by Greg Cox
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DA VINCI RESEARCH BASE
SOUTH MAGNETIC POLE
ANTARCTICA
DECEMBER 2, 1984
THE FROZEN WASTELAND WAS COLDER THAN RURA PENTHE, GARY Seven observed. Transporting into the antarctic wasteland was like traveling back in time to Earth's Ice Age, something Seven personally hoped never to do again. He half-expected to see a herd of woolly mammoths lumbering across the barren polar icescape. Good thing Isis is in Moscow with Roberta, he reflected. With or without fur, she wouldn't find this frigid environment very appealing.
Even now, at the height of the antarctic summer, when the endless white snow reflected the glare of a never-setting sun, the temperature outdoors was still many degrees below zero. A fierce, flaying wind blew against him; Seven could feel the biting chill of the wind even through several layers of nylon insulation and heattrapping undergarments. A greasy black unguent protected his exposed cheeks from frostbite, but the ongoing blizzard severely reduced visibility. He estimated that he couldn't see more than three hundred feet ahead, tops. Beneath his parka, his fifty-twoyearold body shivered involuntarily, a survival mechanism designed to generate heat. Despite the discomfort, he was grateful for every painful sensation. In an environment like this, it was when you stopped feeling the cold, when a deadening numbness set in, that you really had to worry.
The fur-lined hood of his parka obscured his peripheral vision so he had to turn his head in order to check on his partner on this mission. Like himself, Noon Singh wore heavy arctic gear, as well as protective goggles to avoid snow blindness. “Are you all right, Mr. Singh?” Seven asked, his breath misting before his lips. This wintry climate was a far cry from the sweltering Indian heat that the young man was accustomed to. “How are you doing?”
Noon had to raise his voice to be heard over the howling wind. “I am quite well,” he insisted, clearly determined not to show any sign of weakness, despite the telltale chattering of his teeth. “Where is this laboratory you spoke of?”
Less than two hours ago, Seven had surprised Noon in the Indian city of Bhopal, where the young student had been visiting friends during the annual Sikh festival of Nanak Jayanti. Seven had finally chosen to call in the favor that the gifted teenager owed him. His intentions in doing so were twofold. For one thing, this seemed like a good mission on which to test the youth. For another, he needed backup on this operation, and Noon's genetically enhanced stamina made him better equipped to cope with the inhospitable antarctic climate than either Roberta or Isis, both of whom were, in any event, otherwise engaged. The two female operatives were busy monitoring the situation in Moscow, where Communist leader Konstantin Cherenko was rumored to be near death. Seven had high hopes for one of Cherenko's potential successors, a man named Gorbachev, but only if the reformminded Russian apparatchik managed to survive the Kremlin's bitter internal power struggles. Roberta and Isis were there to insure that he did.
Which left him and Noon to cope with the crisis at hand. Seven used his servo to confirm that their destination lay to the south, roughly five minutes away by foot. The wand's sensors locked in on the nuclear generator powering the top-secret American science station, providing him with a guidepost to navigate by.
A frown cracked the frozen grease upon Seven's face. Given the immense difficulty of transporting conventional fuel across the snowbound wastes, atomic energy was the only practical way to provide Da Vinci Base with heat and power; nevertheless, it was hard not to be reminded of Sarina Kaur's tragic last moments, especially with her orphaned son standing only a few feet away. Noon Singh will have a much more promising future, Seven vowed, if I have anything to say about it.
Seven shoved the memory aside. “This way,” he said, pointing a gloved finger in the direction indicated by his servo. Leaning forward against the wind, their faces turned downward to shield them from the stinging gusts, the two men trudged through the turbulent snowstorm, their insulated boots sinking deep into crystalline snowdrifts that crunched beneath their steady tread. Seven knew that the snow was merely the upper layer of an immense ice sheet that stretched nearly two miles beneath them, weighing heavily upon the buried continent below. Nearly ninety percent of the world's ice was tied up in the antarctic icecap, or so the Beta 5 had informed him earlier. He had to admire the determination and perseverance of the men and women who had established a scientific outpost here at the coldest and most isolated place on Earth. Too bad, he thought, that their work is so dangerous to the peace and safety of the entire planet.
Noon's vision turned out to be just as superb as the rest of his physical attributes. “Look!” he called out, spotting their target even before Seven did.
The older man hurried to catch up with Noon, then squinted through his goggles at the view ahead of them. Peering down from a slight incline, he saw a grouping of prefabricated metal huts, probably connected by scaffolded passageways beneath the snow. A small, thousand-kilowatt nuclear power plant was installed at the outer perimeter of the camp, while a large satellite dish had been mounted atop the central hut. Two large Sno-Cat tractors were parked outside the base, and the falling snow had not yet covered the lengthy runway and landing field that the tractors had carved into the dense polar ice sheet. A single helicopter rested unmanned upon the landing field, wisely sitting out the present blizzard. Not one human figure could be seen moving about outside the heated metal huts; in this sort of weather, one braved the elements only when it was absolutely necessary, and for the shortest amount of time possible.
Seven nodded approvingly. One good thing about the severity of the climate: there were no guards posted outside the central laboratory. After all, they were hundreds of miles away from the nearest human habitation. Who in their right minds would come snooping around the South Pole?
Just me and my potential protege, he thought wryly. “Careful,” he warned Noon, placing a restraining hand upon the teenager's shoulder when he started to hurry forward. “Look over there.”
Despite its remote location, Da Vinci Base was not entirely unguarded. Security cameras were mounted at regular intervals all around the camp, scanning the surrounding snowscape with unblinking electronic eyes. Noon nodded, acknowledging that he had now spotted the cameras as well.
Fortunately, the blowing snow flurries limited the usefulness of the spycams. Seven estimated that he and Noon were still safely outside the range of the watchful mechanical sentinels, which gave him sufficient time and privacy to take suitable countermeasures against the ring of cameras.
His knee crunched through the frozen crust as he knelt in the snow just beyond the cameras' view. His gloved hands shaped the fallen snow while he swiftly calculated the angles of reflection between the camera lenses, his own snow sculptures, and the fixed antarctic sun above. Noon stood by, watching intently, as Seven used the palm of his glove to polish the surface of two precisely positioned cairns of snow.
When he was done, the frozen heaps reflected the blinding glare of the sun directly at the lenses of the two nearest security cameras, rendering them effectively snowblind. Perfect, Seven thought with satisfaction, rising to his feet once more. Granted, he could have disabled the cameras directly via his servo, but that might have alerted those within the base that an intruder was at work. Better to simulate the natural phenomenon of a south polar “whiteout” instead, rather than risk exposure this early in their mission. “Okay,” he informed Noon, now that the blinded cameras were no longer a concern. “Let's go.”
Moving swiftly but silently, they snuck toward the unsuspecting base. Seven suspected that the central hut, the one with the satellite dish atop its roof, was the nerve center of the base, but he used his servo to confirm that the building in question was indeed drawing upon more of the station's electrical power supply than any of the other huts. He indicated as much to Noon, gesturing toward the center hut. That's where we'll find our target, he thought, assuming my information is correct.
Officially, Da Vinci
Base did not exist. That there was indeed an outpost here, unknown to most authorities, added considerable credence to the rumors he had heard about the experiment being conducted here. And here I was hoping that Guinan had been mistaken this time around, he admitted privately. He should have known better; the expatriate El-Aurian was nothing if not a reliable source.
The shrieking wind conveniently concealed the sound of their approach as the two men slipped between the camp's outlying buildings, watching warily for more security cameras as they crept toward the main laboratory. Seven noted that Noon had already drawn the modified servo that he had provided the Indian youth with. Unlike the multipurpose nature of Seven's own standard servo, Noon's device was capable of only two discreet functions: a mild tranquilizer beam and, in the event of an emergency, a preprogrammed escape command that would automatically transport the young man back to a secluded alley in Bhopal. This particular instrument, Seven recalled, had once belonged to Roberta, who had disparagingly referred to it as the “training wheels” version before graduating to possession of her own fully-functional servo.
Seven saw that the deliberately nonlethal weapon was gripped tightly between Noon's fingers. Good thing he's wearing gloves , Seven observed wryly. Otherwise the subzero temperature would have caused the young man's flesh to stick to the cold steel casing of the servo.
For the same reason, neither of them could safely place an ear up against the prefab metal walls of the center hut. Seven tried to detect the number of human life-forms currently inhabiting the structure, but the extreme contrast between the freezing outdoors and the laboratory's heated interior made any thermal readings highly suspect. There could be anywhere from one to a dozen people inside the lab at this moment.
Very well, he resolved. We'll just have to rely on the element of surprise. They quickly located the front entrance of the hut. A handmade sign crookedly nailed over the rusty metal door read HOLE HQ — NO SPIES ALLOWED. Seven called the sign to Noon's attention, eliciting a rare grin from the usually stoic and self-important youth. Good to know he has a sense of humor, Seven noted; that's an important sign of well-adjusted personality. So far the fledgling operative had performed well on this assignment; then again, Seven conceded, the mission had barely begun.
While Noon stood at attention, servo in hand, Seven tried the doorknob, which turned out to be unlocked. More evidence, or so it seemed, that their secluded and remarkably inaccessible locale had lulled the base's personnel into a false sense of security, making Seven's current operation all the easier. Let's hope our luck continues to hold out, he thought.
Noiselessly signaling Noon to get ready, Seven took a deep breath, then kicked open the door. “Nobody move!” he shouted, bursting into the laboratory and wielding his servo like a gun. To demonstrate its efficacy, he fired an invisible beam at the ceiling, disintegrating layers of foam insulation and steel to form a circular hole, roughly six inches in diameter, in the roof of the hut, through which the wind and snow immediately invaded the building's shelter. Deftly ( and inconspicuously) switching the servo's setting back to Tranquilize, he aimed his weapon at the startled denizens of the lab. “Everyone stay where they are!” he ordered. “Please cooperate. No one will be harmed.”
Disregarding Seven's suggestion, a uniformed soldier pulled his gun. Seven would have promptly neutralized the threat, but Noon beat him to the punch, rushing into the lab after Seven and, without even breaking his stride, immobilizing the armed guard with a tranquilizer beam. Excellent work, Seven judged, impressed by both Noon's aim and his reflexes. The young man definitely had the makings of a first-class agent.
With their twin servos drawn, the two intruders held a small assortment of scientists and soldiers at bay. A quick scan of the laboratory revealed that there were slightly under a half-dozen people present, mostly technicians, although Seven quickly located one more armed security guard on the scene. He instructed Noon to disarm the remaining soldier even as worried and befuddled scientists watched the first soldier slump to the floor, a blissful smile upon his face. “Don't worry, he'll be fine,” Seven informed the apprehensive hostages.
This sort of commando raid was less subtle than Seven's usual methods, but, under the circumstances, that couldn't be helped; a topsecret military base at the South Pole did not exactly lend itself to more covert infiltration. Thankfully, the hoods, goggles, and greasy facial masks that he and Noon wore effectively concealed their identities, eliminating the need for any further disguise.
Although frigid winds now entered the laboratory through both the punctured roof and open doorway, Seven was intensely conscious of how much warmer the room was than the refrigerated environment outside. Already he was sweating heavily beneath his parka. He shifted position to place himself directly below the gap in the ceiling. The falling snow and icy wind offered some relief from the heat, but he was still extremely overdressed for the occasion. Too bad we couldn't transport directly into this building, he thought, but there were too many unknown variables.
Massive computer banks covered nearly every wall of the antarctic laboratory. Seven chose to ignore the hardware for the moment, while he concentrated on his reluctant hostages. He searched the faces of the assembled scientists and technicians, looking for the specific individual whom he knew to be in charge of Da Vinci Base's hazardous experiments. His eyes quickly located the person he wanted: a fit-looking older man, in his late forties, with neatly trimmed silver hair and cool, intelligent eyes. An olive-green turtleneck sweater kept him warm, along with his trousers and boots. Unlike many of his younger colleagues, he did not look overly anxious or alarmed by Seven's surprise visit to the remote outpost; instead he watched the invaders attentively, waiting cautiously to see how the drama unfolded. Not an excitable individual, Seven concluded. Good. That should make matters less complicated.
He approached the elder scientist, who neither flinched from Seven's gaze nor attempted to hide behind his frightened staff. “Dr. Wilson Evergreen, I presume,” Seven stated calmly. The silver-haired man nodded, confirming his identity. “We have much to talk about, Doctor,” Seven continued, “but first”—a sweep of his hand encompassed the rest of the hostages—“is there somewhere nearby where these people can be kept safe and warm?”
Evergreen called Seven's attention to a staircase at the rear of the lab, leading downward. “A tunnel connects the lower level of this structure with the adjacent huts,” he explained in a flat mid-Atlantic accent, which struck Seven as subtly but distinctly artificial. He couldn't place Evergreen's origins, though; the renowned scientist had done too good a job of burying his linguistic roots beneath a deliberately neutral diction. I wonder what he's trying to hide? Seven wondered. “There is a heated storage facility, approximately fifty yards to east, that should suit your purposes.”
“Very good,” Seven agreed. The fewer witnesses to his discussion with Evergreen, the better, but he could hardly expose these innocent bystanders to the glacial weather outdoors. “Agent Singh,” he instructed, “please escort these ladies and gentlemen to the storage area Dr. Evergreen described.” Given that “Singh” was the Indian equivalent of “Smith,” he saw no harm in addressing the young man by name. “Make sure that they are all properly ‘calmed,’ then return here promptly.”
“Understood,” Noon acknowledged, aware that Seven wanted him to tranquilize the rest of the hostages once they were securely stowed away. Keeping his servo pointed at the whispering bystanders, he herded them down the stairs and out of sight, leaving only Evergreen and the pacified soldier behind. Seven put his business with the elder scientist on hold until the departing hostages' footsteps faded from hearing.
“There,” Evergreen said brusquely. He held a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a pocket calculator in the other. “My staff and that guard are gone. What do you want from me?”
“I'm interested in your work, Doctor,” Seven replied. The heat of the parka was becoming unbearable, but he needed Noon to return before he c
ould risk fumbling with his outer garments. “I found your articles on artificial weather engineering quite ahead of their time, at least until you mysteriously fell silent over two years ago.”
“My work is classified these days,” Evergreen said, “as you are obviously aware.” He eyed Seven appraisingly, no doubt trying to gauge the intruder's motives and potential for violence. “How much do you already know?”
“I know about the hole in Earth's ozone layer,” Seven declared confidently, noting the startled expression in Evergreen's clear blue eyes, “located directly above us. I also know that you intend to do something about that hole, something involving a so-called weather satellite which the space shuttle Discovery placed in a geostationary orbit above the South Pole less than two months ago.”
Evergreen looked surprised by the extent of Seven's knowledge. “How?” he asked, sounding more intrigued than dismayed. “The very existence of the hole hasn't even been made public yet.”
“I have my sources,” Seven said cryptically. There was no reason Evergreen—or Noon either, for that matter—needed to know that a wise and benevolent alien had chosen, for her own reasons, to live among Earth's human population. He respected Guinan's privacy, just as he did her advice.
Rapid footsteps upon the stairs presaged Noon's return. “The prisoners are taken care of,” he reported proudly. His hood had slipped off his head, revealing a greased face gleaming with perspiration. “The soldier attempted to surprise me,” he declared, raising a clenched fist, “but his strength was no match for mine.”
Seven thought Noon sounded a little too enthusiastic about his victory, but, then again, he was only fourteen. Time enough to teach him humility and restraint later on, he decided. Preferably not in the middle of a vital mission. “Fine,” he commented. “Why don't you close the door, for Dr. Evergreen's sake, then shed that heavy parka?”
