Kay Kenyon - Maximum Ice

MAXIMUM ICE

Kay Kenyon

MAXIMUM ICE A Bantam Spectra Book / February 2002

spectra and the portrayal of a boxed "s" are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House,

Inc.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information address: Bantam Books.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was

reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received

any payment for this "stripped book."

ISBN 0-553-58376-X Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random

House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is

Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam

Books, 1540

Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Nathan, Paul, and Isaac Overcast

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to David Hobby, Gary L. Nunn, and Brad DeLong for reading early drafts and mak-ing

invaluable suggestions. Once again 1 am in debt to Dr. J. Michael Brown at the University of Washington

for taking the time to discuss with me some crazy and intriguing ideas in the realm of geophysics and

more. Where I failed to heed ad-vice, I take full credit for any damages.

My gratitude to my agent, Donald Maass, who made key contributions to my initial story concept; and to

Anne Lesley Groell at Bantam for her care of my story, both in concept and detail. I would also like to

thank David Brin, Robert J. Sawyer, and Mike Resnick for their ongoing encouragement. And

appreciation to Pat Logue for being a good sport.

Love and thanks to my husband, Thomas Overcast, my first reader and so much else.

PROLOGUE

It was a cold homecoming. By some accounts, no homecoming at all. After 250 years, Star Road's crew

were prepared to be strangers to earth, but not like this.

Captain Anatolly Razo sat well away from the porthole, his face averted from the view. He kept a watch

instead on the physio chamber, where Zoya was at last beginning to wake up. The view of Ship Mother

was much preferable to the other. Her eyelids trembled, as the realm of stasis held her for a few more

moments. When you'd been asleep for fifty-four years, waking up was no simple matter.

The lid of the chamber had been removed, and the med offi-cer had been running revitalization lines for

several hours. Ship Mother Zoya Kundara lay on her right side, her dark hair now carefully brushed

away from her face. The diamonds in her left ear glinted like a control panel.

The captain withdrew his hand from Zoya's shoulder, resist-ing the urge to nudge her as if from a night's

sleep. He was both eager for her to wake and dreading it. As captain, it was his task to tell her the news.

He thought of opening lines, all of them bad.

At seventy-eight, Anatolly Razo had never struggled to ex-press himself—except in Zoya Kundara's

presence.

"Dim the lights," he told his assistant. Zoya was sensitive to light on awakening.

The med officer gave some advice: "Music helps."

Nothing helps, the captain thought, but nodded an assent.

Violin music flooded the room. It was a traditional piece, the music of the Rom, his gypsy people. The

soaring melody moved him to take Zoya's hand. It was still cool. He rubbed her hand between his own,

gazing at her still-youthful face, her dark beauty. She was thirty-six years old, with high cheek-bones, an

aquiline nose, and a glorious figure. His heart crimped a little, looking at her. But all that was long past.

Half a century past.

During those decades Star Road had pursued its homeward journey, much of it under his captaincy.

They were eager to come home. They must come home. On a vessel that had begun its journey with

7000 men, women, and children, 1146 crew mem-bers remained. To be sure, it was a gradual decline,

measured by the death rate of a robust people—robust in all ways but one.

Zoya stirred, mumbling something. She waved at the tubes around her, as though parting cobwebs. Her

eyes opened. Deep brown—trailing dreams, the captain thought. She looked around the cabin,

registering reality.

Her voice was a scrape. "How long?"

"Fifty-four years," the captain answered, making his voice gentle. It was an awful pronouncement, but it

was the truth. He never understood how she could bear it—this waking and long sleep and waking again.

It took a toll on her body, and no doubt, on her soul. But gypsy women were tough. After all, they had to

live with gypsy men.

She focused on him. "Anatolly," she murmured, "you look awful."

He shrugged. "I'm an old man."

Her mouth attempted a smile. "No excuse." She glanced at Kristof, the med officer hovering nearby.

"Drink," she said.

Kristof brought her a thimble-sized portion of water as Ana-tolly helped her to sit up.

Zoya eyed the water, then brought out a more convincing smile. "Surely a little wine, instead?"

Anatolly intervened. "Water first, Zoya. Easy does it."

She uttered a rusty laugh. "Oh, Tolly, nothing is ever easy. Especially without wine." Her hand went to

her ear, to touch the four diamond studs, counting them, as was her habit on awakening. They winked in

the dim lights of the physio unit.

Stretching out an arm, she wiggled each finger in turn. She seemed to have forgotten about the wine. "So,

Anatolly," she said, her voice slurred, "why so glum?" She licked her teeth, trying to clean the coating

from them. Zoya claimed that fur grew on her teeth during these sleeps. An assistant appeared with brush

and paste.

His courage fled. "It can wait, Zoya. Bad news can always wait. You should gather your strength." He

added feebly, "Brush your teeth."

The assistant helped Ship Mother to do so. Then Zoya looked from the captain to the doctor to his

assistant. She put on her patiently waiting face, that catlike smile. "My teeth are cleaned, Anatolly. Now

tell me."

He cleared his throat. "Well, Zoyechka, it's earth, you see… we've arrived. But with the situation… we

decided… that is, once we… discussed everything…"

"Yes, Anatolly. Go on, I'm listening."

Caught in her brown gaze, he blurted. "Ship Mother, we have a problem."

Now her laughter came freely, the rich, deep laugh he re-membered from their time together during her

last awakening. "Yes, a problem," she said. "Of course." But she could have guessed that much. They

always woke Ship Mother in times of trouble. She was their counselor, wasn't she?

He looked to the doctor. Kristof was no help at all, suddenly busy with tubes and instruments.

In a stronger voice, she said, "Get me out of this thing."

They helped her to sit on the edge of the pallet, trailing wires and monitors, her slippered feet barely

touching the deck.

"Unhook me, Kristof."

Kristof looked surprised that she called him by name, but it was written over his breast pocket. He was

in no hurry, though, to remove her life support.

"You look like your father," she said, flashing a brilliant smile. "But even more like Emil, your father's

father. A good man, your grandfather. Come to see me when we've got rid of these tubes, and I will tell

you a good story about him."

As Kristof removed the lines connecting Zoya to her physio unit, the doctor looked at her with that

expression Anatolly had seen before, the one tinged with hero worship. He sighed. It was the old Zoya.

Sitting up, she murmured to Anatolly, "Is it bad, then?"

"It's… bad. Yes."

She nodded. "So then, Anatolly, the worst is over. You've managed to tell me we have a bad problem.

That was well done." Her eyes held him. "Now tell me the rest."

He knew, then, that talking was the wrong approach. She must see for herself. "Come, Zoya," he said,

"and tell me what you see."

Slowly they walked together toward the porthole, he sup-porting her on one side, Kristof on the other.

"Earth…" she said, as they walked. "It's still there?"

"Yes, Zoya."

Before she looked out the porthole she turned to Anatolly. "You're going to show me why we haven't

heard from them."

For most of their 250-year voyage, no radio messages from earth.

Anatolly nodded. He wanted to comfort her, to protect her.

Simultaneously, he wanted her to comfort and protect him, as she had always done, for all her ship

children. He watched her as she turned to look out. It pained him to see her look of vul-nerability, the

same look he'd seen in every crew members face as they'd gazed on ancestral earth.

Below, light glinted off a pearl white globe, a world so pale and barren it could not be earth—yet it was.

Gone were the fa-miliar continents and oceans. In their place, a new landform clutched the planet,

squeezing the oceans into an equatorial remnant. Thin clouds hovered in the equatorial region like a

ghostly ring, further confusing the observer as to which planet, exactly, this was. Jutting through the white

mantle, great mountain chains could be seen, now merely islands in a hard-ened sea.

It cooled the heart, to think that this was earth. Barren was the best word for it, barren like so many

worlds they'd seen. They'd thought earth would always abide. But it hadn't, not at all…

They stood thus for several minutes, gazing at the ruin of earth.

She struggled for control. Of all the inhabitants of Star Road, only Zoya was of earth. She could

remember how it had once been.

Trying to reassure her, Anatolly said, "We're picking up weak radio signals. There are people—we don't

know their lan-guage. A breathable atmosphere, remarkably. It's not a dead world… not entirely."

Finally, she managed to say, "What happened?"

"We don't know."

"Is it an ice age?"

"No. It's… not water. Not ice. We don't know what it is."

"But it's home," she whispered.

Anatolly allowed his despair to seep out. "Is it?"

" 'Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.'" Zoya knew her

poetry, and she some-times used it to her advantage.

"But they don't have to, Zoyechka. We've been gone ten thousand years, in their time, as they measure

it." He didn't presume upon a warm welcome from earth. The People of the Road had never had a glad

welcome from earth's people. So they would make no assumptions about being taken in—espe-cially

given their state of ignorance about this new earth. Not even the orbiting satellites could enlighten them.

They had captured a half dozen of them and downloaded their data. Only there wasn't any. The satellite

data-storage units con-tained only noise.

The science team hadn't slept since Ship arrived in orbit. Spectography, electron diffraction, all their

analytical tools probed and pried at answers. There were a few discoveries. A huge and fluctuating

electromagnetic signature came from the surface. Average temperatures were cool, but not cold. The

chemical composition of the new landforms was famil-iar—yet anomalous. To learn more, they must go

down to the surface.

Zoya was so quiet, just staring. Her thoughts were likely what his own had been when he first saw the

altered earth: What calamity had befallen their home world? What remained of life and land?

There was a stirring behind them. People had started to trickle into the room from the corridor. Anatolly

could see a crowd assembled there.

Zoya took a very deep breath, as though testing her lungs for what they could hold, then exhaled. She

composed her ex-pression and turned from the porthole. He marveled at her composure, her courage.

No, that wasn't it. It was her faith— that they would go on. He saw it in her eyes, the lift of her chin. The

others saw it too, and crowded into the room to be near her.

Anatolly had ordered everyone to stay away, to give Ship Mother a decent interval to wake up. But

ordering the Rom, of course, was often a hopeless enterprise. Here was Sava Uril, pushing forward,

grasping Zoya's hand. And Rebeka Havislov, Jozsef Mirran, Sandor Laslo, Anna Mijanovitch, Viktor

Novic, and others, gathering around her.

She gazed at them, looking at each person in turn. What-ever generational features she recognized, it

must have wanned her heart, for she smiled, a broad smile of pleasure.

One of the men came forward with a single red rose, in the traditional greeting that normally would have

come from a child. Her hand shook as she accepted it. By her glance around the room* she had just

noticed there were no youngsters pres-ent. She caught Anatolly's eye—but that story could wait.

"My children," she said, as she always did, referring to old and young alike.

It made Anatolly glad to hear her say those words, her voice steady and deep.

She looked toward the portal, then back at them. "Yes, I've seen it." She nodded. "Things change. Every

time I waken, things have changed. Who knows that better than our people? You are still my beloved

children. And that"—she nodded at the window—"is still home." She drew herself tall. "Or it will be,

when the Rom make their footprints in the snow."

Rebeka Havislov dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. But she was smiling.

Anatolly sighed. The women were crying and making plans. Perhaps things would be all right, after all.

Then the crowd was surging forward to embrace Ship Mother and shake her hand.

Amid the press of well-wishers, Zoya's voice came unmis-takably: "Bring me my boots."

As someone ran to do so, she called after him, "And some wine."

PART I:

A Fearful Symmetry

CHAPTER ONE

—l—

Zoya lay on her bunk in the shuttle cabin, listening for sounds of earth. But there was nothing, not even

wind. The earth was a silent place, at least here, in this wide valley.

The shuttle had set down in northwest Canada, between the continent and Vancouver Island. The names

meant nothing now, especially the political names. Among the few relevant geo-graphical names were the

mountains. As they had descended yesterday, they had glimpsed the range of the Olympics jutting up

through the planets new firmament.

Their landing site had once been the Strait of Georgia. Now it was a broad, flat valley between low hills

of crystalline land-forms. The shuttle crew was calling it crystal. After they had landed, people crowded

around the view screens, seeing the facets, the gem-shapes protruding from the ground like dis-torted

images of the vanished trees. There had been a profound silence as the crew stared out. The sun was

setting, putting a glare on the landscape—a little disturbing and overbright, like a good song turned up too

loud.

Zoya sat up. By her wrist lex, it was almost dawn at this lati-tude and in this season, late autumn.

She touched the diamond studs in her ear. Their solidity re-assured her that she was awake, in the real

world. Ah, but what was real? The suspended land of quasi-sleep, or the consensual realm of waking?

Both lands had their claim on her. Sleep could brag of the centuries—but waking always got her

imme-diate attention. There was coffee, for one thing. Good gossip. Winning at cards. Actually, it was a

long list, and she recited it every time she awoke—the reasons why life was good, even amid disasters.

Throwing off the covers, she called for lights and aban-doned her bunk. Sleep was hopeless, and a

sunrise beckoned. Now she would see all the sunrises, in sequence. The role of Ship Mother could fade,

since her people were finished with the long star road. Ship Mother had been the tether to home,

conceived as a tradition to preserve tradition.

But, truly, she was ready to stop parceling out her days.

In moments she had dressed and was heading down the corridor. Her impulse was to get moving, do

something, talk to people—go outside. Only the science crew had been outside so far. You can go out in

the morning, Lieutenant Bertak had told her. Easy enough for him to put it off, he hadn't been waiting 250

years.

She almost collided with Fyodor Mirga, just emerging from the science station.

He was dressed for the cold.

"Going outside, then, Fyodor?" she asked, thinking she might slip out with him.

Fyodor looked eager. "I couldn't sleep. Might as well get an early start." He was supervising the boring in

the research tent outside, where a drill had been working through the night to provide a sample core.

"The drill is jammed," he added.

"Need some help?"

"Sorry, Ship Mother. Lieutenant Bertak says…"

He didn't like to turn her down; only Lieutenant Bertak en-joyed that. They had not hit it off well, she

and the first mate.

Fumbling in his pocket, Fyodor brought out a translucent rock, a piece of crystal formed into a tiny,

perfect obelisk. He-pressed it into her hand. "A piece of the earth," he said.

She felt her throat swelling shut. Before she could embarrass herself with tears, Fyodor turned down the

corridor, waving good-bye, as two crewmen joined him. They were fully armed, and looked sour to be

awakened so early.

Zoya turned the crystal over in her hand. Fyodor didn't hes-itate to call it a piece of the earth. There

was something sweet and bold about the statement. Looked at strictly scientifically, the average atomic

composition of the substance was silicon, oxygen, aluminum, iron, calcium, and other elements, in the

precise ratio of the old earths crust. But the crystalline material was no known mineral. This notion

frightened most of the crew; but Fyodor had the look of a boy in a bicycle shop.

Once in the shuttle galley, she activated a cup of coffee and keyed up the view screen. The shuttle's

outside lights showed the near vicinity: the research tent, and surrounding it, a flat basin strewn with

erratic, faceted slabs, like jumbled ice flows. Wind blew eddies of clear sand, glittering in the floodlights.

It drifted into piles. However long earth had worn its coat, it had been long enough to erode slightly,

producing small grains of crystal.

The view didn't crush down on her as it did the crew. Never an ardent Catholic, Zoya still saw wisdom in

the injunction against despair. To her, this was a fresh start, a place swept clean of old dangers and

ancient sins.

Somehow, the land was inhabited. From her work so far on the content of radio transmissions, the local

language was re-lated to English. With her linguist's ear, she was already picking out phonological

similarities to Star Road's dialect. The lexical and syntactic changes from Ship's English were not as

pro-found as she would have guessed from the long time period involved. Given the harsh global

conditions and difficulty of travel, there may have been few outside influences to propel changes in

syntactical rules and vocabulary.

Additionally, from hundreds of points around the globe came transmissions, in many other languages. So

people had survived. It was well to remember these miracles amid all their sorrows.

For the ship had returned without children. Star Road's crew were as fruitless as the crystalline fields

outside. The youngest of her people was nineteen.

Earth was—or so they had presumed—the haven where they would renew themselves, the warm and

green cradle of life. There might well be other such worlds, but Star Road hadn't found them. And now

the ship was out of time. This might be the last generation of Star Road, with its women un-able to bear

children to term, the consequence of 250 years of interstellar radiation that not even the vaunted

microceramic shielding of the great vessel could successfully halt.

She was startled at a movement in the corridor.

Janos Bertak, the ship's first mate, stood in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"Looking outside."

"We heard noises in here."

She laughed. "Well, Janos, it was only me. I hope I'm not breaking curfew."

Her attempt at lightheartedness was met with a grimace.

Janos Bertak had a full mustache that failed to make up for a seriously receding hairline. When he

frowned it involved his whole forehead and bald pate.

He was a nervous man. For one thing, they had brought the small shuttle down with only fourteen crew.

Anatolly had judged that the number one shuttle, with its prodigious arma-ment, would send the wrong

message to the local inhabitants, so he sent the small one. Another of the first mate's worries was his wife.

Janos Bertak was middle-aged and Tereza was young. She was a great beauty, with classic features, and

that creamy skin and red hair that graced generations of women and men in her family. Zoya remembered

Tereza's great-great-grandfather Halvor—now there was a man who knew how to please a woman.

Janos turned to leave, but she stopped him. "Fyodor went outside," she said. "Could I join him, just to

watch?",

"I have enough to worry about without you going outside."

She couldn't suppress a smile. "Janos. Nothing would stop you from worrying." It was the wrong thing to

say. He left the galley without comment, moving on to the next worry.

Zoya took out the piece of crystal and rubbed her finger along its smooth side. Leaning into the comm

node, she hailed Fyodor, whose shadow she could see moving in the bright tent. "By the way, Fyodor,

thank you for the gift."

She placed the crystal on the table in front of her. In the semidark galley, it lay torpid, bleached of color.

"Fyodor?" She shouldn't disturb his work. But since she al-ready had, he should answer. "Fyodor?"

No response. Again she punched in the code for the remote unit, hailing him.

On-screen, the predawn had turned the world ghostly gray. The tent, vivid yellow, sat in a puddle of light

like melted but-ter. Fyodor was moving inside the tent. There were two people in the tent. The other

guard would be outside. Still…

She punched in the cockpit. "Margit?"

When the copilot answered, Zoya said, "This is Zoya. Just checking, but from this node I can't hail the

research tent."

"Stand by." A click, and Zoya was on hold. She rose, gazing at the view screen. Now there was only one

person in the tent, hunkered over. The drill was giving Fyodor a bad time.

More clicks. Margit would take the comm problem seri-ously. From a long space tradition, any

mechanical problem, no matter how small, got immediate attention.

Zoya heard a noise down the corridor. Someone running.

She strode to the door, seeing Janos hurrying down the cor-ridor toward the cockpit. In the next instant,

a braying alarm kicked in, bringing crew into the corridor, some armed, all rushing to stations.

A movement on-screen caught her attention. Swirling to face the view screen, Zoya saw someone

standing outside. It wasn't Fyodor. Whoever it was, he—she thought it a he—was covered in blood.

Crimson rags hung from him like torn flesh. And he was screaming. She could hear nothing, but the strain

in the neck and gape of the mouth spoke loudly enough. The figure stood directly facing the shuttle, arms

slightly raised, his face contorted in a monstrous howl that seemed to be aimed directly at her.

A spray of sand obscured the viewing lens for an instant. When it cleared, the figure was gone.

Keeping close to the wall so as to be out of the way of hurry-ing crew, Zoya made her way to the

cockpit. She no more than put her head inside the door when Janos snapped, "Stay out of the way."

"I saw someone out there, a stranger…"

Janos was bent over the controls, punching in the feed from additional external cameras. "We all saw

him. What do you think the alarm was about?" At the control panel, four views of the tent from ship's

cameras showed a silent scene: tent swollen with light, gray snow turning pink in the sunrise—but all

silent, unmoving. No sign of the man in rags. Behind her, sev-eral crew had formed up, all guns and boots

and wild eyes.

Janos barked at the pilot, "Tomos, hail the captain, and keep a wide surveillance, this could be just the

first wave." He turned to the armed unit. "You, you, and you, take the main hatchway, the rest go out the

emergency hatch." The surveil-lance systems showed nothing, but Janos was taking no chances.

The forward hatch opened just long enough for five crew to dart out, then clanged shut, leaving behind a

patch of cold air. The second unit rushed aft. Amid the flurry of deploy-ment, Zoya retreated to the

galley, where she opened the comm node to hear what was transpiring in the cockpit. The view screen

showed crew moving up on the tent—no sign of the man in rags.

Then, as the sun crested the hills, Zoya could just make out a figure approaching, but still some one

hundred meters away. Someone was gliding over the ground toward the ship—mov-ing fast enough that

he might be flying or skating. Meanwhile, the crew were spreading out, surrounding the tent.

On comm, she heard Margit say, "Someone approaching from the west, sir."

"Lay down perimeter fire," Janos said.

"Yes, sir."

"No," Zoya hissed into the comm node.

Ship's guns clattered, barely muffled by the hull.

Leaning into the node, she said, "Janos, it's just one person." But no one was listening. She tore into the

corridor and ran to the outside hatch, guarded by a wan youngster who looked to be all of twenty years

old.

"Open it," she barked. He started to protest, but in the end he was no match for her. Then she was on

the access ramp, running into a stew of dust and screams. Piquant air rushed to her nostrils, and the sky

loomed above her in monstrous bless-ing. The fray had kicked up a flurry of dust that the morning sun

infused with blind light.

As the dust settled over the scene, Zoya saw that the new arrival was standing on a sled, and was raising

a huge weapon that looked like a harpoon gun, aiming it at the tent.

Crew members were turning in every direction, watching for attack. Several fired at the man in the sled,

but they had to face into the blinding dawn, and missed.

In the next instant, the tent collapsed, leaving one person standing inside, a swaying human tent post. The

newcomer fired his gun and sent a spear full into the body of the tent-draped figure. Then he lowered his

weapon and stared at what he had done.

"No one shoot," Zoya shouted as she ran up to the sled. The crew hesitated for a moment, with Ship

Mother in the line of fire. But the stranger had lowered his weapon; he was giving up—or he had

accomplished what he set out to do.

Nevertheless, several crew moved in and dragged the sled man from his perch, wrestling him to the

ground and seizing his harpoon. Other crew were still keeping watch, squinting at the territory, watching

for movement. But far into the distance, there was nothing but flat, white desert.

Now Janos was approaching from the shuttle, all outrage.

She thought he might grab her forcibly. She used her most calming voice: "Let us talk first. You can

always shoot him later."

From the look on Janos's face, it was Zoya he'd like to shoot. "Get inside, Ship Mother. Now." He

turned his attention to the collapsed tent, striding over to the wreckage.

Two crew members were trying to pull the tent away from the impaled man, but the spear effectively

pinned it in place. They managed the task far enough to see that the victim was none of theirs. It was the

rag man, lying immobile. As they pushed back the loose tent fabric, they uncovered a dreadful scene.

Three other bodies lay in blood-drenched sand. Crew members were crouched down, taking their vital

signs.

Oh my children, Zoya thought. Oh, Fyodor.

The sled man, held firmly between two of the biggest crew-men, said something to her that she couldn't

catch. She looked at him closely for the first time, seeing a burly, bearded man, dressed in furs. He jutted

his chin at the tent.

In a fury, Janos advanced on him and struck him a blow across the face.

Zoya inserted herself between Janos and the sled man. "He's alone, for God's sakes," she spat at him.

Janos turned to her, taking hold of her arm. "Stay out of this." His words came out like bullets. Janos

pointed at crew-man Loski. "Take Ship Mother inside."

Loski took her gently by the elbow. But when Janos walked over to the fallen tent, Zoya followed him,

staring down her es-cort, who was clearly uncertain about manhandling Ship Mother.

Zoya saw one of the crew turn away from the scene, gag-ging-

Fyodor lay on the ground, his throat torn out, with strips of skin pulled back from his chest. It looked as

though he had been flailed. She had seen worse in her crisis-strewn life, but not by much.

Kneeling beside the fallen crew members, one of the men reported to Janos: "All dead, sir." He looked

up at the first mate as though Janos could change this, could order it to be differ-ent. Zoya knew that

look, and was thankful it wasn't, this time, aimed at her.

She crouched down next to Fyodor, closing his eyes with her hand. Next to Fyodor lay the man in

bloody rags. He had long black hair, no beard. And he was thin; bones of a once-large frame almost

poked through his skin. Dripping from his mouth, shreds of bloody tissue.

Kay Kenyon - Maximum Ice

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: