|
On Ice Pythia Chapter Eight |
The stupidest thing I’ve ever done …
The Antarctic wind is bitterly cold and a savage gust of it pulls me from my reminiscences. I shiver and pull my cape closer around my shoulders, wishing I’d had the foresight to pick up a thermal coat in New Rio. It would only have cost me a few credit chips back there. Here, they’re on sale for a hundred or more – and with no guarantees as to how many previous owners they might have had. Warmth comes with a price in the badlands; global warming may have reduced the domain of the ice, but the settlements that hug the edges of the Southernmost continent still lurk in its eternal shadow. It’s nearly midnight, local time. There’s snow on the ground – and, in those spots where the tramp of passing feet and traffic haven’t reduced it to gray mush, it glimmers white under the sullen glare of the Solstice sun.
The roads which lead from the landing strips into the shanty town seem practically deserted, although there’s noise and music drifting out from the ramshackle businesses which line this particular street. A man saunters past me, bundled up in a mixture of ancient military camouflage and layers of coloured blanket. He pauses as he registers my presence, his eyes flicking towards me with wary speculation. I glare at him; he take a half step towards me – and then steps back, recognising the company I appear to be keeping.
"M’am," he acknowledges with a hasty nod and then hurries away, risking only a single glance over his shoulder as he does so. My companion giggles softly from inside his helmet and I briefly turn the glare on him, although there’s no real heat in it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be warm again.
"Come on, Martyn," I mutter through my chattering teeth as I turn back to watch the street. "How long does it take?"
I’m not really that impatient – I know you don’t locate the kind of connection Martyn’s looking for just by knocking on the first door you come across – but I am extremely anxious, and I’m just that little bit scared. Someone must have noticed by now that the Institute prized possession has vanished – and it won’t take the Board that long to realise that I’m the one responsible. It might take a little while for the Enforcers to track us down, but if we don’t get off world soon, they will find us.
And all of this will have been in vain.
What was I thinkingof? I’ve thrown away my position, my career, my standing in society, and – very possibly – my life, and for what? For two men, one of whom I’ve barely known a year? I had everything; money, recognition, a place on the Board …
"Dite? Oh, thank the gods!" The exclamation is soft, but it turns my head and sends my heart sinking to my stomach. In other circumstances I might find my hero’s little affectation endearing – but the last thing I need right now is for him to be talking to his non-existent goddess in the middle of the street.
"Iolaus – " I begin, but he waves his hand to silence me, his head tilted to one side as he listens to those words than only he can hear.
"Shh," he requests, then: "Uhuh. Yeah? Alright! Dite, you’re wonderful. I knew you’d come through for me. Yeah – I did. Really I did. Yeah …"
I glance around in concern, hoping there’s no-one taking too much interest in this one-side conversation. It’s noteworthy enough to find a lady of high standing lurking on a street corner in a seedy part of a less than reputable town – but if her supposedly programmed and unemotional Guardian starts conducting animated discussions with thin air, someone is going to think it bizarre enough to investigate. "Iolaus," I hiss, packing it with a snap of rebuke. He turns back towards me, and I wish I could see his face through the smoked visor of the helmet. I think he’s grinning at me, which doesn’t improve my temper at all.
"We got our ride," he announces brightly. I start to heave a sigh – then stop, recalling how Martyn had interpreted his ability to acquire seemingly inexplicable knowledge. A psychic edge? It’s possible and if true, then maybe – just maybe – there’s something to his claim.
"How do you mean?" I ask instead of voicing the reproach that had first sprung to mind. He waves his hand at a nearby doorway.
"He’s in there. The Captain of our ship. Dite says he’s been waiting for three days – and he’s not going to wait much longer."
I find myself turning towards the entranceway, despite the absurdness of his words. The building is an old one; a concrete shelter, half sunk into the ground, with remnants of brightly coloured paint flaking off its battered metal door. There’s a hint of music drifting out from behind the uninviting entranceway, which is decorated with a hand written sign proclaiming the place to be ‘Harry’s Place.’ I have no idea who Harry might be, but I know a seedy bar when I see one.
Actually, I don’t, but I can’t think what else it might be – other than something I really don’t want to contemplate, that is.
"In there?"
He nods with confidence. This time I do sigh. With feeling. "Iolaus – "
"Ellen," he interrupts, "trust me, okay? If Dite says there’s a Free Trader Captain in there – then he’s in there. She wouldn’t lie to me – well, not when it’s something this important, anyway."
This important …
Well, he’s right about that. We’ve burnt all our bridges and we’re rapidly running out of options. Martyn is off somewhere, hoping to make contact with an old friend who only might be able to help us, and I’m slowly freezing to death, which – given what the Enforcers might be inclined to do to me – may turn out to be the preferable way to go.
"Please, Ellen," Iolaus says softly, his voice echoing slightly in the depths of his helmet, and my heart melts, the way it always does when he speaks to me like that. It won’t hurt, just to take a look. Besides, it’s likely to be a little warmer inside the building than it is out.
"Okay," I agree, deciding to reap the benefits of humoring him. There’s nothing else I can do until Martyn comes back, and there’s always the vaguest chance that Iolaus might actually be right. "But you’ll have to wait here for Martyn, otherwise he won’t know where we’ve gone."
He glances sideways – at his ‘goddess’ no doubt – then nods and gestures me towards the painted door. "Don’t be long," he requests, a little plaintively. "It’s cold out here."
From anyone else, that would sound like a whine. Coming from him, it’s funny. After two and half thousand years in glacial ice, this bitter southern summer probably seems refreshing. He’s no stranger to the cold.
"You’ll hardly know I’ve gone," I promise, finding that I’m grinning at his little joke – which is probably what he intended all along.
The metal door is chill to the touch, but the air that whispers out as I open it is warm and inviting. There’s a second door, a little way behind the first, and then a curtain, which I carefully push to one side. I’m standing at the top of a short flight of steps, overlooking a busy room, one filled with a swirl of heat and muttered conversation. ‘Harry’s Place’ is the kind of establishment I used to read about in old style Western novels; there’s a low bar running along one side of the room, and a scattering of tables filling the rest of it. People are huddled together around them, some eating, some drinking, some playing cards. There’s a young man and an older woman serving behind the bar, and a second young man waiting tables – and there seems to be a gaming table in one corner, surrounded by a small but enthusiastic crowd.
The contrast between the cold and empty street I’ve just left and this enclave of warm, convivial bustle is startling. The place isn’t rowdy, by any manner of means, but it’s surprisingly friendly; I hear laughter and I can see smiles, neither of which I’d expected to find in this kind of refuge – especially among the desperate souls who are supposed to haunt the badlands.
Of course, at the moment, I’m probably far more desperate than any of them.
"Can I help you, Ma’am?" The young waiter is standing at the foot of the steps, looking at me with a faintly suspicious frown. A number of his customers are also staring at me, disturbed by my intrusion. The cut and colour of my tunic had been sensible camouflage in New Rio; here it makes me stand out like a sore thumb. I’ve been told that the officials and citizens who work in Antarctica do go slumming in the shanty towns bars from time to time – but from the looks I’m getting at the moment, ‘Harry’s Place’ probably isn’t on their usual itinerary.
"Ah – I do hope so." I descend hastily, not at all comfortable with the attention I’m attracting. I’ll ask my question and get out. That’ll probably be the safest thing to do. "I was told – someone informed me that there might be a Free Trader Captain currently on the premises."
"There might be." The young man is sallow faced and his expression gives nothing away. "What’s it to you?"
I tug my hand from my glove and hold out a credit chip, which he snatches away with wary speed. "I just need to talk to him." There’s an assumption in that which goes against my entire upbringing; men don’t hold high office and they don’t own starships – not even second hand ones. But Iolaus had said he – and it is a Free Trader I’m looking for. Rumor has it that the sexes are treated equally, out on the rim.
It seems to be a good assumption. The waiter’s eyes have gone wide in surprise.
"Well," he hedges, looking hopefully at my now empty hand. "Captain Harker did say he was expecting someone …"
I can’t believe my luck. I dip into my tunic pocket and produce another chip. A twenty dollar one. If I get off-world, I’ll be using a completely different kind of currency – and if I don’t, the money won’t be much good to me anyway. I’m hardly going to miss it. The young man’s hand closes hastily over mine.
"He’s over at the corner table," he confides, leaning in close. "You can’t miss him. Big guy, but good looking with it. His ship’s the Argo. Registered in New Corinth, out in the Olympus system. He brought in a cargo of medicines – the good stuff, you know? The kind we don’t usually get down here."
I’m not really listening. My mind has stumbled at the earlier sentence, on the casual declaration of an impossible co-incidence. The Argo? New Corinth? I turn and walk towards the table my guide has indicated, focused on my goal, oblivious to everything and everybody else in the room. There is a Free Trader Captain waiting in this place. A Captain, what’s more, who has come from the Olympus system. The sure and certain foundation of my world has been crumbling for weeks; doubt and wonder are beginning to creep in through the cracks.
If more of us could see gods the way he does …
What sort of gift does Iolaus possess? How could he possibly know that the very thing we need the most could be found here – and why is this Captain Harker here in the first place? Who’s he waiting for?
There is only one man at the table when I get to it. A broad shouldered, remarkable figure, as out of place in the bar as I am. He’s dressed in rich colours from head to toe; his jacket and pants are a dark toffee brown sim-leather, decorated with strips of deep blood red and discrete lines of gold. The shirt beneath the jacket seems to be made in a softer, warm gold suede. The colours make him distinctive; the fabrics place him off-world without a doubt.
"Captain Harker?"
He looks up at my question, darting ice blue eyes in my direction. His face is stern, sculptured with handsome lines but chiseled out of unyielding marble. This is a hard man – the kind of man you don’t want to cross. The kind you can never reach, because their hearts of stone are buried too deep. They are cold, driven and empty; Captain Harker looks at me and I shiver, all the way down to my soul.
"Who wants to know?"
We’re attracting attention and I know that’s not wise, so I pull out the chair opposite him and sit in it, reaching to push the hood of my cape away from my face. "My name is Ellen McCray," I begin to say, but he’s rising to his feet, his hands pressed against the edge of the table – and he’s staring at me with angry, disconcerted eyes.
"~Mother?~" he mouths. I stare back at him, equally disconcerted.
"Please," I say, gesturing for him to sit down again before too many people start taking an interest in our conversation, "I just want to talk to you."
He subsides reluctantly, considering me with wary suspicion. "I’m sorry Ms – McCray, you said?" I nod. "You ah – remind me of someone I haven’t seen in a long time."
I quirk a polite smile. "It seems I have a habit of doing that." My words diffuse the situation a little; he sits back and returns my smile with one of his own. That is, his lips curl into a civil approximation of one. His eyes don’t smile at all. I find myself wondering if they know how. "I will be straight with you, Captain. I’m in trouble, I need to get off-world within the next hour or two – and I’m willing to pay what ever is necessary. Are you interested?"
He takes a moment to think about it. "I might be. I’m waiting for a special delivery." His next words were challenging. "Are you it?"
Am I?
I don’t know what to think any more. There’s no way Iolaus could have arranged anything, sent word or made contact with anyone without mine or Martyn’s knowledge. But the ship he was promised – or rather its Captain – is here, and waiting. I take a deep breath and make a leap of faith.
"Dite sent me," I say, watching for his reaction, and feeling a little foolish as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I expect him to be puzzled. What he does is frown.
"That figures," he growls, rolling his eyes with a hint of exasperation. "Okay. My shuttle’s parked on the apron on the far side of the field. The Argo is docked at the Orbital, getting an overhaul. Should be done by now. We can leave as soon as I get clearance."
As simple as that. I feel a great weight leave my heart. We’re not out of danger yet – but if his word is good we have chance. I take another look at him. His word is good. I have a feeling that when this man says he’ll do something, it’s as good as done. "Thank you," I breathe. He snorts.
"Don’t thank me yet," he says. "I might change my mind. Just you?" He’s on his feet and gesturing towards the door, his other hand scattering a clatter of credit chips onto the table. No – not credit chips – data chips. It’s a generous payment; his meal is only half finished and he’s barely touched his drink.
"Myself – my colleague – and our Guardian," I explain as we cross the floor. He comes to an abrupt halt, his hand catching at my arm.
"I don’t do Guardians," he announces flatly. His touch is gentle, but I can feel the strength that lurks beneath it. I lay my own hand over his and meet his gaze with confidence.
"You’ll do this one." There’s a thought, bubbling somewhere at the back of my mind. A thought so outrageous, so impossible that I dare not give it form.
If Iolaus was right about this …
Harker’s expression is skeptical, but at least he starts walking again. He waves me ahead of him up the steps and I lead the way out into the open air.
Martyn must have come back while I was in the bar; he’s waiting on the corner, his body language tense and anxious. Iolaus is standing next to him, his arms folded and his shoulders hunched – a perfect indication of the argument they must have just had – or might be having. It was hard to tell. I hurry across to join them, pulling my hood up and my cape close around my shoulders. Somehow it seems even colder than it was before.
"Ellen!" Martyn greets me with relief, wrapping me in a momentary hug that eliminates the need for words. He was worried about me, which is nice to know. He’s also angry, but it’s hard to tell if it’s with me, with Iolaus, or the both of us. We need to talk that through – but he’s already stepping back, frowning at the figure who’s followed me out of the bar.
"Who’s this?"
I turn, intending to make the introductions, and find that Harker is staring at the two of us, his expression decidedly distraught.
"Oh no," he declares, putting up his hands and taking a step backwards. "No, no, nonono. This is not happening. Dite! Dite!" He spins on his heel and makes the furious demand to empty air, his eyes flashing and his hands curling into angry fists. It’s a frightening sight. I take a step back of my own, into the protective curl of Martyn’s arm. I’m about to say something when a flare of pink and a sparkle of silver light catches my attention.
"Cool it, bro," a voice announces, its owner materialising out of nowhere. "There’s no need to shout. Don’t you like my Solstice present?"
My mouth drops open. The woman is – well, the woman is, in an impossible, this can’t be happening kind of way. She’s dressed in a drape of pink and silver that leaves very little to the imagination, and which is totally inappropriate for the temperature. Her golden hair is fashioned into an elaborate cascade of curls and ringlets, and she’s wearing equally elaborate jewelry that flashes and sparkles despite the sullenness of the midnight sun.
Harker doesn’t seem to think there’s anything strange in her sudden appearance. He strides towards her, his face clouded with thunder. "It’s not funny, Dite. First mother, now Jason – what are you playing at here? You promised me you’d stop this."
She pouts at him. Prettily. "Don’t be like that," she croons. "I was just trying to cheer you up. You are so uptight these days. Just chill out a little, huh? You’re gonna turn into another Ares if you’re not careful."
"I am not," he growls. "But if you don’t stop pulling these tricks on me …"
"Ooh, scary," she laughs. "And my point entirely. You are losing it, little bro." She makes her point with a wag of her finger and he subsides with a grimace, clearly hearing a note of truth in her words.
"Yeah, well - I lost it a long time ago," he says, the words quiet – and starkly resigned. The strange woman considers him with a mixture of sympathy and amusement.
"Come on," she cajoles, "just drop the attitude and open the rest of your present. I can’t wait," she confides in our direction. "Bet you can’t either. Right, Curly?"
Harker goes white. He turns his head to follow her glance, his body going rigid with shock. "No…" he denies, with a shake of his head and a soft whisper of breath that makes no sound. I can’t breath. I daren’t. I know who she is. I know who he is. And time itself has just shuddered to a halt …
My black clad Guardian takes a small step forward, his hands reaching up to fumble with the helmet’s clasp. He twists and then lifts the cumbersome covering away, revealing a tumble of golden curls and a pair of anxious, blue eyes. The expression behind them is understandably complex; optimism, expectation, a little embarrassment, and a lot of apprehension all war for the dominance of his features.
"Hey, Herc," he says, and quirks a tentative grin; one that offers apology, conveys hope, and lays him open, all the way to his soul.
 |
 |
|---|