this adventure. Had she sunk so low! Then: “I love you!”

  She splashed into a deep pool, flailing wildly, bobbed to the surface and gasped for air. A current was bearing her along somewhere, so she fought it. Her hand caught hold of something and held.

  The water was not cold, and it shielded her from the force of the rain, so she remained where she was while she assessed her situation. What was a pool doing here? There should be nothing but erosion gullies and canyons.

  Silly question! The contours of the land were changing so drastically that no new feature should be surprising. She was lucky she wasn’t dead.

  Yet.

  Still, she h
ad not found Thatch—physically. But emotionally—had she meant it? Had the truth come out at last, that she had twisted her way unwillingly into love with the father of her child? Was that why she had faced down Floy and braved Mindel to seek him out?

  Now she wasn’t sure. It was easy to love, when there was no future in it. What about the reality, the giving of one’s whole being to another? Could she ever do that?

  Of only one thing was she certain: she could no longer exist without him.

  Now she just had to find him. She swam around the rocky edge of the pool, seeking a suitable place to climb out.

  There was none. The stone was either slick underneath the flowing water, or covered with slimy lichen that broke away in handfuls, providing no purchase. The slope was too steep to permit her to climb out independently.

  She was not hurt; a few stinging scrapes were all the wounds she had sustained in her tumble. She was not cold, or sick. But she was caught, and probably doomed, for she could not tread water forever.

  She had caught hold of something, during her first flailings. Where was it now?

  She swam back, rechecking carefully. Under the greenery was the root of a tree, invisible from the water but still solid. The tree itself was gone, but the root seemed firm. She hauled on it.

  The thing came loose in her hand. It was only a half-buried piece, dislodged by her efforts.

  “Zena!”

  It was Thatch, out of sight but close by.

  “Here!” she cried.

  “In the pond?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ll send down the rope.”

  And the end of the rope came down; she located it by the faint splash into the water, hardly distinguishable from the continuous splash of rain. She caught and pulled herself up, hand over hand, sliding on her fat belly over the moss. It was not far; the same slipperiness that had trapped her, now made the travel easier. So long as her feet were able to punch through to find purchase.

  Thatch caught her arm at the leveling of the bank. He stood her on her feet. “Floy said you had gone out,” he said.

  “I was afraid—” But her fears seemed foolish, in the face of his obvious health. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m glad I found you! If anything had happened—”

  “Aren’t you going to bawl me out? For getting in trouble?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  No, he wouldn’t. Thatch never blamed anyone for anything, however culpable others might be. “So you know why I came out?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “You do?”

  “Floy told me.”

  Zena suffered a flash of anger. “What did Floy tell you?”

  “We’d better get back.”

  “She told you that?”

  “No.” Verbal plays were still wasted on him; he always answered literally. “But it isn’t safe for you to stay out here.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  He paused, but then answered. “That you love me.”

  Zena clenched her teeth. Why couldn’t she have said it herself? Was it really easier to get pregnant by a man, than to tell him she loved him?

  “I know the way back,” Thatch said.

  She went with him, wordlessly.

  Chapter 8: Labor

  Karen was haggard. Her normally rounded body had turned gaunt, though she ate reasonably and drank insatiably. She seemed drowsy and very tired, and her breath smelled fruity. Often she retreated to the bathroom to urinate copiously—then gulped more water. This aggravated Zena almost intolerably, but she knew its cause and kept silent. The water was needed to dilute the rampant sugar in her blood—the sugar that could not get to the cells of the body where it was so badly needed. The diabetes was now uncontrolled, for the last of the insulin was gone.

  Gus was now alarmed. “Snap out of it, Karen! Can’t I help you?” he asked plaintively, again and again.

  Karen only shook her head. Her breathing was deep and labored, and her skin was flushed yet dry. She seemed to have aged, and not graciously; her beauty was gone.

  “I’m going out and find some insulin,” Gus said, marching to the door. But there he stopped, balked by his fear of the rain. And as he paused uncertainly, there was a violent shudder in the ground that rattled the plates on the table and made everyone jump.

  “Another fissure opening up,” Floy said. “Maybe a volcano.”

  “Ridiculous!” Zena said. But it wasn’t really. Not any more. With the enormous pressure of the sea water building up, and the erosion of the counterweight of soil and gravel, intolerable stresses were building. The world, like Karen, was sick; like her, it was developing awful symptoms that seemed paradoxical.

  Gus still stood by the door. “You can’t go out,” Zena told him, feeling like a hypocrite for justifying his inability to act. “Where in this flooded world would there be any insulin?”

  There was another shudder, and this time they heard the boom of some great explosion. “Must be a volcano,” Floy said. “Crack Toe.”

  Gus turned. “You mean Krakatoa.”

  “Right. Crack Toe,” she repeated. “Smithereens.”

  Even Karen smiled, wanly.

  “It can’t make very much difference to us,” Zena said, though she knew that she was being unduly pessimistic, as they should be able to survive the rain, provided the tremors did not dump them all into a crevasse. But with Karen dying…

  Karen rested quietly for a time. Then she sat up and vomited. Zena stifled her own nausea and cleaned up as well as she could. Another earth tremor made her take a spill, so that she had to do the job twice, but that seemed fitting. Maybe the world itself was sharing Karen’s suffering.

  But the patient saw it another way. “You’re making me suffer,” Karen muttered as the heaves abated. “Just a little pressure on the carotid arteries—you know where to do it, Zena.”

  “No!” Zena cried.

  “Painless, out like a light,” Karen continued weakly. “After that, it doesn’t matter how. Cut my throat, catch the blood in a basin—”

  “God!” Gus said.

  “You’d be doing me a favor. And the meat would be better. It’s spoiling right now.” She took a breath. “Promise me you won’t waste the meat.”

  “We won’t,” Zena said.

  At last Karen lapsed into a tortured sleep. So did the others: it had not been possible while the woman agonized.

  The loud rain continued—and so did the booms of the burgeoning volcano. Once Zena got heaved onto the floor, and the entire bus shifted position alarmingly. Zena merely crawled back onto the bed and slept again.

  When she woke, someone had covered Karen’s face with a sheet.

  “It is time to take her out,” Floy said.

  Thatch stooped to pick up Karen’s body. “Let her be!” Gus said.

  Thatch hesitated. “No,” Floy said. “She wanted it as it was with Gordon. To help the group, to preserve the baby. It would not be right to waste her. And we promised.”

  “That’s right,” Zena agreed grimly. “I’ll help. It must be done.”

  “Not with her!’ Gus protested, his body shaking. “I love her!”

  “I loved Gordon,” Floy said. “But I ate him.”

  Thatch made another motion to pick up the body. Gus lunged to stop him—and Floy leaped on Gus. He cried out in pain. Two bloody streaks appeared across his forehead. “Thatch!” he screamed. “I’m hurt!”

  Zena put a hand on Thatch’s shoulder. “She knows what she’s doing,” she murmured. She remembered how Floy had refrained from fighting, when Zena herself had challenged her; that had been judgment, not fear.

  Thatch looked back and forth indecisively. “Gus—”

  “Gus can’t keep a corpse in here,” Zena said. “He needs a woman.”

  Thatch looked at Floy. The girl was lean and hollow-eyed from her own mourning. Her hair was long and wild, and her claws were showing. She was like a hungry tigress, but her dynamism gave he
r a certain sex appeal. And Gus had always had a certain hankering…

  “And I need a man,” Zena said. “I think I could love a man. An independent man.”

  Still Thatch hesitated, unable to break his long symbiosis with Gus. It was this more than anything else, Zena realized, that really stood between herself and Thatch. A physical homosexuality would have disgusted her; this emotional mutualism acted more subtly to inhibit other attachments.

  At last Thatch nodded. He bent again to pick up the body. “Thatch!” Gus cried again, but Thatch ignored him. He hauled Karen’s corpse off the couch and down the hall toward the door.

  Gus tried once more to interfere, but halted as Floy came at him. “I can do what she did,” Floy said. “I know how you feel. I’ve been through it all.” She spoke with a low intensity that showed she meant it.

  They got the body outside. Zena glanced back, unable to restrain her morbid curiosity. Gus and Floy were already on the back couch, in an embrace of antagonism or of passion. Probably some of each—but it was what was required at that moment.

  The rain blasted down, instantly matting the hair over the dead woman’s face and obscuring visibility. “That girl’s got courage,” Zena said. Actually she was yelling, to get over the noise of Mindel.

  “So have you,” Thatch called back.

  He dumped down the body. Zena couldn’t even tell whether it splashed, because everything was a splash out here. She had the sheet, and now laid it over the face.

  Thatch drew his knife. Zena held Karen’s hair tightly while Thatch cut around the neck. The sheet concealed the sight of what they were doing, and the rain washed away any blood there might have been before it showed. It should not have been wasted—but there were limits.

  “So have you,” Zena said, averting her gaze anyway.

  “She showed me how,” he said, misunderstanding her comment.

  There was another tremor, a violent one. The corpse jumped into the air. Zena screamed involuntarily, and Thatch jerked back. His glasses flew off his head; they had been anchored by a chain around the back of his head, but this must have broken.