Frozen Hearts: The Ionia Chronicles: Book One

by Pamela Stewart

  “The plane’s good. Cam’s good. She’s got this,” Rod’s voice sounded strong, sure, calm.

  “But if Cam doesn’t pull up, the plane will face plant into the field.” The craft dipped. Ionia’s chest tightened.

  “She’s got this.” His voice caught this time, weaker.

  Ionia couldn’t look away. It was like watching a killer whale chomp on its dinner, horrible but hypnotizing.

  The motor died. Ionia’s hands rolled into fists. “No power. Jesus.” The port wing shuttered and flipped up slightly once, then twice. Her breath hovered in her chest. The landing gear lowered. Cam’s plane looked like a scrap of paper in a hurricane. The nose pulled up, and the plane righted, then drifted lower, and lower. Finally, the treads hit the runway and slid forward.

  The grips dug into the ice, and the plane sprayed white. A curtain of ice rained down and coated Rod and Ionia. “She did it.” Ionia let her breath out and shook off the ice frosting.

  “Shit, that Cam’s crazy,” Rod said.

  “Crazy good.” Ionia laughed and rushed forward. The plane rested across the red-washed runway. Half way there, the speaker on the side of the plane frizzed.

  “Hold up, fellas. Must convert.” Cam’s voice echoed in the com, as bright and cheery as if she’d been picking flowers in a garden instead of narrowly escaping a fiery death.

  Ionia shot a look back at Rod, who stood still and waited. His shoulders twitched enough for her to know that he hadn’t known about Cam’s upgrade either.

  The plane quivered, and the wings contracted, folding inward like a nesting bird. She’d seen planes convert a hundred times. But this was the first time she’d seen one up close. The motor revved and the main bod lifted; more treads appeared and merged. The plane transformed into an ATV. Cam backed it into the hangar, and the gangplank extended to the main floor.

  Ionia flipped on two of the big floodlights. Even in the morning, or what passed for morning in New Zealand time, darkness closed in around the grounds, only kept at bay by a gang of their track lighting.

  Rod’s dog, Brandy, slunk out of hiding now that the drama was done. The beast’s mass of fur rivaled her master’s shaggy hair and beard. She dwarfed most of the dogs Ionia had ever known. The breed had a real sciency name, but Ionia could never remember, some hybrid, mixed breed that was created to withstand the ridiculous cold and elements. Saint Husky some such without the drool.

  The wind bit through her utility coat and dried the moisture in her nose. She ran to the loading bay and found her friend. Cam stood, wearing her leather pilot jacket and trader pants that emphasized her curvy figure.

  What Ionia would give to have that vidclip worthy body. She looked down at her own flat chest. Maybe someday.

  Ionia hurled herself forward and grabbed Cam’s shoulders, crushing her into a hug. “Cam! ‘Lolo. That was sanguine. When’d you get the new plane?”

  Cam disentangled herself and snort-laughed. “Ionia, my little biscuit, ‘lolo to you as well. Past time for an upgrade.” She maintained her British accent though she’d been in Antarctica for years. Ionia loved the lilt in her voice. So exotic.

  Rod rolled out a handcart and shuffled by, muttering, “Best landing I’ve seen this side of the Continent.”

  Cam’s lip twitched. “What’d you think? I was a snow winder?”

  He grunted and loaded a carton onto his lift.

  Cam shivered and stomped her feet, not dressed for the temps outside the cockpit. “Damn cold out here.” Her usual cocoa skin was turning a dull shade of gray.

  “I ordered something…important. Big box.” Ionia’s face tingled. Her hands shook, and not from the frigid wind. Her package was here. It had to be on this flight.

  “What’s in it?” Cam’s finger scrolled down the vid screen and her dark eyes danced. “Yes, DN17232. Something special for you, eh?” She flashed Ionia a grin, wide, white, and warm.

  “I’ll coms you later with images of it. It’s the heat, the absolute heat.” Ionia whispered so the external surveillance wouldn’t notice her excitement. No use getting her package and not being able to use it.

  Rod stood next to Cam, peering over her shoulder onto the manifest.

  Brandy galloped in circles. The dog crouched and wiggled, eyes on her master, begging for attention. Crazy dog should know Rod wasn’t the throw-a-stick type.

  Rod ignored Brandy and did something totally mental. He pulled off his gloves and threw them on the manifest screen. Cam looked up at him, blinked twice, shrugged, then slid on the gear. Weird. Rod usually wasn’t a kind-and-thoughtful guy, unless he was good and dosed up on schnapps. He’d even tried dancing with Ionia one time when he was lit. He was always much more pleasant soused. But now he seemed sober.

  She rolled the dolly into the maw of the ATV and searched the numbered boxes until she found DN 17232. She lifted the coffin-sized box and maneuvered it out backward.

  Ionia’s throat dried and her heart jerked like a blazer dropped into low gear. The vidcaps seemed to be eyeing her as she tried to rein in her steps. Her mom probably wasn’t even watching, but it felt like she was.

  One big, heaving push and the box inched forward.

  Damn, the heavy and obvious box. Why couldn’t deliveries come in tiny packages that expanded later? The station had tons of tech, but few gitchy things from the last twenty years like contracted packaging or hover cars. Nothing that fancy in Antarctica, the wasteland where tech came to die.

  She coaxed the dolly into the main building, taking the corners wide to keep her cargo safe, and didn't slow until she found the workroom in Segment Three. The area had been abandoned for years.

  There were no surveillance cameras. No parentals. And no prying eyes.

  Her mom had most likely returned to her gazillion aquatic bird projects, up to her elbows in samples of guano. And once mommy-dear locked down in research mode she wouldn’t notice if the ice cap finally melted, let alone the delivery of one unapproved, overlarge box being pushed by her crazy-nervous daughter.

  Ionia rubbed her hands together. Now she had a project of her own.

  But more than a project; he would be a person.

  She’d have someone to talk to, someone to listen and respond and not judge. She laced her fingers in a prayer pose to keep the quiver from her hands and then shook them out. She finally had the potential for fun, and she wasn't about to waste one more second.

  A crowbar stuck out of a discarded toolbox. Ionia grabbed the bar, wrestled the end into the crack, and pushed down.

  Nothing happened.

  She lifted her leg, and half jumped. The bar jerked. Shards of wood snapped, flipped up in a spray of splinters, but the lid remained sealed. Oh, hell. Her back teeth ground together, and she pressed her lips tight until they numbed.

  Just open already.

  She wiggled the bar deeper into the crack, pushed down with both hands, and leaned on the bar with all her weight.

  What would he look like? She had never seen a fleshie up close. Her heart fluttered so fast she couldn’t feel the individual beats, a frantic hum in her chest.

  The lid and the bar flew up, and she fell forward. The sharp end of the crowbar caught her hand.

  A gash split her palm and oozed thick blood. Her brain whirled. She closed her eyes and pushed away the dizziness. No. Not today. Not now.

  “Shit and damnation,” she yelled to the frosty walls. Her breath came out in a puff. Her mom didn’t send forced heat into this segment, and even though the area was much warmer than the exterior, the room averaged about one degree Celsius.

  She searched for a first aid kit but found nothing. Not even a forgotten towel. She reached for her polka-dotted skirt and paused. Nope. Too hard to get interesting fabric to make another.

  No time to worry about a silly injury. She would internally combust if she didn’t see him soon.

  She squeezed her hand into a fist. Direct pressure should close the wound till she'd had a chance to check out her droid-in-a-
box.

  One hand still clenched against her side, she pushed back the lid, like opening a coffin and waking a vampire.

  If he were a vampire, he'd have some fun with her bloody hand. She laughed a small, twittery thing. Her breath came in short sips of air. Excitement buzzed in her head, spread down her neck, and tingled in her fingers and toes. Finally, she had him.

  The android lay covered in a layer of plastic. She yanked the cover partially back with her good hand. Her breath caught, hovered, captured in her chest.

  Beautiful.

  She should say handsome, but he was beautiful. He had a flawless face, healthy-looking pink skin, thick eyelashes, high cheekbones, and a mass of curly dark hair that fell over his forehead. He looked about twenty, in human years.

  She leaned into the box, coming within inches of his face. Every detail perfect, down to the dusting of downy hair and a few freckles. She had the weird urge to kiss his full lips to see if she could wake him, like a fairy tale, where a kiss could wake a sleeping prince.

  She leaned back and smoothed her fingers over her mouth, and imagined touching him. Not a bad thought. Not bad at all.

  What else was there to see? She glanced down to the rest of his body, pulling the plastic down further and letting out her breath. Clothed. Thank all the gods of Asgard and Earth, she didn't know what she would have done if he hadn't come with clothes. The fleshies were anatomically correct. Naked men, in general, didn’t bother her, but having one so close that she would interact with would be awkward.

  The CONUS scientist had put him in a nondescript bodysuit, made of dark, tough material. But from the V in his shirt, she could see that his creator had added the detail of a subtle thatch of chest hair. Nice.

  Next step, activation. And when she did, he would always be hers, like a baby duck imprinting. She would be his human. That's the way it worked with companions, and he would serve whatever role she wanted.

  She swallowed hard against the almond-sized lump in her throat and double-clicked her thumb to her pinky finger. “The manual DL for Companions, chapter on activation. Read aloud.”

  If you have completely removed the plastic wrapping, it is time to activate. A few reminders: beware allowing your companion too much free will. The companion’s obedience level will be greater with less self-determination. Keep their emotional chip at the factory setting unless you are a licensed programmer, and understand the results-

  Ionia snorted. She didn't need to know this stuff. She needed to activate her damn robot.

  “Skim forward.”

  Press the muscle of the left forearm down hard for ten seconds then remove pressure.

  “Pause instructions.” She reached into the box and twisted the forearm so she could apply pressure. The skin felt soft, supple, but too cool to be living flesh.

  She pressed the forearm with her uninjured hand and held it. A spring released and flipped back to show a panel of circuitry. Ionia wasn't unfamiliar with the layout, but the complexity was beyond anything she’d seen. “Continue playback.”

  Warning, only primary owner should complete this step. A small prick will allow the system to absorb DNA. Once set, the android will be permanently attached to the-

  “Skim forward to final activation sequence.” Who didn’t know that companion droids were bound to their owners?

  Tick the blue lever up and adjust to proper setting. Dial the level of emotion and your unit will be ready for use. Please read the remainder of this manual for important safety-

  “Turn off playback.” What did tick up mean? Stupid techie speak. She pressed her thumb again. “Search Cortex for meaning of tick up in context to android activation.”

  The term tick up has many meanings. But in the context mentioned, the word means turn or dial up.

  Gawd. This was nerve rattling. She never was this skittery when dealing with things. She nestled a finger under the blue lever and flicked. A pinch like a doctor’s needle gouged her skin. “Well, crap monkey!” Guess he got the sample, but it hurt like a bitch.

  The door on his forearm slid closed. His eyes popped open and locked on Ionia. Just like that. Quick and jarring.

  She stumbled and tripped over the toolbox. Her injured hand splayed backward to catch her fall, shooting white-hot pain up her arm.

  She shook, half-afraid to look up. A stirring rustled in the packing material and he rose, ramrod straight, and took a breath.

  Her heart stuttered. Rhythm lost.

  He was alive. Alive.

  The android tilted his head in a universal symbol of questioning and turned, eerily surveying the room until he found her panting on the floor.

  The droid’s eyes met hers, nice eyes, blue with streaks of dark cobalt that gave them a near-iridescent quality. His chest moved in a steady tempo. He was breathing.

  Did he need to breathe?

  He narrowed his eyes and with another tilt of the head, grasped the edges of the carton, leaped over in one smooth motion, and landed in a fight-ready crouch.

  He scrambled to her, keeping low as if he wanted to avoid an unseen enemy. His hand darted forward and grabbed her injured one.

  His touch was warm against her skin. He examined the cut and looked up at her. She didn’t know what to say or do. He wasn’t supposed to respond this way. He was supposed to wait until she DLed his programming, but he must have some weird default. “What are--”

  The droid scooped her up into his arms as if she was nothing more than a pet kitten.

  His chest felt firm against her ear, not metallic and cool, but like a well-muscled athlete. He cradled her in a gentle but tight grip, holding her upper arms and legs hostage.

  “Hey wait!” She beat at him, pushed with her good hand. “Put me down. I order you.”

  He made his way out the doorway, giving her no more attention than a gnat. “Let me go. Stop. No. No.” Nothing worked. Damn, damn, damn. This wasn’t going well.

  He marched down the hall, hyper-alert, as if waiting for a group of commandos to descend on them, weapons blazing.

  Rod rounded the corner and saw the droid and Ionia. He tripped over his own feet like he had forgotten the steps to a complicated dance move. “What the ‘ell?” He slurred the words, teetered, and reached for his weapon.

  Her android didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask. He deposited her on the ground and swung around like a NAR martial artist, smooth and fluid.

  How could a machine move better than a human, with absolute balance?

  The mechanized muscles flexed through his jumpsuit. With one quick sweep of the droid’s leg, Rod lay flat on his back, unconscious.

  Ionia couldn’t blink, her eyes locked open. Her breath caught. A hot, fist of panic held her lungs tight, kept her from fully inhaling. “Hey, stop it! What are you doing?”

  He crunched his forehead, creating deep lines in his smooth skin. His lips rolled in. He waited a full five seconds, staring, then scooped her back into his arms, pinning her against him. They flew down the hall, on a relentless journey to God-knew-where.

  She needed to stop him. He must be malfunctioning. If he had seriously hurt Rod, there would be no punishment horrible enough to suit her mother.

  Why hadn’t she read the whole manual before she activated him? She double-clicked her Cortex link. “Manual for companion read chapter on deactivation.”

  Deactivation without losing function can only be achieved by password, determined during activation sequence. There is also a failsafe button located behind the companion’s right ear, but the droid will cease to function and need to be returned to the manufacturer should this option be used.

  Shit, she didn’t want to deactivate him, but what other choice did she have? She reached up toward his face. He stopped his relentless forward motion, looked at her, and placed her on the floor.

  “You do understand some things. What are you doing?” Her voice came out way more forceful and strong than she felt.

  His eyebrows arched and his lips parted
as if he wanted to tell her something. He motioned toward his mouth and shook his head. She hadn’t activated his speech, but some other kill-kill-kill-ask-questions-later program.

  They faced each other like actors in an American Old West showdown, both watching for any sudden movement. They were close to the living area where the backup control panel joined the wall next to the threshold. He placed a hand against the panel. It glowed.

  He turned to her after thirty seconds, his face flushed. A slight golden shine echoed in his eyes.

  “Medical services.” His voice was deep and slightly accented like Cam’s, but halting, like English, was a foreign language.

  “You can talk now. Good.” He must have DLed basic communication from the panel. “We need to--”

  He swept her up in his arms again.

  “Not big on talk or explanation, eh? Stop. I’m your master. I activated you. You need to stop. Now!” She struggled, pushed against his chest, wiggling, writhing and twisting.

  No use. Fighting him was like fighting a handsy bulldozer. His grip numbed her arms, breathing became difficult. She sucked in hard, and he glanced down, never breaking his stride. Lines etched the sides of his mouth, his lips tilted down. So much detail, every expression, every move, every subtle twitch, showed a mirror of human frustration.

  “I need to stop thinking about how sanguine you are and start figuring a way to stop you before you do something terrible.” She squirmed more, pushing against his iron arms.

  They entered the medical facility, and the lights flickered on. He sat her down on the exam table as if she was a rare Antarctic flower, a world and a half different from how he had just lugged her around in a death grip.

  She unclenched her injured hand. A long ragged cut ran across her palm. Red rivulets dripped down her skin.

  Her head swam. She hated blood. The sight made her stomach roil. She lay back on the table and closed her eyes, forcing her freaked out mind to focus. Where was the android?

  He flashed to her side with bandages, alcohol rubs, even…a stitcher. Her head and stomach wonkinated again. She pressed her eyelids closed and held onto the table.