Dry Ice (11 page)

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.”

Greg said nothing, and didn’t change his expression of cool indifference.

“Even after they passed BSR, no one warned them about the weather, so she didn’t turn back or divert to Neumayer or SANAE. And guess what else? Since no one knew they were coming, we had to bust our asses to get out there and plow the runway in time. They all could have been killed a dozen times over.” Nik fixed a hot gaze on Greg’s face. “What gives?”

“The flight was canceled,” Greg replied stiffly.

“Really?” Nik feigned surprise. “Someone should have told the pilot.”

“Yes, someone should have.”

Kicking the door shut behind him with a move better suited to a longshoreman than a Beacon Hill Brahmin, Nik stepped into the room, moved the files Greg deliberately kept stacked on the room’s lone guest chair, and sat down. He slouched with his ass perched on the front edge of the chair, knees wide apart, arms refolded across his chest. His dark eyes glittered and everything about him bespoke aggression.

“Care to share what cargo was so important that it had to be delivered this long after the no-fly deadline passed?” he asked, his voice dripping with acid. “Or should I make that
who
was so important?”

“You’ll be informed at the appropriate time.”

“I’m second in command, Greg. I want to know why Tess Beauchamp just walked through our doors.”

Greg stiffened. “Might I remind you, Nik, that if it hadn’t been for me, you would be writing sleek algorithms for people who trade weather derivatives on Wall Street, instead of developing code that can alter weather systems. Yet you have the nerve to behave like this, to question me. I think you’ve forgotten your place.”

“Hell, yes, I’ll question you. Looks like I should have done it more often. And ‘my place’ isn’t somewhere in the backroom with the boys, Greg. As assistant director, ‘my place’ is right here with you. So tell me what the hell is going on?”

“As I said, you’ll be informed in due time. Surely you have better things to do than harass me.”

Nik adjusted his slouch to a cockier angle. “Can’t think of any.”

“Nik—”

“From what little I’ve heard, that was a hell of a storm they flew through, Greg.” Nik’s voice had dropped so low that it met Greg’s ears and went not a millimeter further. “Huge winds aloft, seriously low pressure at the surface. Know something else, Greg? I know you did it. I saw what you did when you did it. I just didn’t know why.” He paused. “So what was your goal? Did you want them to divert and be grounded somewhere for a few months, or did you want them to die?”

Greg kept his eyes on Nik’s dark, accusing face, kept his voice steady and calm as he replied, “This conversation is over, Nik.”

Without another word, Nik stood up, turned on his heel, and left the room.

*   *   *

Other than enduring the flight from hell and the humiliation of climbing out of the plane on legs that could not support her weight, Tess’s reintroduction to the Ice had been pretty much what she expected. The blast of frigid Antarctic air that assaulted her the instant the aircraft’s door opened was the same; even inside the cavernous hangar, the wind was laden with snow that had strafed her like spray from a pellet gun. Her breath froze into a frosty ring around the mouth opening of her balaclava. The extreme dryness of the air had made her eyes sting and then water. The resulting tears on her eyelashes had turned instantly to crystals.

Antarctic bling.

She’d spent less than five seconds on the ground before being hauled upright and shoved into the huge tracked vehicle that had pulled up closest to the plane. Moments later, she’d discovered it was Nik who was playing host. She’d known it was him from the first word out of his mouth. That deep voice with the JFK overlay was one of a kind.

But Nik had disappeared upon arrival at the installation while she’d been hustled off to the clinic. Now, after being checked out by the curious but quite unamused base doctor, and made to drink a pint of Gatorade, she’d been released into the wilds of the TESLA habitat.

As warm welcomes go, this one sucks.

She headed up the tight, circular staircase outside the clinic door. At the top of the stairs, Tess paused to get her bearings. She’d studied the layout and photographs of TESLA, but she still wasn’t quite prepared for the real thing. For openers, the installation looked nothing like any other polar research station she’d ever been in—and she’d set foot in most of them. From the outside, TESLA looked like a short stack of white pancakes separated by squatty wedding-cake pillars—not unlike other recently built stations with similar space-agey designs. It was the inside that set TESLA apart from the rest.

The interior held no hint of the usual stripped-down, bare bones, government-issue economy that inhabitants of other stations accepted as their lot because of cost and logistics. Even the new Belgian station, hailed as state of the art when it opened, was as inviting inside as an unfinished basement.

But from the first step beyond the ready room, it was apparent that neither cost nor logistics had been an issue in the design of TESLA. There was no open ductwork anywhere, no visible plywood or unfinished walls, no industrially spare furniture designed for functionality and built to take a beating. In fact, nothing about the place was the slightest bit utilitarian. In contrast, the lounge she entered at the top of the stairs resembled a public room of an elite, old-fashioned boarding school. Tess felt like she’d wandered onto the set of a period film instead of the world’s newest, most high-tech polar research station.

The walls were paneled in what looked like real wood. Wing chairs and deep couches upholstered in rich fabrics sat in small clusters around polished tables. The furniture was elegant, solid, comfortable, and anything but institutional. Heavy draperies lined much of the exterior wall, presumably covering the continuous flow of windows that encircled each level. The floors were bamboo, stained dark and highly polished, and covered with thick Oriental-style carpets that looked like the real deal. The walls sported real art—some photographs obviously taken on site as well as paintings that could easily belong in a museum.

The atmosphere was one of studious calm. The presence of a real fireplace burning cheerily in the corner took her by surprise, but underscored the room’s overall warmth and comforting coziness.

At the moment, the sitting room resembled a frat house on a Sunday morning, minus the smell of stale beer. Every person who was on the flight was present. She was apparently the last to join the group. Some of the crew were asleep, sprawled on the comfy-looking sofas or slouched in the wing chairs. A few sat at a card table, their heads resting on folded arms. The remaining ones were still upright, sucking on fresh mugs of coffee. One of the crew caught her eye and motioned to a tray on one of the tables, which held several insulated carafes and clean mugs.

“So, do you like it better than McMurdo?”

Her heart lurched at the low voice murmuring an inch from her ear. She spun around.

“Nik,” she said, letting out a hard breath, “please don’t do that. I’m still kind of jumpy from the flight.” She studied the good-looking, dark-haired, dark-eyed, not-quite-as-tall-as-she-was guy standing there wearing faded Levi’s and a hot-pink, short-sleeved Polo golf shirt. He was eying her just as thoroughly and apparently liking what he saw just as much.

You’ve aged well, Niky. Really well.

“Sorry.” He smiled. “It’s been a long time, Tess. How are you? You’re looking good.”

His smile was still pretty potent and, before she could stop herself, she brushed some loose hairs from her forehead, then tucked a few more behind her ear. “Thank you.”

He laughed. It was a nice, familiar sound. Coming from a nice, familiar face. That sat atop nice shoulders and a trim, in-shape body that was a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t been buff at Gakona. There hadn’t been time or a place to work out. Clearly, there were both at TESLA.

His nice face and body report directly to you, Tess. So forget about it.