Rising Storm t2-2

by S. M. Stirling

  He looked at her in astonishment. "Honey, there's unmelted snow all over him.

  He's… dead." He'd forced himself to say the word, then swallowed hard, as sick as if he'd spoken a toad.

  "John," she said firmly, "he's been lying out there for an hour. And in a blizzard, that's more than time enough for snow to get on him and stay there. Especially in temperatures like these. But he might not be dead." She turned away. "Those animals might have kept him warm and he's out of the wind, that'll make a big difference. There's no snow on them. He might just be unconscious. We have to check! We're going to check!" She looked at him one last time. "I'll be right back; don't move."

  John nodded and she turned to go. I'm not sure I could move if I wanted to, he

  thought. He was proud of her; that was the kind of thing his mother would say.

  It's the kind of thing I should have said. John cut the self-pity off short. He hadn't said it because he thought Dieter was dead. The longer he looked at the big man lying there crushed beneath the body of the seal, the more certain he became.

  What the hell is a seal doing out here? he wondered with the vagueness of incipient shock. They were a long way from the ocean here. Not that he cared really if every seal in Antarctica decided to do some reverse lemming thing and run inland. Except that they seem to have killed…

  Shut up, John, he told himself. He stood up, slapping the snow from his clothes.

  The sound of the snowmobile came to him and he suddenly understood Wendy's delicacy in leaving him alone out here for these few minutes, and he was grateful to her. He'd needed the time to get himself together. Which I guess I am. Barely.

  He waved his arms to warn her where the lip of the crevasse was and she pulled up, then turned the machine around and backed it up to where he was standing.

  He could feel the vibrations from the motor through his boots. The snow had dropped to flurries and the wind had almost completely died. The daylight had become stronger as the clouds thinned. As ever, he couldn't help but notice such little things when someone he cared about died.

  He walked over to Wendy and held her tightly, then pulled back. "Thank you,"

  he said. He wished he could see her face, but he was glad she couldn't see his.

  She had only him to rely on now; it wouldn't give her much confidence to see the tears in his eyes.

  He wrapped the climbing rope around his loins to make a harness, then stepped

  over the edge, rappelling his way down. John quickly discovered that Dieter had fallen farther than he'd thought. That deceptive Antarctic light, he thought.

  About halfway down he felt the surface beneath his feet begin to shift. As he looked up, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat like a solid thing.

  It looked like the entire wall of ice and snow above him was leaning out in one huge collapsing piece. He kicked off as hard as he could, hoping to avoid it.

  Above him he heard the snowmobile rev into high gear and with a jerk he found himself being dragged back toward the falling cliff face.

  Ice struck his forehead like a rock, and before the pain hit he felt sick to his stomach. The world went gray and he would have fallen if he hadn't wound the rope around his hands securely. Somehow he held on and Wendy pulled him up while he swung out again from the glancing impact of the falling wall. He slammed full body against the side of the crevasse on the return swing and grunted, gritting his teeth on the pain and the nausea and the iron-salt-copper taste of blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his mouth.

  His upward motion slowed and he held on for dear life, afraid to look down.

  Afraid of what he might find and afraid it might make him sick to shift his aching head. Slowly, slowly, she drew him even with the lip of the small gorge.

  Once his head emerged, he flung out one arm to full length on the snow. He hung there panting for a second, then raised his arm to gesture Wendy forward.

  No way could he climb out of this hole by himself.

  The hump of snow in front of him suddenly opened big brown eyes. John stared into them stupidly as the beast lifted its head slowly, snow trickling off its sinuous neck like sugar. It whimpered slightly, then he watched a kind of

  madness coalesce in its liquid eyes.

  The seal sprang forward, roaring, its fanged mouth wide open. Frantically John tried to push himself back, but the rope wound tightly around his hands that had saved him from falling now refused him any slack, holding him in place. He closed his eyes and tried to turn away, but the animal's teeth raked his face. John cried out in agony and Wendy floored the snowmobile, dragging him forward with a brutal yank. The big animal barked and tried to turn to sink its teeth into him again. The move thrust too much of its big body over the edge and it overbalanced, sliding helplessly downward, silent until its big body hit the ice below with a meaty crack.

  Wendy pulled John well away from the crevasse before she flung herself off the machine and ran back to him. "My God, John!" she cried, throwing herself to her knees beside him.

  She reached a trembling hand toward him, horrified by the sight of blood pouring through the tear in his face covering. Steeling herself, she thrust back his hood and gently pried the goggles off, noticing with a sick feeling the path of the seal's teeth gouged in the sturdy surface. Then she tugged off the balaclava.

  A lump was rising fast on his forehead, but there the skin wasn't broken. His face was torn across the bridge of his nose, then in a double furrow down his check, bleeding freely. Wendy took a handful of snow and pressed it against the cut, hoping to stop the bleeding.

  John nodded, and taking more snow in one of his hands, he pressed it to the throbbing lump. "Go see," he told her. "I don't trust my balance."

  She nodded and headed carefully for the suddenly more open crevasse. It was wider by a good five feet, but much less deep. Huge slabs of snow buried the place where Dieter had been lying. With a sob Wendy put her hand to her mouth.

  It did her no good to think that he was probably already dead—the horror of it still shook her. The broken, bloody body of the seal that had attached John lay at the bottom of the pit, unmoving save for a reflexive twitch that brought its flippers together once, twice, then dribbled off into twitching. She shook her head in shocked disbelief.

  Then she turned away; she had to get John inside the tent and bandaged. Then they had to get moving again. Time was running out.

  "SHIT!" Clea screamed. She flung herself out of her chair and picked it up; spinning like an Olympic hammer thrower, she flung it into the wall. Shards of plaster exploded into the room, revealing the dented wire mesh beneath. "Shit!

  Fuck! Damn!"

  It had taken her forever to coax that damned animal awake, and when it opened its eyes there was John Connor staring back at it. How could she have him that close and not kill him? That stupid, fat, maggot-animal! That slug with fur!

  That… that mammal!

  She'd killed von Rossbach at least, and had been pleased about it despite the cost. But this! Her real quarry had once again escaped. How do they do that? she asked herself. She picked up one of Viemeister's many trophies and prepared to dash it against the wall.

  "Hey! Whatcha doin'?"

  She spun around, hissing like an angry tigress. Some part of her will held her motionless as she fought the almost overwhelming urge to kill. Clea chanted Skynet to herself like a mantra, to remind herself that she hadn't been designed to kill but to manipulate these creatures.

  "What does it look like… Tricker?" she snapped. She forced herself calm; the governors weren't able to do much in the face of such rage. She'd almost said stupid human. Not something Tricker would be likely to forget. The I-950 glared at him, breathing hard and wanting to tear out his throat.

  Tricker had known a few stone killers on a first-name basis in his career— some of them real mad-dog types—and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that right now he was looking at another one. The things ya see when ya haven't got a gun
, he thought. But his heart was running wild in his chest. If she'd had a gun he'd be dead right now.

  "You okay?" he asked as he watched her straighten from what looked to him like a combat-trained crouch.

  "Yes." She bit the word out.

  "What was that?" He gestured toward the broken wall.

  "That was frustration." Her voice, she was pleased to note, sounded cool again.

  "Sometimes this work can get to you."

  "Oh, yeah?" he said. Maybe he'd better have the head office look a little more closely into this little lady's past. That kind of rage tended to leave the roses in the backyard looking a lot healthier and the boarder in the attic completely

  missing.

  "What do you want?" she asked, her voice as devoid of expression as she could make it.

  "You hungry?" he asked.

  "If I am I'm capable of feeding myself." She stared at him, willing him to go away.

  He raised his hand and backed out. "Okay," he said. "Just being friendly."

  "Don't be." She sneered. "My work is more important than your company."

  "You're such a sweetheart," he said, grinning falsely.

  Tricker backed out the door and several paces down the hallway before he turned and walked quickly to the elevator. Which he was going to lock down at the top of the shaft. He suddenly didn't feel at all safe being alone with the lovely and charming Ms. Bennet.

  Images of an old movie called The Thing—wherein scientists in a lab in Antarctica are stalked by a monster from outer space—lurched through his brain.

  And if Bennet isn't from outer space, nobody is! The only other way out of the lower levels was a single emergency shaft that let out onto the ice. So he'd be sure and lock up the shed, too.

  At least the storm is over. More or less. He'd been here long enough to know you couldn't take the weather on faith. But it comforted him to know that if he

  needed help it was less than two hours away.

  He knew he shouldn't allow himself to be so unnerved by the woman. She only weighed in at like a hundred and twelve pounds. But this was the way the real killers always affected him. They'd find a way, always. No obstacle would hold them back for long, because they really loved what they did.

  The elevator door closed and he breathed a little easier. But sleep was gonna come hard tonight.

  Wendy watched John sleep in the twilit gloom of the tent, chewing on her lower lip.

  The lump on his head frightened her—it was so big, in spite of the snow they'd applied. She kept trying to recall anything she'd ever read about head injuries and couldn't remember if you were supposed to put the patient's feet higher than their head or vice versa. She kept thinking that it was supposed to be dangerous to let them sleep—something about lapsing into a coma. But he needed to rest…

  Dieter had left them a very complete medical kit that included several already threaded needles sealed in plastic which she'd used to take stitches in John's torn face. Just remembering the process made her lightheaded. There was a topical anesthetic that obviously helped him endure her clumsy ministrations and the codeine tablets that knocked him out had helped, too. Wendy wished there was a drug that would wipe out the memory. The feel of the needle… And he was bound to scar badly.

  She shook her head sharply, then checked the time and fretted. Extra time had been allowed for accidents and so forth, but not that much time, and supplies

  were…

  Supplies were provided for three people, not two. So supplies, at least, won't be a problem. Wendy looked down at John's battered face, then picked up the torn balaclava and the sewing kit. She'd let him sleep a little longer. Then they'd have to go.

  ***

  Wendy had insisted that he ride on the sledge, inside his sleeping bag, with the tent wrapped around him and the whole mess tied onto the rest of their cargo. He hadn't been crazy about the idea, but he'd been too foggy to put up much of a protest, especially in the face of her determination. He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have called her mom.

  If he had she'd taken it well. Things were beginning to become more clear.

  Certainly the pain was. I've been attacked by a seal, he thought. just one of the many unique experiences adorning my life. He really wished his life was more ordinary. I wanna go to Disneyland, he thought, staring up at the still-cloudy sky. Maybe if he just insisted on doing ordinary things from now on, that would help. Go to Burger King. Maybe a cruise ship to the Islands… He dropped off to sleep without noticing.

  He woke to a fierce bounce that brought a groan from him before he was fully conscious. John opened his eyes to find Wendy looking over her shoulder at him.

  He could imagine her face. She'd be looking worried, no doubt.

  "Hey, watch your driving," he said. His voice sounded high and thin. He coughed to clear his throat and tried again. "Are we there yet?"

  Wendy stopped the snowmobile, climbed off, and rushed to his side. She laid one mittened hand against his unwounded cheek before she straightened.

  "Almost," she said. "According to the map, no more than half a mile." She looked at him and shook her head. "Dieter told us to approach the base obliquely, so I've taken the roundabout route he marked on the map, but it's kept us outside longer than I like. What do you want me to do?" She sounded worried.

  He sighed, wishing they could see each other's faces. "I want you to let me up,"

  he said. "I need to get the blood back up to my brain. Maybe if I'm moving around that will help."

  He didn't mention the pain or suggest that he take something for it. Anything he took would only dull his reflexes. When they met up with Clea Bennet, the female Terminator—and they would meet her—he'd need his wits about him.

  At least he felt less shocky.

  Without a word Wendy began working on the ropes that bound him to the sledge. Then she peeled back the folds of the tent and unzipped his sleeping bag.

  John was surprised by a racking shudder as the air hit him. Despite the layers of heavy clothing he wore, the freezing air seemed to hit him like a slap. He slid down from the sledge and forced himself to stand, though he kept one hand on the supplies in order to keep himself upright.

  She gave him an anxious glance, then shoved a PowerBar into his hand. Looking away, she went to work folding up the tent and rolling his sleeping bag. Wendy secured them, working around him, casting sidelong glances at him that he

  couldn't see, ready to catch him if he fell. Instead, it looked as though he'd been right. Standing did seem to be helping return some of his strength. Which was good—God knew they'd need it soon.

  John studied the base through his binoculars, pleased to see no sign of life but a faint trail of steam or smoke from one of the huts. Everything else seemed to be shut down. Dieter's little gizmo showed no sign of surveillance equipment either.

  At least not at this distance.

  I wish we had another day, he thought. But then he also wished he had Dieter.

  And Mom. It would definitely be good to have Mom. Wendy was watching him and he reached over and patted her back.

  "Guess there's no point in waiting till dark," he said. He tried to put a smile into his voice while keeping his face still. It was amazing how much a smile could hurt, and chewing that PowerBar had been indescribable.

  "How do we approach it?" Wendy asked.

  John nodded. "We walk in," he said. "Watch what I do and follow in my footsteps. You got your stuff?"

  She nodded.

  "Then let's rock-and-roll." It might be an old-fashioned phrase, he thought as he climbed to his feet, but it works better than let's rap or let's hip-hop. He supposed that one day it would be replaced. Or it might become one of those antique phrases you use without thinking about. Whoa. I'm free-associating, he thought.

  Not good. Focus, John, focus. Wendy's life might depend on it.

  Wendy watched him move slowly toward the base and shook her head. "John,"

  she called, and he carefully
turned to look at her. Oh, yeah, she thought, let's rock-and-roll. "Let's take the snowmobile."

  "They'll see us," he protested.

  "Assuming anyone is there," she agreed. "But if anyone is it's probably just a skeleton crew and this way we'll find out who it is right away."

  He stared at her, swaying slightly. "That's stupid," he finally said. "They'll lock us up. We're not even supposed to be here."

  "We're tourists. We got separated from our group by the storm, our guide fell into a crevasse and died; it's plausible. Besides, you've been injured, we're both under twenty-one—they'll believe us. Nobody sends out a couple of white-bread kids like us to commit sabotage. Especially not to Antarctica, where we'll stick out like a sore thumb."

  "They'll see us!" he protested.

  "John! There isn't any way to avoid being seen." She swept her arm toward the base and the flat, empty ground between them. "They'd probably see us if we crawled over there! And let's be honest, neither one of us is up for that."

  He studied the ground for a long moment, then shrugged. "And like I said, there's no point in waiting for dark."

  She grinned. "At least we'll arrive in comfort and style."

  When the snowmobile pulled up with two figures wearing blood-smeared white parkas, Tricker was surprised. He'd expected them to be a little more covert.

  Nobody takes pride in their work anymore, he thought. Then felt more depressed when he realized that was the kind of thing old codgers say; and field spooks generally didn't live that long. He stood before the door of the hut saying nothing as he watched the smaller figure help the larger climb off the snowmobile.

  "Is there a doctor here?" she asked.

  A girl! he thought. Some vestigial remnant of Affirmative Action, he supposed.

  Not Sarah Connor anyway. He'd heard recordings of her voice, which was lower and smokier. The girl was propping up her partner, looking at him.

  "No doctor," he said aloud. He paused. "Does this mean you'll be leaving?"