by Nick Thacker
“Hey look!” Nelson said, pointing to another large building adjacent to theirs. “A movie theater and bowling alley!”
Jen thought he was joking, but he stared at the location on the map in silence, a look of regret on his face.
“The Russians are right behind us,” Carter said, “but they’ll have to start from scratch on each level—that should buy us a couple hours, max. We need to get Mark, but we really need to figure out what that machine down there is.”
Jen agreed, though she had a feeling their escapade here was a little shortsighted. She had the sneaking suspicion they’d bitten off a little more than they could chew. “That machine clearly isn’t a power plant,” she said.
Erik disagreed. “It is, actually, though it is not just a power plant.”
They all looked his direction.
“I had a feeling this would be case when I first came across the plans up on the main level,” he said. “The plant has the usual features—intake, injection pumps, and it is cooled by the surrounding seawater. Further, I believe it alone has been the sole source of power throughout this entire facility.”
“But I have also gotten the impression that the power plant serves another purpose, as well.”
“And what purpose is that?” Carter asked.
“Well, that is why Ms. Adams is here,” Erik responded.
“Who, me?” Jen said. “I have no idea why they wanted me here.”
“Great,” Nelson said. “Sounds like we’re getting somewhere.”
Carter gave the tall man a look that could only have one meaning. Nelson didn’t speak again.
“Jen,” Carter said, “I understand you’ve got a lot more at stake than the rest of us. But we need your help here, okay?”
She nodded.
“What can you tell us about the work you were doing with Dr. Storm?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know of anything we were working on that would be useful here. It was mainly research and class preparation. Even when I went to his office, there wasn’t anything there that seemed odd or out of place.”
She thought for a moment. “This machine. Whatever it is, it’s not just a geothermal power plant.” She looked toward Erik for confirmation. “But part of it is.”
He nodded.
“So,” she continued, “we can assume that it’s sitting on top of an active geothermal site, correct? I mean, they wouldn’t bother building one unless there’s some activity in the area.”
“Right,” Erik added. “The vents provide the power, and provide some of the initial pressure needed to run the plant. Without the steam, there is no heat, and therefore no power.”
“Exactly,” Jen said. “So we can assume that we’re sitting on top of a thermal vent in the ocean…” Jen’s head snapped up.
“What is it?” Erik asked.
“Erik, I just realized. We’re at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Wait,” Nelson said, “you forgot there was five miles of ocean sitting on us?”
“No, I mean, I remembered, but I didn’t associate that with—”
“The power plant!” Erik shouted. “We are resting on what could be the thinnest section of Earth’s crust!” He looked around the others. “Most of the crust layer beneath continental locations is around twenty miles thick, and beneath ocean, around three to five miles thick. Obviously, that depends on the location, and it’s an educated guess at best.”
“Sounds great,” Nelson said. “Five miles of ocean pressing down on us, and five miles below us protecting us from the fiery hell of Earth’s core.”
“Actually, the crust sits on the mantle, which is made of superheated rock and magma.”
Carter raised his eyebrows, silently begging Jen to get to the point.
“I didn’t put it together at first,” she continued. “This station, the power plant, the geothermal activity that must be present in the area, and finally…”
“The machine,” Erik said.
“The machine. It’s some kind of gigantic drill.”
Carter nodded slowly, trying to make sense of it all.
“A drill?” Saunders asked.
“It has to be,” Jen said. “It makes so much sense now, really. Think about it: the spinning, the conical shape, the location.”
“And it’s drilling into the mantle,” Erik said.
“Jen, you said the crust here is likely still around three miles thick,” Carter said. “That means there’s no way that drill can reach the mantle.”
“It doesn’t need to,” Erik said. “This station is on a rock shelf protruding from one of the walls on the side of a massive trench, as you will recall from the briefing on the submarine. But we are probably at the bottom of the trench, and therefore close to the location where the trench itself grows upward from the sea floor.”
He made a “V” with his hands, with his fingertips pressed together and pointing straight down. “This drill was not designed to actually tap into the mantle, but merely push the two trench walls far enough apart that a schism is formed.”
Jen nodded along as he explained. “It’s a drill that isn’t meant to dig a hole, but one that’s basically operating like a giant, slow wedge—pushing two plates apart enough to crack the crust that’s underneath.”
She suddenly realized something else.
“It’s working, too. Remember that wild shaking just before the drill finished spinning? I think the research station itself sunk into the shelf. The drill is spinning, but it’s pulling the base down with it.”
Carter moved over the wall opposite the information desk in the entrance of the gymnasium, and sat down on a bench. He wiped his forehead with a hand, then looked up. If Jen thought Carter’s demeanor and expression was usually serious, the look he wore now was ten times more intense.
“Jen, Erik, thank you,” he said. Then he looked at all of them individually for a brief moment before starting again. “We need to get back down to that machine. Whatever it’s there for, it’s obviously fully operational and currently doing its job. And that means it’s only a matter of time before it finishes its job.”
Jen knew where he was going. “It’s going to break a hole in the Earth’s crust,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
Carter just nodded silently.
From somewhere outside, they heard the squawk of a walkie-talkie and then shouts.
“They’re here,” Saunders said. “Back door. Now!”
They stood and ran through the gym, careful to stay between the lines of machines, away from the pool’s edge. About a quarter of the way to the back of the building, Saunders veered right and examined an emergency exit.
“The sign’s off, and I don’t think there’s an alarm activated,” she said.
Carter spoke. “We don’t have time anyway. Let’s take our chances.”
She pushed it open and ran out, checking both directions before sprinting toward another building—the combined movie theater and bowling alley they’d seen on the map—and the rest followed.
Saunders pulled on the door handle at the back of the building and was surprised to find it unlocked as well. She opened it and started climbing the stairs inside the theater. Jen stayed behind Erik and Nelson, and they followed Saunders to the top of the theater and out to the lobby.
They found an abandoned snack bar, overflowing trash cans, and some empty movie poster frames hanging on the walls. Other than the silence and lack of lighting, the theater seemed like it would be fully functional—out of date, but in working order.
Jen stopped and caught her breath from the exertion of sprinting to another building and up a flight of stairs. She looked up and saw Nelson resting with his hands on his knees and Erik breathing gulps of air. Saunders was completely unfazed, and was checking her gun and sidearm. She looked back at Jen and gave her a nod of approval.
Then she frowned.
Jen’s blood froze. “What?” she said.
Saunders clicked a round into the chambe
r. “Where’s Carter?”
40
Mark awoke to a splitting headache.
How long have I been out?
He kept his eyes closed and listened to his surroundings. A voice mumbled a question somewhere in the room on his left side, but Mark couldn’t hear a response. The gas must have knocked him out, but thankfully he hadn’t inhaled enough of it for it to have lasted long enough.
He slowly tried lifting his arms, but was surprised to find them strapped down.
Am I on a table?
He wriggled his left hand a bit until he felt what was holding it to the table. Thick zip ties wrapped around his wrists, fastened somehow to the metal table he was on. He wondered if the table could move, or if it, too, was fastened to the floor.
He listened again as footsteps approached the table. The mumbling continued, but it sounded like incoherent rambling.
Maybe I am in here alone, he thought. The mumbling voice grew closer, and Mark felt someone unbuttoning his shirt sleeve and rolling it up.
He knew the next move. Wait it out, try to figure out more of his surroundings, and then act.
Achieve.
The goal had changed. He needed information, now that he had escaped his holding cell.
He needed to get off this table, apprehend whoever was in here mumbling, and figure out what was going on.
Before they tried whatever science experiment they were about to do.
Mark waited another three minutes, the scientist mumbling to himself the entire time. Finally, the mumbling voice turned away and Mark could hear it walking away from the table.
Now’s as good a time as ever.
He summoned all of his strength and explosively shifted on the table, trying to roll the entire piece of metal furniture onto its side.
It didn’t work.
Instead, he was able to get the right side of the table to lift off the floor, then slam down onto all four legs again. In doing so, his right arm hit the table and bounced back, breaking the zip tie. Finally he opened his eyes.
He saw a small desk to his right, set up next to him. He reached for a short scalpel that lay on the table and prepared to slice through the binding on his left arm.
Before he could, he caught the scientist looking at him. Wide-eyed, the man stumbled across the room toward a computer terminal.
“Wait!” Mark shouted at the man’s back as the scientist pressed something on the computer keyboard.
Mark heard a soft beeping, and the scientist approached the table. Mark tucked the scalpel under his wrist and waited for the scientist to get close.
Three more steps, he thought as the man neared the table. He willed him to come closer, but instead he just stared at Mark, as if in a trance. He cocked his head to the side.
Just then another sliding door opened, appearing from out of nowhere in the glass wall at the foot of Mark’s table.
Behind it, Mark saw a red-haired man in his early forties, maybe younger, step into the room.
“Mr. Adams,” he said, “good to see you.”
Mark waited.
“We’ve obviously never met. Officially, anyway, but I’ve enjoyed your discourse with my associate, Ms. Etienne-Grey.”
That must be the woman he’d talked to.
“Where’s my son?” Mark blurted out.
“In good time, Mark,” the man said. “My name is Jeremiah Austin, and I believe we’ve gotten off to a poor start.”
“What do you want with my wife?” he said.
Jeremiah frowned slightly, then smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Your ex-wife, I believe?”
Not yet, Mark thought. Technically. But he didn’t respond.
“Where exactly is Ms. Adams?” Austin asked.
Mark’s nostrils flared. If only I knew.
“Mr. Adams,” Austin continued, “I would like to continue my work here without more interference. You and I have similar interests in mind, I believe.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
Mark slid the scalpel down so that his right hand—which he hadn’t lifted from the table—was now covering it. He gently held it between his pinky and ring finger, slowly sliding it to the inside of his hand.
“My project here is twofold. The first, you’re probably already familiar with.”
He motioned to the scientist at his right, who still peered creepily down at Mark.
“This man, Dr. Dwight Grantham, is… excuse me, was, a world-renowned physicist before he was called to this mission.”
The doctor twitched when he recognized his own name, but didn’t break his stare.
“When I arrived here, he was all but useless—confused, disoriented, and generally a disdainful sight. But I… revitalized him, as well as the rest of the team we found here, and now he’s at least able to serve a proper function in the research station.”
Mark had no idea what he was talking about, but he let the man talk.
“Many of the scientists here at Agartha Base suffered from a severe case of what essentially is isolation-related psychosis. They were completely functional human beings and could even hold a conversation, but couldn’t perform the necessary duties their research called them here for. They stayed alive for over thirty years, often in solitude or in small groups, until we rescued them.”
“Rescued them? How?” Mark looked at the scientist Austin was referring to. The man’s eyes were hollow, dark, and lifeless, and Mark couldn’t imagine how miserable his life had been the past three decades.
“Now, Mr. Adams, they once again serve a purpose. As you can most certainly relate, living an empty life devoid of purpose is no life at all. These men and women have helped us carry out our duties here, asking nothing in return.”
“Asking nothing—how could they? These people are nothing but lifeless shells.”
“Don’t get excited, Mark,” Austin said. “Dr. Grantham here has served his purpose. I suppose unsuccessfully, as you are currently still carrying on a conversation with me.”
He watched as Austin sidled over to the man—Grantham—and placed a hand on his shoulder. Austin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device that looked like a cell phone. He placed it next to the doctor’s ear and waved it a few times around his temple.
The scientist reacted immediately, wailing in agony and dropping to the floor. He reached to his head, pushing against his skull, but flailed around on the ground for a full minute.
Finally silent, Austin stepped over him and approached the left side of Mark’s table.
“We’ve placed an electronic device inside each of my scientists’ skulls, both for tracking and monitoring, and as a sort of control mechanism. It’s basically a small vial of chemicals that I discovered reacts strongly to a specific electromagnetic pulse.
“My research back in the states was centered on botany, with a unique focus on naturally occurring chemical compounds found in exotic plant life. Interestingly enough, many of these plants have insanely useful applications to people like me, including the one plaguing our friendly research scientists here at the station.”
Mark tried to put it all together in his mind as Austin continued.
“One protein from here, a few from there, and zap it with an electrical current, and you’ve got a living, breathing machine. Something—someone, excuse me—who can be persuaded to do things that need to be done. Simple tasks, really, but useful nonetheless.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Forcing someone to do something in this way is impossible, but using these particular programs to deny the brain option is not impossible. By temporarily shutting down certain synapses in the human brain, we can remove possible results from the subject’s conscious decision-making process, and thus give the illusion of control. Imagine what this would offer governments, organizations, and even universities. The ability to control subjects; to control the variables enough that your solution is the only one that is enacted. No more arguing, fighting, or insubordination.”
&nbs
p; “But this man is dead,” Mark said. “You just killed him.”
“No. On the contrary,” Austin said, “he is now able to truly live. Without the hindrance of humanity’s daily routine, and without the annoyance of personal desire. He will wake up in about an hour and carry on as if nothing happened. But his mind, unfortunately, is what we call wasted. No longer useful to scientific endeavors, he is merely a warm body that will attain his natural instinctual goals—food, shelter, protection of his own, and survival. He is now free.”
Mark decided it was time to act. Austin was lost in his own arrogance, explaining his utopian view of humanity, and drawing ever closer to the table each second.
When Austin was about a foot away, Mark lurched upward, slashing the scalpel toward Austin’s head. Austin’s reaction time was phenomenal, and he ducked out of the way. As the scalpel closed in on his head, it clipped his ear and split an inch-long gash deep into the man’s cheek.
He instinctually reached to his ear to slow the bleeding, but Mark was still moving. He rolled completely over, twisting his left arm, which was still zip-tied to the table, and pulled the table over with him.
He landed on his feet, but kept twisting his wrist around until the zip tie snapped off his wrist.
Austin rose, one hand holding the side of his face, and the other now holding a pistol. He aimed at Mark and fired.
When Mark saw the pistol, he quickly pivoted and slid the table between himself and Austin’s gun, and when the bullet smacked against the table it left a half-inch dent in the underside of the metal. Mark pushed back against the table, knocking into Austin and causing the man to fall backwards.
Mark crawled a few feet, then stood and ran out of the room. He heard Austin curse as the man tried to lift the heavy table, but Mark was already running the opposite direction.
I have to get to Reese. He knew his son was here somewhere—Sylvia had said so.
41
Mark ran for his life; for his son’s life.
After leaving the lab room where he had been held, Mark stumbled down the long hallway as the last of the sedation effects had worn off.
