“Slocum say so?” Dred whispered in case any of the men crowding past decided to eavesdrop. The boys hunched over their bowls at a mess hall bench. Drilling would commence within the hour.
“Nah, nah, Slocum’s pal, Kowalski. I heard him gabbing to someone in the radio shack. Heh, probably your grandfather, or somebody else back home.” Crabbe glared at his empty bowl as if it had slighted him. Despite his rawboned frame, he could out-eat any three roughnecks in camp. “What’s more, it may be a mate to another one they found six months ago in the Atlantic, off the coast of New England.”
“
There’s
some scuttlebutt. Doesn’t sound like anyone has explored it yet . . . ”
“Too deep. Our subs can’t descend without getting crushed.”
Dred didn’t argue the point. Sword Enterprises seeded disinformation among its own ranks as a matter of protocol. R&D had built various robots and at least one experimental submarine capable of withstanding the deepest oceanic pressure. If the Atlantic structure existed (and who could say?) and hadn’t been breached, it bespoke of skullduggery or mysterious possibilities, mostly unpleasant.
Crabbe pushed away from the table. “I have to blast off for the site. See you in a bit?”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
POLE OF COLD
Macbeth dreaded entering Dreamtime. A fragment of his waking self inevitably calved from its subconscious and wandered at loose ends. Mother once said it was the influence of Isis, whose constellation had ascended the evening of his conception. He should learn to manipulate the phenomenon.
In this lately recurring nightmare, he was a withered gray caricature of himself, yet no wiser. He and Dr. Amanda Bole (why couldn’t he at least dream of Dr. Bravery?) passed through galleries of the vault that housed Big Black’s mainframe. The vault, a huge, partially worked cavern three quarters of a mile beneath Sword Enterprises HQ, connected to a subterranean cave system that extended through the roots of the Catskills. One gallery hosted a series of upright metal tubes with thick glass portholes. An indistinct figure floated inside each tube, suspended by murky fluid. Rising and falling voices chanted Latin.
Dr. Bole frightened Mac, awake or dreaming. He hadn’t decided why, except that sometimes when he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, she resembled someone else. She was pale, albeit not unhealthy any more than a daylight-shunning salamander is unhealthy; her brows were heavy, her features somewhat coarse, reflective of a tribe much nearer the common primordial bog, and her knuckles were large as a boxer’s. Thick of waist and thigh, her awkward gait and empty smile suggested an ageless, predatory creature, either torpid or exercising restraint as she moved among the herd. She smelled faintly of chlorine and saltwater.
“Did Uncle Andronicus murder my brothers?” Mac said. He hadn’t considered the possibility in a long while and it snuck up and pounced upon him from the gloom of his subconscious.
“Isn’t that a question for your father? Or Mr. Nail?”
“Dad and Mr. Nail aren’t here.”
“Curiosity skinned the cat and boiled it in pitch. Even if I revealed the truth, it would only place you in jeopardy. Further jeopardy, that is.”
“Surely you’ve brothers or sisters.” Mac tried to make his eyes large and earnest.
Dr. Bole’s frown softened. “My brother is dear to me. He chose to manifest masculine gender traits. I finally understand his motives. Male/female gender paradigms complement our relationship in surprising ways.”
“Er, I’m happy for you?”
“Andronicus hunted the twins like wild pigs. He ran the boys to ground and slaughtered them as one does if one is an unadulterated psychopath. He copulated with their corpses, field dressed them, and roasted their guts over a fire. Your uncle would render likewise unto you if afforded the opportunity.”
“Does he hate us so much?” Mac said. “Could our own blood harbor such villainy?”
She laughed incredulously and walked on.
A brightly lighted operating theater occupied the far end of the gallery. Arthur Navarro sat naked in an iron chair, manacled hand and foot. He recognized Mac, Mac’s decrepitude notwithstanding dream logic.
“Don’t let her do this to me,” the boy said. He flexed mightily against the chains and then collapsed with a groan.
“I’m sorry—” Mac was stricken with renewed grief at the sight of his deceased friend.
“Hush, Macbeth,” Dr. Bole said. “He has no memory of what happened in the barn. Arthur, that’s quite enough. You’re the culmination of an eons-old breeding program.” Dr. Bole cupped Arthur’s chin in her splayed fingers. “Head high, son. Function over form. Now, be a good lad and fulfill your function in service to your betters. What are your plans once we’ve restored you completely?”
Arthur said, “I’m forsaking engineering for chemistry. My father will cry a river. He prefers the brute applications of scientific inquiry.”
Big Black said through a speaker,
The Pole of Cold is reorienting. I await.
Arthur’s flesh blistered and melted. “This is false, Mac! This is false! Save me! Come into the dark! Cross the threshold!” He began to scream.
The Dreamtime program ended. Dr. Bole, Arthur Navarro, and the entire vault dissipated. The Latin chant severed, mid-utterance. Mac came awake violently. He was alone in the tent as morning light illuminated the screen. After taking a few moments to compose himself, he dressed and went outside. His program had run long—workers were already done with breakfast and hard at morning duties. Three teams of Malamutes receded to tiny silhouettes against the southwestern rim of the glacier—the drill crew headed to the excavation site.
“There you are, lazybones,” Nestor said. The older man wore a wolverine fur hat, fur-lined aviator jacket, wool pants, a .45 revolver, a Bowie Knife, and mukluks. He tossed Mac a greasy parcel of butcher paper. “Figured you’d need a sandwich. That camp cook of yours, Elkhart—?”
It took Mac a moment to collect his wits and put on a genial expression. “Eklund. Rockford Eklund. Everybody calls him Swedey. He comes from Anchorage.”
“Whomever. He’s a dish. Although, I can’t vouch for his culinary skills. Needed a hacksaw to cut the Salisbury steak.”
“Gee, thanks, Uncle. Don’t get your heart broken. The way he cooks, Swedey is probably a Zircon mole.”
“Let me worry about my heart and various parts. By the way, I need to get your opinion on a small matter.” Nestor led him behind the generator shack. He lifted a frost-rimed burlap bag from atop a diesel drum. Frozen blood patched the fabric. “Three guesses what’s inside.”
“A bowling ball or a severed head.” Mac opened the bag and confirmed the latter. The contorted, half-frozen face belonged to a stranger. Unremarkable, except upon pulling back the eyelids, he noted pupils and irises were discolored and deformed into star patterns. Certain birth defects and diseases acted upon the body similarly. He’d seen the same, if only for an instant, in Arthur Navarro’s eyes moments before his friend died.
“Caught him slinking around your tent last night,” Nestor said.
“He meant to tuck us in, I bet.” Mac chuckled nervously.
“That would explain the jar of ether I found in his pocket.”
“I don’t recognize him.”
“Everybody is a stranger when you behead them.” He patted the engraved hilt of his knife. “Cadmus Lark. He belonged to the laborers faction. I checked with Kowalski.”
“Doesn’t make sense. Dr. Slocum’s team used the Sword screening process. Awfully thorough. This man must have been deep cover . . . ”
“You said a mouthful. Red spies. Zircon operatives. Damned cultists. It’s a plague.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind. Shall we get moving? Wouldn’t do for your baby brother to steal all the glory.”
Nestor commandeered a snowmobile with a sidecar from Alpha Camp’s modest version of a motor pool. Uncle and nephew jumped onboard and went zinging across the glacier.
STARRY-EYED WONDER
Strings of halogen bulbs lighted the way into darkness.
“This is a dangerous place for children,” Dr. Slocum said for the fourth or fifth time. He, Dr. Bravery, Nestor, Mr. Kowalski, and the Tooms brothers occupied the bench seats of a military sledge descending a smooth bore tunnel into the heart of the glacier. A winch and cable system prevented the sledge from taking off like a rocket; nonetheless, it zipped right along.
“We’re precocious!” Dred waved his mittens in the air until Mac cuffed his ear.
“Arms and legs inside the car, boys,” Nestor said. He mimed pulling his hand into his sleeve and nodded meaningfully toward an oblivious Dr. Slocum. “Whatever could be so dangerous here in God’s country, Doc?”
“Besides bobsledding down a tunnel inside a nominally stable mass of ice?” Dr. Slocum said. “And that we’ve uncovered a relic, undoubtedly of alien origin, which, historically, only ever indicates hostile intentions toward humanity?”
“Sure, besides that.”
“Nothing. Safe as houses.”
Dr. Bravery smiled over her shoulder. “Fret not. I’ll protect you.” Her hair was auburn, her eyes blue, and Mac thought he might be having a heart attack due to all the blood diverting to his erection.
A squad of gray, dented Spetsnaz mercenaries (led by the scarred, yet debonair Captain Ustinov) stood guard at the terminus where the drill carriage parked. This killed Mac’s amorous mood in a hurry. Granddad Danzig adored Spetsnaz brutality and ruthlessness and hired them for special duties at every opportunity. The men hefted boar spears. No one carried a firearm this deep into the treacherous ice, except for Nestor, and he lived to defy common sense and authority. Amethyst clearance tended to inflate a man’s ego. Captain Ustinov winked at Dr. Bravery. The gesture put Mac in mind of a crocodile unshuttering the membrane over its eye to size up dinner.
”Truth of the matter, gentlemen, and lady, five days ago we accessed the natural cavern where our anomaly resides.” Dr. Slocum waited for a challenge or recrimination. None were forthcoming. He harrumphed and said, “Security precaution. Strange goings-on around camp lately. I needn’t explain the highly sensitive nature of this operation. Zircon or Vermeer, or any of those devils, would risk much to get their filthy claws on extraterrestrial technology.”
“Nope,” Nestor said. “I think we’re on board.”
Dr. Slocum proceeded through a narrow side passage into the aforementioned cavern and to the rim of an abyss. Cargo netting festooned the blue-green walls. More cold-burning lights dotted the netting. Icicle stalactites the circumference of trees descended from the cavern roof. Technicians bundled like Eskimos monitored a suite of laboratory equipment stationed in the lee of a canvas pavilion. The pavilion rested perilously near the ledge. Seventy or so feet farther on, a dark ziggurat rose from a cauldron of fog. An object made of dark metal, possibly a gyroscope, was mounted at the flattened pinnacle of the structure. Daredevil Telemachus Crabbe had strung a rope bridge across the chasm and affixed it to crenellations running along the penultimate tier. More silver-clad techs crept across the surface of the ziggurat itself, taking samples and measurements.
Mr. Kowalski said, “Fifteen stories. Forged of a metal alloy of unknown origin. The base is embedded in a plinth of solid rock. There is an opening directly across from this spot on the north face. No personnel have breached the structure.” He inclined his head toward Nestor with vague deference. “We delayed in honor of your presence.”
“I assume you’ve a timeline for the initial breach,” Nestor said. “The sooner the better from where I’m standing.”
“The survey team will be assembled and dispatched tomorrow morning, pending your approval,” Dr. Slocum said.
“I advise another sweep of the surface before ingress,” Mr. Kowalski said.
“What is it that you
do
here, Mr. Kowalski?” Dr. Bravery regarded the ziggurat and toyed with her black and white checkered scarf.
Mac, normally an astute observer of his surroundings, realized that over the past two weeks he hadn’t paid a lick of attention to Mr. Kowalski besides briefly acknowledging his existence. The man was about as exciting as tapioca—thin, slick hair, a round, inoffensive face, average build and weight. Middle management to the hilt.
“Mr. Kowalski is a consultant,” Dr. Slocum said. “May I direct your attention to data we’ve acquired from our initial external mapping forays?”
“Data-schmata. Is it active?” Dr. Bravery said.
“Quite astute, Dr. Bravery. Readings suggest the device is dormant. You will note I refer to it as a device. Our spectrometers detected fluctuating background radiation. My best guess is we are looking at a machine and it houses a reactor core or its approximation.”
“What sort of machine?” Nestor said. He sounded uninterested, which Mac knew meant the opposite.
“I’d hazard it’s a weapon. Possibly also a communication array. Further analysis is required. The initial information argues heavily against this device’s existence. Carbon-dating the ice and the bedrock indicate it arrived or was constructed eons prior to the formation of this glacier. I’ll warrant that if it’s an alien artifact, it may be composed of material sufficiently durable to resist natural forces. The rock it’s embedded in should be abraded, perhaps scraped away entirely . . . ”
“The ziggurat periodically emits a pulse,” Dr. Bravery said. “A force shield, or bubble. Thus the background radiation.”
“Precisely,” Dr. Slocum said.
“Hmm, perhaps a gander at this data of yours is in order,” Nestor said.
As the adults clustered around the laboratory station, Dred pulled Mac aside. “This is our chance.”
“Our chance? Dred, why are you smiling?”
“I’m not. This is my expression of fear.” Dred gripped his brother’s arm and met his gaze. He lowered his voice. “Slocum is wrong. It ain’t a radio tower, and it ain’t a weapon. It’s something else.”
“Agreed. However, that may be a distinction lacking a difference. Did you dream of Arthur too?”
“I also dreamed about Dad.” Dred nodded toward the ziggurat. “He says we gotta go in or we’re worm food.”
“So does Arthur.”
“It’s the only way to fix this mess.”