The ersatz ground crew finished suiting up and left the warmth and safety of the habitat for the garage space beneath it: a vast area mostly open to the elements. As fast as they could move in their layers of insulation, teams of station residents unplugged the polar vehicles from the heaters that kept them at the ready, and climbed in.
All of the vehicles, whether they moved on skis or tracks, had powerful headlights and rooftop strobe lights, all of which the drivers flipped on as they moved out. The convoy advanced toward the blue-ice runway more than one hundred yards away.
Keeping a firm hand on the joystick of the lumbering Delta—essentially a tractor with a multi-person cabin—Nik switched on the vehicle’s global positioning system and the infrared head-up display on the dashboard. He was rewarded by only a faint blur on the screen. Even a hot engine stood little chance of projecting any significant heat signature in air so frigid. It was a grim joke that even with infrared equipment, during a South Pole whiteout only the magma pool of a live volcano could be seen clearly. If you were standing next to it.
It didn’t take long for the convoy to arrive at the airstrip. Two members of the crew fired up the large JCBs, which were fitted with enormous snowblowers on their fronts, and began to chew up the drifts and blast the snow nearly one hundred feet from the runway. The rest began hauling out the reflective cones that would mark the edges of the cleared strip. The cockpit crew would be wearing night-vision equipment to help them see every speck of light available in the dark landscape.
Snow cleared and cones set, the crew reunited near the hangar, a grim and unwelcoming reception committee. Minutes later, the blinking wing lights of the Ilyushin appeared in the sky, growing larger as the plane approached a little too low and a little too fast. Its touchdown was rough, with a few hard bounces and some fishtailing, but no major mishaps. Its engines screaming in full-throttled protest, the plane taxied to a stop breathtakingly close to the hangar.
Then, the pilot coaxed the huge machine into the brightly lit building at a crawl. Leaving it parked on the runway wasn’t an option. The heat generated by the friction of the tires during the landing was just enough to melt the ice under them. Had the aircraft been left where it stopped for any length of time, the frigid temperatures would have caused the meltwater to solidify around the twenty-four huge tires immediately, embedding the huge cargo plane in the ice at the business end of the installation’s only runway.
The lumbering Ilyushin with its odd, windowed nose came to a clean stop, neatly fitting into a tight gap between the installation’s resident Twin Otter and Dash 7 aircraft. The massive doors fronting the building began sliding shut the instant the plane’s tail cleared the entrance, but the wind continued to make its presence known with eerie, high-pitched whistles even after the building had been sealed off.
Nik pulled the Delta as close to the plane as he could manage and radioed the other convoy drivers that he had parked, waiting in the cab until every other driver had done the same. As much as they were a necessity on the Ice, the heavy service vehicles nevertheless posed a danger. Someone stopping their vehicle without warning or, worse, getting out of it before everyone else had stopped, could be an instant casualty. At this time of year, the station couldn’t afford to lose a vehicle or a life. After the last one checked in, the drivers began piling out of the vehicles to make their way to the plane.
The presence of the Flint AgroChemical logo beneath the cockpit’s starboard window confirmed that it was clearly a planned arrival, as Cormac had insisted. Which begged the question of why no one had been informed days ago. The impending arrival of a plane at any time of the year, especially now, was enough of a diversion to qualify as the news of the day for several days running, yet no one had heard so much as a murmur about this one.
The chief on the ground signaled for the pilot to open the aircraft door. A moment later the first survival-suited person clambered down the steel ladder, standing upright on the hangar’s gravel floor for mere seconds before his legs gave out and he collapsed in a heap at Nik’s feet.
That wasn’t an uncommon reaction overall, and after a landing like the one they’d just endured—and the flight had probably been a doozy—Nik considered it understandable. At least no one was hysterical. Yet.
Nik helped the guy to his feet—he was tall, taller than Nik himself—and out of the way. Duffel bags were being flung out the door past the others who were climbing out of the plane. Moments later, the flight crews abandoned the huge plane to the tender mercies of the ground crew, who would off-load its cargo and get the Ilyushin ready for its eventual return trip—whenever that might be.
Nik shook his head as he climbed aboard the Delta for the trek back to the installation. It was a fool’s errand to make the trip to TESLA at this time of year in the first place. Flying out could well be more dangerous. He shut the vehicle’s door and, loaded with its human freight, the convoy began its slow return trip to the station.
* * *
Piotyr, another of the installation’s science team, had the honor of driving the big Delta back to the habitat. Nik climbed into the backseat with three of the new arrivals. One of them was the first one down the ladder, the guy Nik had hauled up off his ass. He hadn’t said a word or even moved since settling into his seat. He just kept his hands in his lap and his head down. Nik was willing to bet that beneath all those layers of ECW gear the guy was as tense as a bowstring. Or possibly unconscious.
We’ll go with option one.
“So, it’s just a sight-seeing trip, then?” he said—well, shouted—over the noise of the Delta’s engine.
He watched one of the two shorter visitors smile tightly from behind a balaclava. The other laughed.
“Yeah, quite the dawdle.” It was a feminine shout.
“Carmel? Is that you?”
The hooded head bobbed up and down.
“What are you here for?” he yelled, smiling at her. “It has to be something important.”
“Delivering her,” Carmel replied, nodding her head toward the bowed, silent figure next to him, “and some equipment. Some mail. Some food.”
Her?
Nik blinked. A curious and not altogether pleasant sensation began in his stomach. He didn’t know too many women who were that tall. In fact, he only knew one: Tess Beauchamp.
“Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” he asked.
The two women looked at each other, then back at him.
“What are you talking about? We were expected. The flight plan was approved.”
Oh, really? Nik forced a smile. “I must be out of the loop.”
“Yeah.”
“How was the flight?” he asked.
“The worst I’ve ever experienced,” Carmel said bluntly. “I’ve been flying heavies for ten years and bringing them to the Ice for six, and that’s the worst damned storm I’ve ever driven through.”
“Maybe you should take a different route home,” he replied with a grin, making the pilot shake her head. He bent forward and lifted the furred edge of the tall woman’s hood. “You okay in there?”
The hood moved up and down minutely.
“Welcome to the Big Chill. This isn’t quite the welcome we usually give VIPs. Actually, we call them DVs down here. Distinguished Visitors.”
The hood moved upward slowly until a balaclava-covered face appeared. What skin he could see was very pale and the eyes, large and long-lashed, looked hollow and exhausted. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the Delta’s interior what color they were.
“I know. I’ve been here before,” the woman replied.
“Huh?” he said.
Ooh, brilliant reply, Nik old boy. Especially if it really is Tess of the Endless Legs, whom you haven’t seen in more than a decade.
The hood swayed side to side. “McMurdo. Wintered over about fifteen years ago. I’ve made a few shorter trips to other bases, too. Amundsen-Scott. Some others.”
“In that case, welcome back to t
he Ice. And welcome to TESLA,” he said, still not sure just who he was chatting with. “You’ll like it better here than at McMurdo. The food’s better.”
The hint of a smile appeared on her mouth. “Is that all?”
“Well, I’m here. People consider me an irreplaceable asset.” He stuck out his hand, still covered in the huge mitt. “Nik Forde.”
The woman brought her own mitt to touch his in the polar-gloved equivalent of a fistbump, but didn’t reply right away. He watched her eyes squint slightly, as if the face around them might have begun to frown. “I know who you are. It’s me, Tess. Tess Beauchamp.” Her eyes seemed to search his. “It’s nice to see you again.”
At the confirmation of her identity, Nik couldn’t react fast enough to hide his surprise. A twitch of her eyebrow let him know she’d noticed.
They’d started dating right before she’d had to leave HAARP—well, started groping might be more accurate, he admitted. Then she’d blown up at Greg Simpson and left under a storm cloud of epic proportions, and he’d never heard from her again.
Which means she probably has no idea that I owe my career to her.
Her abrupt and frankly jaw-dropping exit, not even halfway through her fellowship with Greg, had given Nik his chance. He’d been Greg’s second choice for the HAARP fellowship that year and had been paying his own way at the base just to get the experience. Greg had offered him Tess’s place and Nik had jumped at the opportunity. He’d dug into the work without questioning his decision, or his boss’s decision. Or contacting Tess, to let her know what had happened and to offer his condolences for the deaths of her grandparents.
Greg had worked him like a slave, which was the standard, accepted treatment for post-docs. Of course, when Nik had come back to work for Greg all these years later, the situation hadn’t changed much. Greg was still an asshole and a slavedriver.
“Why are you here?” Nik asked, for lack of anything better to say.
“Nik, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk now,” Tess replied stiffly, then paused. “My sinuses are imploding from the altitude and my ears are completely blocked. My throat is raw because I spent most of the last hour of the flight throwing up, and I think I might have broken a few ribs during the turbulence because the seat harness was so tight. I’m in no mood to chat.”
Nik nodded and watched her hood fall forward again as she bowed her head. He continued to stare at the garishly bright fabric as his brain churned with questions.
This didn’t make sense. Tess Beauchamp, headliner in the industry, recent Flint hire, and one of the people at the very top of Greg’s “people I loathe” list, makes an unannounced, late-season arrival on the Ice with an entourage in tow. At this time of year, it couldn’t be anything as casual as a courtesy visit or a victory lap. Besides, as second in command, Nik knew Greg hadn’t authorized any visitors—especially her—nor had he asked Connecticut for any backup or any new bodies. There were no openings on the team, no trouble, no one who had to be replaced, and yet the look she’d just given him had made it clear that she was surprised that he was surprised to see her.
Someone has to be on the way out.
And if Tess was the replacement, the candidates were few. With her background and stature in the field, she wouldn’t be sent down here just to be one of the team. She was a specialist’s specialist when it came to all things atmospheric. She probably had half the brass at the Pentagon, NOAA, and NASA, not to mention a few international agencies, on her speed dial.
Oh, crap. It has to be me.
Recollections of all the stupid pranks he’d pulled, all the times he’d seriously pissed off Greg, galloped through his memory. Trying to figure out which incident had sent Greg over the edge made Nik wince. Then he frowned.
It can’t be me. Even if he wanted to get rid of me, there’s no way Greg would ever work with her again. No way in hell.
His brain froze.
It’s Greg. It has to be.
Nik slowly let out a breath. Everything was running smoothly at TESLA. There hadn’t been any mistakes made—there had been a few weird tests now and then but no misfires or accidents, nothing that he knew of that would warrant Greg’s removal. He knew there wasn’t a chance that Greg had asked to leave. Which meant that Flint had reasons for wanting Greg out, and out now. Otherwise, the decision would have been made two months ago or six months from now, when getting a replacement here could be done safely. Instead, Flint defied all logic and common sense to get Tess Beauchamp here now, putting her and a plane full of people at risk. He shook his head.
Greggy, Greggy, Greggy, you abrasive, micromanaging prick, whatever did you do to piss off Croyden so badly?
The question burned a brand into Nik’s gray matter.
When the slow trip back to the habitat ended, the passengers and their drivers disembarked in the garage and herded themselves into the ready room to strip down to their normal clothes. Then Kendra bundled Tess and a few of the less robust other newcomers off to her office for a quick check.
Still silent and preoccupied, Nik left the ready room and walked straight to the office of the only person on the base who could provide the answers he was looking for.
CHAPTER 7
A loud knock on his office door startled Greg. He immediately shut off his monitor. Although the door was shut and no one could see what he was doing, his reaction was instinctive. No one ever needed to know what he was doing or to disturb him while he was doing it. Anyone who worked for him quickly learned that. Interruptions of any kind were unacceptable unless something mission-critical was at stake.
It wasn’t just his privacy—or in this case, his work—that he protected so fiercely, it was his mind-set and his process. When he was deeply immersed in his work, the rest of civilization ceased to exist, and the transition back to the mundane world was difficult if it had to happen abruptly. He’d never explained it to anyone because few would understand. He’d accepted long ago that, in the course of the world’s history, extraordinarily few people had been given the mental capacity and creative genius to operate on the intellectual plane he did; those who didn’t weren’t worth the time it would take to enlighten them.
Instead, he just insisted on his world running his way. It was the least that he deserved and it had proven time and again to be the best strategy. The routine success of his projects was uniformly due to his requirements; he kept everything and everybody running smoothly. Nobody ever had to worry about surprises. He knew those who worked for him muttered about control issues, that he was obsessed with his work. Instead of being offended, he was flattered. Most of the world’s great thinkers had been labeled obsessive, if not by their admirers, then by their enemies. History had proven, however, that such words had had no effect on their achievements. Nor would the opinions of Greg’s subordinates have any impact on the legacy he would leave to the world.
There was another, stronger knock on the door. “Hey, Greg, I need to talk to you.”
Of course you do.
Tess had arrived, and had likely already caused the installation personnel to suffer an unexpected and unpleasant disruption to the usual smooth routine. It was an unforgivable breach.
Greg opened his eyes and glared at the still-closed door, his annoyance deepening at the flat bray of Nik Forde’s Boston accent. Nik had joined the TESLA team three years ago and had quickly become the biggest thorn in Greg’s side. Nik was no longer a post-doc who could be browbeaten into compliance. He didn’t have to worry about getting a recommendation or whether his antics might damage his career. Nik was a top-flight scientist now, well respected by his peers and in possession of a reputation for employing creative approaches and daring solutions. He also had a reputation as a world-class smart-ass, and between his arrogance and his insouciance, Nik had refused to become merely another cog in TESLA’s well-oiled machine. To Greg’s extreme exasperation, Nik was forever questioning things that ought never be questioned, treating flippantly subjects that should be
respected, and openly stating that he had no use for hierarchy or authority.
All of which should have made Nik a short-timer, but he’d proven to be too good at his job—and at dealing with bureaucrats—to replace. And he was Nikola Tesla’s great-grandson. Greg knew he possessed some of that great man’s papers—papers Nik couldn’t even begin to appreciate.
The fool kept them in the open, framed and hanging above his desk. Greg had often visited Nik’s office when the younger man wasn’t there, expressly to study the documents. The information he’d gleaned had allowed him to fill in the last gaps in a theory that was ground-breaking in their field. Greg not only had the keys to the kingdom now, he had all the power that went with it. He’d learned how to bypass the boundaries of Nature—and subjugate her.
“Greg.” Nik had taken to pounding on the door.
Taking the three steps to the door with stiff knees, Greg jerked it open. “What?”
Nik smiled and said, “Got a minute,” in such a way that it wasn’t a question at all.
“No,” Greg replied, and began to close the door.
A hand shot out to stop it. “Sure, you do. A plane just landed. Perhaps you heard the announcement.”
“I heard it,” Greg said after a deliberate pause.
“Guess you were too late to the ready room to go out and help clear the landing strip, huh?”
“Yes.”
Nik leaned one faded jeans-clad hip against the doorjamb and folded his arms against his broad, Polo-covered chest. “Well, guess what? The plane that landed—pretty hard, by the way—is an Ilyushin with the company logo on it. Go figure.” He rubbed a casual hand over his stubbled chin. “Carmel McTeague flew it in. Everyone is kind of wondering why no one knew they were coming. Especially Carmel. She was expecting a welcome committee.”
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