The Nexus Colony

by G. F. Schreader

  Dismounting, Lightfoot moved toward the center of the camp where the remaining sleds were neatly stored side by side. As he approached them, slowly they began to move apart, almost as if by magic some invisible hand was re-arranging them to make a wide opening in their midst. Mike is going to be mad at you, he thought to whoever was doing this. The subtle wind was blowing against his face. It must be the wind that is moving the sleds.

  Its entry into the dimensional reality of the human world was instantaneous, and had the other two men been able to coordinate their sensory perception, their minds would have interpreted a strangely configured craft appearing over the glacial field outside the perimeter of the camp. As the alien vessel slowly settled—its molecular structure re-aligning the energy fields which had been disrupted by its momentary journey through inter-dimensional space and time—it floated gently like a leaf, back and forth, back and forth, swaying in complete contradiction to the gusting winds that unexpectedly were arising.

  John Lightfoot saw it. Unafraid, he watched the saucer-shaped craft gain stability, then suddenly come to life as the row of lights on the upper cupola began to blink a multi-colored array. Red… green…blue…white…The lights repeated the same sequential pattern. Then he noticed the abrupt change of the odor around him. He didn’t know what this new odor was, but it was offensive and he didn’t like it at all.

  It moved silently toward him. The wind, which was now blowing strongly, did not seem to be affecting the vessel. The wind gusts were pushing him off balance, and he struggled to hold his ground and to keep from falling down. Struggling to keep afoot, he couldn’t take his eyes off the strange vessel. It looked as if the craft was animated, moving stealthily through the air like a ghostly apparition silhouetted against the backdrop of a desolate sky quickly changed from blue to billows of ominous charcoal gray clouds.

  As it came to a stop directly over him, the wind abruptly ceased, and John Lightfoot stood in the midst of an unusual warm flow of air surrounding him. It reminded him of being in the woods on a summer day when the rays of warm sunlight come down through the forest canopy. It was a wonderful feeling, and he looked upward through the blue mist that was now engulfing him.

  Floating. The sensation of floating through the air registered in his brain. He looked around to see if he could still observe his friends up on the ridge. He was now high above the campsite. Yes. They are still there. They’re waving. Waving good-by.

  As silently as it had begun, it was ended. John Lightfoot waved back. That was the last thing he would remember on the Mulock Glacier.

  Chapter 13

  FEBRUARY 10, 20--

  PROJECT COMMAND CENTER

  GAITHERSBURG, MARYLAND

  12:00 NOON EST

  “I really don’t know why Willard didn’t want to come to lunch with us,” Rula Koslovsky commented, visibly annoyed that their colleague had opted to stay back at the house.

  The sport utility vehicle, driven by Maggie, turned out onto the main road and headed toward the Beltway. She had made lunch reservations for the five of them at a place recommended by a lot of her friends. Nothing had happened since yesterday, and Korbett decided that they were all going to take a few hours for lunch at one of the more expensive eateries along the main artery. His expense account could use a little damage, Maggie rationalized. Korbett hardly ever took advantage of the taxpayers’ money, and Maggie decided that today was a good day to do it. The weather was crystal clear and sunny despite the temperature being in the teens.

  “I’m glad he didn’t come,” Maislin replied. “The man’s got horrible table manners.”

  “Would have been too crowded anyway,” Vandergrif grumbled from the back seat, his huge shoulders scrunched in the middle between Korbett and Maislin. Rula, who was a large woman, was graciously maneuvered into the front seat by Maggie to ride “shotgun.” As luck would have it, they hadn’t gotten a mile away from the house when Korbett’s cellular phone rang. It was Darbury. Could they come back? What for? Two messages just came over. Very interesting.

  “How interesting?” Korbett asked, knowing they had to be careful not to compromise what was being said because of the non-secure cellular phone connection. Maggie turned down the radio and everyone tried to listen, but the road noise was too much and all they could hear was the metallic twang of Darbury’s voice.

  “Well,” Darbury answered, “two messages. I think you ought to know about it right away, but obviously I can’t talk about them here for security reasons.”

  Way to go, Darbury, Korbett thought, rolling his eyes. Why don’t you just announce what it is, you dumb cluck.

  Korbett sighed. “Is this an emergency, Willard? Because if it isn’t, we’d like to eat some lunch first.”

  There was a moment of silence. Everyone snickered as they tried to visualize Darbury making a decision the way he fidgeted and pursed his lips. It was rather comical.

  “Well…I guess not. There’s nothing we’re going to do about it at the moment anyway.”

  “Good,” Korbett snapped back, relieved that they weren’t going to be turning back. He was as hungry as hell today for some reason, and knew everyone else was as well. “If anything turns up, Willard, you call me back. Okay? If ‘you know who’ calls me…” he was referring to Ted Payne, “…make some excuse that I’m outside or something and call me back right away.”

  “Sure,” Darbury snipped, annoyed that lunch was taking precedent over the two communiqués he was clutching in his hand.

  “Good-by, Willard,” Korbett said, punching the ‘end’ button.

  “What’s up?” Maislin asked.

  “Two messages,” Korbett replied. “That’s all.”

  “Did he say what?” Koslovsky asked.

  “No. Just very interesting, the man said.”

  “Obviously, he had the presence of mind not to say what,” Vandergrif commented.

  “Obviously.”

  Korbett said, “Not an emergency, I’m sure, or else Willard would have been off the wall. But it sounds like we’ve got another snag a-brewing just by the tone of his voice.” Everyone knew Willard was as transparent as hell.

  “Everything is an emergency to that man,” Maislin said.

  “He was right about one thing, though,” Korbett replied. “Nothing we can do about it at the moment anyway. Whatever it is.”

  The restaurant came into view, and a few minutes later they had turned off the highway and into the parking lot, which was quite full.

  “Popular place,” Vandergrif commented, leaning forward to look out the front windshield. “Food must be good. Anybody ever eat here?”

  No one responded.

  “Come on. Let’s get some lunch and relax a bit,” Korbett said, as everyone got out of the truck. “I guess I’d better call Willard back when we get inside to unruffle his feathers.”

  Lunch turned out to be a disaster. The restaurant was jammed. Overcrowded. They had to wait an extra fifteen minutes which really annoyed the hell out of everyone. The service was terrible, the food came out cold, and Korbett never did get the second mug of beer that he had ordered. An hour and forty five minutes later, Maggie pulled the truck back into the basement garage of the house.

  Willard Darbury, in his inimitable impatient fashion, waited like a ‘school-marm’ intent on punishing tardy students. All Darbury needed to say was, what took you so long? when they came through the study door and Eli Maislin probably would have throttled him. Korbett, anticipating the confrontation, quickly diffused it.

  “Sorry we took so long, Willard,” he said, reaching for the one document Darbury was holding out to him. “You should have come along. Nice lunch.”

  Darbury’s lips were pursed, his arms folded across his chest as he clutched the second report.

  “Anybody call?” Korbett asked. “Ted Payne, maybe?”

  “No. Nobody.”

  “Can I see the other one?” Maislin asked casually, walking into the room behind Korbett.

&nbs
p; Darbury walked away toward Korbett, ignoring the request. “Let the General read this one first.” He turned to face everyone. “It’s better all of you read that one first before we discuss this one.”

  Everyone sat down at their usual seats around the table when Korbett motioned to them. After he had digested the contents of the one page report, he passed it around the table where everyone read it, doubling up. To anyone outside this group, Bill Korbett would have appeared to be calm and collective. But everyone sensed his outrage inside. Not about the fact that this photographer—what was his name, John Lightfoot?—had somehow infiltrated the group, but rather that somebody outside the project had authorized this person to be attached to the field team without Korbett’s knowledge. That order hadn’t come from the Oceana theater of operations. It had come right from someone in Washington. Somebody for sure was micro-managing Korbett’s project, and that somebody had to be Ted Payne or one of his cronies.

  Korbett tried to relax his outrage. Better not let this cloud his judgment. The Lightfoot deal was done. The cards were already dealt. He had to play with the hand. Korbett was shaking his head in disgust when Maislin said, “This Lightfoot son-of-a-bitch has been with Abbott since yesterday.”

  “And we’re just now getting the fact reported to us,” Korbett responded.

  “This guy’s been there over twenty four hours,” Vandergrif said. “I can’t believe it. I mean, even with limited communications, we should have known about it.”

  “Believe it,” Koslovsky said.

  “Oh well,” Korbett responded, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I guess somebody didn’t think it too important to tell us about it until now.”

  Darbury, who had remained standing, clutched at the second report. Darbury might be a royal pain in the ass, but Korbett could see in his eyes that the first report was inconsequential to what he was holding.

  As Korbett reached out slowly for the report, he said to the group, “So…now we’ve got nine members on the field team. Guess we’ll have some good pictures for the family album, huh?”

  “Maybe not,” Darbury responded, handing the document to Korbett. “Better prepare yourself for this one.”

  There was another minute of silence as Korbett read the second one page report. As typical, his face showed no emotion or reaction. When he had digested the information, he looked up at Darbury. “I don’t imagine there’s a third report telling us whether Abbott knows about it?”

  “No,” Darbury replied. “How could he know unless we tell him?”

  There were a few more minutes of silence as everyone read the report. Darbury sat down, folding his hands up to his lips, deep in thought. Rula Koslovsky was the last one to read it.

  “This makes thirteen,” she said.

  “More importantly,” Korbett said, “I think we can put some of our speculation to rest. Don’t you agree?”

  That The Visitors were trying to get their attention was no longer speculation. There was no doubt about it. Korbett looked at the report again. Vostok was some five hundred miles from the Mulock Glacier and even farther from McMurdo. This fellow Lightfoot, according to the report, had never set foot in Vostok.

  “It doesn’t mean that all the equipment wasn’t stolen and somehow ended up there,” Korbett offered, even though the report stated that no planes had come in or out of Vostok for thirty six hours before the event. Korbett looked at their faces. “Just thinking out loud.”

  “There’s one more very important twist to this event,” Darbury said, pausing for effect.

  “And…” Korbett responded, coddling Darbury.

  “Look at the frequency the message was transmitted on. Ring a bell?”

  Everyone at the table shook their heads ‘no’.

  Darbury walked over to the grease board where the matrix had the events displayed from the UFO database material. He circled in red the event from 1972 where the Chilean military had recorded two UFO’s that had weakened the 3200 KHz band. “That was the last recorded event in Antarctica until this year, remember?”

  “Coincidence?” Vandergrif offered.

  “I don’t think so,” Darbury answered sarcastically. “They wanted to get our attention. As far as I’m concerned, they got it.”

  “But if they really wanted to get it,” Koslovsky said, “they’d do it out in the field at…” Her words hung in the air like a lead balloon.

  For a moment, no one spoke, the prospect very sobering.

  “I think we’d better consider pulling the team out, Bill,” Maislin said, which was the thought on everyone’s mind.

  “We don’t know what’s going on out there, William,” Koslovsky said. “Eli might be right.”

  Vandergrif said, “If our visitors stole the equipment…which seems quite possible from this report…God only knows what’s happening with the field team.”

  Darbury leaned forward. “Maybe nothing.” They looked up. “Well…it hasn’t been out of the ordinary for them to take things in secret.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out,” Korbett replied.

  There was a moment of silence. Korbett unexpectedly slammed his fist on the table in outrage. “Damn!”

  Koslovsky, trying to soften his frustration, calmly said, “There’s nothing more you can do, William. There really isn’t.”

  “Damn!” he repeated again, getting up out of his chair. “The Department gives me this project and then has somebody else keeping closer tabs on things than I’ve been able to do.”

  “We’re all in this together, Bill,” Maislin said, getting up and giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Maislin walked over to his favorite spot at the bay window overlooking the garden.

  Korbett placed his hands on the table. His voice was soft, resolute, almost defeatist. “We’ll look at one more report from Abbott. Then I’ll make a decision whether to pull them out. I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “Nothing, Bill,” Vandergrif said. “Nothing.”

  “Well,” Darbury said. “I guess they’re lucky in one respect.”

  “What’s that?” Koslovsky asked.

  “At least our visitor friends didn’t take this Lightfoot fellow himself.”

  Chapter 14

  FEBRUARY 10, 20--

  MULOCK GLACIER

  CREVASSE

  1:45 P.M. GMT

  The reverberating echoes of the excavation that had been filling the ice cavern for the past several hours were abruptly silenced. Ruger was several yards away with Abbott moving some of the larger fractured chunks, which had become the routine to clear away the icy debris. They were all tired as hell, and Ruger was about to suggest to Abbott that they call it a day. Both of them noticed the prolonged moment of absolute silence. The discovery, at first, was too unbelievable to comprehend.

  Ruger looked across the distance to see the others crouched together in the wide alcove they had been gouging out for the past several hours. The dig so far had produced nothing but groans of exhaustion and faces of silent complaint about the futility of it all. Their discouragement and disparaging words up to this time dissipated in one incredible moment. Unrecognized by the human element in them all, it was to be the beginning of a new journey. The alien world of The Ice was only the next threshold.

  It had been Grimes’ turn to dig. He pulled away from the wall a huge fractured chunk. The dark, shadowy image was still deeply encased within the solid ice wall, and at first they weren’t even quite sure that what they thought they were seeing was even thinkable.

  Huddling close to the discovery, Allison reached behind her to retrieve the lantern, shining it closely on the ice wall. No one spoke a word. No one believed it possible. Ruger and Abbott, sensing something extraordinary, quickly ceased their activities and huddled next to them.

  Ruger excitedly searched around behind him. “Where’s the small geologist’s hammer?” Grabbing it from across the floor, he gently pushed his way between Grimes and Almshouse.

  Ab
bott grabbed his shoulder. “Be careful, Mike,” he warned softly. “If that’s what it really is, don’t break it off.”

  “I can’t make out if it’s still attached to a body,” Ruger responded.

  “It must be,” Grimes replied. “Or at least the main body looks like it’s still in there.”

  Allison shifted the lantern around, casting different lighting patterns on the ice wall to see if they could get better perception on the image.

  “Try the carbide,” Lisk suggested. But it made no difference.

  “Give me the chisel,” Ruger requested.

  Deftly, Ruger slowly and carefully chipped away at the ice encasing the appendage. Whatever it was attached to, the arm appeared to be extending outward from the main body trunk, although at the moment they couldn’t make out any more than a darkened mass.

  Several minutes passed as Ruger continued to work on removing the ice from around the arm. The only sound was the echoes of steel striking steel. Ruger paused to rest. Even though the arm was still encased in ice, there was no doubt about it. It was definitely a hand with five distinct finger appendages. No one spoke what was on everyone’s mind. Is it, or is it not…human?

  “Don’t chip any more away from the arm,” Abbott ordered. “I want this thing intact. Can we get it out of there intact?”

  “Yeah,” Ruger responded. “Yeah. I think so. But I can’t guarantee it’s still intact inside there.”

  “How much weight can that rig of yours haul?” Abbott asked.

  “About five hundred,” Ruger responded.

  “Think we can come in under that?” he asked, referring to the projected weight of the entire body mass once they dug it out of the wall.

  “We’ll have to,” Ruger replied. “Or else we won’t be able to get it out of here.”

  Abbott fumbled in the gear bag for another hammer and chisel, handing it to Lisk. “Let’s double up and get that thing out of there.”