by Ryder Stacy
Tinglim eyed Rockson appraisingly before he spoke. His eyes caught the glow of the orange flames. “You were right about the skis,” Tinglim admitted. “With my experience, I should have won. When this trek is over, I’d like to race you again—this time I too will wear short skis.”
“Ah, but you forget,” answered Rockson. “By then I, too, will be experienced, and you’ll still lose.”
At that a twinkle came to Tinglim’s eye, then both laughed. The tension was broken. And Rockson knew that from this time on, he’d have no trouble with his command.
Detroit, having completed the divvying up of the winnings, skiied over to join Rockson and Tinglim. He looked disappointed.
“What’s the matter?” asked Rockson. “You didn’t bet against me, did you?”
“I got so busy taking bets that I forgot to place one myself,” Detroit groaned.
“I’ve got something to cheer you up,” said McCaughlin coming up behind Detroit. He displayed one of his winnings—a large bottle of Mugatawny brandy. “I propose a drink for all,” McCaughlin said cheerily. “Here’s to snow.”
It was time to go!
Rock told Tinglim to take the lead. Rockson’s sled followed Tinglim. Scheransky was next. He had charge of the sled with the antimatter detector. Robinson brought up the rear.
“Mush, mush, you huskies,” Tinglim yelled, snapping the whip over his team. The dogs surged forward.
The sleds crept forward, then, meeting little resistance to the snow, leapt forward. Chen managed to grab hold of the trail handles and slide along behind his sled on his steel skis. “It sure beats the hell out of traveling by ’brid,” he yelled to Detroit when the black Freefighter caught up and pulled alongside. “But hang on tight!”
It was phenomenally clear. Galaxies of stars could be seen and the moon shone down like a guiding beacon. It would be many hours yet before a belt of orange on the southeast horizon heralded the barely rising sun. It was a cold minus-twenty-six degrees Fahrenheit. But all were rested and well dressed. The sleds on the unbeaten track swayed and whispered over the snow. From the front of the snow parade came Tinglim’s low, hoarse voice grunting at his dogs. Every now and then one of the dogs would let out a howl like a wolf, sending shivers down the spines of Rock and his crew.
The run began with enthusiasm. The men laughed and joked. Archer played around so hard he almost lost control of his sled. But the good spirits died down after a few hours. It had grown windier and the effort of talking had become too much. Besides, the warm air of their breath had a tendency to condense on their faces and turn to ice.
Mile after mile, Rockson kept his mutant senses on full alert. He could see Tinglim’s sled to the front of him over the trails of his own dogs. His feet were beginning to feel numb, but it wasn’t only the wind and cold that took his breath away. It was the awesome beauty of the northern landscape. Miles of snow in every direction looked like oceans or deserts turning purple, now pink, then orange, and finally gold with the glow reflected from the northern lights above. Snow hares could be seen sitting with their ears pricked alert, sitting motionless on the hills. Once he saw a caribou raise its regal antlered head to gaze at them briefly before returning to feed on lichens hidden by the snow. In the distance he could see some dark shapes. Mountains, indistinct, hard to make out. Clouds had appeared in the night with the growing light of the aurora’s multicolored shifting curtain behind them, and began to cast drifting shadows.
Tinglim had told Rock that Eskimos had a belief concerning shadows. They believed that man’s soul is separate from the body and that it resides in his shadow. Stormy or lightless days are gloomy to Eskimos because the shadow is not in evidence. The soul has departed and may not return. Rockson had never thought about it before . . . For an Eskimo, the joy of seeing his shadow once again is intoxicating. But for Rockson, shadows meant something else—danger, something that went by night, something unseen but seeing. It was fitting that Killov should escape to hide in the dark of the Arctic’s long night. To crawl into the six-month-long shadow of the earth. What dark thoughts lurked behind the bony mask? What threat for humanity?
“Let me live,” the Doomsday Warrior prayed, “—at least until I’ve finished off Killov—before he destroys the living world and brings on the night forever, a darkness with no shadows and no light.”
Suddenly Tinglim picked up speed. He was going faster and faster. It was all Rockson and his men could do to keep up with the Nara. It seemed as if they were on a runway and were about to take off—when just as suddenly the Eskimo slowed and stopped. The other sleds almost jammed into each other.
“What is it?” asked Rock, somewhat alarmed.
“It’s time for tea,” answered Tinglim. “The dogs need a rest.”
“So do we,” said Detroit. The men were encouraged to take off their skis and stamp their feet to get their circulation going again. Within minutes the tea was ready, heated on the porta-stove. They sat around the heat on pelts.
“Boy, that’s good,” said Chen. The warmth of the tea coursed through their veins, loosening their tongues stiff from the cold. A tale was spun by Tinglim, about the birth of the world from a seal spat up by a polar bear. The Freefighters listened with broad smiles at the drawn-out myth as they sipped from steaming cups. Above, the northern lights burned as if the very sky was on fire.
Rockson noticed with unease that one of the auroral curtains seemed to shape itself like a bony hand and close. Then it was gone.
Fourteen
Colonel Killov tossed and turned in his sleep, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. Rockson, his dreaded enemy, Rockson, coming at him with a huge knife, holding a box in the other hand. There was something about the box—its size . . .
The dream. Killov asked, “What is the box for?” He tried to move but was frozen in place. Other figures, other Americans, moved in around the bed and started laughing. Echoing laughter. Rockson stepped forward, his face bending and twisting in a grin.
“Killov, I am removing your head. Putting it in this box. It will be in a museum. You will be famous. You want that, don’t you?”
Killov tried to say “No—no—no—no . . .”
He fell out of bed. His heart was pounding. He gasped for air. Not real. Only a dream. Not real.
When he was a little calmer he sat at his desk and wondered about the nightmare. Maybe it’s a warning from the Dark One. Maybe Rockson is close—on my trail. What can I do? Send someone behind me—a whole platoon? No, I need the men, it could be a false warning propelled on by this awful near-endless night of the Arctic. But I need someone strong . . . Who?
Chrome. Of course. The metal man. The killing machine who had single-handedly disposed of ten guards at the Idaho missile base from which the missiles were taken. He was the one. He owed Killov something. His life. The life Rockson had taken from him. The life Killov’s scientists had brilliantly restored. An experiment in cyborg creation that had partially succeeded. Chrome was too dangerous, too unpredictable to have along anymore. Chrome was so menacing, so fearful looking, that even Killov was afraid to see him alone. For the man had no real features or head for that matter. He had been an S.S. Commando in Von Reisling’s Nazi army, and when Von Reisling had died, the special Commando had become Killov’s to command—if he could. Killov had used him well, pitting Chrome against many. His face had been blown off by an American rocket in the battle of Forester Valley. An experimental operation had been performed. An operation that put together the mutilated pieces of Commando Gunter, to create Chrome. Science had fashioned a new face and skull out of chrome steel, shiny and impenetrable, to encase his brain and mouth and throat. He didn’t talk much, but he still took orders. For now.
Killov sat there on the edge of his bed for a long time, feeling the gentle roll of the trailer over the ice and snow before he decided: Chrome would be a one-man patrol a hundred miles behind. He’d be given enough food and ammo to keep alive, if he could hunt up a meal now and then. The othe
r soldiers didn’t like him around anyway. He was a born killer devoid of any comradely instincts. He would sit perfectly still and just watch them all play cards or talk, his unblinking reconstructed eyes following any movement around the area.
It would be a morale booster to be rid of him. Killov ordered his aide to bring Chrome to him.
A half-hour later, the metal man stood before Killov’s desk.
“Chrome,” said Killov through his thin lips, “your mission is to drop back behind us and intercept and destroy any pursuers. I don’t expect any pursuers but I’ve learned to never underestimate the Freefighters. You are to plant booby traps, mines. I suggest that there are several places behind us—unstable rock formations, glacial buildups—that could be rigged with small explosive charges. They should be set to go off if someone passes below.”
Chrome’s lips of metal parted, and a vibrating tone that sounded more like an icy computer than a man said, “It will be done. I have longed for the opportunity to leave the emotional rabble you call your troops behind. They complain and worry. I do neither. It is my pleasure to seek out the enemies of the Soviet State, for you, Killov. The World Soviet must not be ruled by weaklings. I have anticipated your order and have modified the Dragunov-II sniper rifle for greater power. I will carry that and the explosives with me. I will range far and wide behind you, seeking out and destroying any who follow. As you know, I am impervious to cold. I will function. When shall I return?”
Killov feared this metal man. And he was sure he said the right thing when he replied, “Never. Never return. Keep seeking out those who would oppose me. Keep heading south, into the United States itself, if you do not find my enemies at my heels. I order you to do this for I believe in your power. Fulfill your destiny—kill.”
The metal face stared impassively for a moment at Killov. Although the KGB leader had had a pistol loaded with special high-explosive bullets trained on the metal man from beneath his desk for the entire interview, Killov wondered if the bullets would be enough, should he not like his orders.
Chrome, his impassive chrome-steel head not showing any emotion, said, “I accept the order of my superior.”
Equipment was prepared for him and with his long-range Dragunov sniper rifle and infrared scope, explosives, climbing rope, and skis, he was sent off.
Killov was relieved when he was gone. He didn’t like the way the man’s yellow synthsteel eyes stared at him, nor the way his hands kept clenching in immense steel fists.
Let someone follow me now, the KGB commander thought. Let them come up upon Chrome and try to reason with the metal-faced stranger. Let them plead with him. Killov laughed. And then he started coughing. He popped a few arthoval pills and fell back in his recliner. He shouted out an order for the caravan to resume its pace forward toward the Arctic Circle.
Fifteen
Tinglim passed Rockson the steaming cup of Eskimo tea. They were cold, but thawing out, sitting Indian-style around the small fire made from dry lichen. Tinglim’s crude map was on his lap.
“That mountain is called Mount Draco,” Tinglim said pointing to a single upside-down V that was burned into the seal-pelt map.
“The X is my village,” he explained, putting his wide forefinger on the lower left corner. “So we’ve made good time. Judging from our speed, and the number of hours we’ve traveled, we’re about here,” he said, tracing the finger directly north from the X to a spot one third of the way to Mount Draco and near a long, snaking line.
“What river is that?” asked Rockson, beginning to get the hang of the crude map.
“That’s the Draco River. It flows directly from Mount Draco’s glacier which is approximately there,” said Tinglim, pointing to a line drawn along the river’s bank at its north end. “There is the danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, periodically the glacier surges, advancing without warning. When a glacier decides to move, it moves. The last time it surged, it crossed the Draco River valley and blocked the river, forming a lake. The next time it surges, it could wash out the ice dam. The resulting floods would be awesome.”
“Why can’t we cross the glacier itself?—above the breaking point.”
“Because the hills would be too steep for the dogs. Just below the breaking point a surge shattered the ice into a hellish landscape. It would be like ants trying to cross the Himalayas. We’d never get the sleds and dogs across. The way directly north is blocked by the highest mountains in the Yukon Range. Our only hope is to follow the river, which should be frozen solid.
“Once across, we’ll be about a day’s journey from the Sasquatch Forest,” he said, pointing to a group of triangles designating trees etched into the map. “Beyond that is Ice City,” the Nara chief finished, pointing to the X beyond the trees.
“The area beyond the forest, on the other side of Ice City, is blank because I don’t know what is there,” Tinglim said, shrugging his shoulders. “But there is a legend that evil spirits guard the place and that it is a no-man’s land from which none returns.” Tinglim rolled up the pelt.
Rockson could see that there would be no further discussion regarding the blank area, and let the matter drop. As they both stood up and started to walk back to their sleds Rockson asked, “You did say the Sasquatch would be hibernating, right?”
“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about them. They usually begin hibernation about this time. But I can’t guarantee that. The aurora seems to enrage them, and keeps them awake, and there’s been a lot of it, as you have seen lately.
“Yes,” Rockson replied, “But that same aurora will help us see our way when the moon is below the horizon.”
“One more thing,” added Tinglim, putting on his skis. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but now I have to. If the Draco River is frozen solid, we can just sail across. But there are geysers of hot water underneath that are just as unpredictable as the glacial surges. It can cause monstrous crevasses, or thin ice areas. From now on you will have to pay close attention to the surface ice when we ride. The crevasses can come up very suddenly. It is not something that should be approached in darkness,” Tinglim added ominously.
A blanket of snow was beginning to fall as the party remounted their sleds. A cold wind from the Arctic north blew right in their faces as the dogs started forward once again. The soft powdery substance accumulated quickly, making the sleds drag, impeding the movement of the dogs. Rock knew that this was only the beginning of things to come. Further north the weather would be even more fickle. This flurry could become a blizzard, and with a constant wind could make snow drifts high enough to bury them forever.
The outline of the mountain grew larger. Low-slung clouds masked its full height with tendrils of wispy fog. Then Mount Draco’s peak became visible above the twisting veils. It was as if the mountain was a thing alive. Breathing. That mountain was going to try to take a life. Rock was sure of it.
The wind picked up and seemed to penetrate Rockson’s bones despite the warm clothing. The snow made it ever more difficult to make out Tinglim’s sled over the tails of his dogs. The brief “day” dawned for an hour and then was gone.
The sky turned pink and then purple.
The snow blinded Rockson, stinging his face. It seemed to penetrate even the superfine stitching of his gear and attack him. It grew more difficult to breathe the icy air. Rock momentarily looked back to see how the other sleds were doing, but he could see no further than about fifteen feet behind him. And when he turned his head forward Tinglim had vanished into the wall of white. Rockson strained his eyes to find the Nara but he had disappeared in the blinding snow. Rock barely made out something lying directly in his path—it was like a lake of pure black. He was within feet of it when he realized with horror what it was. The Doomsday Warrior swung sharply away in an instant and brought his sled up into the wind. He yelled, “STOP!” at the top of his lungs, hoping that the men were near. He was standing on the edge of a chasm—he was within inches of
a yawing black, bottomless abyss. The chasm was broad enough and deep enough to comfortably swallow the entire expeditionary force and have plenty of room for more.
“Thank God,” Tinglim said from behind his left shoulder. Rock jumped, startled to see the Eskimo. He’d thought for a moment that Tinglim had been the trek’s first victim.
“My damned lead dog went after something to the right. It only took a second to separate me from the rest of you,” Tinglim said. “Up here, disaster, death, is always just a second away. We must now proceed with utmost caution,” Tinglim went on. “Where there is one crevasse are others. It is imperative that each of you follow in single file, directly in my tracks.”
Tinglim started skiing parallel to the crevasse in front of his sled. Using a staff he kept poking through the snow to see if there was solid ground underfoot. The dogs perked up their ears and took care that each paw hit solid ground. But fearing the loss of a dog, they were unharnessed. Humans became the muscle power to move the vehicles. The dogs, reined together, trailed, watching. After a mile or so the miserably cold men came to the end of the crevasse and could continue on their way. But then they came upon a veritable field of smaller cracks, many hidden under the most recent snow. A jammed skid could destroy a sled. But the loads were toward the middle of the sleds. Again and again, they were able to tip the front end of a sled up in the air until it was once again over solid ground; as the sled spanned the crack, the driver would leap across the crevasse and pull it on. This all made tough work—yards felt like miles. At times there were comparatively long distances between cracks, and the men wanted to take a breather, but Rockson pushed them on, reminding them that there was very little time left. They’d have to take advantage of every day of endurable weather.