He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, thinking of Simon playing in their cottage on that single, perfect summer day.
Thinking of the past and praying for death.
THE ENCAMPMENT
Lucas led Max and Simon to the far end of the encampment toward a meeting area fifty yards deeper into the cave. “Your people are down here,” he said.
Lucas led the two friends as they trudged toward the camp, so weary they could barely lift their feet. It had been a long, cold hike from the Spector, and the information they had been given had stunned them completely. It was hard for Simon to think clearly at all.
Nastasia was waiting for them on the edge of the camp—waiting for Simon in particular, it seemed. She was looking only at him with a wild mixture of relief and obsession, as if she had done nothing but stand and wait for him constantly since they had parted.
What does she want? he wondered as he approached. What could be so important?
He pretended not to notice her strangely intense gaze. He just nodded to her briefly as he passed and saw her turn toward him out of the corner of his eye, swiveling to face him, still staring, as if she didn’t dare to let him out of her sight now that he had returned.
Never mind, he told himself. Not now. Besides, with the revelations of a decades-old, worldwide conspiracy of politicians, business people, and scientists, he wasn’t sure he could stand talking to her at this very moment. He trusted his friends from Oxford; he had known them for years, worked with them just as long. But Nastasia had been included at the last minute, picked up along the way because of the words—or manipulations—of others. He didn’t know about her. At all.
He had to sit and think. He had to talk with Max and Samantha—the ones he could really trust—and work this out.
The rest of the team had set up a temporary encampment next to the escaped scientists. It was heated by a cobbled-together network of battered and mismatched thermal units, hastily adapted from a half dozen vehicles of different designs and haphazardly connected to create a tiny area barely warm enough to allow the opening of the masks and relatively easy breathing. That circular meeting area—a campfire without a flame—was directly in front of a dimly illuminated structure, the likes of which Simon had never seen.
The structure’s surface was constructed of a durable plastic or vinyl material that seemed to be made of a million tiny cells no bigger than a fingernail, each one filled with air and somehow stiffened or solidified. From a distance, it looked like crystalline rock with an unnaturally smooth, organic exterior. Up close it looked like a honeycomb made of artificial materials, but as rigid as stone. The construction itself was unlike anything Max and Simon had ever seen.
“It’s a Vector5 inflatable structure used for emergencies,” said Lucas as he dropped his bag on the icy ground. “We found it inside one of the larger vehicles we uncovered last week. Thank god we did; it’s no fun sleeping in an ice cube.”
The other members of the Spector VI team had gathered with some of Lucas’ scientists in that small, warm circle, making seats out of crates that seemed to be ammunition cases or empty ration cubes. Simon recognized a few of them as recent arrivals from Spector VI.
As they entered the circle, Andrew greeted them with one upraised arm. It held a nearly full bottle of scotch.
“Greetings,” he said to Simon. “Sit on down, warm yourself up.”
One of Lucas’ men, sitting heavily in a field chair near the edge of the circle, suddenly broke into a wide grin. “Oh yeah!” he rumbled. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“It was packed in a case that traveled with us in the Spector,” Andrew said, slowly opening the bottle with flourish. “Personally, I’ll drink anything that comes my way, but some people around here are a bit picky about their personal brand of scotch.” He cast a sarcastic look at Simon, even as Lucas stopped to gaze in awe at the bottle of liquor.
“Wow,” he said sounding more like a frat boy than a scientist, if only for a moment. “We haven’t seen one of those in years.”
“Well, it’s time you re-established a meaningful relationship,” Andrew said, grinning. He reached down and snagged one of a half-dozen bottles at his feet, this one unopened, and tossed it easily to Lucas, who caught it with some difficulty. Lucas, in turn, offered it to his thirsty colleague, who moved as quickly as he could to seize the prize, but as the scientist tried to take the bottle, Andrew noticed for the first time just how frail the man was. He wasn’t going to be able to stand without help, let alone have a drink.
Andrew was suddenly, painfully aware of how the extreme environment had taken its toll on these men—all of them.
The lesson wasn’t lost on Samantha, either. “Hey,” she said to everyone with a false, almost brittle cheer, “how about we open one of these ration crates and have little celebration?”
They had been waiting for the invitation. In a heartbeat, the scientists, under Lucas’ watchful eye, ripped open one of the Spector’s ration crates and pulled out bag after bag of self-contained, self-heating meals-ready-to-eat; they descended on them like ravenous animals. They just ate—without benefit of utensils or table manners. The sound alone was enough to turn Simon’s stomach.
After all too short a time Lucas called a halt. “Take it easy, guys!” he said. He pulled the last of the few unopened packs from his people—even the ones who fought him—to store them in his own bag for later. “Think about what you’ll eat tomorrow and next week. There’s no telling when we can mount that resupply operation, so this is going to have to last us until then.”
One of the men—the first one to ask for liquor—gave a sarcastic snort. “‘Resupply operation,’” he grunted. “Hitting that bunker at the base of Tunnel 5 is a pipe dream, Lucas. Never gonna happen.”
“You see the guards they have posted down there?” another scientist said. “We wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Not before, we wouldn’t have,” Lucas said, then hefted a long, heavy wooden case off the icy ground and plopped it between the men. “But now…”
The complainer glared at the battered wooden box. “Where’d you get that?”
“The abandoned weapons dump up at Tunnel 36. Remember? That’s why we went out in the first place? Well, food and new friends notwithstanding, it was worth the trip.”
He pried open the box to reveal the strangest weapon Simon had ever seen—a structured box like weapon that seemed to look like a retractable robot. The only thing he recognized was the decal of a skull on one matte-finished panel. The international symbol of deadly.
They looked too small and compact to be rifles, but far too large and complex to be a pistol. Max too was fascinated. To him, they resembled the folded gloves of an experimental exo-skeleton he had seen in a government facility years ago—multiple sections that folded out and clicked together to make…something very strange.
Lucas noticed Max staring. “What?” he said in a voice that was almost prideful. “You’ve never seen a ray gun before?”
“Come on,” Simon chuckled, just as curious as Max. “What the hell is it really?”
“I’ll be happy to show you,” Lucas said. “Follow me.”
They moved to a makeshift firing range they had created a safe distance from the encampment, and facing away into the dark far reaches of the cave. With a few gestures, Lucas indicated where he wanted the observers to stand, and Simon noticed for the first time that Nastasia had silently joined them, a look of naked curiosity on her beautiful features.
It only took a few seconds for Lucas to expand the rifle. He depressed a thumb-latch here, pulled sharply, clicked the folding stock up and then down, and twisted, and the weapon had suddenly stretched to five times its original size and locked itself into an entirely new shape—half-rifle, half-glove, wrapped around his forearm like a robotic parasite. Simon couldn’t keep from being impressed; it was beautifully designed, a compact and clever construct of multiple sections that telescoped into a weapon slightly large
r than a machine pistol, with a thick, round muzzle the diameter of a broomstick.
Lucas planted a knee on the frozen ground and set his body, as if preparing for heavy recoil. He raised the weapon and pointed it toward the far end of the range at a carved target over a hundred yards away.
“Behold,” he said, with no sense of irony whatever. “The wonder of Vector5 technology.”
He depressed a side plunger with his thumb and a series of extremely bright rays illuminated sections of the weapon. A stream of glowing projectiles, each the size of a shotgun shell, streamed out of the front with a high-pitched pew-pew-pew sound, and Lucas was thrown back by the force of their flight. Before he stopped moving there was a low hissing sound followed by what felt like a small sonic boom.
A hundred yards away, the black curve of the ice-tunnel wall lit up with pure, bright light.
“What the hell?” asked Max, gaping and taking an involuntary step forward.
“Luminescent bullets,” said Lucas, peeling off the weapon with three quick moves. He handed it to Max, who took it eagerly but gingerly—exactly as one would handle a loaded weapon. “These were experimental prototypes,” Lucas explained, “designed specifically for ice exploration and, if necessary, combat. Vector5 needed something to illuminate fissures in the deep dark tunnels of the underground, so the scientists developed a gun that would penetrate the ice and make it glow internally and kill people at a considerable distance, if necessary.”
Simon stared at the brilliant light glowing from the ice. It was blue-white, without heat, and so bright it almost hurt to look at. “How long will it last?” he asked.
“Each bullet glows for approximately five minutes and dims out gradually.”
Max looked at the gun with awe and trepidation, almost as if it was his first time holding a weapon.
“It worked beautifully as a tool of exploration. Became the standard for excursion teams all over the network, I’m told. But it wasn’t until two years ago that one of these was used on a person.”
Max looked up as if waiting for him to continue, but Nastasia was the one that asked. “And so what happened?”
“You can only imagine how grotesque the effect was,” replied Lucas. “I’ve heard stories of entire bodies glowing, bones and all. It was just too…it was more than they wanted. Energy release and hydrostatic shock made them instantly lethal. You don’t get wounded by one of these ray guns. You get killed. There are no grazes or flesh wounds; you blow up like balloon of blood set on fire. In an instant.”
“How does the technology work?” Simon asked with a boyish curiosity.
“The bullets are the key. I’m not a specialist in materials, so I can’t tell you.”
“Are you serious?” asked Max.
“You bet I am. You saw the bullets fly out of this thing. What you heard was the sound barrier breaking.”
Lucas chuckled at the look of pure amazement on Simon’s face. “This is why I wanted to show it to you, Simon,” he said. “You can take a set, of course, and all the ammo you can carry. But that’s not the point. The point is, this is the stuff they threw away. As incredible as it is to you, it is yesterday’s news, out of date and out of favor with Vector5.” He casually handed the unit to one of his assistants as they headed for the main tent, ready for an evening meal made primarily from Spector supplies, and an actual night’s sleep.
“The technology being used here is light years ahead of the rest of the world. You literally have no idea how advanced Vector5 really is—you couldn’t, but one thing is certain: you are facing one of history’s most technologically advanced military machines. If you survive the journey, you will witness it for yourself. But you can’t possibly plan for it.”
He slapped Max on the shoulder and smiled. “Now let’s grab a quick bite, and I’ll explain where you need to go and what you need to do.”
OPERATIONS BAY 32
Eric Schultz had an advanced degree in mechanical engineering and an international award for his work in quantum alloys. Robert Pallaso had two doctorates, one in industrial chemistry and the other in high energy physics. Each of them had worked for less than two years at jobs in Antarctic Station 9 for UNED and a series of companies with names no one could pronounce when they were “recruited” to the deep research stations on Shelf 1 within a week of each other—part of a horrible storm-related “accident” that “killed” seventeen scientists and engineers and made them Vector5 slaves for the rest of their lives.
Today, these award-winning innovators and technologists were considered something less than mildly talented mechanics, assigned to the DITV operations bay, a thousand feet under the icy surface. Their assignment: to load heavy-voltage weaponry onto the killing machine’s chassis in less than ten minutes. If they did not do so, they would receive no end-of-shift meal. If they made an error, they would receive no end-of-shift meal. If they were caught complaining or refusing to contribute with the proper enthusiasm, they would simply be shot in the head. Twice.
A coterie of Vector5 soldiers formed a loose ring around the operations bay, watching impassively as the team of prisoners fought the weather and the mismatched technology to complete the task. The work was dangerous and difficult and unimaginably cold, but they kept at it. They had little choice. After all, the end-of-shift meal was one of only two given every day. Missing it wasn’t simply unpleasant; it was life-threatening.
“What the hell are they planning to do with these?” Eric asked under his breath as he tried desperately to mount the high voltage generator below the hull of the DITV.
“I have no idea,” Bob said in classic prisoner’s monotone. He could only be heard a few feet away; his mouth barely moved at all. “But it sure as hell seems like something is going on with the Black Ops team. Some kind of ambush.”
A dark look passed over Eric’s features. “Hope it’s not Lucas and the boys. They were good guys.”
“They were idiots,” Bob said bitterly. “Plain stupid to escape like they did. I mean, what the hell are they going to do?”
A Vector5 soldier at the edge of the circle banged the stock of his rifle against a pipe to get their attention. “Hey!” he barked. “Stop the chatter and move on!”
“Finishing up,” Eric said quickly and got back to work.
The vehicle was so tall they needed a special robot to hoist the generator to its mounting plate. It was perilous work, and the frozen conditions made it almost impossible, but they were motivated. Eric and Bob worked as fast as they could.
It wasn’t fast enough.
Eric was tightening the last two nuts on the generator when a five-man Black Ops squad came double-timing out of the shelter, complete in tactical gear. They rushed to the cargo doors that swayed open on their own—in response, Bob knew, to the special-status code chips embedded in their ice suits. It was virtually impossible to open the DIT, let alone operate the complex machine, without one of those s-s chips. Without its answer-back, the controls simply would not respond, the engines wouldn’t fire.
“They’re early,” Bob said.
“They don’t care,” Eric replied.
“This doesn’t look good,” Bob said and hurried to finish. He could feel the vibrations of the special team’s boots echoing from inside the hull; he knew they were stowing gear, strapping in, responding to the lash of the sergeant’s constant goading, “Move it, move it, move it!”
A heartbeat later, the main engine began to cycle up, but Eric and Bob still weren’t done.
“Robert, don’t forget the cable underneath the fuelling hatch. It’s going to catch.”
“I’ve got it,” Robert replied, and scrambled toward the back of the vehicle. The cable was lying in front of a massive, knobby twelve-foot tire; if the DITV rolled over it in its haste to depart, the vehicle itself wouldn’t know the difference, but the cable would be crushed and ruined and would have to be replaced—which meant more work, more punishment, and fewer meals for them. They just couldn’t let that happen.
As he started to jump for the cable, the engines directly over his head roared to full life. It made him flinch—just a bit—and when his boots hit the ground he slipped on the icy floor. Simultaneously, the massive hydrogen boosters whined to life, and the floor under the vehicle—under Bob—start to vibrate.
Bob shouted, “Wait!” and struggled to get to his feet.
It was too late.
He had only made it to his knees when the DITV, impatient to be on its way, jumped forward, smashed the cable deep into the ice, and rolled directly over Robert Pallaso, beginning with his knees and ending with half his skull.
He was crushed to a pulp in an instant.
Eric stood motionless for a long moment, frozen in horror, then dropped to his knees and screamed—a sound of absolute, inarticulate anguish as he stared at the pieces of his friend’s body splattered on the tunnel walls. The DITV had already disappeared into the deep tunnel, unaware and unconcerned about what it might have done. The asset loss would be logged in Vector5 files; Eric would be moved to another team, and he would continue to work until he, too, was no longer of any use. There would be no funeral, no service, no obituary. Vector5 would just…continue.
Eric couldn’t stop screaming. He couldn’t see anything but the crushed body of his friend.
One of the soldiers—the one who had shouted at him earlier—stepped close behind Eric and buried the muzzle of his weapon in the nape of his neck. The soldier knew the protocol. There was no room for mourning. The mission was greater than any one man.
“Get up,” he said.
Tears streamed from Eric’s eyes. He didn’t rise.
“Get up,” the soldier said, and before Eric could respond, looped an arm around the scientist’s neck, pulled him roughly to his feet, and dragged him, struggling, into the security shed at the edge of the Ops Bay.
The moment he was inside, he dropped him on the floor and said, “Get yourself together before you’re locked up.”
Protocol 7 Page 33