Beyond the Ice Limit

by Preston, Douglas

  “But…” Masterson felt overwhelmed with confusion. “What do we do now?”

  “Stick to the plan. Take the bridge. There’s some C4 in the security armory. We’ll blow those doors. And I can hack our way into the shipwide intercom, rally others to the cause.” He took a few breaths. “We’ve had a setback. But we can still do this. Discipline on the ship is falling apart. That’s to our advantage.”

  Pounding began on the door to staff quarters, followed by shouting. Vinter rose, made a gesture to Masterson. “Talk to them. Tell them we want to take the ship to safety in Ushuaia. Get them to join us—if only to save their own lives.”

  61

  GARZA GAZED AT the video image on his iPad, coming from the camera that had been lowered forty feet through the vertical engine air duct.

  “Oh, Jesus, that’s the mother of all breeders,” he said, passing the iPad to Moncton.

  Moncton gave a low whistle. “I’m not surprised. That’s just where the flue makes a ninety-degree turn from vertical to horizontal. It’s flat, protected, and particularly warm from the engine.”

  He passed the iPad back. “I suggest we go in from the side. Maybe we don’t even need to cut a hole. But that means going back through the engine room and into the alcove holding the compressor and turbocharger.”

  Garza turned to the two remaining men on his team. “What do you say?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Once again they descended into the bowels of the ship, Moncton leading the way. Garza was mightily impressed with Moncton. He was a rather odd fellow, with a curiously precise way of walking, almost like a dancing master: small and neat, but damn near unflappable. Garza could hardly believe how tough the guy was. Over the past hour, Garza had started to feel they might actually be able to overcome the worms, after all. While the things were still everywhere, they had killed three giant breeding masses and zapped countless loose worms, and that seemed to have put the fear of God into the things. They seemed less aggressive and more prone to run and hide than attack en masse.

  He hadn’t been able to raise the security chief, Bettances, on the radio since their last communication twenty minutes before. He hoped to God that didn’t mean what he feared it meant.

  A short trip brought them to the closed door of the engine room. While the ship was not under way, the engines were still throbbing gently, the main engine keeping the ship in position using dynamic positioning, and the synchronized generators supplying electric power.

  Garza felt a twinge as they gathered at the steel hatch into the engine room. After their first encounter, Moncton had jerry-rigged a heavy-duty zapper on a long pole, which they had plunged into the jelly-like breeding mass. It had worked well. Electricity was deadly to the worms and it didn’t take much of it to kill them.

  “I’ll go first,” said Moncton.

  Garza stood to one side, his two team members behind. They lowered their face shields and tugged on heavy gloves, poor protection though they were. Garza eased the hatch open. Moncton stepped inside, zapper at the ready, and he followed. It was hot and close. Bits and pieces of smashed worms lay about.

  “The bodies are gone,” said one of his men.

  “Yeah. They sleep two hours, then wake up and act normal. They’re probably walking around the ship as we speak.”

  “Right, right. Maybe we should’ve…” The man hesitated.

  “Put them out of their misery?” said Garza. “Maybe.”

  The men fell silent. The engine room seemed normal, aside from the dead worms on the floor. The vent dangled open, and a dark liquid was dripping from it and streaking part of the main engine. The liquid, Garza realized, was draining from the breeding mass they had killed farther up the vent.

  “The air supply, along with the turbo and compressor, is in the back,” Moncton said.

  Garza and the other two followed the ship’s chief engineer down the main aisle of the engine room. The room was brightly lit and there was no additional sign of worms. Moncton reached the end of the giant main engine, ducked under a pipe, turned a tight corner, then stopped. There, in front of them, was a large galvanized flue, which came down through the ceiling and made a ninety-degree turn. It yawned open in a huge, mouth-like vent, six feet tall, looming over a mass of pipes and tubes—the compressor, turbo, and aftercooler. It lay behind a forest of pipes and valves.

  Moncton whispered: “The mass is inside and below the elbow. I think we ought to try zapping it right through the galvanized flue.”

  “Won’t there be a Faraday cage effect, the charge dissipated?”

  “No, because the mass itself is a better conductor than the steel. The majority of the charge will go right into it.”

  “There’s only enough room for one person to squeeze in there,” Garza told him. “I’ll go.”

  Moncton shook his head. “No. My turn.”

  Garza wasn’t about to argue. He gestured for his two to stay back, their zappers ready. He followed Moncton into the tight space as far as he could.

  “Get ready to run,” Moncton whispered into his ear as he crouched, zapper pole in hand, working his way still farther into the jungle of colored pipes. Garza began to lose sight of the man in the knitted shadows. He waited. At any moment he would hear the crackle of the zapper as Moncton shot the side of the steel duct, along with the high-pitched screams of the worms inside as they were electrocuted.

  Instead, he heard a rustling, whispering, scritching noise—from behind—followed by the sounds of things hitting the ground.

  He turned. Both of his men were down—down without a sound—their heads covered with writhing worms, their arms waving feebly before flopping to the ground.

  “Moncton!” he cried. “Get back—we’ve been ambushed!”

  But there was no sound from ahead—except more rustlings and whisperings. And now he saw it: worms were gliding everywhere through the pipes, coming for him.

  Garza jammed his zapper on a metal pipe and pulled the trigger; a sudden chorus of squealing arose as the worms jumped and jerked, falling off the pipe. He plunged backward, hitting several more pipes, zapping worm after worm, slapping and pulling them off him as they rained down from above. He was yelling at the top of his lungs, tearing off his shirt as the worms got inside; he leapt over the worm-infested bodies of the two men, and then—feeling the worms all over his body—he turned the zapper on himself, jabbing it into his chest and pulling the trigger in desperation.

  It was like being hit by a truck: an immense jolt and flash of light, and he lost the use of his legs and fell to the ground. But even as he crashed to the floor, barely conscious, he realized the worms had dropped from his body. Crawling, trembling all over, he zapped himself again. Then he collapsed.

  He wasn’t unconscious; merely unable to use his muscles. He felt like an immense stone was on his chest, retarding his breathing. But the worms—the worms were crawling away. Fleeing him.

  He lay there, trying to breathe, trying to clear his head of the millions of stars. After a moment, with an immense act of will, he managed to pull himself to his knees and crawl the length of the engine room, get to the door, climb over the metal lip, and seal it behind him.

  Then he fell back on the cold steel decking and tried to get his jumping, tingling muscles back under control. It was in that moment he realized they had failed: they were never going to clear the ship of worms.

  Because the worms were adapting.

  62

  THANK GOD, THOUGHT Gideon, that the nuke chamber was high-security and damn near impregnable. Glinn’s QBA had proven correct: the ship had descended into chaos. They had just received word that a group of mutineers had tried to take over the bridge, killed Lennart and the officer of the watch, and were now holed up in the crew quarters. They had somehow taken over the ship’s intercom and were broadcasting their message, steadily attracting converts to the cause. A group of people had tried to steal the ship’s helicopter, and even managed to get it aloft, but the AStar ha
d only gone a quarter of a mile before spinning out of control and crashing into the sea. There were also reports that the DSV John had been stolen and launched by persons unknown. The ship was overrun with worms. Garza had just reported the loss of his remaining team and the ship’s chief engineer to a worm attack.

  The people attacked by the worms, Gideon knew, were not dead, of course; they were going about their business as if normal, but all the while unconsciously doing the bidding of that thing down at the bottom of the ocean. And doing so while remaining resolutely certain their actions were justified and logical, even while they were carrying out sabotage and murder.

  Inside the nuke chamber, Glinn and McFarlane, with the aid of two technicians, had used a ceiling-track winch to lift the nuke onto an electric dolly, specially built to transport it to the hangar deck for loading onto the ROV. All the electronics had checked out. Gideon had given the device a final once-over: the bomb was going to work perfectly. All that remained to do was set the timer.

  Now the nuke was in a canvas sling dangling from the ceiling-track lift. Slowly, slowly, the two technicians lowered the device onto the cradle built to receive it, steadying it in gloved hands and rotating it into position.

  Done.

  The technicians unhooked the winch cables. Glinn went to the door and listened. Gideon could hear periodic muffled noises in the hall outside.

  Glinn went into the back of the nuke chamber, unlocked a cabinet. Gideon was startled to see that it contained a small arsenal of firearms. Glinn sorted through them and removed five Colt .45 pistols in holsters, a stack of magazines, and boxes of bullets. He placed them on a worktable. “We may need to defend ourselves,” he said. “Each one of you take a sidearm and load two magazines.”

  McFarlane quickly sorted through the weapons, Gideon following. The two technicians hesitated.

  “Ever fire a weapon before?” Glinn asked them.

  One shook his head and the other said, “I’m not sure now’s the time to start.”

  Glinn leaned in. “This is no time for scruples.” He pulled a pistol from the holster, ejected the magazine, demonstrated how to insert rounds into it, slapped it back into place, and showed them how the safety worked and how to rack the initial round into the chamber.

  “Both hands on the grip when you fire. Understood?” He handed a gun to each technician. “It’s a war zone out there. We need to do what it takes to get this device up to the hangar deck.”

  Gideon discarded the holster and stuck a gun into his belt.

  Glinn turned to the nuke sitting in the cradle. “And now we’d better disguise that.” He opened a life-preserver container—ubiquitous throughout the ship—pulled out a few preservers, and heaped them up on the nuke.

  “Cover it with the tarp.”

  The technicians placed the tarp over and tied it down with straps, creating a vague, canvas-covered lump.

  “What’s it supposed to be?” asked Gideon.

  “Chocks and dunnage,” said Glinn.

  “What’s the hell’s that?”

  “No one’s going to ask. Let’s go. Two in front, two behind, guns drawn and visible. Sam, you watch our rear.”

  Glinn unlocked the door while one technician climbed into the seat of the motorized dolly. The nuke chamber was deep in the ship; they had to take it half the ship’s length and up three decks in order to reach the hangar.

  Glinn swung open the door. The corridor was empty. They reached the elevator without incident, not running into anyone and not seeing any worms.

  The elevator doors shut and Glinn pressed the button for the hangar deck.

  Even before the doors opened, Gideon could hear shouting. He drew his weapon, and so did the rest.

  The elevator doors slid open to reveal a group of men waiting for the elevator. They, too, all had weapons—the main armory had apparently been looted—and they looked agitated.

  “Hey—look who’s here,” one of them said, stepping forward. “If it isn’t Eli Glinn himself.”

  There was a moment of tense silence. There were six of them, to Glinn’s five. Gideon had the distinct impression the men were heading down to the crew deck to join the mutineers.

  “You’re coming with us,” the apparent ringleader said, leveling his AR-15 at Glinn.

  A shot rang out and the man’s head jerked back. Then he crumpled to the floor, his assault rifle going off harmlessly. McFarlane stepped forward, smoking .45 now aimed at the man standing behind the leader. “You’re next.”

  The sound of the shot seemed to shock the group into a momentary freeze. His own gun leveled, Glinn slowly stepped out of the elevator, with Gideon and McFarlane following. Glinn waved to the technicians to bring along the dolly.

  The group of mutineers continued to point their weapons, but nobody fired. The ringleader lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading from the ugly wound in his head. Even as they watched, a worm began to emerge from the wound. The other five backed up, frightened and uncertain.

  Glinn spoke in a strangely calm, even warm tone. “Be careful where you put your trust, gentlemen. And now we will be on our way.”

  The group, sweating, moved aside and let them pass, McFarlane and Gideon keeping their weapons trained on them until they had turned a corner.

  In a few minutes they came out onto the hangar deck. It was thankfully deserted, the hangar doors rolled open. The lights were already on and John was indeed missing. Glinn dismissed the two nuke technicians, telling them to return to mission control and join the teams sweeping for worms.

  Standing at the far end, his bald pate shining in the sodium lights, was Patrick Brambell. He had pulled the canvas off the ROV and—inexplicably—was bashing at it with a sledgehammer.

  “Stop!” Glinn yelled, raising his weapon.

  Brambell looked up. “Dr. Glinn. Just the man I wanted to speak to.” He took another swing at the ROV, the sledgehammer clanging off the titanium sphere.

  Gideon could see immediately that the ROV had been given a pretty good working over. The propulsion system was in pieces, the mech arm torn away, the basket bashed off, and everything else accessible utterly destroyed.

  “Step away from the ROV or I’ll shoot!” Glinn said in an even tone.

  “Do you realize just how absurd this whole scheme is?” Brambell cried. “We’ve been visited by an intelligent species—”

  “I said, step away from the ROV.”

  Brambell let the sledgehammer drop. “It’s wrong to kill it. The creature’s intelligent, probably more so than we—”

  Glinn cut him off. “Who took John?”

  “I’m glad you asked. Dr. Sax went down to open talks with the creature.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s her firm belief—and mine—that what is needed here is not violence, but communication—”

  “When did she take it?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  At that moment a shirtless Manuel Garza appeared in the doorway of the hangar. At his heels was Rosemarie Wong, Prothero’s lab assistant, along with a DSV handler.

  Glinn continued to speak to Brambell. “Were you part of this?” he demanded, still pointing his gun at the doctor.

  “I was indeed. Let me explain.”

  “Enough explanation. Get away from the ROV and lie facedown on the floor.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! You see, the ROV—”

  “He’s infected, of course,” said McFarlane loudly.

  “Me, infected? Absurd! Has the whole ship gone mad? At any rate, I know what I’m doing—even if you do not.” Brambell picked up the sledgehammer and raised it again.

  Glinn pulled the trigger, the report booming through the hangar space. A surprised look appeared on Brambell’s face and he looked down at his chest. Glinn fired a second time and Brambell crumpled to the deck, as if in slow motion.

  Glinn stepped back and turned to Garza. “You’ve come from the engine room?”

  Garza was breathing heavily,
and sweat covered his bare chest. “It’s no good. We’ll never be able to stop the worms—they’re smart, and they’re breeding too quickly.” He jerked a thumb at Wong and the DSV handler. “These two wanted to help. They’re clean.”

  “Indeed.” Glinn turned to the man, but before he could speak Wong uttered a loud scream. A worm was sliding out of Brambell’s nose with a long, sinuous motion. Gray, shining with body fluids, it seemed to keep coming forever.

  With a grunt of disgust, McFarlane stepped over and ground it into paste with his boot.

  Glinn gave this but a moment’s attention. “Assess the damage to the ROV, please,” he told the handler.

  The man did a quick survey. “The hatch is still sealed.” He opened the ROV’s hatch, peered in with a flashlight. “The inside appears okay.”

  “How long will it take to repair?” Glinn asked.

  The handler spent a moment checking the rear propulsion system, looking over the ROV’s hull. He shuffled around and finally looked up, spreading his hands.

  “Well?” Glinn asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s a total loss.”

  “What about the titanium sphere itself?”

  “That’s intact. Not much a sledgehammer could do to harm that. But the ROV itself is useless: no propulsion, no autopilot, no communications, and no internal power. It’s just an inert titanium shell.”

  “But a shell still able to withstand pressure at depth?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about buoyancy? With the nuke loaded?”

  “Not neutrally buoyant, but it was designed to be only slightly heavy in order to help with ballasting.”

  “So the nuke could be put in the titanium sphere, and it could be towed to the detonation point—and it then could be detonated.”

  “Towed down?” McFarlane asked. “With what? I thought that stolen DSV was the last.”

  “We’ve got a spare,” said Glinn. “Under wraps. The Pete.”