Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Bio
Book 2
FROZEN
HEARTS
Book 1: The Ionia Chronicles
PAMELA STEWART
Cover Design by Kate Marshall (KateMarshallWrites.com)
Copyright © 2016 Pamela Stewart
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1523668628
ISBN-13: 978-1523668625
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This work of blood, sweat, and ink-stained tears was not accomplished without a monstrous amount of help and encouragement.
THANK YOU!
First, to God for giving me the time and talent to write. My parents for being ever available to help and encourage. My daughters Samantha and Cassie for believing in me, telling me I could do anything, and sacrificing so much.
My first crit partners from Coffee and Pain. Kathleen, my long-suffering first reader and encourager in dark times, and Lyndsay even though she didn’t read this one. She read (and re-read and re-read) so many others, and helped improve my craft by bringing the pain.
Northfield Writers. Xanthe, birthday twin and friend of my heart. For always willing to read, always willing to help, always faithful and insightful. Mike Ball for teaching me to have faith in myself and my writing. Pam G. for editing and a whole basket full of support.
South Lyon Writers. Special thanks to Brenda, my Margized completely fantastic, eagle-eyed critter, Panera pal, and traveling companion. Rachael for being the heart of a group that is a pillar in my writing education. The group is not only able to make me see my work from a new perspective, but challenge me to take it to a new level.
Tina Gower, sister-in-ink, the provider of light in dark places, writing partner, ever faithful, fun friend, sounding board, and DAILY cheerleader. Would not be doing this without you!
Margie Lawson for the best writing classes and coaching this side of the equator. Abbie Roads for ALWAYS pushing me to dig deeper. Even when I thought the work perfect and done, she can find a way to make it sing.
To all I didn’t mention by name, my friends, my crit partners, and my early readers, I appreciate everything forever and always.
Sign up for my mailing list for more information about my new releases, FREE advanced reader copies, and contests at pamelastewartauthor.com. Or friend me on Facebook at Pamela Stewart author.
Chapter One
Living at the South Pole Station was like living in a frozen version of hell. The station’s roof slanted at a hard incline to avoid buildup, which worked around ninety percent of the time. But when the winds and snow joined forces and packed in at the wrong angle, a lucky volunteer had to shimmy up and clean.
And today, Ionia had drawn the short icicle.
Even with self-heating tech, laser point defrosters, and remote operating droids, she still had to get out and shovel. She glared at the weather vane whirling next to her. Every spindle read north in big, friendly, brass-toned letters.
Some former Polie put the damn thing up as a joke to those stranded in the butt-crack of the world, but she wasn’t laughing. Girls, her age should be idolizing sanguine vidclip singers and trying on the latest clothes from the Continent, not shoveling the roof.
She scooped a load of snow, struggling against the wind. Her insulated jacket made every move difficult. Double layering, no matter how streamlined, still bunched in all the wrong places, and the hood and headband limited her vision to about two inches.
She checked her rope to make sure it was secure and glanced over the edge of the roof into the distance. In June at zero six hundred in the morning, a glimmer might break the horizon, a peek at the sun that never rose. But the blowing snow cut her visuals down to almost nothing. Her headlight had only enough juice to show her the white roof, the weathervane, and a metric ton of snow.
A blast of wind slammed into her like a closed fist and pushed her sideways. Her foot slipped. She dug in with her treads but couldn’t stop the slide. Her arms flailed as she did an ice dance down the incline.
Crap, crap, crap.
The shovel flew from her hand, and she grabbed for the rope, missed, and tumbled over the edge.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart ricocheting a sharp rhythm against her ribs. She tensed and braced for impact. Her lungs shriveled.
The noose of the safety line jerked around her middle, knifing a pain into her spine. The rope groaned and creaked, but held.
She hung backward, dangling three meters from the top of the roof. The thin safety rope was the only thing between her and an intimate connection with the concrete-hard snow. If the rope snapped, at best she’d break a body part. At worst--well, she didn’t want to think about worst.
She gripped the line to pull herself vertical, barely feeling the pinch through her heated gloves. The station’s outer wall teased her, about a meter away. Maybe she could reach with her legs. She stretched for the wall with her foot, but only grazed the snow-caked surface.
Damn it. Just a centimeter or two more. She twisted in the wind. Every fiber of her body strained to touch the edge. A gust slashed her face and spun her around.
Don’t panic. Keep calm. Focus on solutions, not problems.
Think.
If the wind could move her willy-nilly, she could move herself. She leaned back and forth, throwing her body weight until she had momentum. She swung again, closer until her toe snagged the wall.
She blew out a cloud of breath and dug her clampon-treaded shoe deep into the ice. Finally, some leverage. Hand over hand, step by step, she climbed the side of the station. Using her not-at-all-athletic upper body strength, she pulled herself over the top and collapsed, sucking in freezing air so fast it scorched her lungs.
Her headlamp slid sideways and shot light into the black sky, a finger pointing to nowhere. Shit. That had been close. Damned South Pole, damned cold, damned excuse for a life.
Another snowy gust whited out her vision as she stood. A hundred pinpricks cut the two inches of exposed skin on her face and freeze-dried her eyeballs.
Enough snow and cold and torture. She slapped a palm against her thigh and the coms activated.
“Can I come in? It’s a blizzard out here. I fell off the roof, and almost died.”
“You had a safety line and are obviously still alive.” Her mom’s voice hummed in a monotone, brisk, to the point, much like the woman herself. “And it isn’t a blizzard; just blowing snow at less than sixty kph. Put the extra warmers on the disc. Then you can come in.”
“Chores at the SPS, nothing but fun, fun, fun.”
“Ionia. Get it done.”
No use arguing. When her mom said something, it was law.Ionia bit back the heil Hitler and said a much safer, “Aye, aye.”
Gotta love the doting-overprotective-cookie-baking type of mom. Too bad Ionia didn’t have one.
Ionia fumbled for the warmers. None of their droids could have climbed the station in this weather. Some jobs still took human hands. She shoved the supercharged, thumb-sized heater against the iced-up satellite disc, and tapped the switch with her thumb. The small bits of metal glowed like tin
y suns.
But there was only one real sun, a great big sphere of wonderful that spread natural warmth. The kind of warmth that seeped into her skin down to her bones, even deeper down to her soul.
Without sunlight, her body clock didn’t know when it was day, or night. Time stood still, everything the same. Always set on blah.
Ionia retraced her steps to the portal into the station and climbed down the ladder in the access hall. Screw the shovel. A cost of doing business, because she wasn’t about to go back outside to fight the killer, arctic, cold for a damn shovel.
She dropped her headband and gloves and unzipped her giant coat, then bounced down the hall toward the kitchen. Just enough time to eat before the shipment arrived. The companion droid would be on this delivery. She knew it. She felt it. She’d weaseled it onto the order back in May.
A grin bubbled inside her, but she couldn’t look happy. If she ran into her mom, the parental would know something was up in Ioniaville. She had to look blank or angry. Had to think of something, anything, like dead baby seals, to keep her face in normal miserable mode.
She trotted through the interconnected buildings, passing the steel reinforced walls and exposed pipes. A pocket of frigid air hit her, and she pulled her jacket closer. Over the years, CONUS had dropped compartments in and welded on to the whole with no thought to overall design, view, airflow, or human comfort. Couldn’t blame the designers. Most research locations like this were fully automated, but the mainland military liked to keep a human influence at the SPS. CONUS couldn’t have the good ole North Asian Republic muscling in on their frozen turf.
At least, that’s what Dad had always said.
The station was designed more like a military base than a research facility. No color, no windows, no escape.
She arrived at the edge of the entrance to the galley but didn’t enter. The clatter of pans bolted Ionia in place. Still cooking. Damn. Her mom had usually prepared the food and was gone to the lab by this hour.
She crouched to create a smaller target and let the air slowly slide from her lungs. Maybe she could snag a snack without getting caught. She peeked around the corner.
Her mom stood at the stove, facing away from Ionia. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high, severe ponytail, never a good sign. The tiny dictator radiated a pissed-at-the-world vibe.
The platters of food sat not more than a few meters from the hall. The smell of homemade biscuits and fakon, the best bacon substitute south of the equator, made Ionia’s stomach twist. She crept to the island and grabbed a slice.
“Get a plate and sit down.” Her mother’s voice was satin quiet but laced with steel.
Crap. How the hell did she know? Must be a type of sonar that came with the mom package. Ionia’s shoulders wilted. Might as well eat. She piled a plate with crispy fakon and drenched two biscuits with gravy.
“Did you get my wave with the added sources for your report? I’ve not gotten a response,” her mother said, her face pointed at the plate as though she were talking to the eggs.
Ionia waited.
Her mom didn’t turn around.
“You were talking to me?” Ionia kept her voice light, kept a hold on her temper.
“Of course.” She continued scrambling. “Well?”
“Not been on the Cortex yet today.” Too busy on the roof facing death.
“Just because you don’t go to enclass school doesn’t mean you don’t have work to do. Degrees don’t earn themselves. When I was your age-”
Ionia mock-mouthed the words with her and joined at the end. “-I already had my first doctorate.”
Her mother turned at the sound of Ionia’s voice, the skillet in her right hand and the spatula in her left. She looked tempted to smack Ionia with one, the other, or both.
Ionia pasted on a darling plastic smile to ease her mother’s anger, or to make her angrier, she wasn’t sure. At least her mom was looking at her.
Her mom’s black eyes bit into Ionia for a full five seconds. Ionia wanted to say a hundred things, how she didn’t want a doctorate, how she hated living here, how she loved art. But none of it mattered to her mom. With a look, the woman could shrink Ionia into a five-year-old, small and stupid.
Ionia slid into one of the seats by the island and stared down at her plate.
“You should pull your hair out of your face, or at least comb it.”
Ionia bit the inside of her mouth. She liked her hair loose and curly and wild. Did her mom have to control every dang decision? Ionia snorted, but instead of fighting again, she pulled her hair into a loose bun.
Hard to believe they shared DNA. They were nothing alike. Blonde versus brunette, art versus science, free spirit versus hard ass.
If Ionia didn’t know her, she would think Anabel Patel-Sonberg was a sweet Indian woman. All she needed was a smile and a sari. But her mother didn’t identify with her heritage, nor did she enjoy displays of emotion. She rarely laughed. No saris, no smiles; just gray jumpsuits and judgment.
Her mom slid eggs onto a plate, and then pressed her thumb to her pinky. “Coms.” The station speakers crackled. “Sergeant Dictum. Morning meal is prepared.” Another click of her hand control and the overhead died.
They both started eating, not waiting for Rod Dictum. Sometimes he showed for meals and sometimes he didn’t, depending on the magnitude of his hangover. Not much to protect in the absolute center of nowhere, so their military liaison filled his nights with kinky porn and rot gut.
The only sound in the galley was the tink of utensils against plates. Ionia focused on the food, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make her mother angrier. She jiggled her knee to work off some of her nervous energy. White, florescent lights flashed against the tiny crystals embedded in her boots.
“What’s all over your footwear?” her mom asked.
“Sparknights.”
“Did you put them on?”
“Yes.” Her assigned clothes were all monochromatic, all weather and all dull. “I tried to paint flowers on them at first, but the dry air caused them to scratch off in days. Then, I searched the Cortex for some way to make them hot. I used a laser that embedded these crystals.” She shot her feet out and twisted. The stones twinkled in the light. Her mom might actually commend her on being creative, on taking initiative.
Her mom closed her eyes, took a loud breath, and released it in a slow exhale. “Too late now. If we remove them the boots would most likely leak.”
Ionia dropped her feet to the floor and faced the table. Figures. Same mom. Same attitude. She pushed the eggs around on her plate, her hunger gone.
Maybe she could still get her mom into a good mood. “Cam’s coming today. I ordered everything we need, and there should be some fruit on this run.” Ionia pinned her expression into something pleasant.
“Make sure you help unload.” Her mother used her usual drill-sergeant tone. But when she looked up from her plate, she gave Ionia a smile. Not a polyplastic imitation, but a real, eye-crinkling smile. “I’ll be glad to get some fruit. I know you love the plantains, ever since you were a baby and I’d mush them for you.”
Ionia stared at her mom. Maybe this good memory was a small chink in the fortress of constant-mean. She sounded wistful. Perhaps this was a way to reconnect.
“I loved it, and you made those tarts,” Ionia said. “Always from scratch, always delicious.”
“I never realized how good we had it in Venezuela.”
Venezuela. A flood of bright colors poured into Ionia’s mind. The fruit you could pick from the trees, the stone path, and the yellow and green frailejónes that covered the hills. And her dad had been there. Her heart hitched up so hard it nearly closed her throat. Dad.
She didn’t trust her voice not to do that wavering thing it did when she was upset. No reconnecting, no discussion; it always came back around to pain, punishment, and loss. She dropped her fork and made for the door.
“Where do you think you are going? Finish and
help clean up. You know the rules.”
Boy, did she know the rules. If her mom had her way, they would be tattooed on her body or DLed straight into her long-term memory. Everyone pulls their weight, does a job, or we all die. Simple, annoying, and morbid. “I’m done. Can’t do’em until everyone is done though. Be back.” She left the room before her mom could say anything more.
Ionia sprinted down the hall to the doublewide door leading into the hangar and slid it open.
Wind pelted her, and she shrugged on one of the spare utility coats that hung by the door, pulling it tight. Rod, wrapped in his self-made fur parka, stood at the mouth of the hangar, staring up at the sky.
She hurried across the hangar floor and huddled behind the human wall Rod provided. “Why do you have the doors open already?” she screamed over the wind.
He twisted his head in her direction, and pointed to the heavens, his brown beard coated white, making him look like a misplaced Santa Claus.
She peeked around him. A flick of light in the near black sky, the hum of an engine scarcely audible over the howl of the wind--Cam’s plane. Here at last.
“She’s going to try to land in this?”
Landing in the middle of summer was bad enough. Landing in the middle of a winter windstorm? That was insane. She wanted Cam to land, but she also wanted her to arrive alive.
“Looks like. Light’er up.”
Cold filled her joints and numbed her hands, and the wind made it hard to move, but she found the large lever and yanked. Rod did the same on his side of the door arch. Twin lines formed under mounds of white turned red and melted away the snow. Their tiny airstrip stretched half a kilometer in both directions.
“Stay close to the panic boxes,” Rod said.
A zing ran over her skin as if she’d shuffled her sock-covered feet over carpet and touched an ungrounded com pad. They hadn’t had to use the emergency fireboxes in forever. Rod must think this landing was going to go badly. Very badly.
The flash of light grew larger by the second. The sound of a struggling engine roared. Ionia saw the plane. “I think the wings are coated in ice. Probably freezing faster than the heaters can melt.”
Frozen Hearts: The Ionia Chronicles: Book One Page 1
