Armen Gharabegian

Protocol 7

PROLOGUE:

THE ESCAPE

STATION 3-27

Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica

“That’s insane.”

The violent blizzard was menacing-the most powerful storm Robert Donnelley had experienced in two years stationed in Antarctica. He could hear it screaming outside Station 3-27 as the murderous wind scraped a swarm of ice particles from the surface of the Ross Ice Shelf; less than twenty-two seconds later, the same ice particles pounded the walls of the modular scientific outpost, half-buried in the desolate terrain. According to Donnelley’s readouts, the wind speed exceeded 122 miles per hour.

Inside the tiny domed facility, Donnelley’s hand shook as his fingers tightened on the syringe he was about to plunge into his thigh. Ignore the shaking, he ordered himself as he took a breath and let the needle penetrate his flesh. He tried instead to focus on the label that read “INSULIN…EXP 11/2038.” He knew that this was the last of the med packs, and he knew it didn’t matter anymore. He would have all the insulin he needed soon enough. A two-year supply, he thought. All gone now.

Donnelley pressed the release mechanism on the syringe, and the chemical entered his bloodstream. He sighed as he pulled the syringe free and leaned back in his chair; he looked at the nearly transparent holographic screen perched precariously on a shipping cubicle and watched a dark-skinned man with a wide nose and a grim expression address a huge, colorfully dressed assembly.

“…and for these reasons, the United Nations Special Committee on Antarctica has voted in the majority to extend the terms of the Madrid Protocol for an additional twelve years, through December 31, 2051.”

“That’s what I mean,” his partner said. “Insane.”

The man on the holo-display continued. Donnelley knew it was Mohad Anan, the Secretary General of the UN. Everyone knew that, even in the remote outskirts of Antarctica. “During this extended interdiction,” Anan said, “as in the past, no nation, corporation, or non-governmental entity of any kind shall establish any installation or habitation of any kind; no exploratory or military action will be tolerated, and no development or exploitation of natural resources will be undertaken within the disputed territory as defined in Section I of the Protocol, understood to include the entire continent of Antarctica and the whole of its coastal waters.”

“Jesus.”

The roar of the Assembly broke over Anan, and the world leader pounded his gavel for quiet. Donnelley’s research partner, Brad Parkinson, sandy-haired and sharp-chinned, shook his head in disgust. “Jesus,” he said again. “What are they thinking?”

“They’re thinking if they end the Protocol and let every country on Earth come swarming in here to fight over the natural resources, it’ll cause World War Three,” Donnelley said, sounding weary. “And Four, and possibly Five.”

“That’s bullshit,” Brad said. “I think they’re just choking it off to try and keep the Chinese from taking it all. What do you think?”

“I think…” he glanced at the screen again. Anan was plowing ahead, despite the roar of the crowd and the howl of the wind outside. “Further,” he said, “as stated in Protocol 7 of the Antarctic Treaty, all established facilities now in operation in the disputed territory are to be immediately decommissioned, and all personnel are to be withdrawn to their home countries or declared neutral territory no later than March 31 of this year, 2039. The United Nations Enforcement Division will assist in the relocations and will remain in absolute and unilateral control of the disputed territory. During the extended interdiction, UNED will serve as the Territory’s only governmental authority, nationally and internationally. There will be no exceptions, no extensions, and no appeals.”

“I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” Donnelley said.

This had been coming for quite a while. Antarctica had been disputed territory since before he was born, twenty-eight years ago. The Protocols had stopped all that, and driven everyone except scientists and explorers from the continent a full fifteen years ago. But now even the scientists and explorers were being banned. Due to a war over territorial rights between Japan and China, the United Nations had been forced to enact a new protocol to the Antarctic Treaty in 2032. This new protocol, Protocol 7-which had finally been approved in 2035, had given the United Nations ultimate control over the Antarctic continent. Through Protocol 7, UNED would become the governing body and the policing force in the event that future tensions would break out over the continent. The protocol would allow UNED to enforce an immediate and absolute quarantine without question. Any nation that would not abide by the articles of Protocol 7 would face immediate military intervention from NATO.

All that work. All that knowledge…

“The world is getting too hungry,” he said, as much to himself as to his partner. “And too desperate.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Secretary General said, almost shouting to be heard. “This is not done lightly, not without serious and continuing appraisal and debate. However, given the current level of international tension, the continuing and worsening political and economic instability in both hemispheres, and the undeniable willingness-even the overt threat-of so many regimes ready to bring devastating military and economic might to bear should this new continent be made accessible, there is only one option available to the Committee and the world: initiate Protocol 7-continued isolation…or Armageddon!”

Donnelley wondered what the old man had been thinking when he gave this speech. Was he worried? Elated? Afraid? He couldn’t tell by looking. He could barely recognize him and his fellow “world leaders” as human. They seemed that distant, that alien.

“Thank you,” Anan said and turned away from the podium.

“Turn the goddamn thing off,” Brad said. “They just keep playing the same clip over and over. I’m sick of it,” he continued after tossing the small servo that was in his hand on the table immediately in front of him. “First it was the Patriot Act that gave the US unfair control over our citizens, and now this Protocol 7 bullshit.”

Donnelley passed a hand over the remote control and deactivated the live streaming image. It was replaced by an updated version of the same message they’d been receiving for more than a day-white letters trundling across the invisible screen, floating in thin icy air:

You are required to evacuate your station. Please gather yourpersonal belongings and prepare to leave immediately. This isan official mandate by the United Nations; noncompliance ispunishable by law.

“What do they expect us to do with the equipment, just let it freeze here?” Brad made a fist. “It took me four months to get approval to set up the damn station, and now they want to shut it down?”

Donnelley shrugged. His eyes traveled across the interior of the stuffy, low-ceilinged, dank little dome, called Station 3-27, which had been his home for so long. Every inch of it was crammed with carrying cases, data blocks, trunks, and suitcases of every size. It smelled even worse than usual. He hated it, and he was going to miss it like hell. He wondered what would become of the scientific explorations throughout the continent and all the personnel that had to evacuate immediately.

All he knew was that by dawn tomorrow there wouldn’t be a living soul on the entire icy landmass-just unmanned drones patrolling the perimeter, and specialized satellites peering down from above to keep-

There was a knock at the door.

It was brisk, distinct, edged with a metallic click, as if someone was beating a chain-mail fist against the hatch.

The two scientists froze, speechless. Finally, Brad Parkinson blinked.

“Evac team early?” he said sarcastically.

“Did you hear the chopper?” Donnelley said. It should have been clearly audible, even over the howling of the storm.

“No. Did you-”

There was another violent knock.

Donnelley turned and put his cheek against the small round circle of the observation port. He could feel the impossible cold, even through the two plates of half-inch lexan and the insulating layer of inert gas between them.

There was a hunched, hooded figure in the entrance alcove-a single human shape. Pellets of rock-hard ice peppered the figure like a hail of white ball bearings. Each one of them, Donnelley knew, was sharp enough to cut, traveling fast enough to leave a bruise.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “He’s not even in a suit.”

“Then he’s a dead man,” Brad said.

“Well at least he can die inside.” He shifted to the left, put his eye to the retinal scanner, and thumbed the broad latch-panel.

Parkinson jumped up. “Wait a minute, Donnelley! We don’t even know who he is!”

The panel beeped just as it was supposed to. “Who cares?” he said over his shoulder. He put his hands on the huge, old-fashioned wheel and spun it, cursing the design. Damn engineers, he thought as he dragged at it. “There aren’t two hundred people left on the whole damn continent, Brad. It’s not exactly a home invasion robbery!”

It took all the strength he had to pull the door open six inches. The man outside pushed as well, using his shoulder with tremendous strength. A moment later, the opening was just wide enough to let the visitor spill in and tumble to the floor. Donnelley reversed his effort and struggled to get the hatch shut and locked. He barely managed.

After the latch chunked home and the panel gave its happy beep, he leaned against the cold door to recover his strength. “Son of a bitch,” he said again, panting from the exertion. “What the hell were you-”

Something jerked at the collar of his suit, right at the nape of his neck, and pulled him back hard. A fist slammed into his face as he fell, hitting him just below his nose and driving him even more painfully to the ground. An instant later, the man who had knocked on the door was on top of him, knee on his chest, holding him down.

His attacker’s entire head was covered in a twisted mass of silver, heat-insulating Mylar, duct tape showing at odd corners and sealing a pair of goggles over his eyes. There was a tiny slit where his mouth should have been. His hands-the ones pinning Donnelley’s arms to the floor-were covered in two pairs of gloves, one inside the other.

“Shut up,” the man said. His voice was rough with cold and desperation.

He freed one hand long enough to reach inside the massive black peacoat he was wearing. Donnelley barely had time to think, that shouldn’t have worked; he shouldn’t have gotten ten feet in that get-up, before the glove came out again, holding a huge, slab-sided Glock 17 hand gun.

He pointed the pistol at Robert Donnelley and shot him in the forehead-one 9-millimeter bullet, dead center. After a long moment, a bubble of blood welled up in the hole and dribbled thickly down one temple.

The taped head came up and pointed its black lens at Brad Parkinson. The gun came up with it and pointed steadily at a single, small spot on the researcher’s chest. “You don’t have to die,” the visitor grated, his voice muffled by the wrapping. “Listen carefully.”

Parkinson stared at him. He could barely comprehend what had just happened.

“I’ll take this man’s suit and ID. You will stand in the corner and watch me. When the chopper gets here, we will fly out together. If you tell them I am not who they think I am, I will kill everyone.”

“You’ll just kill yourself if you do. We’ll all die.”

The man didn’t answer. He just stared at him. After a long moment, Brad nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He backed into a corner and stretched his hands high over his head. Then he watched in mute horror as the man stripped his friend’s body, peeled off his own makeshift thermal suit, and switched clothes. The corpse of Robert Donnelley fit into one of the empty storage containers-one of the many that were going to be left behind.

Brad didn’t see the man’s face. It didn’t matter. He was too much in a state of disarray to even care.

When the man was fully clothed and Donnelley’s body was safely hidden away, he said, “You can put your hands down.” Parkinson lowered them with a silent sigh of relief and sat on a data cube, as far from the other man as he could. They did not speak again until the chopper arrived.

After carefully scanning the small outpost, the man quickly recognized what he had come for and opened a small box that contained a tiny book and a digital microchip. He quickly grabbed the contents and shoved them it into the pocket of his jacket. He knew that it would change everything. He needed to do this for his friend, even if it meant his life. The helicopter barely made it through the storm. It wallowed like an airborne rowboat piloted by a drunk, shoved and battered by the freezing wind. But it managed to touch down thirteen minutes after the stranger knocked on the outpost’s door-exactly on time.

The pilot didn’t check IDs-why bother? Donnelley and Parkinson were the only two humans in a five hundred-mile radius. With just two new passengers and so little to carry, the pilot was able to lift off at 12:56-two minutes early, despite the storm.

The trip to the evac station passed without incident. They did not speak to each other or the pilot. Shortly after they debarked, they went into separate rooms for processing and left on separate transports three hours later, returning to different parts of the United States. Brad did not see the other man leave; he heard much later that Robert Donnelley “disappeared” at some point along the daisy-chain of multiple connecting flights that were supposed to take him back to Roanoke, Virginia.

He didn’t care. All that mattered to Brad Parkinson was that he made it home to his wife and daughter.

And he never spoke of the incident to anyone. Ever.

PART ONE:

THE MESSAGE

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Simon's Apartment

Simon Fitzpatrick gazed into his tumbler of thirty-year-old scotch and thought about where he was, what he was doing-and, most important, what he was not doing.

“Jake,” he said to his constant companion. “You’re a son of a bitch.”

Jake regarded him with weary resignation. Clearly, he had heard it all before.

“But I knew that the day we met, didn’t I?” He tapped the glass against the polished surface of the burl wood side table and shook his head. “You’ve never been anything but honest with me.” He sighed. “No, what I actually have learned, after thirty years on the planet and ten years in this place, is something more: you have an excuse for being a son of a bitch-you have to deal with me every day. The rest of the world acts that way for fun.” Jake sighed again, making a show of his boredom. Then he hopped off the large ottoman that he had claimed as his own and padded into the kitchen to see if anyone had remembered to fill his food bowl. After a short pause he returned, looking disappointed but unsurprised.

Simon smoothed the fur on his Great Dane’s broad brow. The fire in the hearth was lovely; the scotch gave him an inner glow that was undeniable and terribly welcome. But it did nothing to relieve the cold, clenching anger that had been burning in his belly for days.

He couldn’t forget the look on the face of the UNED officer who delivered the news about his father’s fate. He had come to the door of the flat on a sunny day, hat in hand. “He was at his laboratory in…a classified location,” the officer told him, sounding oddly hesitant. “There was an accident. Unavoidable. Unexpected. And I’m afraid he sustained terminal injuries.”

Terminal injuries, Simon thought. The phrase kept repeating in his mind. As if he understood it. As if it meant something. Terminal injuries.

He had been promised details. He had been promised a swift “processing of the remains.” And then…nothing. Not a letter, not a package, nothing.

“Six weeks,” he said. “And not a word. They couldn’t care less about my father. Not Oxford University, not UNED, not even old friends I’ve known since elementary school.” He cupped the dog’s chin and lifted his eyes.

“Is he gone, Jake? Is he really dead?”

He got up and wandered through the apartment as if looking for an answer. It was a tidy three-bedroom flat not far from the university-a bedroom, a study, a guest room, and an octagonal dining room that looked out over a rolling green lawn. He had been here for five years, since his appointment as the department’s youngest full professor, and he loved it…but today, for the first time, it felt small, closed-confining.

He had to admit it-it meant nothing without his father.

He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and two fingers, trying to drive sleep away. He wasn’t ready to rest, not yet. He visited the bathroom long enough to splash water in his face and found himself staring at his own reflection: short auburn hair, a prominent chin and a strong, thin-lipped mouth that smiled easily-though not tonight. He was handsome enough, he supposed; he had heard women talking about him when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. It was his eyes they spoke about most often-deep, cobalt eyes that were staring back at him now with something like a challenge.

What are you going to do about it, he kept asking himself. What?

It was nearly midnight when the front door bell rang. Simon jumped in surprise and almost yelped, “What the hell?” at the empty air, then cursed himself for his nerves. Jake was even more disturbed by the noise; he barked like a hound from hell until Simon spoke to him sharply and put a comforting hand on his burly shoulder.

The deep bell sounded a second time, and a slightly hoarse, amused woman’s voice spoke to Simon from the empty air. It was his personal Artificial Intelligence unit-a disembodied voice that monitored most of his communication and acted as his personal assistant. During the past two decades, AIs had become commonplace and were intertwined with almost everyone’s life, in one way or another, much to Simon’s dismay.

“Jonathan Weiss,” the voice said. “An unexpected visit.”

Simon sat up straight. “Bollocks,” he said. “He’s in America.”

“In fact,” the voice said, “he is on the front porch and looking rather impatient.”

Simon jumped up and almost ran toward the apartment’s front door. “Shall I let him in?” the voice asked-always at his ear, right behind him, no matter what room he was in. He had grown so accustomed to her that he had named her after his mother-Fae.

“Just leave him alone!” he said. “Go away! I’ll handle it!”

“No need to be snippy,” the voice said.

“No need to be a wanker,” he retorted, half under his breath.

“I heard that!”

“Good!”

Simon pulled the huge front door open in one long sweep, still half-believing that his assistant had made an error. Although Fae was remotely wired through the entire house, Simon wondered if he should pull up the menu on the holographic screen that controlled the AI’s functions, just to be sure. AIs had come a long way since the first self-aware Artificial Intelligences had been born, but they still made mistakes. He had been trying to get a hold of Jonathan since the bad news had first arrived, but his old friend hadn’t bothered to respond.

Why would he come now, he wondered, without even calling? How had he come, given his position at the United National Enforcement Division and the current craziness of the Antarctic Quarantine? It just-

Jonathan Weiss stood like a granite statue on the porch, rain streaming onto his shoulders in buckets. He wore a no-nonsense snap-brim hat and a gray canvas raincoat that made him look like the stolid, solid operative he had been for years.

He really does look like something out of an American TV show, Simon thought as he regarded him. “Jonathan Weiss: CIA.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

“Well, hello to you too, you limey bastard,” Jonathan growled, though he couldn’t keep himself from cracking a smile.

Simon grinned in response. “Shut up and come in.” Jonathan stepped forward and they embraced like the old friends they were. They had been roommates in college, close friends ever since. It was an unlikely friendship, but it had survived time and distance better than most marriages.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said into his friend’s shoulder. “You know that.”

“I know. I know.”

They finally let each other go and walked down the hall together toward the cozy sitting room.

“Welcome back, Mr. Weiss,” the disembodied voice said.

“Thank you, Fae,” Jonathan said.

“Shut up, Fae,” Simon said. He half-whispered to his friend: “I hate that machine, you know.”

Jonathan couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “She’s not a machine, Simon; she’s a fully sentient artificial intelligence. And if you hate her so much, why don’t you just turn her off?”

“What, and miss all the fun?”

“Indeed,” Fae said as they entered the sitting room. “Who would make all the decisions around here?”

“Who would make my life a living hell?”

“Exactly.”

“God, you two. Like an old married couple.”

Jake was waiting for them on the overstuffed couch; he greeted Jonathan like his own long-lost brother, and Simon was happy to indulge the two of them in a well-deserved reunion. Only then did Simon notice the carefully applied bandages on both of Jonathan’s hands.

“What happened there?” He nodded at Jonathan’s stiff, white-wrapped fingers.

“Frostbite,” Jonathan said shortly. “Not as bad as it looks.”

“Ah. I bet there’s a story behind that.”

Jonathan didn’t look at him. “I bet there is.”

Simon smiled and shrugged. He had heard answers like that from his old friend for years. After all, Jonathan had been working for intelligence agencies-first the CIA, now UNED-for most of his adult life. There were plenty of stories he couldn’t share, and Simon had accepted that long ago. He moved his exercise bag off the armchair and took a seat himself, stretching his long legs out in front as he waited.

Jake was finally content to share the huge leather couch with his companion, and Jonathan settled down, his hand on the dog’s side, idly stroking his brindle coat as the old friends chatted about the trip, their work, even the awful weather. After a few minutes, Simon stood and crossed to the decanter of ancient and wonderful scotch, poured a neat one for his best friend and topped off his own as well. It was one of the many things they shared: a deep love of the single malts, the older and mellower the better.

Jonathan winced as his damaged hand wrapped around the glass. They both chose to ignore it. Then he took a long, slow sip of the liquor and smiled as if the gods had blessed him. “My god, that’s good,” he said. “Really.”

Simon found himself wondering how long it had been since he had actually seen Jonathan in person. Eight months? Ten? The handsome guy hadn’t changed a bit, at least not externally: the short dark hair, the eyes so brown they were almost black, the square jaw and full mouth that made him look like an American hero to many, many women. But there was something about him-a weariness, a tendency to react just a half-second later than he should have-that was different. Different and disturbing.

“You better get to it,” Simon heard himself saying.

Jonathan pretended not to understand. “Get to what?”

Simon sighed. “It’s 2039, Jonathan. Amazing technology at your fingertips: cell phone implants, tele-presence, holo-files, even five-level encryption that your buddies back at UNED couldn’t break.”

Jonathan scowled. “Don’t count on that,” he said.

“You know what I mean. And still, you hop a flight or a train or a camel from…wherever the hell you were…and come here to see me in person. So, what’s up?” He sipped at the scotch again and raised his eyebrows, waiting.

Jonathan didn’t answer him directly. Instead he paused for a second and then raised his head to face one of the discretely mounted cameras in a dark corner of the room. “Fae,” he said, “do you remember that little trick I taught you last summer?”

“I think I know what you’re referring to, Jonathan,” Fae said in her deeply mellow voice. Simon had programmed her to sound just like Diana Rigg at the age of thirty in her Avengers heyday. The resemblance was uncanny.

“Procedure Kappa Alpha Poindexter, then,” Jonathan said.

Simon heard the oddest sound: a pop and a hummm that came from no direction and all directions at once, then quickly cycled up the audible sound-spectrum until it seemed to fade away…or fill the room. “What the hell?” he heard himself say for the second time that night.

“It’s an anti-eavesdropping widget I installed in Fae last time I was here,” Jonathan said. “Sends out a field of white noise that effectively kills every kind of bug, either live-feed or recording, within twenty meters. All they will hear is a muffled hiss until I tell it to go away.”

“Are you saying my home is bugged?” Simon was astonished. “Someone is listening to me?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Simon. Someone is always listening these days. You know that.”

“It’s that serious?”

Jonathan’s weariness showed through far more clearly now. He put the half-finished scotch on the end table and nodded. “Yeah. That serious.”

He stood up and paced to the fireplace, thinking deeply.

“I have a message for you,” he said.

Simon frowned. “From whom?”

“Your father.”

A long, cold moment passed. Simon felt a gulf opening between them. “My father is dead,” he said shortly, surprised at the anger in his own voice.

Jonathan, uncharacteristically hesitant, looked at a spot on the carpet midway between them. “Yes, that may be, but-”

“May be, Jonathan? May?” He leaned forward, doing his best to hold in his rage. “Oxford told me he was dead. The British Diplomatic Corps told me he was dead. Even your own beloved UNED told me he was dead. None of them will give me one bit of detail-how he died, when he died, even where-but they all agree on that one bloody fact: Oliver Fitzpatrick is dead. Or is that a lie, too?”

Jonathan wouldn’t say. Simon recognized the expression; he’d seen that same mulish, stubborn secretiveness in the man since they had both met in college. It was one of the characteristics that made Jonathan Weiss such an accomplished investigator and operative. And Simon hated his friend for it, if only a little.

“Do you have a screen nearby?” Jonathan said abruptly. “Net ready?”

“Of course,” Fae murmured. It was common for most households to have virtual screens that could appear at will available in nearly every room. Like the AIs, they’d become standard over the past few years.

Bloody technology, Jonathan thought.

A black strip appeared in the rich wood surface of the end table between them; it buzzed very faintly, and a ghostly rectangle opened in the air above it. A beat later it folded out into a box almost as big as the table itself: a holographic display, ready for data. A virtual keyboard glowed into existence in a flat space at the edge of the tabletop, and Jonathan moved to the chair in front of it. His fingers flew.

Simon scowled at the entire display. “What, no secret microdot concealed in your shoe? No handwritten note scrawled on a bit of charred newsprint?”

“Oh, shut up, man. Sometimes you can be so British.” Jonathan reached into the cube and navigated the data by hand, moving to one particular site he had keyed in. “I’m trying to do you a favor here.”

Simon stood over his friend’s shoulder as the hologram blossomed. He nearly dropped his scotch when it revealed a gaudy pink-and-silver fantasy landscape, filled with kittens, dinosaurs, and unicorn ponies.

“What the hell?” he said. It seemed the phrase was becoming his new slogan.

“A little data-espionage tip,” Jonathan said over his shoulder, without looking at him. “These massive multi-player role-playing games, especially the ones for children, are wonderful places to hide data. There are literally millions of children online at any moment, all doing something silly, so many of them with so much content changing all the time that even the spy-nets have a hard time keeping track of it all. And even if one of them stumbles on an encrypted or password-protected file, they don’t bother cracking it-they’re kids. Besides, they can just move on to some other game or character or pinky-blue fairy-thing that’s easier to talk to. There’s just so much.”

He wandered through the over-bright, slightly ridiculous landscape until he came to a cartoon treasure chest with a big blue padlock. “There we go, ItzyBitzyVille,” he said. He tapped the keyboard and gave the hologram a gentle fingertip-shove. The lock popped open. Then, with a single deft stroke, he lifted the lid to reveal a glittering black diamond inside.

“Give me the word,” the diamond said.

“Carmel corn,” Jonathan said.

“Oh, god,” Simon groaned.

“Shh!” Jonathan tapped a five-digit number into the virtual keypad. The diamond turned white and asked for a second password.

“Camembert,” Jonathan said in a strangely hushed voice…

Suddenly, the hologram went black. The fantasy landscape was gone completely, replaced by a flat black cube that swirled for a moment, and then coalesced into the three-dimensional representation of a human head-a particular human head.

A bolt of ice-cold dread cut through Simon. The image was Oliver Fitzpatrick, Simon’s father. And he looked…strange.

Jonathan tapped the PLAY icon at the base of the image and sat back.

“Whoever sees this,” he said, “If anyone does, please get it to my son, Simon Fitzpatrick.” He reeled off Simon’s public e-mail address and his geographical address in the Physics Department, Materials Science Division, at Oxford. “Thank you.”

Always the polite one, Simon thought remotely. I don’t think he can help himself.

The image of his father moved a fraction closer to the camera, nearly filling the screen. He was clean-shaven, smiling; he seemed well-rested and well-fed. At sixty-eight, his father had always been the picture of the twenty-first century English gentleman: impeccably groomed, eternally charming. And that was still true. In fact, he seemed to be doing remarkably well for a man who was supposed to be dead. His eyes were clear and bright, his skin smooth and glowing. He even had a little color…

…A little color in his…

Simon found himself leaning forward and squinting at the image, trying to will it into even greater clarity. “Jon,” he said, half-surprised at the sound of his own voice. “Jon, is he wearing makeup?”

Jonathan frowned at the holo and cocked his head. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “I…I think he is.”

“Hello, Simon,” Oliver said, smiling straight into the camera. “I can’t tell you where I am because I don’t know where I am-not exactly, anyway. They call it Station 135. It is somewhere in Victoria Land, but I’ve never seen it marked on a map, paper or digital. And I probably shouldn’t even be telling you that. Ha. Ha.”

Simon felt an involuntary shudder go through him. That’s not how he laughs, he told himself. In fact, he doesn’t laugh at all. He’s not a grim man, not sour…but he’s not a laugher. And the three or four times I’ve heard him do it, it never, ever, sounded like that.

“You know some of the work I’ve been doing,” Oliver said. “It is still in the field of exotic materials science, just like yours, but…very different. But it’s going very well, very well indeed. Most exciting. And you needn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really. I’m fine. So please, Simon-no matter what you hear, you needn’t worry about me. You understand? No matter what.”

And for the briefest instant-for less than a blink of an eye-Simon saw something underneath the blandly smiling face. A flash of steel, a glint of fear-something.

“He’s lying,” Simon said. “I know it. He’s lying.”

His far-too-cheerful father slapped his knees with great heartiness. “Well!” he said. “Enough breaktime! Back to work! No rest for the wicked, eh? Give my best to Leon, and I know I’ll see you soon!”

And with that, the image froze-just froze, leaving his father’s image smiling broadly and blandly, one hand suspended in the air, staring into empty space forever and ever.

A cold fear blossomed in the pit of Simon’s stomach. Something was very, very wrong.

Leon? Simon repeated to himself. Who the devil is…?

Then he remembered: a childhood vacation, a trip to the Island of Corsica…

No, he couldn’t possibly mean…him?

He turned to his old college friend, almost glaring at him. “How did you get this?”

“It was left behind for me.”

“Where?”

“In your father’s quarters. I found it on a chip there, so I uploaded it to ItzyBitzyVille and destroyed the original.”

“And where were these… ‘quarters?’”

“It doesn’t matter, Simon. He’s not there anymore.”

“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t matter?’ Everyone else is telling me he’s dead. This tells me he’s alive and well weeks after he was supposed to have-”

“I know what it says, man. Come on.”

“No, you come on!”

Jonathan put up a hand to calm his friend. “Look, I just wanted to give you a little comfort, that’s all. I can’t tell you any more than that. Even this much could put us both in grave danger. Just…just know that he’s okay-you saw him, he was fine.”

Simon shook his head stubbornly. “No, he’s not fine. Christ, Jonny, he was faking. You know him well enough to know that! He looked like a damn mannequin; he was wearing makeup for god’s sake!”

“That could have been the lighting. Or poor file res. It could have-”

“Jonathan, something is wrong. I’m incredibly glad you brought this to me. Just knowing he’s alive changes everything-everything. But…but this isn’t right. I need to know more.”

Jonathan looked at the carpet and nodded. “I know. And I can’t tell you. All I can do is give you this.”

He reached into the pocket of his tailored sports coat and pulled out a small book no more than five inches on its long side. As he handed it to his friend, Simon saw gold gilt glitter along the edge of the pages. It was a strangely old-fashioned thing, quaint and slightly mysterious.

Simon took it automatically and weighed it in his hand. It was about the size of an old-fashioned paperback, but denser, more carefully bound.

He suddenly realized what it was. “It’s a diary,” he said, almost to himself. “My father’s diary?”

Jonathan gave him a sad smile. “In a manner of speaking,” he said.

Simon opened the book and found a series of diagrams-notations that looked oddly algebraic but made no sense, grids of black and white boxes with figures and numbers squiggled inside, all in his father’s unique handwriting.

“It’s a chess journal,” he said to himself, more than a little taken aback. “My father’s chess journal.”

Oliver had been an avid chess player. He’d taught Simon how to play when the boy was barely old enough to reach the table, and they had spent endless hours together, at war on the black-and-white battlefield. But Simon had never known him to keep a chess diary. Even the idea of it seemed strange and slightly alien to him.

And now it was the only thing he had to remember his father. That, and an odd video message he somehow knew was a lie.

Jonathan took a small black memory card from his pocket and laid it on an illuminated patch of the tabletop. He touched a few glowing keys, then lifted his face and spoke to the household AI again. “Fae, did you record that feed?”

“Of course, Jonathan.”

“Then erase it, please,” he said as he picked up the black card. “Then erase it again, and then frag the sector. Make it completely unrecoverable. Then lift the Poindexter field. If you leave it on too long, it might be noticed.”

“All right.” The AI didn’t argue for a change; it simply did as it was told.

Jonathan’s fingers flew across the virtual keyboard. Simon watched as his old friend erased the video file, dissolving the black diamond that had been hiding in the treasure chest, and then dissolving the chest as well.

“What are you doing?”

“Crashing ItzyBitzyVille for a few hours. Don’t worry, it’ll come back. Wouldn’t want to traumatize the little ones.” It happened quickly, in little more than a dozen keystrokes.

“Haven’t lost your knack for hacking,” Simon observed grimly.

“Necessary tool of the trade, believe me.” When Jonathan was finished, the cube fell back into the black strip, and then the strip itself faded into the end table’s wood grain. It was gone in moments, as if it was never there.

As if the message itself had never existed.

“Mission accomplished, Jonathan.”

“Thank you, Fae. I always knew you’d make a fine operative.”

“Why, thank you.”

Jonathan turned to his old friend and held out the black card. “This is the one and only copy of his message to you. It’s not recorded anywhere else, not in the cloud or on a hard drive. Touch the corners of the card here and here, and it will project the holo in a meter-wide cube. Touch the other corners, like this…then confirm…and you’ll destroy the file forever. Real Mission: Impossible self-destruct stuff. Clear?”

Simon had been watching very closely. He nodded. “Clear.”

“And I don’t have to tell you not to send it over the net or try and make a copy.”

Simon shook his head. He felt numb from head to toe. “No, you don’t.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Jonathan stood and moved briskly, retrieving his raincoat and shaking out his hat, still damp from the downpour.

Simon got to his feet as well, surprised and a little chilled. “You’re leaving?”

Jonathan gave him a wry smile. “At the risk of sounding cliche…I was never here.”

“Where are you supposed to be?”

“Washington,” he said briefly. He wasn’t inclined to give details.

“Then what?”

He looked frankly at his old friend, his deep brown eyes glittering. “To tell you the truth, Simon…I really don’t know.”

He tightened his belt and turned away. “Walk me to the door,” he said.

Neither man spoke as they crossed the apartment. Simon knew better than to mention the video, not with the possibility of being overheard.

“I hope you’ll come back for a real visit soon,” he said as he put his hand on the front door.

“I will. At least, I’ll try. I just hope I was…helpful.”

Simon offered up a tiny, sad smile. “To quote a wise man, Jonathan, I really don’t know.”

Jonathan nodded. “Fair enough.”

He gave him a brief, heartfelt hug. “Soon, Simon.”

“Soon, Jonathan.”

He pulled away and ducked into the rainstorm. It had only grown worse since his arrival a bare hour earlier. But just before he saw his friend disappear into the night, Simon had a sudden thought. He threw himself into the darkness, ignored the pelting rain, and followed his friend into the drive.

“Jonathan! Wait!”

He caught up to him as he was opening the door to his anonymous black car. Jonathan turned to face him with an oddly guarded expression; one that said ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.

“Just one thing,” Simon said, barely able to hear his own voice over the roar of the rain. “Where is Victoria Land?”

Jonathan grinned in spite of himself and shook his head. “Geography never was your best subject, was it?” He focused his dark eyes on his oldest friend in the world. “Antarctica, Simon,” he said. “Next to the Ross Ice Shelf.”

Then he got into his car and drove away.

Simon stood in the storm for a long moment as the car drifted down the drive, taillights flaring as it turned and surged silently into the night. Then he turned and looked back at his apartment building.

It was one of four flats in an odd little two-story building-pink stone, white cornices, and a circular turret at each end for his octagonal dining room, all windows and wood. Fae had left the porch light on; he could see the flickering fire of the study in the window far to one side and the warm glow in the dining room in the windows of the turret. There was a twisting blue light coming from a window on the far side as well: his neighbor, Mrs. Ellingsworth, was still watching her “telly” late into the night. The multi-colored glow of the display twinkled against her rain-spattered window.

It should have been a comforting sight. He had come to love his digs; his apartment had become a true home for him-not an easy thing to accomplish for a childless, single man in his mid-thirties.

But it didn’t matter to him. Not now. All he could see was the image of his father, smiling stiffly, hiding something horrible behind his eyes. Ha. Ha.

He had to do something about it. He had to.

THE ROOM WITH NO WINDOWS

An Undisclosed Location

The man who called himself “Blackburn” stood in the exact center of the room he had commandeered for his private communications. It was a perfectly cubical space; its walls were made of featureless, nearly translucent modules. It was absolutely silent in the room; this far below the surface, not even the movement of the air itself made a sound.

He was staring at a frozen holo-display floating in the air in front of him-a single, motionless image, no bigger than a dinner plate, captured hours earlier by a mobile security cam roaming London. A slice of features belonging to the only human in the image was barely identifiable by facial recognition software that tagged the subject’s identity and forwarded the information to Blackburn, immediately and automatically.

It was an image of one of the many people Blackburn kept tabs on at all times. The man in question was that important-and that dangerous.

“Jonathan Weiss,” he said aloud.

Mr. Weiss was a clever man. That cleverness had made him very useful to Blackburn for quite some time. But now…too clever by half. Too clever for his own good.

The camera had caught him sprinting back to his anonymously rented car in the middle of a cloudburst, fleeing from an odd and lovely British apartment building, complete with red brick turrets and fire-lit windows. It was the home of one Simon Fitzpatrick-a man that Jonathan Weiss had been ordered to avoid at all costs. Another dangerous man-but dangerous in an entirely different way.

Internal audio of their meeting was unavailable; thread interrogation had failed as well. But that didn’t matter to Blackburn. The image itself was enough, because Weiss wasn’t supposed to be in London. He wasn’t even supposed to be in that hemisphere. And his presence there-his meeting with Fitzpatrick, no matter the reason-was absolutely forbidden.

Blackburn sighed bitterly. He hated to admit it, and it had taken an unusually long time by his exacting standards, but Jonathan Weiss had finally outlived his usefulness.

Without moving from the exact center of his windowless room, Blackburn touched his right ear and initiated a call to one of the very few people who had direct contact with him. It took only moments to convey his wishes. It took even less time to receive confirmation.

The instant the command was given and accepted, he put it aside. He had far more important things to attend to. Things that would change the world.

This, at least, is settled, he told himself.

He was wrong.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Oxford University, College of Robotics

Simon knocked on the wooden door as hard as he could. Nothing happened. Thirty seconds later, he knocked again. Still nothing.

Oxford’s College of Robotics was housed in some of the university’s oldest buildings-quite a statement for a university that was almost nine hundred years old. In fact, it was actually a collection of cottages and low-slung warehouses, some erected centuries ago, some put up as recently as a year ago. In the middle of the confusion was a two-story stone-and-plaster house with a wood-shingle roof: the office, home, and laboratory for one of the most respected and least liked experts in the field, and one of Oliver Fitzpatrick’s oldest friends.

And Simon needed to see him. Now.

He knocked a third time, waited an impatient ten seconds, then turned the knob and pushed his way in. Of course it’s not locked, he told himself. It never is.

It looked as if a small bomb had exploded in the entryway: papers strewn everywhere, teetering stacks of old books, data chips scattered like snack food. The furniture-what he could see of it-was almost as ancient as the house and remarkably ugly. The tiny-paned windows were blurred with grime, and most horizontal surfaces were dull with dust.

“Hell of a housekeeper,” Simon muttered to himself, and stumped down the hallway to the basement stairs. “Hayden!” he shouted as he dodged the debris. “HAYDEN!”

A high-pitched, young female voice with a pronounced Liverpool accent called up from below. “Down here, Dr. Fitzpatrick!”

Oh, great, Simon thought. She’s here, too.

He was careful going down the stairs-at least two of the steps were dark with rot and cracked from end to end. As he descended, the quality of light changed from the dim reflected sunlight of the untended rooms above to the blue-white glow of the workspace. It made his eyes hurt even though he knew what to expect.

He had to step over an upturned stool to completely enter the lab. The room was huge compared to the space above, at least three times the floor space and twice the height, slightly too cold to be comfortable and absolutely without scent or shadow. It was almost inhumanly tidy as well: every piece of equipment was in its place on a labeled shelf, every worktop was clear and clean. Even the piles of printouts on the desk (and who other than Hayden still used printouts, Simon wondered idly) were stacked with geometric precision. None of that was the work of Hayden’s brilliant but disorganized mind, he knew. No, that was someone else’s doing entirely.

The robot responsible for the extraordinary organization turned part of its jumbled face-panel toward him as he entered. “You usually call ahead,” its female voice emanated from somewhere near the center of its seething metallic mass. “You did not think that was necessary on this occasion?”

“Lovely to see you as well, T.E.A.H.,” he said acidly.

He stopped short when he saw what his father’s old friend and his prize robot were doing. They were facing each other, hunched over a small rectangular panel, heads down, in deep contemplation.

Chess, he thought, and smiled to himself. I should have known.

“Why do you do that, Simon?” Hayden grumbled. “Call her by the full designation? You know it just sets her off. Just call her Teah.”

Simon blinked innocently. “Does it?”

Hayden sighed deeply. “Oh, for pity’s sake…”

Something and whirred in Teah’s sensor array. “Your pulse is slightly elevated, Professor,” she said to Simon. “Subcutaneous capillary action is above average, and detectable encephalic activity is accelerated as well. What is bothering you so?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Teah,” he said.

“Ah. Apparently I have exceeded the social paradigm assigned to casual conversation,” the robot said stiffly, “though why you would withhold such unimportant situational data begs a host of other even more significant queries-”

Simon swept up the walnut-sized AI relay that connected Hayden to his robot regardless of distance-their little dedicated intercom/cell phone. He dumped it unceremoniously into a cup of cold coffee that sat at the edge of a table.

“What the devil?” Hayden said, sitting up straight for the first time.

“That was rather pointless,” Teah said, sounding more puzzled than upset. “Now you will simply have to buy another relay.”

“And I will have to shout to make myself heard if she’s a room away! Damn it, Simon!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said with complete insincerity. “How clumsy of me.”

“You seem to think sarcasm is beyond the range of my sensors,” Teah said with a tone that sounded remarkably like condescension. “I assure you, it is not. I am well aware of your low opinion of me.”

“And yet you continue to speak to me. How thoroughly…inexplicable.”

Hayden stood up, groaning. “Aaaaaallll right, enough, enough. Teah, would you be kind enough to prepare tea and bring it in for us?” He cocked a bushy eyebrow at Simon. “Or coffee? A shot of Glenfiddich?”

“Tea is fine, Hayden, thank you.”

“It would be my pleasure to serve you, Doctor,” the robot said, then slithered and clanked away from the makeshift chess table to the doorway that led deeper into the underground complex. When she was well out of sight, Hayden turned to regard his younger friend. “Well?” he said gruffly. “What is your problem?”

Hayden was skinny and tall with a scruffy beard that seemed to cling precariously to his leathery face. His white hair badly needed a trim; it fell in flat, straight, silvery wings on both sides of his high-browed forehead.

Simon was glad to see him; though Hayden was only ten years older than Simon himself, he had always been one of the few friends of his father that he actually liked. And he also happened to be one of the most brilliant thinkers in the UK. He reveled in his role as a curmudgeon. He did not suffer fools gladly, and though he rarely smiled, he had a sense of humor as sharp as a scalpel. As far as Simon was concerned, his only real flaw was his attitude about AIs. He loved them-more than humanity itself-while Simon, on the other hand, could barely stand sharing the planet with them.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Simon observed, casting an eye at the doorway where Teah had retreated.

“Oh, Teah likes everyone,” the scientist said, waving it away. “Except you, of course. Now what’s up?”

Before Simon began to explain what he had come for, he asked, “Hayden, why don’t you have our Industrial Designer at least give her a facelift? She’s one of the most complex forms of robot out there but still looks like something from a bad sci-fi movie.”

Hayden ignored the comment. “Go on,” he said.

Simon had been thinking about how to broach the subject for hours-ever since he’d left his own flat. He still wasn’t quite sure how to begin. But he opened his mouth, took a breath-

— and a gawky, slightly disheveled grad student rounded the corner, appearing from behind an eight-foot pile of equipment, staring at a floating readout and completely unaware of Simon’s presence.

“Scan’s all done, Hayden,” the grad student chirped. “No bugs. Not a one.”

Hayden scowled. “Well, shit,” he said. “I was hoping…”

The student stopped short, suddenly aware of the new arrival. A moment later, he grinned in happy recognition. “Professor Fitzpatrick!” he said. “Cool!”

Simon recognized him immediately. “Andrew?” Andrew was the epitome of a perpetual grad student-a happy-go-lucky fellow well into his twenties who had never quite grown up: a tousled mass of blonde hair, thin shoulders and thinner hips with barely a hint of muscle tone, bright green eyes, and a sharp British nose. But appearances can be deceiving, Simon told himself. No one would guess that this young man was the single brightest student that Oxford’s College of Robotics had seen in more than twenty years. Hayden thought so, and Simon’s own experience with the boy had proven him right. They were more than happy to let him stay on for a few extra years, just to enjoy the benefits of his remarkable brain.

“Never mind then. Andrew, take a seat. Simon, you’re here for a reason. I know that. Now sit down and spill your guts.”

Still, Simon hesitated. He didn’t want to look Hayden straight in the eye, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to mention this all in front of Andrew.

As usual, Hayden anticipated him. “You can trust him,” he said, tilting his head toward the grad student. “I do. And trust me, there’s plenty to trust him with around here.”

Simon thought about it for a moment as he stared at the chessboard, then came to a decision.

All right then, he told himself. Then he looked at his father’s best friend and said, “Hayden, I think Dad is still alive.”

Hayden lifted his sky-blue eyes and looked directly into Simon for the first time. Those eyes had always terrified him a little. They could see so much-too much, actually.

“Simon,” he said patiently. “We’ve been over this. Shit happens, and your old man got himself caught in a hurricane full of it.”

Andrew sat silent and nearly motionless, watching them both with eyes as big as an owl’s. Clearly, this was important.

“No.”

“Yes. I talked to the university, to UNED, and to the authorities who certified his death. I’m telling you, Simon, he-”

Without another word, Simon took out the black memory card that Jonathan had given him, squeezed the corners just so, and put it on two of the empty squares on the chessboard. Instantly, a black cube almost a meter square blossomed in the air above the table, and Oliver’s head emerged from its darkness.

“What the bloody hell is this?” Hayden demanded.

“Cool…” Andrew said, as fascinated with the technology as the face that was forming in front of him.

“Just watch,” Simon told him.

“Whoever sees this,” Oliver said to a spot just to the right of the scientist, “if anyone does: please get it to my son, Simon Fitzpatrick…”

None of them said a word as Oliver’s speech unreeled. Simon adjusted his seat so he could watch Hayden rather than the image of the back of his father’s head, and cast uncertain glances at the grad student. Andrew was clearly in awe of what he was seeing, but Hayden’s expression was unreadable…though he visibly flinched when Oliver barked out his hollow, entirely artificial laugh: “Ha. Ha.”

A beat after the image faded away, the black cube collapsed into the card.

“Wow,” Andrew said, almost breathless.

Hayden looked up at the younger man, blue eyes burning. “What do you want me to say?”

“There’s more.”

Hayden’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “More?”

Simon pulled the small black book from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Here.”

Hayden leafed through it rapidly, his long, thin fingers trembling slightly-whether from excitement or rage, Simon couldn’t say. He seemed to absorb every page with the single blink of an eye. “It’s a chess diary,” he said, surprised.

“Yes.”

Hayden had been one of Oliver’s closest friends and most challenging chess opponents for more than ten years. Simon suddenly wondered if the games recorded in the little black book were ones that his father and Hayden had played together.

“Your dad never kept diaries…” Hayden said. He paused to absorb another game completely; it took him only moments. “Though maybe he should have. He might have beaten me more often.”

Simon nodded. “I think…Hayden, I think he was trying to tell me something.”

Hayden arched an eyebrow. “What the hell are you talking about? Through this? The diary?” He leafed through the pages, frowning at what he saw. “You know how absurd this all sounds?”

“Yes.” He felt an unexpected flush of heat to his cheeks, like he was blushing in front of a demanding teacher.

“When was Oliver supposed to have written all this?” Hayden asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. “He was on a demanding-no, a grueling-expedition with UNED. Do you really think he had the time to sit down and create a diary of chess games just to secretly communicate with you?”

“I don’t know, Hayden. That’s the point. I just cannot shake the feeling that Dad is trying to tell me something that he couldn’t come right out and say. That’s why the silly, contrived video. And the chess diary.”

Hayden leaned back in his chair and looked up at an empty spot far beyond the ceiling. He was very thin; Simon could see the muscles of his arms, like twisted ropes, as he stretched and put his hands behind his head, remembering. “There was a lot that Oliver never shared with anyone, Simon. I don’t suppose he ever told you about those mysterious visits to the Middle East, back when you were a little boy? Or that month-long disappearance into the Canadian wilderness when you were off at boarding school?”

“Wait a moment,” Andrew said. “Are we still talking about Professor Fitzpatrick? The old Professor Fitzpatrick?” He blinked at the thought of his cozy little college teacher going off on an international mission of mystery. “That’s mental.”

A cold current ran through Simon. He had never heard a word about either one. “No,” he said. “He didn’t tell me about them.”

Hayden huffed. “I didn’t think so.”

“But this is different, Hayden. Clearly, he went to a lot of trouble to record this video and get it to me. And if he didn’t keep a chess diary before, then he went to even more trouble now, creating one from scratch…and why? To keep a secret.” He shook his head, feeling a rock-hard, immutable stubbornness rising up inside him. “No. I’m sure, that if there is a code, I’m certain that once it’s cracked, it could lead us right to him. I know he is alive, Hayden, and my gut tells me he may be in danger.”

Hayden didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, handed the diary back to Simon, and stared at the game in front of him, frowning deeply, eyes narrowed.

Simon waited a long moment, hoping for something-anything-from his father’s old friend. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Hayden…?”

Hayden just kept staring blindly at the game. “That sneaky little bitch,” he said.

Simon blinked. “What?”

“She beat me. The little tart beat me.” He took a scrap of paper from a nearby stack and jotted down a note, shaking his head in disgust.

“And not for the first time, sir, if I may say so,” the robot said as it trundled back into the room, pushing a cart with a full tea service.

“Hayden. Please. This is my father-”

The old man stood up suddenly, almost upsetting the game. “It’s a lie,” he said.

Simon gaped at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What?”

Andrew stood as well, looking alarmed. “Hayden. Wait a tick, it’s-”

“A fraud. A clever forgery of that thing, and a lot of not-so-clever CGI.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at him, Simon! Skin tone, eye contact-and that laugh! That’s not Oliver! It couldn’t be!”

“But-”

“No! I won’t hear it!”

He snatched the black memory card from the chessboard, almost upsetting the pieces. He all but threw it back to Simon. “Take it! I don’t want it here.”

Simon hesitated, shocked at the man’s behavior. Then he stood up and glared over at Hayden, completely confused. He’d never seen Hayden like this. He truly didn’t know how to react.

“I said take it,” Hayden said, and shoved the card toward him. Simon accepted it, his fingers almost numb from shock.

Hayden turned away. He walked past the robot he loved so much and kicked the stool away from the staircase. The path was clear.

“Get out,” he said.

“Hayden. I-”

“Get out. I don’t want to see you again, Simon. Not until you can put this behind you and move on. You understand me? Get going.”

Simon stared at him for a long moment, the memory card still clutched in his hand. The fury on the older man’s face, his belligerent stance, his trembling hand as he gestured toward the staircase that led up and out-it all conveyed a single, tragic message.

Simon gave up. “All right,” he said. He shot a glance at the younger student and wondered for an instant what he must be thinking.

Andrew looked both shame-faced and confused. “Sorry,” he said softly, then looked away.

Never mind, Simon told himself. He turned and walked out of the lab, up the stairs and through the disheveled house without breaking stride. His years of martial arts training had given him superb discipline, and he needed every ounce of it that moment. What he really wanted to do was tear the lab to pieces.

He didn’t. Instead, he didn’t stop moving at all, until he was free of the cottage and halfway across the courtyard.

He couldn’t recall being so bitterly disappointed in years.

The cold wind tugged at his jacket as he stood on the green, head down, shoulders hunched. Simon had no idea what to do next-who to turn to, what to say. He stared blindly at the black memory card still gripped in his fist-his only connection with his lost father-and for the first time he saw the scrap of paper that Hayden had passed to him along with the card.

He stared at it for a moment, his mind whirling. He remembered the scientist had jotted something down right after he’d seen Oliver’s message; Simon had assumed it was something about the chess game-Hayden made it seem as if it was-but then he had passed it to him as if he was passing a secret note, trying to avoid detection. But detection from whom? What? Hidden cameras? Security?

Teah?

She had re-entered the room just moments before Hayden had blown up. She hadn’t seen the message or the book, but Simon had been about to talk about them both when she’d arrived with the tea.

Why had Hayden stopped him? Why the scene?

He opened his fingers and plucked out the crumpled note. He smoothed it out and saw there was, indeed, writing on it-a single word, big and bold, scrawled in Hayden Bartholomew’s inimitable hand:

YES.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Simon's Apartment

Simon sat in his favorite wingback chair in front of a fragrant and crackling fire and stared at the note Hayden had slipped him. He had been staring at it for half an hour.

YES.

His father’s friend had believed him after all. Something was wrong. And whatever it was, Hayden didn’t dare speak about it-not in that room, not in front of that AI…maybe not at all.

During his time in that chair, looking into that fire, he had thought of many things-many reactions, many explanations, many things to do next. But he kept coming back to one thought-one ridiculous, extraordinary, insane idea that called to him like the relentless, seductive song of a siren.

One idea.

Go get him.

“Simon,” Fae said gently, right at his ear as always. “You need to have something to eat.”

“Not quite yet, Fae,” he said. “Soon, I promise.”

He put the note aside and picked up a pad of paper, smiling briefly at the recent memory of how hard it had been to find such simple tools: a pad, a pencil, a gum eraser. People didn’t need such things anymore. They had virtual keyboards, holograms, airborne AIs and many other gadgets.

No, Simon decided in that moment. Rule number one for this project: nothing on the net, nothing on a hard drive, nothing recorded. Everything face to face, pen to paper, nothing more.

He still didn’t dare to write down his insane idea. It was too big, too fragile. He was afraid if he saw it, the mere words would make him turn away, change his mind, throw the pad in the fire and move on.

But he couldn’t forget the last words that Hayden had spoken to him.

Get going, he had said.

Get going.

Very slowly, thinking with every stroke, Simon wrote down five names on a single sheet of notebook paper:

Max

Jonathan

Hayden

Ryan (?)

Samantha (?)

Simon thought of the hundreds of people he had met in his personal and professional life. There was only one, one he trusted above all others:

Max.

Maximilian was Simon’s oldest friend, but he was much more than that. He had been a highly trained and decorated member of the British Special Forces for most of his twenties; today he was an explorer and adventurer. Simon had no idea where he was at the moment; he could be climbing a mountain in Africa or heli-skiing in the Colorado Rockies. But he had to talk to him next. Now.

“Fae,” he said. “When was the last time I talked to Max?”

“Just about a month ago, Simon.”

“Where was he at the time?”

“He didn’t specify, but the call came from Argentina near the Falkland Islands.”

Simon nodded at the fire. “That’s right. The Falklands. Why don’t you try connecting and see if you get a visual?”

There was a miniscule pause, a bare two seconds, and Fae said, “No visual available, Simon, but I may have an open line to him.”

He nodded again. “Okay. Try connecting.” A moment later the room was filled with the strong, resonant and very controlled voice of his oldest friend.

“Don’t tell me! An urgent call from my friend in the gloomiest college town on earth!”

Simon grinned. “The very same.”

The mere sound of Max’s voice brought back a flood of memories: years in boarding schools together, getting into all sorts of trouble. Summers spent with Max’s family in the highlands, spring vacations in Oxford with Oliver, and long, leisurely trips to the Fitzpatrick vacation house in Corsica. He remembered them all and loved every recollection.

“You know, you always seem to catch me at the very best times, old man. If I’m not in the restroom, I’m sliding down a mountain or diving off a helicopter.”

Simon laughed out loud. “It’s your own freaking fault, man! If you’d settle down and have a normal life, I’d know when it was safe to call.”

“‘Safe?’” Max echoed as if he’d never spoken the word aloud before. “Sorry. Don’t know the meaning of the word.”

He shook his head. “So what the hell are you up to now?”

“You’d never believe it, I got my hands on an old American SUV–I can’t believe engines used to work like this! And I’ve been messing about with it for a while now. I don’t have any idea how I’m going to pay for the fuel; I could run it more cheaply on Dom Perignon. But I thought it would be fun to play with…and lord, is it! Hang on a bit, let me pull myself out from under this thing…”

Simon ran a hand over his short auburn hair, imagining his lithe, athletic friend sliding out from under the chassis, rising easily to his feet and wiping his hands on the nearest bit of cloth. “So where are you now?” he asked. “You know how Fae enjoys tracking you down.”

“Oh yes,” Fae said. “Anything for Max.”

Max laughed easily. “Still in the Falklands. I was sent here on a special project; now I’ve been stuck on this damn rock for almost four weeks. So how the hell is life in the Big Smoke, anyway?” It was one of his many less-than-affectionate terms for London.

“Well, it’s definitely not getting any younger or cleaner,” Simon told him. “In fact, I’m willing to bet the weather is much nicer wherever you are.”

“Undoubtedly.” There was a short pause and Simon closed his eyes. The time for small talk was over, and Max knew it, too.

“All right, then,” his old friend said. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Truth to tell, Maxamillian…I don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning. That seems to be where we are.”

Simon found himself groping for words. Suddenly the entire affair sounded completely bizarre to him-absolutely mad.

“Look, Simon,” Max said, not unkindly. “If this is about Dad…you already know my answer. It’s time to let it go. I miss him, too, but it’s not-”

“No, it’s not that. Not exactly.” It didn’t bother him at all that Max referred to Oliver as “Dad.” Max’s own father had died when he was four, and Oliver had exerted a very strong influence over him for years. Just weeks ago, he had mourned Oliver’s “death” almost as much as Simon himself, though he was never one to express it openly. He was a soldier, and a good one. From what Simon had learned, he was, in fact, one of the most dangerous men on earth when it came to hand-to-hand combat or weapons of almost any kind, and the display of emotion was not easy for him-Simon knew that. Still, he knew from personal experience-almost thirty years of it-what a good man Max really was.

“I just received some…personal effects.”

“Good, I…guess. Are you sure they’re actually his?”

Always the skeptic, Simon thought, smiling. “Positive,” he said.

“How did you get them?”

He was hesitant to say it, but caution gave way to eagerness. “Jonathan Weiss,” he said.

Max made a disgusted sound. “Ach. I never trusted that guy.”

“I know. But…Max, it’s a diary.”

“You know as well as I do, Simon. Diaries can be manipulated. It’s not like the old days.”

“It’s not a digital diary. It’s analog-hand-written, hand-bound. And I know his handwriting.” Simon stood up and took a deep breath. He knew how much he was asking. “Look, I need you to fly out. I’ll discuss it when you get home.”

There was a pause-a very long pause. He could almost hear his best friend’s mental wheels turning in his head. Finally he spoke.

“Simon,” he said. “I can’t do this.”

“Max, please. I need you more than ever. This is Dad we’re talking about. We need to discuss it.”

“Are you serious?” he said, sounding harsher with every exchange. “Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”

“Yeah, Max,” he replied, dripping sarcasm. “That’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a fucking chat.”

Max didn’t answer. The moment of silence stretched and stretched, until Simon couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Okay,” he said gruffly. “I get it. Forget we even discussed this.”

There was still no response.

“Max?” he said into the empty air.

Nothing.

“Fae?”

“I’m afraid he disconnected, Simon.”

“He hung up?”

The AI paused, as if searching for some other way to say it. Finally, it answered. “Yes,” Fae said. “I’m sorry.”

Simon covered his eyes with one hand and squeezed.

Now what? he thought. Jonathan a continent away, Hayden unable or unwilling to talk about it, and Max…gone.

And meanwhile, his father was missing, cut off-maybe in danger.

Now what?

“Someone at the door,” Fae told him.

Simon’s head came up. “What?”

“Unknown-”

There was a knock and a familiar voice right behind it.

“Professor?” Simon heard, both through the door and the intercom that Fae silently activated. “Professor, it’s me-Andrew.”

“What the devil…?” he said to himself, and moved quickly to open the door.

“Hello there!” Andrew said, sounding cheerful and completely innocent. But he was holding his personal phone next to his face, the screen pointing right at Simon, displaying seven words as large as he could make them:

HAVE YOU CHECKED YOUR FLAT FOR BUGS?

“Mind if I come in?” he said as Simon read the message. Simon could see a thousand things going on behind the young man’s smile.

He thought about it, but only for a moment. “…Of course,” he said. “Come in.”

He still had the pad and pencil in his hand, the list of names visible. He flipped to a clean sheet, wrote swiftly, and then showed it to the young man as he came in, and Fae locked the door behind him remotely.

Simon wrote back:

NO, CAN YOU?

Andrew read the words and nodded enthusiastically. For the next three minutes, Simon watched in silent amazement as the young man pulled a variety of small devices from a wide array of pockets and belt loops, moving from room to room, making faces and tapping walls.

Finally they were back in the study, and he put the last device away. “I don’t suppose you have a console I could use? Something connected to your AI?”

“Of course he has,” Fae’s voice answered. “And the name is ‘Fae.’”

Andrew grinned. “Fae it is, then,” he said. “A pleasure to meet you. Now that console…?”

Simon showed him to his desk and got out of the way as the young man plopped himself into the chair and let his fingers fly across the virtual keyboard.

After a few keystrokes and a muttered word, the bubbling darkness in the holo-display congealed into a churning black-and-white cloud of static-monochromatic digital bees in a hive.

“That little app your AI built was lovely,” Andrew said. “Very clever.”

“Why thank you,” Fae said. She sounded thoroughly charmed.

“But unfortunately, it just makes a ‘hole’ in the sound-map. A few too many of those, and the uberprograms will notice, wonder what you’re hiding.” He continued to type madly as he spoke, as if his fingers were completely connected to his brain. “Let’s try this instead-my own little recipe. Not just a security shield; this actually samples the voices in the room and reconstructs a non-volatile conversation to replace the real audio for any listening device, local or remote. Algorithm-proof. You’d have to be a real, live person, and a truly suspicious one, to know we aren’t just having a pint and shooting the shit.”

Simon nodded, very satisfied. “Good,” he said. “That was the kind of thing that I was hoping to get from Hayden, but-”

Andrew stopped typing and looked up for the first time. “Hayden’s scared,” he said. “There’s something going on at the college-someone’s stealing data, leaking conversations, even sabotaging research experiments. It’s driving him crazy, and he doesn’t dare let something like…this, like what you showed us, into the place until he figures out what’s going on.”

It took a moment for Simon to process all that…but it made sense. Perfect sense.

“All right, then,” he said. “Good to know.”

Andrew’s grin grew wider. “It’s true!” he said. “That’s why I popped ‘round!”

I need this man, Simon realized. Rather badly. “Look,” he said aloud, “I’m thinking of taking a trip-quite a long trip, actually. But it’s one I will want to take in complete privacy-complete, Andrew. No one can know where I am, how I’m getting there, or what my destination is-not anywhere along the way.”

The young scientist nodded; he didn’t even seem surprised. “Air travel?”

Simon shrugged “By air, by rail, by sea, by private vehicle and public trans, whatever…it could be anything. Everything.”

Andrew made a thinking-face. “Okay…” he said. “You know how hard that is, right? You’re talking about hiding from or faking out analog snoops like the eyes-down satellites, and dumb digitals like the metro CCTV systems, not to mention much smarter private security cams, and the entire Google-sphere, and AI/GPS, and-”

Simon put up a hand. “I get it. It’s hard. The questions to you are: can it be done, and can you do it?”

Andrew gave that crooked smile again. “One question in two parts with only one answer: if it can be done, I can do it. In fact, I’m one of the very few who can.”

?Simon actually believed that. “They don’t call you ‘The Invisible Man’ for nothing, Andrew.”

“I really rather hate that nickname,” he said…then grinned. “But I rather love it, too. Still-let me show you what you’re asking for.”

He dug into his coat pocket and came up with a flat translucent box. Half a dozen glowing panels decorated the sides; one edge was trimmed in shining metal. “Stand up,” he said, squinting at the device.

“What?”

“On your feet.”

Simon stood up slowly and faced the student. Andrew pointed the device at him, metal edge first and swept it up and down from toe to head and back again. The device said, “Thank you,” in a polite AI voice.

“You know what thread recorders are, I assume.”

Simon sighed. “Yes.” Of course he did. They were one of the first real breakthroughs of nanotechnology: strings of protein-machines, thin as sewing thread that could digitally record bits of sound-from a few seconds to hours, depending on the length and complexity of the construct. They could be woven into clothing or jewelry, even into hair extensions, and then accessed by AIs and the cell network. It ended the need for microphones and ear buds and changed communications technology forever. “What about-”

“They can be a lot thinner than you think,” Andrew said. “Too thin to be seen by the human eye, actually. And they can be blown about by the breeze, cling to your clothes or hair or even skin, and then be queried by wireless interrogators that you’ll find…well, pretty much everywhere. Every time you pass a microwave transponder, or an ell link, or even a wireless cam, a third party can read what’s on any given thread. Then another AI can fit all the little pieces together in no time at all. So anybody who really wants to can hear any conversation you’ve had-indoors or out, in private or public, pretty much all the time.”

Simon was appalled. “That’s insane.”

Andrew held up the glowing device. It said, “Professor Fitzpatrick has nine unauthorized threads on his person.”

“What?”

“Playback?” the AI asked politely.

“Please,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes from Simon.

Rough-edged but perfectly understandable versions of his own voice and Max’s sarcastic tones filled the room:

“Are you actually suggesting I drop everything I’m doing and fly halfway around the world because you want to have a chat?”

“Yeah, Max, that’s exactly what I want you to do: come skipping on home for a fucking chat.” There was a brief pause, and then he heard himself say, “Okay, I get it. Forget we even discussed this.”

“All right,” Simon said harshly. “You’ve made your point.”

Andrew dropped his hand and thumbed a panel on the device. “Permanent erase, please,” he said.

“Erasure complete,” the device responded.

He dropped it casually on the couch. Simon shook his head, thoroughly chilled. “I had no idea it was that…extensive. That intrusive.”

Andrew shrugged. “Only a matter of time, really. It started almost fifty years ago with CCTV and Google Earth. I’m sure the government types would have liked to keep it to themselves, but that’s simply not possible. The tech is too common, too cheap, too easy to decrypt.”

Simon found himself a bit weak in the knees, despite all his training and discipline.

He felt like he had to sit down. “Good god,” he said.

“It’s not so much that someone is listening to every word you say,” Andrew told him, trying to be comforting in his own awkward way. “It’s that they can, if they have a reason to.”

“And you can stop that?”

Andrew nodded, and for the first time Simon saw the serious, even haunted man underneath the easygoing grad-student exterior. This man was a genius who had taken on a huge burden, who knew a secret that few others knew, and he took it very seriously. “Yes. I can keep the surveillance systems-all of them-distracted,” he said. “I fool some of them, I shield others. I basically make them not notice you, whether you’re moving or not, talking or not, broadcasting or not. What really protects you is the sheer size of the planet: seven billion people, every one of them with a digital signature. It’s just too much data to shift, even for the smartest AI ever grown. It’s too chaotic. And of course, my amazing brain is a big help, too.”

He grinned again, and the shadow disappeared from his eyes. Simon knew immediately he’d made the right choice. This young man, impulsive as he was, was clearly essential to his plan.

“How much would it cost me for the full treatment?” he said. “Actually, for me and a few others, traveling with me?”

Andrew did his best to look shrewd. He picked up the pad of paper and the pen, handling it as if it was an alien device. “I’m going to write down a figure,” he said playfully.

Simon grinned. “Oh, please do.”

Andrew scrawled a number on an empty page and made a flourish “pound” sign in front of it. Then he ripped the page free and handed it facedown to his colleague. Simon tried to keep a straight face as he took it and turned it over.

It was pathetically low. He could actually have covered it out of his savings with barely a dent. I had no idea how low on the hog he was living, he said. He even felt a little guilty about it.

“I think I can work with that,” he said dryly and tucked the paper in his pocket.

“Great. Only one other condition, then.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’m coming with.”

Simon didn’t even have to think about that one. He shook his head firmly. “No,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Andrew, no. Do I even have to tell you that there might be danger involved? Physical danger, as well as danger from the authorities that could ruin your career or put you in prison?”

“No, in fact, you do not have to mention that. I was assuming.” He plopped down and hunched his shoulders, thinking furiously. “Look, I know I can write my own ticket, work for any company or government in the world, and make more money than God. I get that. But…I don’t want to. I don’t want to work in some super clean facility for the rest of my life, or sit behind a desk and guide some other team of researchers who are having the real fun. I’m twenty-six years old, Simon. This is when I’m supposed to take risks. Besides, the level of invisibility you’re looking for? Can’t do it remotely. The whole point is that you can’t be detected remotely, so how could I possibly rig it that way?”

Simon glared at him. “I’m not prepared to put you at risk.”

Andrew looked to the side and gave him an elaborate shrug. “Then I guess you’re prepared to stay at home and get listened to. Forever.”

Simon kept glaring. Andrew did the same…for a moment. Then he broke away with a laugh and hopped up again. Simon looked away and tried not to smile. Damn jumping jack, Simon thought, amused despite his annoyance.

“Look,” Andrew said. “Here. A lovely parting gift or two.” He opened his backpack and pulled out a set of unusual-looking cell phones-big, bulky devices compared to the paper-thin phones that were popular before voice threads replaced the entire tech. They looked like something from the turn of the century, covered with buttons and speakers and a tiny little screen. Simon thought they were almost…quaint.

“You need to use these from now on,” Andrew said. “You and anyone else you will consider in your plan-which, by the way, now includes me.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Right. These are shielded. No one can track your whereabouts or the number you are calling from. The number is different each time.”

“But what about incoming info?”

“No one will be able to call you from a regular phone, except for the other two phones like it that are in my office. I can reach you, but a stranger can’t. If you end up calling someone, their conversation may be picked up, but yours will be scrambled.”

Simon shook his head in disappointment that it had to go this far. He reached over and took the two devices from Andrew. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. Can you make more of these?”

“As many as you need, included in the price.”

“Thanks.”

Andrew suddenly brightened. “Oh! And check this out!” He dug into his backpack and pulled out another item: an old-fashioned diving wristwatch with a rather heavy, oval face. “Looks like a twentieth-century watch, right? No. Totally secure communicator, only two other watches just like it. For like private short-range communication between team members. Waterproof, shockproof, heat- and cold-proof, a battery that will last a lifetime. You couldn’t break these babies if you tried.”

Simon couldn’t help but smile at his sheer enthusiasm. “Interesting,” he said. “I suppose I could use half a dozen of those as well.”

“Cool!”

But then Andrew must have seen something in his friend’s face. His own expression suddenly softened. “Listen,” he said. “I know you think you’re protecting me, and I appreciate it. But even I can tell that whatever is going on is way above your head. You need help.”

Simon shook his head. “Andrew, I-”

“Professor. Simon. You need to trust somebody. I can see that. And you can trust me.”

Simon nodded. “Let me think about it,” he said. “And let me make one more call on this old, bad phone. Then you can dispose of it for me.”

“All right, then,” Andrew said.

Simon dialed the number from memory. It was answered immediately.

“Hey,” he said to the voice on the other end. “It’s me. Are you free this evening? Seven o’clock or so?” He paused for a moment, nodding into the phone. “Yeah, I’d rather talk about it face-to-face. Just a little project of mine you might be interested in.”

The voice on the other end was Ryan. “Nice to hear from you stranger-didn’t recognize the number…you alone or should I expect a guest?”

“Maybe a few…” said Simon.

“A few? Well then, a few for dinner,” Ryan said.

“Dinner it is,” said Simon, ending the call.

“Was that Ryan?” Andrew asked.

Simon nodded. Their colleague, Ryan, was one of the foremost experts when it came to Remote Access Intervention.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Andrew said, “Because not too many people can manipulate remote satellites like he can.”

Simon looked at the beaming college student one last time. “Okay,” he said and handed him the phone. “I’ll think about it. I’ll think about you coming along.”

Andrew spread his hands. “What more could I ask?” he said. “I’ll be waiting for your call. On that phone, of course.” He grinned again. “I mean, you can’t be too careful.”

WASHINGTON, DC

Capitol South Metro Station

Jonathan Weiss stood under the main surveillance camera in the Capitol South Metro Station and waited for the train that would take him to the airport. It was one of the least photographed spots on the subway platform, and he found himself there more out of force of habit than anything else. He knew he was still visible in half a dozen ways, including the cams in the kiosks, the ones mounted on the train, and any personal imagers on commuters who wandered by, but it made him feel better, somehow. Inconspicuous. Out of sight.

Jonathan looked up at the arching concrete waffle-pattern of the station’s ceiling and took a deep breath. Even fifty feet underground, even looking at a concrete overhang, even trapped in a tunnel with a hundred other people, for the first time in a very long time, he felt…free. His boss had given him some well-deserved time off. He-and his superior-believed he was off on a hedonistic trip to the Cayman Islands, where he would be doing unspeakable things for the next ten days. And by the time they noticed his absence-from the Cayman Islands, Washington and the world at large-he would be far, far away, in London or beyond, deeply enmeshed in a brand new, entirely fictional life and off the radar forever.

Forever.

“Enough,” he heard himself say.

It had simply become too much for him. Everything he had done, everything he had learned-and not just in Antarctica, but everywhere: in the UNED headquarters, at Langley, in nameless facilities in anonymous countries all across the globe…no, he couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t want to.

“Hello, Jon.”

Jonathan stopped moving. Stopped breathing. He turned on his heel to his right, very slowly.

His body froze for an instant-he had to realize what he was seeing. He had only heard of the woman through conversation and had seen her photo. It was Takara, an Asian beauty and one of the most efficiently trained assassins in all of UNED.

Takara was standing five feet from him, looking him straight in the eye.

How did I let her get so close? he asked himself. A rookie mistake. I was just feeling…good. I let my guard down.

“You need to come back now,” Takara said. Her dark eyes flickered for an instant to take in the few other commuters waiting for the train. They were a fair distance away at the opposite end of the platform near the ticket booths. No one was even glancing at the two people having a casual conversation in the far corner of the station.

“How did you find me?” he asked, less out of curiosity than as a delaying tactic. He needed to give himself a moment to put a plan together.

“Your…reluctance…to deal with the project in Antarctica made us take a second look.”

Jonathan nodded. “Ah,” he said.

His hands were already in the pockets of his raincoat. Now he shoved them in even deeper and stepped away from the wall. He let his shoulders droop. He lowered his head and sighed deeply, the very picture of a weary, guilty man.

“I’m sorry, Takara.” He took one step to the side, away from the wall. Takara side-stepped in the opposite direction, careful to keep facing her renegade employee full-on. He was tense, ready for a fight.

A careful woman, Jonathan thought. Which was absolutely no surprise.

“It doesn’t matter,” Takara said, clearly uninterested in making a scene. “We’ll just go back to the office and sort this out.”

Sort this out was his unit’s special code for severe interrogation, followed by imprisonment until he was no longer of value, followed by death. They both knew it. His scheme was exposed. His lies were laid bare. The game was over.

Jonathan took one more step to the side, as if he was simply shuffling his feet in embarrassment. Once again, Takara automatically compensated, putting her long, lithe body directly in front of the corrugated concrete wall. Jonathan couldn’t help but admire the lightweight camelhair coat she wore. Beautifully tailored. “All right,” he said. “You-”

Without an intake of breath, without drawing back, and with his hands still deep in his pockets, Jonathan launched himself forward, straight into Takara. He hit her hard, butting her squarely in the throat with his upper body. It took the woman completely by surprise-I’m not the only one feeling overconfident, Jonathan thought distantly as he rammed her back into the solid wall and drove the air out of her lungs. He heard Takara’s skull bonk against the concrete like a bell made out of bone.

It gave Jonathan only a moment, a bare instant while Takara recovered, but he used it well. He reversed direction, pulled himself straight back, and dragged his hands out of his pockets.

In his left was a telescoping baton, a brutal variation of an old-fashioned car antenna, as thick as an index finger at its base. In his right was a man’s sock filled with nickels-a cosh and a bludgeon. They were crude, yes, but Jonathan’s experience had taught him he could never be too careful. Both weapons cleared their pockets with a single, swift snap of each wrist, out and up before Takara had fully regained her balance.

Jonathan attacked quickly and in absolute silence. He swung the baton and connected to the side of the woman’s unprotected head with a meaty thwack. As Takara’s head bobbled to one side, he followed through with the stroke, cocked his arm, and swept it back, using his elbow as a club and ramming it into her throat with all his considerable strength. He felt something pop in the flesh and muscle inside the woman’s neck. Then he used the momentum of his backhanded swing to continue turning his body, bringing up the cosh in his right and driving it deep, deep into Takara’s belly, doubling her over, driving her to the concrete, onto her stomach.

It happened in less than five seconds.

Takara’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Jonathan stepped in even closer, partly to hide the weapons, partly to take the full dead weight of the woman on his clenched fist. He turned and shoved with his hip, then turned and shoved again, literally guiding the upright body to the edge of the platform. Then all it took was a push, a step back, a leg up, a foot flat on Takara’s belt buckle and a kick. Takara’s body flew back and twisted to the left as it teetered off the edge of the platform and disappeared into the sooty shadows below.

Jonathan stepped back from the edge of the platform-two steps, three-and pocketed the weapons. He took a deep breath and turned to see three passengers nearby. One was staring at him with open, wide-eyed horror. That didn’t concern him; the man was too terrified to ever give an accurate description. The other two, like most good DC residents, didn’t want to see a thing. One was in the process of turning away, hurrying down the platform to get as far from whatever was happening as she could get. The third had his back to them already. Nothing was happening as far as he was concerned. Nothing would happen.

Jonathan moved swiftly but calmly toward the stairs that led up to C Street. He would have to switch to Plan B, that was all. He always had a Plan B. And a Plan C. That was how he stayed alive doing what he’d been doing since a nice matronly woman came to his door at Cornell and invited him to join the CIA. Plan A was just the easiest and fastest option. He would still get where he was going; it would just be a little more trouble and take a little more time. That was-

“Jonathan!”

He stopped short at the base of the staircase. He turned toward the sound of the voice-a shout, sharp as the call of a bird of prey.

Takara was standing on the far side of the platform. There was a wide, black smear of oil across her immaculate coat. Her perfect, long, sharp hair was disheveled, and he saw a patch of blood coloring one cheek.

She was too far away to capture him. In the next instant there was the horn of an oncoming train, and as it surged into the station, it hid her from view.

Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He was out of the station and back in the bright sunshine of a spring afternoon before The B line to Pentagon City departed from Track 3 and gave her a chance to follow him.

He didn’t see her again, but he knew she would return.

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

Spector Safe House

Hayden sat in his own personal cavern and drank. And thought. And then drank some more.

He never felt dwarfed by the size of the place, even now, when he huddled in one corner of the secret, massive, four-story hangar. This was so much larger-grander-than the Oxford installation: the huge buttresses of the dome soaring over him, the vast concrete floor scattered with electronic gadgets of multiple sizes and shapes, some as large as cars. Somehow it still felt normal to him-manageable-even when the sound of his own voice echoed through the cavernous, deserted space like the sound effect from a bad horror movie.

“Check,” he said to Teah, who leaned and bobbled in the space across from him.

“I think not,” Teah trilled, her visual sensors focused tightly on the holographic chessboard that floated between them.

Hayden knew that. He knew her next move, and his next move, and her response three moves ahead. He just didn’t know why he continued to automatically, unalterably, refer to the ever-shifting concentration of metal and digital technology that ‘sat’ across from him as a female.

Teah was many things, but female was not one of them. Hayden was constantly upgrading Teah, so he barely gave her the proper outward appearance that more conventional robots were fashioned with. No silicone outer layer nor a proper adjustment of the wiring modules. In Teah’s mind she was female, and that was all that mattered.

“Andrew is calling again,” Teah said. “Something about a dinner you’re invited to?”

“I had no recollection. Ignore it,” he instructed. “You can’t get hold of me.”

Teah gave him the robotic equivalent of a non-committal shrug. “As you wish.”

He swept up his chipped ceramic mug from its precarious perch on a stack of broken modules and drained the last of the scotch from it in one long, grateful pull. He often wondered why he bothered with the intermediate receptacle; when he got in moods like this, he should just grab the bottle of Glennfiddich and suck it down straightaway. But no, he told himself as he filled the mug to the rim again. That’s what drunks do. Not me. I’m just a certified genius with a bit of a drinking issue. That’s what everyone says, anyway.

He looked away from the chess game, up and out at the three enormous platforms that always made him think of three cocoons. They were vast curved cradles, each one wider than a house, two of them filled with the curved hulls of his enormous, half-finished vehicles, all gleaming metal plate and bursting tangles of fiber optic conduits. They were his greatest creations.

One held a construct that was quite nearly complete; the gaps in its superstructure were few and far between. A few more parts and a few more hours of cybernetic assembly, then diagnostics could begin on that one, he knew. The other scarcely half-done, awaiting new components and materials.

The third cradle was empty. Clean. Nicked and scuffed from recent activity, but otherwise…abandoned now.

And maybe forever, Hayden thought as he took another solid swallow from his mug.

He tapped at a glowing patch next to the chessboard.

“No word yet?” Teah enquired politely. He had asked her to keep him company while he ran a set of benchmark tests on a key cavitation module; he’d even powered up the unit so it displayed an impressive array of twinkling lights and holographic status charts. But it was all a sham. He was running tests, that much was true…

…But he was running them, very quietly, on Teah.

His attention was pulled back to the chess game as she made the countermove he had expected. He knew she could have made it an instant after his own move, but she had waited what she thought was an appropriate amount of time before reacting, just to seem more human. He countered swiftly this time, just as he had planned. She responded with her own counter, equally anticipated. And now it was Hayden’s turn to pretend to stop and think.

Where does reasonable caution end and paranoia begin, he asked himself. He had to stifle a smile. Probably right around the same place that social drinking ends and alcoholism picks up the slack. Nevertheless, simply cautious or paranoid, drunk or sober, it was true: he didn’t trust Teah anymore. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he simply did not trust her.

So far, however, her diagnostics were clean. No hidden programs, no spiders or worms. Not even an old-fashioned virus. She was clean and in optimal operational mode. Everything you would expect from a seventh-generation AI in 2039.

Then why does she keep asking so many questions? he wondered. Why was she always there, whenever he was working on some crucial element of the project, and especially whenever his colleagues, like Simon or Andrew, were nearby or online? Why did she seem to be present all the time? He was sure-well, almost sure-that she had never been like that before; she had been his personal assistant, his companion and his AI test platform for years now, but she had never pushed before, never injected herself into conversations or decision-making.

Or had she, he asked himself, and I just never noticed? Maybe I want her to become more involved, and she’s simply responding to words, gestures, cues I can’t even see? She’s designed to do that. I made her that way.

It was maddening. Distracting. And perhaps dangerous.

He made his next move; Teah waited a beat and then countered. “Hayden,” she said carefully. “I’m worried about you.”

“You?” he blustered…but a cold spot blossomed in his belly. “About me?”

“Ever since that visit from Simon, you just haven’t been yourself.”

He humphed at her. “I’d say you were imagining things, but that would be giving you too much credit,” he grumbled.

“What was it he said to you?” she asked-and not for the first time.

“It’s not important.” They exchanged another set of moves.

“Whatever it was, you’ve been off your game-literally and figuratively-ever since. If it’s something I can help with, please, let me-”

“It’s nothing, Teah. Let it go.” A memo appeared at the edge of his vision and he turned to look at it: confirmation of a request for modules to be transferred from Spector II to Spector III. Just as he had ordered. He touched his thumb to the bottom of image to confirm the instructions, and they fluttered away.

“And what are you doing with the Spectors? I thought everything was on hold since the shutdown-”

“What is this, a bloody quiz show?” he snapped. He made his next move-a bold little foray with the queen’s knight-quickly and furiously; she countered in kind. He did the same, so did she. And once more, back and forth.

The diagnostics patch next to the board flashed yellow for a moment, then turned a steady deep green. A string of report figures skittered across it, angled so only he could read them.

She was fine. One hundred percent perfect.

And he still didn’t trust her one bit.

“Stalemate in five moves,” she said in an oddly neutral voice.

Hayden ran a hand through his straight white hair, fine as silk from crown to shoulder. He nodded grimly.

“Stalemate,” he agreed, and shut down the game.

He looked up at the robot he had constructed himself, with his own hands. He thought of the millions of lines of code he had compiled, the AI core he had grown and sculpted himself, and he wondered for the millionth time what-if anything-had gone wrong.

He just didn’t know. It was as simple and awful as that: he just didn’t know.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Simon's Flat

Simon had all of five minutes to himself after Andrew left, promising more of his gadgets by the end of the day. The conversation with the young security expert had been productive-except for the “I want to come with” part. But he had to admit that Andrew had a point. If there was some sudden, unexpected hole in his cloak of invisibility somewhere along the way…what would he do? He thought about Ryan again. He needed him on the team, Andrew was right.

Fae made her throat-clearing sound. “Samantha is calling again,” she said.

Simon covered his eyes for a moment and sighed. This was not what he-

“Just a minute. You said ‘again?’”

The AI actually hesitated. “Ah…”

“Has she called before?”

“Well, of course. She is a close friend.”

“Has she called recently, and you simply didn’t bother to mention it to me?” He could feel the heat rising under his collar, and he tried to stop it. But damn it, he told himself. Sometimes Fae could be so irritating.

“What did you tell her?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Of course!”

“Of course. Let me guess. She asked, ‘Is Simon all right?’ and you said something like, ‘Oh, I really couldn’t say.’”

“Well…”

“And she said, ‘Well, if there was something going on, and Simon had told you not to tell, you would be in a very awkward position,’ and you agreed with her.”

“She said ‘difficult,’ actually. And Simon, she’s still waiting.”

He sighed even more deeply. “I’m sure she is. Put her through-but no visual.”

“All right…”

There was a change in the quality of the air-the sense that another voice was present, even though no one had spoken. It was a familiar feeling for Simon; he felt it every time he spoke with Sammy. She had a presence, an energy that he just couldn’t ignore.

“All right then,” she said without preface. “What’s this all about?”

He couldn’t help himself. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpanned. Aside from Hayden and Andrew, Simon hadn’t been able to face anyone since receiving the news from Jonathan about Oliver, much less Samantha. He knew she would ask too many questions.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Simon! First you spend almost a week dodging me-”

“I most certainly have not! That idiot simply-”

“Oh, stop. Dodging me, I said. And Fae is not an idiot.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome, Fae.”

Great, Simon groaned to himself. They’ve become friends.

“-and then I get a call from Max, way out in Argentina or somewhere.”

“The Falkland Islands, as you are well aware.”

“Fine. And then I get a call from Ryan, of all people, mister genius turned corporate, and feeding off daddy’s money, asking if I’m coming with you tonight? That’s rather bizarre, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh god-”

“-both of them asking me the same thing: what’s going on? Because they assume I know.”

She had worked herself into a high dudgeon, and for good reason, Simon realized. Samantha had been a close friend in times of need, and he had thought long and hard about bringing her into the circle-obviously, her name had even gone on his dog-eared list, just to be crossed off again. She would expect to be part of it. But this was dangerous, damn it, and though Samantha’s skill as a field surgeon and her expertise in bio-engineering could be hugely valuable, he couldn’t bear the thought of putting her in danger.

“All right, Sammy,” he said aloud. “It’s time that we sat down and had a talk.”

“Past time, I’d say.”

He also knew he couldn’t say a word on the phone. Even though Andrew’s new device had made the house secure from eavesdroppers, Sam didn’t have a secure phone-at least not yet. “Are you up for a drink?”

“It’s a bit early for a bender, Simon.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s past noon, Sam. I think you’ll survive.”

He could feel her smile on the other end. “I suppose I could do the pub in an hour,” she replied. “But let’s make it the Stanton.”

“All right then, I’ll see you in an hour.”

“An hour,” she replied, and the call faded.

They usually met at the Griffin, a nice little pub about midway between their homes. But this time Samantha had purposely called for the Stanton, right around the corner from her flat-a longer trip for Simon. Simon was actually grateful; it would give him time to put together a convincing lie.

He wanted to see her-he always wanted to see her-but he didn’t want to tell her the whole story. He didn’t dare. She’d be pushing her way onto the team halfway through hearing it.

You’ll risk the lives of your best friend, your college roommate, and your father’s oldest ally…but not Samantha. Why is that? he asked himself.

Samantha was a remarkable woman. An adventurer in her own right, she had been field doctor for half a dozen major expeditions, including two trips up Everest. She had spent years as a leader for Doctors Without Borders and had recently made a mark in bio-engineering with a series of documents on the enhancement of human/machine interfaces. She was tough and smart and perceptive and beautiful, and…

And that’s it, he told himself. No more.

He shook off his reservations and promised himself he’d tell her he was simply involved in some troublesome research with Hayden and still grieving over his father’s death and leave it at that. Then he’d leave on his…project…without another word to her. He would just have to try and patch things up if-or when-he returned.

The cab dropped him in front of the Stanton. He paid the driver in cash, which surprised him; almost no one used paper money anymore. Still, he accepted it and the healthy tip that went with it without comment-cash, after all, was money.

The pub itself was very stylish but not much of Simon’s usual crowd. When it came to drinking establishments, he preferred a less pretentious place, but this one was filled to the gunwales with a mix of Londoners looking to be seen and tourists doing the seeing. He knew why Sammy enjoyed it: many of her DWB and wilderness expedition people favored this hangout, so she was able to network easily here. Simon had joined her on a few occasions, but he had always felt out of place. It was just too upscale, too contrived.

He squared his shoulders and slipped past the entrance. Even in mid-afternoon, it was crowded as usual with a clot of smokers outside, and the interior was thick with shadows after the watery London sunshine. He had to squint to see if Sam-

“Hey, stranger.” It was a richly amused female voice just behind his ear.

Simon turned to see her standing just three feet away, more beautiful than ever.

Samantha was dressed in a long black overcoat, stylish and striking. Given her reputation, people expected her to be rough around the edges, some sort of outdoorsy tomboy type, but in fact she was the favored daughter of an upscale British family who had been born with an impeccable sense of style. Her makeup was light but perfect; her nails recently done and subtly colored. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a small ponytail that made her high cheekbones and sculpted lips even more pronounced.

They gave each other a firm, lingering hug, then she pulled Simon across the crowded room to a tiny table she had already claimed as her own. She ordered without asking-she knew what he wanted. She always did.

“Well,” she said as they settled in. “You look rather awful, don’t you?”

“Why, thank you.”

“Oh,” she said, brushing it aside, “it’s the least you deserve.”

He shook his head, trying his best to play the part of the bewildered, aggrieved best friend. “Sammy, I have no idea what Fae was talking-”

“Oh, please. We haven’t spoken in days. I know something’s up.”

Before he could respond, the waitress arrived and slid drinks in front of each of them. “Here’s your Glenn Royale and vermouth,” she said, smiling at them both-and especially at Simon. “A late lunch, then?”

“No,” Samantha said firmly. “We’re just here to talk. Aren’t we, Simon?”

Simon nodded, grateful for the interruption. He reached for his wallet, but she put a hand on his arm.

“Please,” she said. “I insist.”

He knew better than to argue. He simply took a sip of his scotch and watched her pay for the round as he turned his story over in his head.

Sitting here, looking at her, he knew that avoidance was pointless. Samantha had a keen sense of always knowing what was wrong with Simon before he ever had a chance to explain. It was true, he sometimes went into his own world and didn’t feel the need to share much of anything with anyone. But Samantha knew that and refused to accept it. She had learned long ago that she could force him to tell her anything she wanted to know and more-even if he wasn’t cooperative, she would simply bully or mislead his friends and even his AIs to get what she wanted.

Which, I admit, I rather appreciate, he told himself. That’s what best friends are for.

When it came to Sammy, he realized, honesty wasn’t only the best policy, it was the only choice.

“Honestly, Sammy,” he said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

She took a sip of her drink and looked at him for a moment from under her long lashes. “It’s okay, Fitzpatrick,” she said, smiling. “Just start at the top.”

He cleared his throat and did exactly that, beginning with the moment that Jonathan Weiss showed up at the door with a message from his father. As he spoke, slowly and deliberately, the crowd around them grew even larger and louder, and Samantha had to move closer to him just to hear him clearly. Simon didn’t mind that a bit.

They’d become so engrossed with each other that neither of them noticed the stranger sitting in a far corner of the Stanton. The man watched them steadily, unmoved by the noise and the shifting crowd. He was much too far away to hear a single word, but his eyes remained focused on their faces-and especially their lips.

Simon’s story went on for more than an hour. The stranger watched as Samantha reacted with surprise, then shock. As she placed her drink on the table and put both hands to her mouth in surprise and fascination, the stranger knew: his mission had to be completed tonight.

Much later, as the late afternoon crowd began to thin, the stranger in a tailored grey overcoat made his way across the room. Simon was still talking, and Samantha was so absorbed she didn’t even look up as the man passed by their table and left the pub.

A few minutes later Simon tipped up his glass and drained the last of his melted ice with a hint of scotch in it. He sighed deeply, relieved and concerned at the same time, and looked around the room. He had to smile. The place was nearly empty. “Wow. The dinner rush will be starting any time, and I have another engagement this evening.”

“We have another engagement this evening, you mean.”

Simon sighed. “Sammy, I-”

“I thought we had settled this, Simon. I’m coming. It’s settled.”

He thought about arguing with her. And he knew how pointless it would be.

He nodded. “All right then. Andrew and I will swing by and pick you up.”

“Good.”

“…But maybe we should be heading out.”

Samantha didn’t respond. She was staring into the distance, clearly stunned by all he had told her. Suddenly her eyes snapped to his, focusing sharply.

“What do you need from me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Please.” He had told her everything-more than he had intended-but he was not about to invite her along.

She sat back in her chair and looked up toward the ceiling thinking deeply. The waitress came by again with a contrived smile.

“We about ready to square up on the second round, then?”

Samantha almost jumped, as if she was surprised at the young woman’s presence. “Oh. Of course.” He stood and begrudgingly let Samantha pay the bill, then helped her with her coat. The scent of her perfume was even stronger as she came close to him.

I can’t put her in danger, he told himself, glad that he had avoided telling her the details of his plan. I just can’t. He reached for the door to the street, but Samantha put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Simon.”

Something in her voice made him turn to her. Her amazing eyes looked directly into his. “Simon, you know I would do anything.”

He forced a comforting smile. “I know, Sam. But…I don’t want you to get into a situation that you can’t pull out of-that no one can pull you out of.”

She nodded, seeming to understand, and they moved into the chilly London evening.

A cab was waiting just down the street in one direction; Sam’s flat was a short walk the opposite way. She gave him a brief, almost distracted hug and a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll talk later, young man,” she said with mock severity. “And I am going to Ryan’s.” He started to object, but she put up a hand, having none of it. “No. I’m going. End of story.”

Simon shrugged and surrendered. He would have to find some kind of home-front role for her, something to keep her involved but out of danger. “All right,” he said.

She turned and strolled up the street toward her flat. Simon watched her for a moment, thoughts whirling, then turned and ducked into the cab.

The stranger watched them part from a full block away. He saw it all on a simple handheld device that viewed the scene from above, an amalgam of images from CCTV, private cams, and eyes-down satellites that only he and his superior could access. He saw them part in crisp, clear images, unobstructed by clouds or shadows. A touch of the controls, and he continued to follow Samantha, allowing Simon to climb into his taxi and disappear from view…for the moment.

The special communicator implanted in the canal of his left ear murmured to life. He heard a voice-the voice of his superior, the voice he never wanted to hear-speaking clearly and calmly.

Three short sentences; three simple commands. And then the voice was gone.

The stranger nodded his head. It was all very clear. He needed to retrieve enough information to plant the asset precisely at the right place and at the right time with the team’s journey.

There was work to be done.

A ROOM

5,732 Feet Below the Surface

The room was too bright.

The man on the table could see nothing but light, could feel nothing but pain. The person standing over him had turned away for a moment, whispering to himself, touching his ear…but now he turned back and leaned forward.

“What do you know about the Nest?” He asked. “What are you not telling me?”

The man on the table said nothing. The standing man made a harsh, frustrated sound-almost a growl.

“Tell me,” he ordered. “Tell me everything.”

“No.”

The man standing above him clutched at his throat. His fingers tightened. His lips were only an inch from the man’s ear. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

The man on the table gulped in one more breath and said the only thing he could.

“Never.”

The man standing above him squeezed.

The pain suddenly became brighter than the light.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Outside Simon's Flat

Simon never even made it inside his flat.

The cab dropped him at the curb just a few feet from the front entrance. He was raising his hand to cue the biometric lock when the waist-high hedge to his left suddenly trembled and hissed at him.

“SSSimon!”

He stopped short and turned, surprised. Without thinking, his body fell into a natural defensive posture: hands up, fingers half-curled into fists, one foot in front of the other, knees slightly bent. All those years of martial arts training instinctively took control of his body. He was ready to defend himself.

A shadow rose up from behind the hedge: slender and tall, narrow build, a fall of silver hair like wings on both sides of his face.

It was Hayden, wide-eyed and intense.

“Hayden!” Simon whispered fiercely. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Come with me,” he said softly. “We need to take a drive.”

“You’re drunk!”

Hayden cocked his head as if he was truly puzzled. “And your point is…?”

“I’m not going anywhere if you’re driving,” Simon told him.

Hayden spread his hands innocently. “Then you drive. I don’t give a rip. We just have to go.”

Simon thought about it for a second. He only had a couple of hours before he had to go to Ryan’s, and the long talk with Samantha had been exhausting. But…if Hayden wanted him, there was a good reason for it. He agreed.

He dropped his head in surrender. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s drive.”

Hayden’s odd little electrical car was parked unevenly at the curb, halfway down the block. Simon was unfamiliar with the controls, but it didn’t take long to adjust. Three minutes later they were slipping into traffic with much larger vehicles, but the Hayden-mobile zipped and maneuvered more like a sports car than a commuter-box.

Simon was astonished: the two-seater had incredible pick-up; it was almost like driving a turbo-charged internal combustion engine from the last century.

“You’ve messed around with this, haven’t you?” he said as they sailed down the highway, barely in control.

“Maybe a little,” Hayden said, rubbing his face with both hands. “Turn right here, please.”

“Here?”

“HERE!”

He dragged at the wheel and tilted into a hard right turn. The tires squealed at the strain.

“Where the hell are we going?”

“To a suburb in the north part of town,” he said. “Turn left at the next light.”

“Why-”

“I need to show you something, Simon. I’m not going to talk about it ‘til we get there, so just, for the love of Christ, drive, will you?” He took a pull at the bottle he had left on the floor of the front seat. “My god, I’m amazed I even made it to your flat in my condition.”

“Then stop drinking, Hayden!”

The older man goggled at him. “Damn, you are an old woman, aren’t you?” he said and took another swig.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled to the curb at a quiet lit corner in an anonymous suburban district. There was a fueling station on one corner, offering the usual array of hydrogen, electrical hookups, biofuels and even some hideously expensive fossil fuel. Across the narrow side street was a small tea shop and chemists, one of the vanishing breed of family-owned neighborhood everything-stores that used to fill the English countryside. And caddy-corner, near a small park, was an abandoned entrance to the underground. A lopsided gate, somewhat the worse for wear, blocked the grimy staircase that led down into the shadows. The mangled sign dangling from it read, “OPEN FOR CONNECTIONS, MARCH 2036.” Three years late, Simon thought. Just a bit behind schedule.

Hayden rolled out of the car almost before Simon had pulled to a complete stop; it was all the younger man could do to park and run after him. “Hey!” he called, still pitching his voice low. “Will you wait, please?” Hayden was heading somewhat unsteadily to the underground entrance. He passed the sign that named the station, but Simon couldn’t read it; it was completely covered with graffiti.

As he stumbled to the gate, Hayden pulled a huge rusted key from his pocket. It looked a hundred years old to Simon, at the very least, and it took more than a moment of twiddling and cursing for Hayden to fit it into the massive padlock on the entry gates and pop the lock open.

Hayden shoved the gate wide-open and bolted inside. He gestured for Simon to follow as he dashed down the steps of the old subway. There was a gate at the bottom as well; it took Hayden even less time to produce a different key and open another set of locks.

Simon closed the outer gate behind them and dashed down the stairs to join his father’s old friend…but he skidded to a halt beside him as Hayden pushed the inner gate open with a theatrical squawk. It was dead black inside; the lights had been turned off long ago.

Hayden turned to peer back up the steps, making sure no one was following. Simon could smell the stench of the street bums that lived in the area, but none were in sight. It was hard to see anything in the gloom.

“Hayden,” he said, “This is-”

There was a burst of blinding white light, strong and sudden enough to make Simon lurch back. Hayden turned to him and waved a powerful flashlight in his face. “Always prepared,” he said.

He turned and dove into the darkness. Scowling, and against his better judgment, Simon followed.

They trotted down a second series of steps, moving even deeper into the underground. There was a strangely linear gleaming light below and in front of them; it took Simon a moment to understand what he was looking at: the subway tracks, still clean and shining despite years of disuse.

“Hayden, where the hell are we going?”

This time Hayden didn’t look back. “Just follow, Simon.” As they trotted through the darkness, Simon noticed sections of the track had been disassembled. They were obviously in some long-abandoned section of the tubes, far from any working lines.

Hayden abruptly stopped, so fast that Simon almost crashed into his back. But he pulled up short as Hayden spun and shined the light directly into his face.

“Simon, you and I have never been here.”

He turned to the left and walked through a side tunnel that opened into what appeared to be a utility room. At the far end of the room was another door with yet another lock.

“Where did you get all these keys?”

“Where did you get all those questions?” Hayden muttered as if talking to Teah and pushed the third key into the third lock and turned it. He pulled the door open…only to reveal another door directly behind it. But this one was different than the others. It was newer, cleaner, and there was the dimly glowing box of a biometric sensor cut into it, almost like a small MRI with a three-dimensional scanner. It was so clean and new it seemed entirely out of place in the murk of the abandoned room.

Hayden placed his hand inside the device with an oddly casual air, as if he had done it a thousand times before. Simon saw a blue light flow out of the device as it read the entire form of the scientist’s hand.

It took only moments. The light flashed blue and then green, then the door popped open with a mechanical chunk. Hayden pushed through, gesturing for Simon to follow. “Stay close,” he said.

Simon could feel his heart pounding. They were in a short, dark corridor that led to one more door-this one with no lock at all.

“Where the hell are we?” he said again.

“It’s an entrance. A secret entrance, really. The fact is, there are much easier ways to get here, but this is the only one without cameras.” He belched quietly into his fist. “I think.”

“Hayden, what the hell are you talking about?”

The scientist looked him up and down as if he was making some kind of final decision. After a moment he nodded his head and pushed open the far door.

Simon took one step inside and stopped in astonishment.

The space was as big as a football field and taller than a four-story building. The ceiling was curved into a high dome, buttressed by arcs of dull gray material that looked like steel and plastic at the same time. The floor was concrete, but the vehicles and devices that filled it-cranes, haulers, transformers, and machines he couldn’t begin to understand nearly filled the space.

Above him, suspended from the domed ceiling, were three huge cradles. One cradle was empty; the other two filled, at least in part, with unfinished technology-a vehicle, Simon thought, and one that looked strangely familiar. Cables and scaffolding connected the two constructs; robots rode the cables and flitted through the air between them, in the midst of completing some impossibly complex assignment.

“This…this…”

“This is what I like to call the Spector safe house,” Hayden said with ill-conceived pride. “I invented it.”

Simon tore his eyes away from the panorama to look at his father’s close friend. “Spector,” he said. “The experimental submersibles. But I thought-you told me the project wasn’t even half-finished.”

“Oh, come along, Simon,” he said. “I’ve been working on this for more than twelve years. I’m the recipient of a Nobel Prize, I’ve received the Renssaelaer Award twice now, and I’m a Fellow at the most prestigious robotics college in Europe. Surely you don’t think I’ve gotten this far by lying around waiting, do you?”

He dowsed the flashlight and strolled easily farther into the room. He was clearly comfortable here; it was his home.

The robots and technology hummed and twittered around him as if they weren’t there at all. “The outer project-the one you knew about-is roughly seven years behind the inner project-this one. Over three hundred scientists and engineers from seventeen countries are working on the outer project. Inside? Only thirty-two people even know it exists.” He stopped and turned, then smiled, almost embarrassed. “Well…thirty-three now.”

Simon was nearly speechless. “But…why? Why keep it a secret?”

“Good Lord, Simon. Think it through. Do we really want the Chinese to know we’re this far along? Or the Russians for that matter? It’s vital that they think we are as far behind as the outer project seems to be. This isn’t going to be like the development of the A-bomb after World War II, or the space race-done in public, so unsecure that everyone knew what we were doing, where we were doing it, how far along…”

He stopped, pulling himself up. Simon wondered how many times Hayden had given that speech. “But…it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “Not now.”

“Why not?”

He blinked in surprise, as if the answer was obvious. “They shut it down. All of it.”

“What? When?”

“Three weeks ago. Right after the Antarctic Quarantine. Right after they told us both that Oliver was dead.”

He wandered into the room, tortured by the memory. “They took it all-the files, the fabricators. Cancelled the assembly contracts, diverted the shipments. They pushed me out, Simon. Me, the one who created it all! The one who built the entire Spector Project literally out of a hole in the ground! Twelve years of my life, six of yours, and the work of hundreds of other scientists, gone.”

“Why, Hayden? Why stop it when you’re so close?”

He shook his head, absolutely despairing. “I have no idea. None. Maybe because all they ever wanted from me was a prototype. Maybe because of something Oliver and the others did on their ‘special assignment.’ All I know is…they stole it from me, Simon. And god help me, I want it back.”

Simon’s mind was whirling. He had seen the plans for the Spectors. He had often wondered why it was taking so long to make one, even as he marveled at the capabilities these newly combined technologies could offer. He moved closer to the vehicle in the far cradle-the one being completed even now by the robot workers.

“What’s the crew component?”

“Twelve. Fifteen in a pinch.”

“And all the specs I’ve seen apply? The fueling system?”

“Virtually inexhaustible. Might need to be rebuilt every five years, but I doubt it.”

“Depth limitations?”

Hayden snorted. “Go on, now. Aren’t any…maybe at ten thousand feet.”

The closer he moved to the submersible, the more he realized how massive the vehicle really was. The skin of the vehicle seemed to be deep blue and black at the same time and glittered insubstantially when he didn’t look directly at it. It seemed, somehow, to be both reflective and translucent at the same time. He reached out to touch it, completely in awe. The massive frame resembled a cross between an insect and a submarine, with heavy, unusual treads. It was an amphibian vessel that collapsed into a smooth submarine when the treads retracted into its main body. The reflective outer skin was unlike a submarine. It resembled a digital display that was both semi-transparent and reflective. These outer surface modules were the “intelligent skin” that mimicked the environment, making the vessel look invisible.

“Careful,” Hayden said. “It’s charged.”

Simon pulled his hand back and looked at his colleague. Hayden had somehow found a half-empty bottle of scotch and was pouring a liberal portion into a chipped white mug. “You’re kidding,” he said. “You worked out the invisibility modules? I thought you were having problems.”

Hayden took a healthy sip and smacked his lips. “Simon, you don’t realize how much you’ve contributed to this project. While you were still playing with your theories, we were adapting them into the prototypes.”

“Are you saying this thing actually works and can become partially invisible?”

“Almost entirely, actually. To radar and sonar it looks like a golf ball.”

He simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You mean to tell me,” he said, “that all these years, in all those seminars and papers and reports…you were hiding this?”

“Well…yes. But it wasn’t a waste of time, Simon. Not at all. The discoveries you made were immediately integrated into the work. Your exotic materials advance? They are real, Simon. Right here, in this vehicle, and the others like it. I chose to keep you away from this part of it for your own safety.”

“Safety?” Simon echoed, feeling the anger rise in him. “You lied to me, slowed me down, and crippled my research for my own safety? What the hell did you think was going to happen if you’d brought me in, Hayden? If you’d told me the truth?”

The scientist’s eyes bored into his own. “The same thing that happened to your father, Simon. Or worse.”

That stopped him. For one moment, he had forgotten everything that had happened in the last few days and weeks, and for the first time he understood the hell that Hayden must have been going through, all alone.

He put a hand on the older man’s shoulder and squeezed. “All right, Hayden,” he said. “I understand but…”

All the scientist could do was nod. He didn’t trust himself to do more.

Simon walked deeper into the facility and tried to look everywhere at once. “Where’s Teah?” he asked. “I thought she was by your side at all times.”

“I sent her on an errand,” Hayden said. “Thought you might want to see this for the first time all by yourself.”

Simon nodded slowly as he looked around. “Yeah,” he said. “I appreciate that.” He turned back to Hayden and said, “It’s incredible. Truly. But what good is it to us-what are you trying to tell me? Neither ship is finished, and you said they’ve cut off supplies.”

“I also said they were idiots. No one seemed to notice that there may not have been enough parts to make two more Spectors here, but there are more than enough to complete one more.”

Simon frowned at him. “One more?”

“Yes. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the empty bay. Spector I is complete. It’s in the hold of a cargo ship, the S.S. Munro under the command of a captain named Doug Donovan, en route to the Southern Ocean for its test voyage right now.”

“The Southern Ocean? Off Antarctica? Why so far?”

Hayden smirked. “That power source I developed? Very experimental and quite powerful. It may work perfectly; it may not work at all. Or-worst case-it will work far better than we intended, and melt the Spector I and everything else within a ten-mile radius. So, the Southern Sea seemed like a logical location for a test run. Far from civilization, far from prying eyes…and inside the Antarctic ice.”

Simon blinked at that. It was just beginning to sink in. “My god,” he said. “It’s done.”

“Done and gone, yes,” Hayden told him, nodding. “But we can build our own.”

Simon looked around, still stunned. “Here? Now?”

Hayden gestured at the robots sliding between the two cradles. “It’s already happening. The peering eyes think this entire facility has been decommissioned. They ought to; I spent three days isolating it, making it look dead, and then instructed all the reactivated ‘bots inside to begin work on cannibalizing Spector II to complete Spector III. They will finish the job in less than twenty-four hours.”

“And then what? How do you plan to get this thing out of here without some massive airlifter that everyone can see?”

Hayden grinned. “Simon, we’re not just underground. You wouldn’t know it without looking very carefully, but we’re underwater as well. More than a hundred feet under the bottom of the Thames. And these,” he pointed to a series of huge hatches, each one taller and wider than a large vehicle, and tightly closed, “can let in the water at any time, while that-” he pointed to the curved dome of the ceiling. “-can open like the roof of an observatory.”

Simon didn’t know what to say. He looked at the roof, at the water valves, at the Spectors themselves hanging mutely in the air like massive steel thunderclouds. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “you can finish this ship in less than a day, then just open up the room and float it into the Thames, with no one the wiser?”

Hayden beamed like a schoolboy. “That is exactly what I’m saying. With the help of my friendly and obedient AIs and the technology you and I and others like us built unawares…that is exactly what we can do.” He was looking up at the massive submersible as it slowly came together. “Hey!” he called, his Scottish brogue growing thicker the more he drank. “What’s the estimated time of completion?”

A harsh mechanical voice spoke from the empty air: “Sixteen hours, thirteen minutes.”

“That’s it then,” he said, turning back to Simon with a mischievous grin. “And when it’s done, we’re goin’ t’ steal this bastard and float it roit outta here.”

Simon couldn’t stop looking at Spector III.

This changes everything, he thought.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Green Meadows

A car horn blared at the front gate, and Ryan nearly jumped out of his skin.

“What the devil?” he said. He pushed himself away from the most succulent pork roast he had enjoyed in a month. “Already?” he said to his soon-to-be wife, Sabrina, and the cook, who hovered worriedly at the dining room door. “I thought they said eight o’clock.”

“Well,” Sabrina said with fragile good cheer, “your friends always have been rather…exuberant.”

He smiled in spite of himself and put his linen napkin to the side. “Exuberant,” he repeated. “Spot on.”

The car horn honked a second time. “Why doesn’t he use the bloody intercom? My god, you’d think he was raised in a tube.” He stalked to the mullioned window and looked out over the spacious front lawn of the estate. A massive black car, Andrew’s Range Rover, was hunched just outside the wrought iron gate, lights glaring, and engine roaring.

The window swept down, and Andrew thrust his wildly tangled blonde head out. “Hoy!” he shouted, ignoring the electronic device almost at his cheek. “It’s me!”

“Idiot,” Ryan said, grinning. He lifted his head and called into the open air, “Fiona, would you please open the front gate for our guests?”

“Yes, Mr. Ryan,” replied the housekeeper AI. There was a distant grumbling as the iron wings spread wide; a moment later the Range Rover was racing toward the oval driveway. It lurched to a stop right in front of the entrance.

Like many of his closest friends, Ryan was very good-brilliant, in fact-with cybernetics. In his case, he was a near-genius when it came to a nasty little sub-branch of the discipline known as Remote Access Intervention, an almost entirely theoretical field that postulated methods of exerting control over artificial intelligences at a distance-robot mind control, to put it bluntly. Ryan also happened to be the scion of one of the country’s oldest and richest families, and with the recent death of his mother, he now found himself the beneficiary and prisoner to one of England’s larger fortunes.

What he loved most about his friends from university is how they really, truly, didn’t give a shit about his elevated class or his mountain of money. Sometimes, though, they could be a bit much.

Sabrina-neat, quiet, steely Sabrina-hovered in the doorway. “All of them?” she said quite seriously. “At once?”

He smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid so.”

The front door burst open, and Andrew flew in, a skittering mass of beer-fueled energy. Simon came in after him, far more calmly. He had his fists thrust into the pockets of his raincoat, and there was a weight, a grimness, about him that Ryan had never seen before. Samantha was close behind Simon, as beautiful and watchful as ever. Hayden, looking even sour, brought up the rear.

Sabrina looked from face to face and resisted the temptation to shake her head in dismay. Above all things, Sabrina was cordial. Well-bred. Polite to a fault. But she had no education in science, physics or otherwise, and even less interest in them. She recognized that her husband-to-be needed friends of his own, especially those who are accomplished in their own fields, but still…still.

She hadn’t wanted to host this little get-together. She had done her best to quash it before it began, but Ryan had been surprisingly and uncharacteristically insistent. “Simon wants to see me,” he said. “He wants to bring Hayden and Andrew and Sammy along. So that’s what we’re going to do.”

Sabrina resented it. She was not the type who enjoyed surprises. She liked-she required-that every detail of a social event be planned well in advance and executed flawlessly. Just throwing a few crackers onto a plate with some store-bought cheese slices and cracking open a keg was not acceptable. And yet, here they were, dripping dirty rainwater in her alcove and just waiting for her to leave.

The things we do for love, she thought bitterly.

Samantha was the first to speak. “Sabrina,” she said, stepping forward and smiling warmly, “I apologize for us barging in like this. I do hope we’re not causing too much of a problem.”

Sabrina smiled thinly. “Not at all,” she lied.

“Are there snacks?” Andrew asked, peering into the sitting room to one side.

Simon stepped forward and kissed Sabrina briefly on each cheek. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

“It’s nothing. May I ask why you didn’t use the intercom at the gate? If it’s broken…”

“No,” Hayden said. “It’s fine, I’m sure. We just…we didn’t use it, that’s all.”

The truth is, Simon said to himself, you don’t have a super-secret spy-phone that’s safe from eavesdropping, and we don’t want anyone to even know we’re here, so…god, this is getting complicated.

Sabrina slipped away to prepare the sitting room, and the rest of the group followed down the corridor, gradually taking off their topcoats and scarves as they went. It was an imposing place-all polished wood, mullioned windows and ancient, heavy furniture. Simon half-expected a wizened retainer in a tux to step out from behind the array.

The library was almost a parody of the book-lined studies seen in a thousand BBC dramas, stacked floor to ceiling with shelves completely filled with dusty tomes no one had opened in a generation, overcrowded with comfy chairs and discreet reading lamps. As he peeled off his coat, he said, “Ryan, we’re in a bit of a situation here. We need to talk.” He leaned close to his friend and spoke so no one else could hear, “And we don’t want to alarm Sabrina.”

Simon had to give Ryan credit: he didn’t gape at the mere mention of a crisis. He cast a guarded, concerned look at his impeccable bride-to-be, who-to her credit-noticed the expression and read it perfectly.

“Well, all,” she said with a little smile, “I know this is important, and I’m quite sure I won’t understand a word of it. So, I think I will leave you to it for the evening.” She paused briefly, as if searching for words. “Whatever it is…I wish you the best of luck.”

With that, she stepped backwards through the double doors and slid them shut, leaving the rest of them alone.

The silence in the room was deep and deafening. Simon was the first to break it. “Do you have an AI active in here?”

Ryan, who was staring distractedly at the door where his fiancee had disappeared, shook himself awake. “Of course.” Simon looked over to Andrew who was already playing with his gadgets to scramble and confuse the AI in the room. Simon pulled the memory card with Oliver’s message imprinted on it from his breast pocket and laid it on the table.

Andrew cocked an eye at him. “We all good in the big ears department?” he asked obscurely.

Simon tapped the same breast pocket, where he held Andrew’s device. “Never leave home without it,” he said, smiling grimly. A roiling black cube appeared above the end table as the data from the card loaded. “I could try and explain all this to you,” he said. “And I will. But I need to show this to you first. Just…watch.” He tapped the card, muttered, “Play,” and his father’s eerily smiling face appeared.

No one spoke while the message played through, and no one spoke for a long time after.

Samantha, who had heard the story already, was still having a hard time taking it all in. “That…that doesn’t seem like him at all.”

“What was with that laugh?” Andrew said, strangely subdued for the moment. “I never heard Oliver Fitzpatrick laugh like that.”

Ryan had worked with father and son for years. He knew both of them exceedingly well. Now he just shook his head. “He was lying,” he said bitterly. “Clearly. Obviously. Anyone who had ever worked with the man would know that.”

“Absolutely,” Hayden said. He was leaning against the bookcase, arms folded, a look of outrage and deep concern on his lined face.

Simon felt the tension flow from his body. “Then it’s not just me,” he said.

“Not at all,” Sammy said, utterly in shock from what she had witnessed.

Ryan turned and faced his old friend with an unaccustomed intensity. “Simon, listen to me. We have to get to the bottom of this. Whatever you need-connections, media, bribes, I don’t care-it’s yours. All of it. We have to locate Oliver and bring him home.”

Simon looked at the others. “The rest of you?”

“I’m there,” Andrew said, his voice uncharacteristically rough. “Whatever you need.”

Hayden snorted. “What do you think?” he said.

Sam gave him the ghost of a smile. “You already know my answer, Simon.”

Simon took a breath. The relief that flowed through him was a palpable, physical sensation. He smiled completely, sincerely, for the first time in days. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear,” he said.

Ryan frowned, thinking furiously. “Have you contacted the authorities?”

“No. What would I tell them? ‘Good lord, Inspector, I received a message from my father and he’s alive and well and seems quite happy! Help me!’”

Andrew snorted. “Besides, the ‘authorities’ have been lying to you all along, haven’t they? They’re the ones who told you he was dead. ‘Oh, ever so sorry, do forgive us, b’bye now.’”

Simon nodded. “Exactly.” He reached into the other pocket of his jacket. “And there’s more.”

“More?” Andrew crowed.

“Good,” Ryan said.

Simon pulled out the hand-bound book and put it on the end table where his father’s head had appeared moments before. “I was given this at the same time I was given the message from my father. It’s a diary of chess games.”

“Oh, come now,” Ryan scoffed. “The man never kept notes of any kind; the last thing in the world he’d do is keep a chess diary.”

“Exactly what I said,” Hayden told them. He crossed the room and held out his hand. “Let me take a look at that again.”

Simon gave it to him. “I’ve already played through all these games; I think there are some general…ideas? He was trying to convey to me with them, but I think there’s more. I think there is specific, important information hidden in here somehow, and I want your help to find it.”

Ryan also started leafing through the journal, concentrating hard. “Who gave this to you?” he said.

“I did,” said a new voice from across the room.

All of them in a single movement whirled around to look at the double doors that Sabrina had closed almost an hour earlier.

Jonathan Weiss, still in his tailored raincoat, was standing just in front of the closed doors, his hands in front of him, gently holding his sopping hat. “If you’re trying to be secretive, the first thing you need to do is to lock the doors.”

Simon was the first to move. He rose and walked over to Jonathan, overwhelmingly glad to see him. Samantha, who had never much cared for Jonathan, held back, her arms crossed, her expression skeptical.

Ryan had met Jonathan only a few times in the past, at holiday parties and large gatherings, and even those had been many months ago-now he sat quietly, wondering how he had managed to get in without a peep. Andrew, meanwhile, had no idea who he was at all. Once introductions had been exchanged, and assurances that Jonathan knew everything about Oliver’s disappearance-and probably more-had been made, he was welcomed as part of the group and given a place to sit.

“So what do we do next?” Andrew asked.

Hayden had lost interest in the social niceties almost immediately. He was concentrating on the diary instead. Now he looked up at Simon, his eyes glittering sharply. “You say you’ve played through these games?” he said.

Simon nodded, as he and Jonathan walked closer to the others. “First night I got it, yes.” He briefly described what he’d learned from playing through his father’s chess journal. He’d found that each of the matches had a message-a “moral,” so to speak-but he had to admit that none of it amounted to much. He showed the scientist a hand-written list where he’d recorded what he learned.

Hayden scowled at it. “Juvenile,” he said.

Simon frowned back. “What?”

Hayden stared briefly, intensely at each page of the diary, then flipped it over almost impatiently and moved to the next. As the others chatted about Jonathan’s arrival and Oliver’s disappearance, Simon realized that Hayden was playing each of the games in his head, one after another, at astonishing speed.

“A good chess game is like a Chinese puzzle box or a set of Russian dolls,” Hayden said as he read. “Layer on layer, a puzzle in a puzzle.” He gestured in frustration at the diary. “But these games are absurd, Simon. Oliver was a much better player than this. A brilliant player, actually, much as I hate to admit it. So why did he record this odd set of matches? And why, in every single one, did he lose on purpose?”

Simon glared at him, baffled as well. “What?”

“Look. In every single one, he moved the king into a specific, compromised position. He moved the king into an intricate but contrived checkmate.” He shook his head emphatically; the silver wings of hair swayed back and forth. “No, he was far too sophisticated a player to do that. Something else is going on.”

He looked around the room as if searching for something. “Ryan,” he said. “Do you have paper and a pen somewhere?”

Ryan turned to him, mildly surprised. No one actually used paper anymore. “Ah…I can call the notepad up on the console, if you like.”

Hayden shook his head, less emphatically this time. “No. Nothing electronic. Oliver only trusted ink on paper; I’m going to follow his lead.”

It was a more difficult task than anyone expected. Ryan searched the desk drawers and even asked the AI. They finally located an antique fountain pen-quite a lovely bit of craftsmanship-but sheets of blank paper were nowhere to be found.

Finally Hayden lost patience. He stood up, stalked to the nearest floor-to-ceiling bookcase, and pulled a book off the shelf almost at random. Simon noticed it was the largest book-in size, if not thickness-within easy reach.

“The Peregrinations of Sir Richard Francis Burton: A Facsimile Edition,” he read. He cocked an eye at Ryan. “You mind if I use this?”

Ryan blinked in surprise, then shrugged. “I suppose not,” he said. “I doubt anyone’s opened it since the turn of the century.”

Hayden opened it, flipped quickly to the back, and located three pages with printing on only one side. Without another word, he curled his hands around the edge and jerked. The pages separated from the binding with a loud rip.

Hayden replaced the book on the shelf and plopped down exactly where he had been sitting before. Quickly, almost carelessly, he drew a chessboard on one of the sheets-an eight-by-eight grid. Then, half from memory, half from referring to the diary-he drew an “X” and a number in the square where the king had been left at the end of the game: X1 for the first game, X2 for the second, until he ran out of matches to record.

As he worked he said, “Andrew? Draw another grid. You too, Sam. Rip that page in half. Simon, Jonathan: grids.”

They all followed directions; in a matter of minutes, just as Hayden was finishing his list, they were all staring at individual sixty-four-square diagrams.

He looked up at them, concentrating intensely. “All right then. Sammy? Put the letters A to Z in your boxes, one letter per box, beginning in the upper left. Left to right, top to bottom. It’ll repeat about two and a half times.”

“Got it,” she said and started writing.

“Andrew? Same thing, but start in the lower left. Bottom to top, left to right. Simon? Start in the upper right. Right to left, top to bottom. And Jon-”

“Bottom to top, right to left.”

“Right. Tell me when you’re done.”

It only took a moment. When the last of them had finished, Hayden said, “All of you know algebraic chess notation, I assume?”

All heads nodded. Most of them had learned it when they were children. Hayden smiled. “All right then. I’m going to start calling out squares. Write the corresponding letter at the bottom of the page, in the order I give it. My guess is that one of you is going to start seeing actual words, and the others will see gibberish. Ready?”

They all said they were.

“Good. Here we go. H8…G5…F4…B3-”

“Got it,” Samantha said. “Oh my god…”

Hayden looked away from his paper, and found all four of them were holding up their sheets. Three of them were showing him an indecipherable jumble of letters under their grids…but Samantha’s read:

HELP

“I’ll be damned,” he said in a hushed voice. “It worked.”

He carefully read the rest of his list. Sam completed the message. No one else spoke until he was done. She wordlessly handed over the sheet, her eyes huge and filled with tears.

Hayden read the message, then sighed deeply. He gave it to Simon, then stood up and turned away, so he wouldn’t have to watch the younger man read it.

HELP ME

HELD CAPTIVE IN ANTARCTICA

TALK TO LEON. HE WILL KNOW

Simon put his hand to his forehead, as if his mind was moving in too many directions at once.

“This is crazy,” Hayden said into the silence. “He must have played each of these games in reverse, starting with where he had to have the king end up.” Simon ran both hands through his hair and pressed his skull between them. Why Dad? he asked himself. Why did he have to go to such incredible lengths to send me a message? And even now: no one but me would know what he meant by “Talk to Leon.” He’s still being careful, even in his code-within-a-code message. He looked at Andrew and Ryan; they were both speechless as he handed the message to them, so they could read it for themselves.

“Ryan?” He said as they finished. “I need a glass of scotch.”

Samantha’s eyes were filled with tears. “Simon,” she said, almost whispering. “I am so sorry.” She closed her eyes.

Simon stood up and gave her a warm embrace. “It’s okay. I’m going to find him.” He looked up at all the friends and allies around the room. “We are going to find him.” He squeezed her between his arms and closed his own eyes.

Ryan handed him a glass with three fingers of decent scotch in it. As he raised it to his lips, the sliding doors rolled open and Sabrina revealed herself.

“Ryan?” she said. “Is everything all right?”

The group exchanged guilty looks. “Fine, darling,” Ryan said, trying to keep it light. “In fact…I think we’re about to break it up for tonight.”

The others looked at each other and nodded, stunned and mute. Sabrina smiled at all of them. “Is there anything I can get for you before you go?” she said.

Samantha cleared her throat. “Yes, please,” she said politely. “I could do with a glass of water, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Sabrina offered her a very thin smile. “Not at all,” she said, and retreated to the kitchen.

Andrew took advantage of the moment. He opened his briefcase and passed out the secure phones he had created, one to each of them. “Talk only to each other with these,” he said. “And don’t even mention the plan in any other way-not now. Clear?”

They all agreed.

“Things are happening very fast,” Simon said. “I’ll talk to you all tomorrow, but please, if I call and say, ‘it’s time,’ be ready!”

There was a strange, sweet electricity in the air between them: anticipation, dread, boldness, fear. Sabrina returned with a glass filled with water. Samantha took it with murmured thanks and drank a fraction.

“Ah,” she said. “Much better.”

“We’re off then,” Simon announced, slightly uncomfortable under the withering gaze of Ryan’s fiancee.

Samantha offered her hand to Sabrina. “You’ve been a gracious host, thank you.”

The grip was very polite and very brief. “Of course,” Sabrina said.

Those women just don’t like each other, Simon observed as he gathered everything and put on his coat.

Simon watched them file down the hall and make brief goodbyes to their hosts. As they left, he thought briefly of the list he had made. It was complete now, one way or another. He had talked with everyone he wanted to. Though how he would proceed without Max on board, he still wasn’t sure.

I’ll work it out somehow, he told himself. I’ll have no choice.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Ryan's Estate

Simon and the others stood in the oval driveway for a while. He was unsurprised to see a shiny, sleek black hybrid roadster-a car worth more than his annual salary at Oxford-parked behind Andrew’s boxy Range Rover. “Yours?” he asked Jonathan.

Jonathan shrugged and gave him a smile that was almost embarrassed. “Rented. To a guy you’ve never heard of, far as I know.”

Simon let it pass; he shook Ryan’s hand and bid him good night as he packed Andrew, Samantha, and Hayden into the Range Rover. “Just drop everyone off, please,” he told Andrew. “I’m going to stay and talk with Jonathan a bit; I’m sure he’ll get me home.”

The others had little to say; it had been far too eventful an evening.

“Tomorrow,” Simon told them. “We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

After the Range Rover’s taillights flared one last time and disappeared beyond the gate, Simon and Jonathan sat side-by-side in his car and talked. Every twenty minutes or so for the first hour, Ryan or Sabrina would peek through the front window, checking to see if they were still there. After about ninety minutes, they stopped checking and simply went to bed.

“Have you contacted Max?” Jonathan asked.

Simon shrugged. It was an obvious question. He told Jonathan about the conversation he’d had with his old friend, and how disappointing it had been.

“You might want to try again,” Jonathan suggested. “Who knows, he might have changed his mind.”

Simon thought about it for a moment and then agreed. “No harm in trying,” he said. He picked up the secure phone that Andrew had given him and dialed Max’s number from memory.

Much to his surprise, he heard a pre-recorded voicemail message meant especially for him, rather than Max himself, live and in person. It was his friend’s voice-that much was clear-but the words made no sense at all.

“Hey buddy,” Max’s voice told him. “I know that you’re thinking about that vacation you were talking about, but I talked to the other guys and none of them can make it. I’ll catch up with you later. Give Jake my love.” The disconnection was a loud pop in his ear.

Simon stared at Jonathan with frank and obvious confusion. “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” he said. “What vacation? Besides, Max never mentions Jake in his phone calls. And he would never say ‘give my love to Jake,’ even if that’s what he wanted to say.” Something was very wrong here. He just had no idea what it was.

“Never mind,” Jonathan said. “We’ll just have to do this without him.”

They sat in the car for almost three hours, talking through the plan. The eastern sky was turning chalky with dawn when Jonathan finally started the nearly silent engine and drove Simon back to his flat.

Neither of them knew that the clock was already ticking, and that everything was about to change.

THE REPUBLIC OF MALTA

Before Dawn

The air traffic controller assigned to the night shift at one of Malta’s more modest airfields didn’t really know what to make of it. He rarely had more than a flight or two a day; sometimes days would go by when no planes of any size arrived at all. But today-in the last nine hours-he had barely had time to sit down.

The last arrival had been a small private jet. It had given him call signs, but he knew they were counterfeit; they were unlike any he’d ever encountered before. He watched with his binoculars as a single, stunningly beautiful passenger with jet black hair and striking blue eyes exited the aircraft and left the tarmac in a black limousine that had already been waiting. The one lone crewmember that had stayed behind didn’t even bother to visit the tower or file a flight plan for departure.

The controller didn’t like it-not one bit. But nobody asked him to. One thing he knew for sure: no one wanted to answer any questions, so he wasn’t about to ask any.

* * *

The woman who had arrived on that private jet knew exactly where she was going. She had instructions, and she would follow them exactly, as always.

She was driven to a small village not far from the airstrip, but 1,800 miles from London, where her flight had begun. The limo dropped her in a deserted square near the center of town shortly before dawn, next to an ancient sewer cap that, she knew, plunged hundreds of feet to an underground passage-one that had been created literally thousands of years ago.

A stranger was waiting for her. He gestured to her. She nodded to her silent driver as the stranger took her bag and escorted her to the side of the square, to a narrow, dusty alley choked with deep blue shadows. The wind tugged at the woman’s long, dark hair. It was warm enough, even as the sun was rising, but she felt a chill pass through her nonetheless.

There was a set of steps halfway down the alley that led to a narrow doorway. The stranger dropped her bag in front of the door and hesitated, reluctant to move any closer to the entrance. Never mind, she thought. She didn’t need the help. She picked up the bag and opened the door herself. It was unlocked.

There was a winding set of stairs that took her deep underground-three flights below street level. At the bottom she was greeted by a young girl, no more than ten years old, who led her wordlessly to a small room even deeper underground.

The little girl helped her undress and handed her a satin robe, unadorned but smooth and warm to the touch. Then she led her to the baths for her ceremonial cleansing.

The woman already knew what would happen next. She was prepared. After she had been bathed and warmed, fragrant oils were applied to her entire body; the young girl brought in a tray of clean muslin bandages, thick rolls about two inches wide. The woman sat up straight, still relaxed, and tipped back her head to make it easier to complete the next step.

The wrapping began with her eyes. Of course, she was not to see the entrance to the ancient Place of Silence. Then her entire body was wrapped-face and neck, torso and thighs, arms and legs to wrist and ankle, gently and firmly and with the utmost care and respect. Only her fingers and toes remained exposed.

When it was done, the woman could see nothing but a gray haze of fabric, hear nothing but the muted roar of blood pounding in her ears. A sequence of hands touched her on her shoulders and wrists. She was guided to a location she could not guess-a different place, following a different route than she had been led the last time, or the time before.

She was used to the process. She had grown accustomed to it over the years.

There were many corridors and many doors; she was sure of that much. Sometimes the air was warm; sometimes there were sudden, chilling blasts that came across her bandaged face that made her shiver. There were many different hands guiding her-some as small as the little girl’s, others larger and with sharp nails, and still others thick and rough without intending to be, all guiding her from passage to passage.

It would not be long now, she knew.

She began to hear the echo of the chanting, even through the fabric that covered her ears. It grew louder as she moved down one last, straight corridor.

The hands disappeared the instant she passed into the ceremonial hall. She was alone now, blind and half-deaf. Now she could rely only on her memory and training: thirteen steps forward, turn to the right, two steps forward and one to the side. And on. And on. She had been taught this sequence long ago. She did not falter; she never had.

The humming vibrations of the chants grew louder as she moved through the sequence. The air felt colder than ever, but familiar, almost welcome. She could feel the chilled puddles of water under her feet. She was closer to the sacred space now. Much closer, once again in a room with others-others with whom she had communicated for years but never seen.

There was no society on Earth as obscure, as secretive, or as ancient as this. The ancient rite she was practicing at this moment had been practiced in just such a way, in just such a place, for millennia-for as long as there have been humans to perform it. They were here for a reason. They persisted to protect one of the most powerful secrets of all time, a secret passed down from generation to generation by a carefully chosen few.

She was privileged-blessed-to be the bearer of that secret.

She completed the sequence of steps, confident in her movement. She sank to her knees, still blinded, and put out her hands, fingers outstretched, palms down. She could feel intense cold radiating just below them.

The block of ice, she told herself. As always. In place.

She lowered her hands slowly and carefully and touched the frigid surface of the block. Unsurprised, fully prepared, she moved her hands down the block-top to bottom, left to right. There were forms carved in the ice in a language lost for millennia: her instructions, her new assignment. She would have time to read it only once before the block melted away, leaving nothing but cold water in its place.

For one instant, she felt a wild, nearly uncontrollable impulse to snatch the blindfold from her eyes, to look into the room, into the faces of her masters for the first time.

But that was not an option. It never was. She was the society’s instrument, its tool, and she would now be its weapon. And weapons did not make their own choices. They simply did what they were designed to do.

As she absorbed the instructions, as the ice melted beneath her trembling fingers, she knew how difficult this would be. It was, almost certainly, the last assignment she would be given. When the ritual was performed in this place again, as it certainly would be, there would be a new woman, a new acolyte, in her place.

She did not object. She did not speak.

There was an obscure marking on the back of her neck-the same one that all the members had-an ancient symbol tattooed on her when she was a young child. The geometric shape meant “the unspoken word” in a language that was nearly forgotten, and it was an indelible reminder of the First Rule: Never Speak of This.

She never did.

The last indentations in the ice melted away. The message had been delivered. She had read and understood. She was shivering slightly, from cold and revelation, as she stood, turned, and performed the memorized steps exactly in reverse, still sightless. Soon she found herself standing at the door, where a new set of hands touched her, drew her forward, and led her away from the Place of Silence.

Two hours later she boarded the same jet that brought her to Malta and returned to London. There were three men on the aircraft with her this time, but they did not speak to her. They didn’t even look directly at her as she entered the cabin. They were stern and fierce looking, as if they were her bodyguards. All were of ethnic decent, Mediterranean, with strong, dark features. The plane had not been in flight for more than thirty minutes before one of the three men held his hand over his ear, listening to the incoming message.

Two minutes later he spoke to the woman. “Seems our source has located the team. We’re not sure what’s been leaked, but I’m on top of it.”

“Careful,” the woman said, “We don’t want to blow the plan. I need to rendezvous inconspicuously. Need to know exactly where to meet.”

“We’re on it,” the man said. He spoke into the collar of his black suit as the other two watched, stoic like statues but dangerous looking. “Extract info-that is all,” he said. “No one remembers, and no one gets hurt.” He disconnected by tapping his collar.

The woman spent the trip staring out the window as Western Europe passed silently beneath her.

This, she knew, would be no ordinary mission.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Samantha's Flat

The stranger entered Samantha’s building using a simple lock pick, a close variation on a design that had been used by burglars for centuries. He did it absolutely silently, without so much as the skirl of metal on metal. A separate device in his pocket, no larger than a golf ball, automatically countered the security systems that should have alerted her of an intruder. No lights flashed; no alarms sounded.

He slipped up to the third floor like a shadow.

Samantha had been exhausted by everything that had happened the day before. First the phone calls from her friends, then that incredible conversation at the Stanton, and finally the dinner at Ryan’s. It had drained her completely. She had actually dozed off still fully clothed, toothbrush in hand.

She didn’t even flinch as the stranger opened the door to her flat and slipped inside, closing it silently and securely behind him.

He moved swiftly and with deadly purpose. Within seconds, he was standing over her bed, where she lay in a deep sleep. He smiled with utter confidence as his gloved hand reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a square white cloth folded double. It was already soaked with a foul-smelling liquid.

The stranger snapped it over her mouth so swiftly, so securely, she scarcely had time to react. Her first panic-stricken intake of breath pulled the foul smell into her lungs. It was already too late.

Samantha tried to resist, but the strength of his hand was simply too much. In the space of five heartbeats she fell back onto the bedcovers, unconscious. A moment later the stranger pulled a circular bit of plastic from his pocket-a medication induction patch, standard issue in every hospital across Europe-and slapped it onto the side of her neck.

Samantha would be ready to answer any question he asked within five minutes.

He would be gone in ten.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Simon's Apartment

Simon was so exhausted he almost fell asleep in Jonathan’s car on the way back to his flat, and he had to rouse himself as Jonathan pulled into his driveway and let him out.

“Tomorrow,” he said, and Jonathan agreed, clearly as beat as Simon himself. His old friend had backed the car down the driveway and off into the night before Simon had made it to the entrance.

He took a moment to breathe in the clean, cool pre-dawn air. The rain had passed, at least for the moment, and though he was weary beyond belief, he felt strangely calm.

It had been a good meeting. Now he had a plan, crazy as it was. And a team of people he could trust. And…

And there was something wrong here.

The first hint came as he entered the lobby of his apartment. The regular greeting at the door was silent, which was highly unusual. The attendant was not there. He looked around as he started to walk upstairs, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary until he reached his own front door.

There was light shining around its edges-far too much light.

His front door was ajar by half an inch.

“What the…” he mumbled. He pushed the door open completely and rushed in.

The living room was an utter mess. I’ve been burglarized, he thought as he stopped and surveyed the damage. But then he noticed that his antiques, though upset or rearranged, were still in the room, and many of his collectibles were actually still in their places. How can the place be such a mess, he wondered, if nothing was taken?

He walked over piles of books lying on the floor and called out. “Fae? What happened?”

Silence.

“Fae? What the hell…?”

He stopped by the end table next to his favorite chair and tapped the holo-display, trying to bring it to life. It sprang up without difficulty, and he accessed the icon that should have brought his household AI to the forefront…

…but the icon shivered to digital dust at the touch of his fingers. He tried to recover it; he checked his archives and backups.

It was useless. Fae, who had served as his loyal assistant for more than five years, had been thoroughly fried.

He gaped at the display for five heartbeats, trying to understand what had happened. Then he looked at the ceiling, thinking about his library upstairs. “Damn it,” he said and dashed to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

The library was destroyed: artwork, charts, data plaques, and discs were scattered all over the floor. Every cabinet had been emptied, every drawer overturned; every one of his books had been thrown off the shelves.

“Who would do this?” he said out loud. “Who-”

He suddenly grew stone cold.

“Jake,” he said.

He turned to the hallway door and dashed back into the hall.

“Jake!” He ran back downstairs shouting, “Jake, Jake! Come on boy, where are you?”

He checked under the tables, behind the sofa, trying not to shake as his body went cold. “Jake, come on boy!” He even pushed at the furniture that was far too small for Jake to hide under, desperate for a clue. Finally, he rushed to the bathroom, the last door he hadn’t opened. He almost broke the handle in his frantic rush to get inside.

The door flew open and slammed against the wall, revealing Jake, dazed and tied up on the floor, wrapped in tight silvery loops of duct tape.

Simon fell to his knees and put his arms around the Great Dane, impossibly grateful the dog was still alive. “Jesus, who the hell would do this to you?” he said as he pried at the bonds.

Jake whined as Simon gently opened the duct tape around the dog’s muzzle. Anger swelled in him, but he forced himself to keep his voice low and comforting as he kissed the dog and murmured in its ear. “It’s okay, boy,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s okay.”

He checked every inch of the room and pulled the tape away from the animal’s paws. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; nothing revealed who had broken into his home or what they were looking for.

With the last of the tape pulled away, Simon stood and dashed out of the bathroom, determined to continue his search. Jake grumbled and struggled to compose his clumsy limbs, equally determined to follow his master as he always did.

Simon went through the whole apartment a second time, this time with even greater attention, but he could find nothing missing. After twenty minutes, he flopped down on the sofa in frustration and buried his head in his hands. Who would do this? he asked himself again, trying to quell his rising anger and failing miserably. Why?

Jake tottered into the room, his doggy expression made up of equal parts shame and curiosity. “Hey, buddy,” Simon told him. “Do you know who got in here?” Jake tilted his head and opened his warm brown eyes even wider than usual. Simon was suddenly happier than ever that his companion hadn’t been hurt…or worse. He patted the cushion next to him and said, “Come on over here, you big potato. Come on.”

Jake didn’t climb onto the couch. He just lumbered across the room, put his massive head in his master’s lap, and gave him a huge sigh, long and deep. Simon stroked the short, dense fur on the crown of Jake’s head and said, “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. I knew you were never much of a guard dog.”

He looked blindly at the chaos around him and tried to make sense of it. It couldn’t be a straight and simple break-in; nothing of any value had been taken. It wasn’t simple vandalism, either; everything had been tossed around, but nothing had been broken or defaced. Jake cocked an eye at him, as if to say I agree. Simon watched as the wounded dog lifted his head and turned away, moving slowly and a little painfully out of the room and into the kitchen. Clearly, he hadn’t fully recovered from being tied up for hours; he was looking for something to eat and drink.

Simon rose and walked behind him. “I know you’re sore, Jake. Let me get you-”

The realization stopped him cold. It was so obvious: they were looking for something. It wasn’t burglary or vandalism-it was a search. That’s why they had killed the AI. That’s why they had overturned every single drawer.

And he was willing to bet what they were looking for was what he had been carrying in his coat pocket all along-since the moment Jonathan gave it to him.

He pulled out the hand-bound chess diary with one hand and the bulky, awkward “safe” phone with his other. Clumsily, he worked the foreign keyboard, finally sending a single-word text to Jonathan: “Urgent.”

Jonathan called him back immediately. He hadn’t even reached his hotel. “What’s up?” he asked, sounding tired and a little miffed at being bothered so soon after he’d left.

“My flat has been tossed,” he said without preamble, quietly. “They had to be looking for the diary.”

“Shit.” Jonathan tapped the break and swung his rental car into a U-turn. “They know. Somehow, they know.”

Dread was like a fist full of ice in his stomach, but Simon pushed the sensation away. “We’re going to have to move even faster than we thought,” he said. “I’m the most obvious target, but any-”

There was a raucous beep in his ear. He pulled the phone from his ear and glared at it. Samantha’s number was glowing in the screen. He stopped cold, realizing the danger everyone could be in.

“I’ve got to call Sam,” he told Jonathan, “make sure she’s okay.”

“Never mind. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Simon hung up and dialed Sam’s number. “Come on, Sam. Pick up,” he urged the ringing phone. But she didn’t pick up. He tried again. Still no answer. “Something is wrong,” Simon said redialing Sam, over and over.

He had to go to her. Now. But he had to do one other thing first. He had to take care of Jake.

Moving as fast as he could, Simon snatched Jake’s leash from its hook by the door and snapped it onto the dog’s collar. “Come on, buddy,” he said softly. “Let’s go see Mrs. Elli.”

Her door was straight across the hall from Simon’s, and Jake went willingly. Simon had no time for explanations. He tied Jake’s leash to the handle of his neighbor’s door and kissed his companion on the head. He knew that Jake would be safe with Mrs. Ellingsworth. That was all that mattered. He rang the bell and disappeared in two seconds. He didn’t know when he would see his Jake again. He had no time and no strength to look back. Simon gave up on dialing and ran to find her. Jake looked on as the form of his master’s body and scent faded into the hallway and down the steps.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Samantha's Flat

A distant ringing faded and Samantha’s eyes snapped open. She lurched into a sitting position, gasping as if she had been touched by a live wire. Her head was pounding; her bedroom spun around her. She clutched at the bedclothes as a powerful wave of nausea surged through her. The safe phone faced away from her on the side table; Simon’s missed call disappeared from the screen.

The last thing she remembered was a shadowy man standing over her. Then a stinking cloth slammed over her mouth, so tightly she couldn’t breathe. There was a struggle, and then…

Nothing. Nothing until this moment, still in her clothes from last night, in agony as the room wheeled around her.

She couldn’t remember what had happened or who that may have been. She had a strong sense that she had spoken to him, or vice versa. She half-remembered a voice, but she had no real recollection, no idea what she might have said or what she might have been told. And when she tried to think of it, when she concentrated on the moments after that ghostly stranger stood over her, she could see only one thing-the man’s lithe frame.

She pushed away the half-memory and the nausea, fighting to think clearly.

She had to tell Simon. He would know what to do, how to help.

She took a breath and called to her AI. “Hollis? Call-”

— and she stopped herself. Why didn’t my security systems work last night? she suddenly asked herself. Where was Hollis? Was the system compromised? And what about the phone lines now?

Simon had given them all those silly, old-fashioned phones at Ryan’s house last night. Maybe she should-

“Call whom, Doctor?”

“No one,” she said, thinking it through. “Never mind.”

She reached to the side table, picking up the cell phone Simon had given her. She knew she could use it safely. She had to tell him what had happened. Ask for help. But she stopped, her hand an inch away from the phone.

She felt confused and began to reconsider. If she did indeed tell him what had happened, she knew what would happen next: she would be cut out of his plan to find Oliver. She’d be left isolated and alone. Too big a security risk, they would say. Compromised. And the others would go off without her. She wouldn’t be there to help them, wouldn’t be able to protect Simon. And she knew, she was positive, he was going to need her more than once-more than ever-in the difficult days to come.

What else could she do? She thought looking around her immediate surroundings, then decided Simon needed to know. Otherwise, he may be in more danger if she didn’t tell him.

She decided she was sure and grabbed the phone, just as there was pounding on her front door. She froze, clutching the phone in hand.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Samantha's Flat

Simon didn’t realize how fast he had gotten to Samantha’s apartment.

He pounded on the door as hard as he could. “Sam!” he called out, desperate for an answer. “Samantha!”

Five seconds, he told himself. Then I kick the door in. Five…four…thr-

“Simon?” Sam’s weak voice came through the door.

Simon blew out a sigh of relief. At least she’s okay, he told himself. “Sammy, it’s me,” he said. “Open up.”

He heard her unlocking the door and impatiently helped to push it open, eager to see her.

Sam’s eyes were still half-shut; she looked disheveled and surprised. She was dressed in the same clothes from the night before. She must have fallen asleep as soon as she got home, he reasoned. And then…

Simon moved closer to her and held her shoulders, looking straight at her face as he asked, “Sammy, tell me everything that happened.”

There were tears in her eyes. “That’s just it, Simon, I don’t remember.”

He dropped his hands, still looking into her eyes. “Then tell me the last thing you do remember. Andrew dropped you off…you came inside…you…”

“…brushed my teeth,” she said, almost dreamily, “…sat down on the bed, still dressed and so tired…and…”

Her eyes were wide and empty when she looked at him. “And that’s all. Nothing else until I woke on the bed an hour ago, still dressed.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. She was doing her best not to cry. “Oh, Simon. God, what…?”

He saw it then-a tiny, circular rash about the size of a large coin on the side of her neck. He wouldn’t have noticed it at all except for the angle of the light; it was just a slight roughness to her skin and not much more.

“Wait a second,” he said, leaning forward, sniffing at her neck.

“Simon, what the devil…”

“Sorry,” he said again. But he had caught a whiff of what he had expected to: the astringent, garlic-like odor of the DMSO derivative used in most medi-patches. “You were drugged, Sam.”

She put her hand to her neck protectively, as if she half-expected a knife to be put there. “A patch?” she repeated. “But who…and why would they…?”

Simon was already on his feet again, pacing nervously. “I want you to gather some clothes and come with me. Now.”

She looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about? Have you gone mad?” He was already moving toward her closet, looking for a suitcase or a bag. “Where the hell do you want me to go?”

“Something tells me we shouldn’t be here,” he said. He shook his head tightly, quickly. “We should get the hell out of here. Sam, my place was broken into last night. Get your stuff-we’re leaving.”

More in response to the urgent tone in his voice than any real understanding, she jumped up and started toward her room to gather her things. “None of this makes any sense,” she muttered. She sounded muzzy and confused; clearly, the drugs were still in her system.

Simon moved back into the living room, thinking furiously. Maybe I should go back to my flat, he thought. But…but they could be waiting. He wasn’t quite sure what to do; he had never been on the run before, especially from something as bizarre as this. Max would know what to do, he told himself. This is his element. But he had no choice. He couldn’t go to the authorities; for all he knew UNED and Jonathan’s CIA bosses were part of the group that was after him and his friends. And now he was conspiring to steal a multi-billion-dollar piece of government technology. They couldn’t possibly know about that…

…could they?

Simon came to a decision at that very moment: their only alternative was to accelerate the plan that he had discussed just a few hours earlier. Get to the Spector safe house undetected-all of them. Highjack the fully assembled submersible, and get the hell out of Oxford, out of England, and as soon as possible out of the Northern Hemisphere entirely.

Simon looked at his watch, then called out to Samantha. “We’ve got to go.”

“I’m almost there,” she replied.

While she packed, Samantha suddenly asked him, “Do you remember Corsica?”

Simon was surprised. “You actually remember that?”

“How could I forget?” she replied, but made sure to add with a sarcastic tone. “The question is, how could you forget?”

Simon hadn’t forgotten a thing. He vividly remembered the weekend they had spent at his father’s hideaway, a beautiful cottage nestled in the hills in Corsica, when they were both in college. That was the first time Samantha had told him how much she cared for him…and the first time he had disappointed her.

“Never mind,” he said.

That weekend on Corsica had been a major event in Simon’s life as well-just not the one that Samantha imagined. It was the last time he had been at the cottage with Oliver-the last time in his adult life that he had a chance to share a few days with his father.

The secure phone made its familiar and annoying buzz. He put it to his ear and keyed the communication. It was Jonathan.

“Almost there,” he said. “I called Andrew. He’s meeting us in front of Sam’s place. I’ll leave my rental there, and we’ll go together with the Rover.”

“Sounds good. What about Ryan?” Simon asked.

“Not responding to calls on the secure phone, and I don’t want to use an open line-especially now. We’ll talk about it when I get there.”

“All Right. We’ll be walking north on Holden-find us.” He didn’t fancy waiting around on the sidewalk with luggage.

“Will do.” The old-fashioned phone went beep, and the conversation disconnected.

Simon called to Sam as he dialed a different number. “About ready?” he said.

“Almost!” she called back.

Hayden’s voice came out of the secure phone’s tiny speaker. “What?”

“Hayden, it’s Simon,” he told him. “Where are you?”

“Already at the safe house, seeing to some last details. Really couldn’t sleep after that meeting of ours, so I came straight back here. Been working with Teah and the other AIs to get the Spector operational.”

“We’re on our way.”

“Ah…not quite ready, Simon. No need to rush.”

“Not rushing, Hayden. I think we’ve been discovered.”

“So soon? Oh, god…” Simon could almost hear Hayden’s wheels turning, trying to figure all the angles.

“Wonderful,” he said finally. “All right then, just get here-you, Samantha, Jonathan, everybody. Get here as soon as you can.”

“Done,” Simon said.

He heard a sound behind him as he ended the call. He turned to find Samantha standing in the bedroom doorway with two small bags in her hands and a suitcase, staring at him.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” Without another word, he took the larger suitcase by the handle, lifted it, and pushed out the door.

Samantha was close behind.

Moments later they emerged from the building. Simon led the way, moving briskly up Holden Road, trying to look in every direction without seeming suspicious.

A dark blue car, half a block up the street, pulled up to the wrong side of the curb and stopped, its engine running, its headlights on. Without a pause, Simon turned to the left and entered a narrow side street.

“Simon?” Samantha said from behind him. “Where are we going?”

He pulled the secure phone out of his pocket and said, “Jonathan?” The sound of his voice was rough in his ear; he could hear the rush of wind distorting it.

“Two minutes away,” Jonathan said.

“Change of plans. We may have company. We’re heading east on Overton,” he said. “Meet us going south on Lyme.” He started walking even more quickly.

“Coming,” Jonathan said and hung up.

“Simon,” she said. “Please, I can’t keep up.” He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw her almost running to catch up to him. Half a block behind her, the blue car turned, filling the narrow street side to side. The roar of its engine was louder as it moved closer.

He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He picked up the pace even more.

“Simon,” she shouted, completely unaware of the car behind them. “Slow down! I can’t keep up.” He fell back just long enough to take the other suitcase from her. “Just keep moving,” he told her.

His shoulders were burning from the weight of the bag as they emerged onto Lyme Street. He glanced to the right and saw a black Range Rover approaching from a distance. Its headlights were on, but its tinted windows were rolled up tight on all sides as it approached, moving slightly faster than they were but going in the same direction-toward a busy intersection. I hope that’s Andrew, Simon told himself. He knew damn well there were literally thousands of Rovers just like that in England, and he couldn’t see a thing through the darkened windshield, but it had to be. It had to be.

The blue car nosed out of the alley and turned south on Lyme, barely two car-lengths behind the Rover. Simon sped up even more, adrenaline rushing through his body.

Samantha was close behind him, two paces back and panting heavily. “Please,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

The Rover paced them. The front window rolled down a crack-not enough to see a face as a voice called out of the car.

“Get in.”

The Rover started to slow…but Simon kept walking. They didn’t dare slow-not with that damned blue car so close.

After a moment’s hitch, the Rover jerked and caught up again.

“Simon!” Sammy called, sounding annoyed. “It’s Andrew! Can’t you-”

He ignored her and kept walking. The voice from the car got louder, “Get in!” The window rolled down the rest of the way.

It was Andrew, all right, looking mad as hell.

“What the devil is wrong-”

“Open the back window!” Simon hissed. “Now!”

Andrew gaped at him for one beat…then glanced back inside. The window behind him rolled down silently and without a moment’s hesitation he threw the bag he had been hauling right into the opening. It flew through dead center, with barely an inch to spare. A moment later he stepped back, seized Sam’s larger bag and did the same, right through the window. Then he reached back, grabbed Sam by the elbow and dragged her into a full run-straight toward the busy intersection fifty yards in front of them.

“Go!” he said to her. “RUN!”

The Rover kept pace. The blue car sped up, trying to catch them.

“Simon! Why-why-”

The streetlight at the crossroad was red as they approached; cross-traffic waited impatiently as they ran for the corner. Ten yards…five…

The light turned yellow. “KEEP GOING!” Simon shouted and pulled at Sam even harder. “RUN!”

They stepped into the street as the light turned yellow, running full out. Andrew gunned the Rover’s engine and flew through the crossroads as horns blared all around.

Close at their heels, the blue car moved too, trying to beat the light-

— when Jonathan’s rental car roared into the intersection from the far lane and flew directly in front of the blue car. The hood of the blue car whammed into the side of the rental with an explosion of wrenching metal and shattering glass.

Andrew’s Rover screeched to a halt on the far side of the intersection. The door flew open, and he jumped out as the rear hatch popped up, apparently on its own. “Get in!” he shouted, and together he and Simon almost tossed Samantha into the Rover. As Simon climbed in after her, Jonathan staggered up to them, wiping a line of blood away from one eye. The steaming wreck of his rental car, welded to the twisted mass of the blue vehicle, completely blocked the intersection behind him. There was no movement from the blue car at all.

“Mind if I tag along?” he said breathlessly.

He rolled into the back as Andrew jumped into the driver’s seat and floored it. They were half a block farther down Lyme and out of Oxford before the door was closed, and another two blocks farther away when the first sirens sounded.

* * *

They hadn’t gotten more than a mile from the accident scene when Samantha said, “Guys, what the hell is going on?”

They looked briefly at each other, and Simon realized for the first time that the rest of them had already had the chance to talk this through, at least a little. Samantha had simply awakened from a troubled sleep and been swept away.

“Is someone finally going to explain everything to me?” she said. “Please?”

“Well, Sam, things are moving a bit faster than we had expected,” Jonathan said.

“Oh, really? Too much information, Jonathan,” replied Samantha sarcastically. “Please slow down.”

“Ah,” Andrew interrupted from behind the wheel. “Exactly where are we going, then? That is, I know its North Oxford, but I don’t think you mentioned the exact address of the secret entrance to the safe house…” He was keeping one eye on the rear-view mirror, waiting to see another blue car-or any vehicle at all-appear at any moment.

“Simon!” Samantha said, angrier than ever. “Please!”

Simon looked over to her, frustrated himself. He said in a calm voice, “Sammy, I’ll explain later. Please just give it a rest.”

She gaped at him, amazed at his response.

Simon turned to Andrew and said, “I don’t know the address, but I can lead you there.”

The Rover roared through another intersection, moving north as quickly as they dared.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Abandoned Underground Station

Simon remembered his ride with Hayden in vivid detail, so it wasn’t difficult to guide Andrew directly to the abandoned entrance without a single wrong turn.

He explained the next steps he’d worked out for Andrew in a low, calm voice that only Andrew could hear. And when they were finished, as they moved slowly, almost carefully, onto the last block before the underground entrance, Simon pulled the secure phone from his pocket and dialed Hayden. The phone buzzed, and Hayden’s gruff, accented voice came on almost immediately.

“What?” he said, sounding completely uninterested in the answer.

“We’re here,” he said. “Most of us, anyway.”

“Can’t you people tell time?” he said. “I’m not bloody ready yet!”

“Change of plans, Hayden. I’ll explain when I get there.”

“Just stay out! I’ll call when-”

“Hayden, no. We need to talk now, and I need to see how far along we really are.”

“Look, Simon, I don’t have time for this-”

“We’re coming in. Not all of us, not for long, but we’re coming.”

“Jesus Christ, you high-handed, egotistical son of a-”

Simon hung up on him.

They had arrived at the hidden entrance. There was the gate that led to the downward staircase, the car park next to the gate, the chemist and the family-owned tea shop on the corner, just as he remembered.

When the Rover stopped abruptly at the curb, Simon was already frowning at what he could see-and what he couldn’t see. He checked again as the team climbed out of the Rover and moved away from each other, if only to stretch their legs and get a breath. It was the middle of the morning, but he had been up for hours already; he felt as if the day was already half over.

Hayden’s strange car was already parked crookedly halfway down the block, but Ryan’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen. One more time, Simon pulled out his hated secure phone and dialed Ryan.

It took a long moment for the call to go through-too long, as far as Simon was concerned. Finally Ryan’s voice was in his ear, sounding more than a little sheepish. “Sorry, Simon. Really, I’m trying to get out of here, but there are so many issues I’m dealing with-”

“Ryan, the others told you what happened, didn’t they?”

Another pause. “Yes. About your flat, you mean? And your dog? Bloody awful, I’d say.”

“And that incision mark on Samantha’s neck. She was probably drugged.”

“Well, yes, but-”

“And we were just chased halfway cross Oxford just trying to get out of Sammy’s place. You understand this isn’t some sort of joke?”

“I understand completely. I’m on my way in two minutes. Five minutes, tops.”

“And if you aren’t, you understand they may come for you next?”

There was another pause. When he spoke again, Ryan sounded more than a little shocked. “Me?”

“You and Sabrina.”

“My god.”

“Just get here, Ryan. Get on the road, then use the secure phone and call Jonathan for directions.”

He cut off the connection without another word.

“Why are you having him call me?” Jonathan asked, scanning the street for any unfamiliar cars or suspicious pedestrians. Everything looked calm and perfectly normal … for the moment.

“Because you and Sam are staying topside while we go talk with Hayden.”

Jonathan started shaking his head halfway through the sentence. “Not a chance, buddy.”

Simon took a step closer to his old friend and pitched his voice low so no one else would hear. “I can’t take Sammy down there right now. Look at her, Jon. She’s still freaked out from the attack, and that run through her neighborhood didn’t help.” Jonathan’s expression told Simon he didn’t have to look; he had already gauged Samantha’s state of mind, and he wasn’t happy about it. “Besides, Ryan’s…having some kind of issue. I’m betting it’s his fiancee, but I just don’t know. Someone has to be ready to pull him in.”

Jonathan looked away, clearly frustrated by the undeniable logic of it. Finally he nodded tightly. “Okay. I’ll stay. And you’re just going down to bring him out, right?”

“We need to have a talk-all of us, in one place-while the Spector is being finished. I don’t care, as long as it’s somewhere low-key. Somewhere safe. But we have got to get this under control before it’s too late.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll take Andrew down with me, and we’ll bring Hayden back out with us.”

“Okay.”

He moved quickly to Samantha and explained what was happening. A moment later he called to Andrew, who was already up to speed; he’d talked to him in the Rover while they had been making their way out of town. “Andrew?” he said. “Ready to do this?”

“Yes, I am,” Andrew said, almost looking eager. For a moment Simon was reminded of his dog, and he felt an unexpected pang of regret. He missed his companion.

“All right, then,” he said and looked back at Jonathan and Sam one last time. “We’ll be right back.”

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

Spector Safe House

Hayden knew that what he was about to do could cost him his life. But if I don’t do it, he asked himself, what is there to live for?

As he walked down the deserted subway track he thought about all the people above him, from the university, the government, and beyond, who had called the shots on this project-people he’d never meet. They had taken his life’s work from him…or so they thought. Now he had one chance-just one-to take back what was his, or to live the rest of his life as a failure. A zero. A slave.

And what about Oliver? He was the greatest man he’d ever known, his close friend-his mentor. And if all that Simon had uncovered could be believed, he was trapped in the Antarctic and begging for his life, begging to be rescued! The Spector-the completed, empowered amazing Spector-could be the only vehicle in the world that could save his best friend’s life. It was the only vehicle capable of being undetected in the water and navigating the extreme ice in Antarctica.

It didn’t matter how dangerous it was.

He had to do it.

He picked his way down the last few yards of subway track with remarkable steadiness, painfully aware of the mustiness and stink of standing water. This is something I won’t miss, he told himself as he used the old-fashioned metal key to open the door to the security room. It was hard to believe it had been less than a day, just hours, since he had first brought Simon down here. And even harder to believe the years he’d spent in this place were almost behind him forever. He placed his hand against the biometric sensor plate. Moments later, he was inside shutting the heavy door behind him and looking up at the high steel arches of the domed ceiling and the cradles just below them.

One vehicle looked nearly complete. The other was barely a skeleton now.

Teah rolled and teetered up to him as he moved more deeply into the safe house. “Construction of Spector I is complete, Hayden,” she said. “The power test can begin at any time.”

Ah, yes, he thought. The last challenge. This is the one challenge that had terrified them all; the test that was so perilous to perform that the authorities insisted that Spector III be smuggled out of England and sent all the way down to the Antarctic, over his strenuous objections. Too dangerous, he had been told. Too noticeable. The electromagnetic pulse from the initial power-up of the engines, even to test levels, would tell all sorts of people that something very odd was going on under the River Thames-things that UNED and the others wanted to keep to themselves. He had argued and resisted and out-and-out refused. “I can shield it,” he insisted. “I can make it so quiet even you won’t know I’m doing it.”

Is that why they took it from me? he wondered now, for the first time. Because I was too pushy? Or because I really thought I could keep secrets from them?

It didn’t matter anymore. He would find out in the next few minutes if he had been right about shielding the electromagnetic pulse at power-up or not.

Andrew’s bulky safe phone buzzed in the pocket of Hayden’s jacket. He pulled it out and barked into it. It was Simon, babbling about the problems with his team. Hayden simply didn’t have the time-or the interest-to tell him that if the power-up test didn’t work up to specs, it wasn’t going to matter who was waiting upstairs or knocking on the goddamn door, the Spector simply wouldn’t have enough power to push itself under the water. He got off the phone as quickly as he could and immediately forgot why Simon had called in the first place.

He had work to do.

“Ready?” Teah said.

“No,” he answered honestly, “but let’s do it anyway.”

She tilted her head in an entirely un-robotic way and said, “Seventeen seconds to power-up.” Huge dynamos, like something out of an ancient Frankenstein movie, ground to life at opposite ends of the room, their whine moving up the scale. And those are just the little ones, he thought.

A huge power coupling attached to the underside of the Spector, thick as his waist, suddenly twitched like a living thing. Good, he thought, though he was startled by the thing’s power. Just how it’s supposed to act.

He moved quickly to the security consoles. This was where he would watch the data on the power-up and monitor the coherence of the shield. Even if the electromagnetic pulse was twice the size that he expected, he could still keep it from being detected by triggering the appropriate counter-pulse by hand.

“Six seconds,” Teah said, rolling up to stand close behind him. It was oddly comforting to have a friend-even a cybernetic one-nearby at a moment like this. “Five.”

“Oh, do give it a rest, darlin’,” he said, scanning the console.

Lightning spidered out of the dynamos. The skin of Spector I glittered, and tiny fingers of lightning rippled all along the surface, making it look as solid as steel one moment and as insubstantial as a semi-translucent insect the next.

The indicators on the console danced for him. Green…green…

“Son of a gun,” he said to Teah. “I do believe it-”

Suddenly, Teah’s massive cylindrical right arm smashed into the console with tremendous power. The clash of metal against metal, of shattering glass and silicon, drove him back. “Teah!” he shouted. “What the-”

She tore her arm free and brought it high. Hayden had to jump away to avoid the swing as she rammed it into the console again.

Suddenly, Teah was possessed, smashing apart Hayden’s creation in some demonic rampage. As he shielded himself from her rage, he knew there was only one explanation: she was being controlled by Remote Access Intervention. The drawback of AIs was that unlike humans they could be remotely manipulated, and this made them both vulnerable and-in the wrong hands-unpredictable and dangerous. Until now though, he’d thought that Teah was shielded from this attack. He hadn’t considered the possibility that RAI was able to penetrate the computer code.

Hayden covered his head as sparks illuminated the walls of the cavern.

“Teah, no!” he said. “Don’t do it, don’t! The shield won’t hold; they’ll know!”

“Power test complete in five seconds,” Teah said calmly, as if she wasn’t tearing the security console to pieces right in front of him. “Three…two…one.”

There was a massive whump as the electromagnetic pulse-the one that Hayden was supposed to counter-boomed through the room and beyond. Hayden could feel it echo through his body, making his bones ring like a broken bell.

The Spector glowed with a ghostly blue light. The remaining indicators still flickering on the ruined console were green. The vessel had passed the test-it was functioning perfectly.

The only problem was that now everyone from here to the orbiting satellite ring would know.

ENGLAND

Undisclosed Location

Seventeen miles northeast of the safe house, in a remote location only a few knew existed, the electromagnetic pulse from the Spector boomed like the sudden, unmistakable blast of a not-so-distant bomb.

The junior surveillance officer on duty noticed the spike on six different sensor outputs at the same instant. He almost shot out of his seat as he touched the communications panel and shouted into it.

“Sir! I need you to look at this, now.”

Two supervising officers, Dalton and Bryan, appeared out of the shadows in an instant. They recognized the lights and read-outs without being told what they were looking at.

“What the hell?” Bryan said, almost in awe.

“Hold on a second,” he said to Dalton. “Let’s do a calibration of the system. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

Bryan requested the computer do a calibration of the sensor array, and then asked the young duty officer if he had a location.

“North Oxford, sir,” the younger man said immediately. “The Spector site.”

“Son of a-”

An artificial intelligence module had leapt to life the instant the pulse hit the sensors; now it had finished its multivariate situational analysis. It interrupted the humans to tell them it had processed all the information available, sent out instructions for more data, and received and processed it in the time they had spoken. “Security breach in Oxford Construction Facility,” the AI said, almost sounding bored. “Counterforce Protocol initiated.”

The AI had deployed an armed counter-insurgency team before the officers even had a chance to recognize that something was wrong.

Four miles further to the north, in a concealed and sensor-shielded airfield, the blades of a specialized chopper were already beginning to turn, and a team of special operations officers in full gear ran for the aircraft, ready for the task. The helicopter itself was pitch black and oddly fibrous, its hull completely invisible to sonar, radar, and mass detector. No military markings or civilian call letters were visible; they couldn’t be, they would jeopardize the secrecy of the safe house.

It would take them less then twelve minutes to reach the facility.

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

Spector Safe House, 12:29 PM

Hayden turned on his heels and ran.

Teah was still at the security console, pounding it to bits with every ounce of her cybernetic strength. Hayden knew with absolute certainty that the entire plan was blown.

The Spector he had worked so hard to make, the vehicle he was this close to taking for his own was lost to him forever.

He knew all about the Counterforce protocols. Hell, he’d helped to write them years earlier. They were an armed response to attempted sabotage or invasion, and that was exactly what he was doing. He knew where the Special Forces detachment that would respond was stationed, and he knew exactly when they’d arrive.

I have to get the hell out of here, he thought…and at the same time, he was formulating a Plan B-the image of the completed Spector flashed before his eyes, and he saw himself hijacking the vessel bound for Antarctic continent. A last, desperate stratagem that he and Simon and the team just might be able to pull off…

If I can get what I need out of here before they arrive, he told himself.

And he already knew the timing: he had twelve minutes.

* * *

The chopper hovered over the surface of the Thames so low that it churned the water into a gray froth. Seven members of the Counterforce team dressed in black SWAT uniforms and night vision goggles jumped out of the cargo hold and hit the water with barely a splash.

They would gain access to the safe house through a special escape hatch in the double-hulled dome, even if it meant cutting through the metal with a laser. It wouldn’t take them more than a few minutes.

* * *

Hayden started scrambling through the various components scattered on his work desk. He looked over his shoulder at his insane robot as he slapped a small device onto the holo-display and started downloading files he knew he would need.

She had finished her destruction. Now she was just standing there, motionless, over the smoking wreckage of the console. As he glanced at her he saw her head twitch in an almost human way, as if she was listening to a voice only she could hear.

How could it have happened? he asked himself. How could Teah have been seized by Remote Access Intervention? Somebody had the ability to seize control of the AI from a distance-probably a very long distance, through the satellite net itself-and make it do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.

To hell with that, he thought, and turned away from his traitorous creation for the last time. Two can play that game.

Nine and a half minutes and counting.

Stay focused, he told himself. Don’t miss anything. There were several key modules that he needed to disconnect and take with him as he fled the facility, or no future plan of any kind would work. He knew that the completed Spector would need to be rigged differently, so he had one chance to grab what he needed.

There was no going back now.

Nine minutes.

His fingers started shaking as he raced through hundreds of security codes that allowed him to access the deepest, most classified files. He was manipulating the entire system through a sequence of passwords that he had created himself to keep others out and protect his work-and now he was the one doing the damage.

There was a faint clang above him-the noise of metal on metal, coming from outside, from beyond the dome itself. Are those footsteps? he asked himself. Or something landing…rolling? He could feel a wild panic rising inside him as the rumbling grew louder.

Six minutes.

He snatched the little memory device off its docking pad. Time to make a run for it, he thought as he fumbled for the last bits of equipment and started sprinting toward the back door. I can’t risk being captured, he thought as he ran. I can’t.

He had never felt such fear before. His body trembled uncontrollably as he filled his arms with a bulky tangle of hardware and ran.

Four min-

He was fifteen feet from the escape hatch when the lights went out.

Damn it, he thought in the middle of the darkness. They were even faster than I thought.

There was a hum and a clank as the emergency lights switched themselves on. Suddenly the ghostly shapes of the Spectors were illuminated by harsh white beams that sliced up from the floor. The outer skin of the vessels, which automatically mimicked the environment, made the vehicles almost invisible. Hayden, short of breath, skidded to a stop and shoved what he had collected into a small duffel bag. He forced himself to keep going, moving very slowly and, in absolute silence, toward the secret escape route.

He was starting to panic.

There were footsteps coming from above. He could hear them. He looked up to see a ceiling hatch directly above Spector I slowly unlock and open. The black ops team lowered themselves through the opening, like spiders dropping in on their prey, holding laser-guided weapons mounted with lethal-looking canisters.

Hayden recognized the attachments to the weapons. Immobilization gas, he told himself. No intruder would have a chance once the gas had reached their system. And this time, I’m the intruder.

He had only one chance, and he decided to take it. He crouched down close to the floor and kept going. Just a few steps, he told himself. Just get out this door; they don’t even know it exists. It’s not on any of the schematics. I made sure of that. Just slip outside, into the tunnel, get to Simon and the others and-

He heard the hissing when he was less than ten feet from the exit.

* * *

The surveillance team released the immobilization gas as they carefully scanned the entire facility for intruders. There was no reason to wait; the facility was supposed to be empty. If anyone was there, they deserved to be gassed; if no one was there, the only cost was a few ounces of antipersonnel aerosol. Either way the Counterforce Team members were already masked. That was standard operating procedure.

It took only seconds for the scanning AI to locate the intruder. It spoke to the team members through the earpieces in their helmets, describing him in detail, feeding them his location as seen through the security cameras.

They spread out into a wide crescent and moved slowly across the bay, following directions, using the equipment as cover, staying quiet. They were in no hurry. Their intruder had nowhere to go.

He was trapped.

Hayden barely made it to the door, duffel bag in hand, before his body started reacting to the gas. His vision distorted as he watched his own hand reaching for the doorknob. He felt his knees weaken as if his joints had suddenly turned to rubber.

He heard a sound behind him, the clack-clack of a weapon being cocked. He didn’t want to turn around-his turn had come, he told himself irrationally-but his body was beyond his control. He spun slowly, like a disoriented swimmer underwater, and saw a man with a gas mask and goggles, dressed in black, pointing a large rifle toward him.

At me, he thought.

He was beginning to lose feeling in his body. He knew it was over.

But he could still sense, just a little, a strong set of hands grabbing him from behind, dragging him back toward the door.

The voice was familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. A small but effective dose of the immobilization gas had penetrated his system, and he was falling into semi-consciousness. He felt bodiless, but was still strangely aware of everything around him.

“You grab the module case, and I’ll lift him,” the voice said.

Seconds later, everything went black.

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

The Hidden Entrance

“So I guess this all makes sense to you somehow,” Samantha said, her voice dripping with weary sarcasm.

Jonathan was sitting in the front seat of the Rover. Samantha on the far side of the back seat, watching the empty road and waiting. Waiting for Ryan to finally arrive, waiting for Simon and Andrew to return from the underground tunnel with Hayden in tow, waiting for the world to just return to normal.

Neither of them was very good at waiting. They sniped at each other instead.

“Sam,” Jonathan started, knowing he didn’t want to get into it with her-

“Sam?” she asked. “You haven’t called once in the last year and you feel comfortable calling me ‘Sam?’”

“Okay then, Samantha. My apologies, I didn’t know using a nickname had anything to do with frequency of contact.”

Samantha gave a small snort. “Seriously Jon, stop being yourself.” She turned back toward the entrance of the tube and silently ordered Simon: Come back. NOW.

She’d never been able to completely turn off her feelings for Simon, though she had struggled with them many times. Now, though, everything seemed to be spinning out of control, and she didn’t know what to anticipate next. She had no idea how to feel about anything anymore.

She leaned her head against the cool glass of the Rover’s window, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply.

Jonathan broke the silence.

“Samantha,” he said, “I know how outrageous all of this must seem to you. The secret messages, the wild car chase, the masked men in your flat…it’s crazy, I know.” Samantha’s eyes slowly opened, but she didn’t move her forehead from the coolness of the window. It felt good: solid, stable. “I’m not sure how all of the pieces connect yet,” he said. “None of us are. I’ve only been in England for a few hours, and I’m still not sure if it’s my people or Hayden’s or somebody else entirely who’s chasing us, or what they know. But Sam-Samantha-I came back because I was genuinely afraid that something was going to happen to Simon if I didn’t.”

Samantha pinched out a smile that Jonathan couldn’t see. “Simon is more than capable of taking care of himself,” she said, “Unless you’ve got some government-issued super-ninja assassin squad waiting in the wings.”

“If you’re referring to his self-defense skills…I know how good they are; I trained with him. But this is different, Sam. Very different.”

“It can’t all be about that stupid message and the chess diary,” she said. “I mean, really? A diary?”

Jonathan didn’t answer at first, and she wasn’t surprised. For as long as she had known him, Jonathan had always been involved with one government agency or another, and she hated that. All the secrecy, all the vagueness. She’d never felt completely comfortable with him, and the last few hours hadn’t changed that one bit. She also found Jonathan’s fascination with Simon’s father disturbing and rather contrived. Why it bothered her, she didn’t know, but it did. She knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“It’s absurd,” she said. “You know what I think about all this crap. You and your government bullshit. You know I’ve always hated this surveillance and tracking stuff. That’s why I chose to take a less bureaucratic job…and even then I had to go live in the jungle, go climb Mount Kilimanjaro for Christ’s sake, just to avoid being constantly monitored, even in the hospital.”

“Look,” he snapped, turning to glare at her in the back seat, clearly frustrated, “I really don’t care what you like or dislike at this point. You decided you had to be part of this thing. You forced your way in. And now, like it or not, you’re part of it.”

“Bullshit!” she shouted. “I could get out of this car right this instant! I could go to the police and tell them everything!”

He laughed at her-a short, harsh sound. “Tell them what? A man broke into your apartment, but you have no evidence and you don’t remember anything about him? You saw a cheerful message from a dead man-a message that’s been destroyed, by the way-but he seemed okay? That your friend’s house was broken into, which is clearly a sign of international conspiracy and-”

“Oh, just shut up,” she said and focused outside the window as if to ignore looking at him.

He let her steam for a long time. When he spoke again, it was in a low and serious tone. “It’s just not safe for you to be in England anymore,” he said. “You or any of us.”

She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. “I’m going to get a drink,” she said without looking at him. She sounded angry and brittle, even to herself. “I’ll be right back.”

Without another word she opened the door and left the Rover, ignoring him as he called after her. Jonathan leaned back in the driver’s seat and turned his head to watch her cross the street and enter the family-owned teashop that looked like it hadn’t changed since the early ‘90s.

It was too much for her to handle. He could see that. She needed some time to herself, if only a few minutes.

“Maybe when she gets back here, she’ll have thought it through,” he said to the empty air.

But he had serious doubts.

* * *

Takara stood absolutely motionless in the blackest of shadows, less than half a block from the parked car. She couldn’t hear or even lip-read what Samantha and Jonathan were saying, but she didn’t have to. Their gestures, their body language, even while they were seated in the vehicle, told her more than enough. These two didn’t care for each other. And they certainly didn’t trust each other. But they were committed to whatever the plan was.

She touched the lobe of her left ear and triggered the communication device that linked her to her superior. It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation to begin with, and speaking to him was never enjoyable-never safe. Still, it had to be done.

He acknowledged the connection with a single syllable. “I have them in view,” she said without preamble.

And then, in answer to his question: “No. The others are not here. I just arrived. They could be on their way; they could be-”

He interrupted, already bored with her report. She listened to his instructions and nodded though she knew he could not see her.

“I understand. Of course. Yes, I’ll report later.”

She touched her ear again and severed the contact. Time to move.

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

The Tunnel

Simon and Andrew had no idea what to expect when they finally pried open the door into the safe house. But they certainly hadn’t expected to find Hayden lying on the concrete directly in front of them, and half a dozen black-clad commandos creeping toward him from every direction, weapons up and at the ready.

They gaped at the terrifying scene for a full three seconds. Then the first bullets hit the doorway beside them and they moved. Acting in unconscious unison, they leaped forward, shoved their arms under Hayden’s limp body, and dragged him back-five steps, ten-into the tunnel and the darkness. The moment they were past the frame, Simon released Hayden just long enough to jump back and slam the door shut. He double-locked the dead bolts with two desperate slashes.

“My god, this guy is heavy,” Andrew said, panting under the inventor’s bulk. “You’d think a skinny man like this wouldn’t weigh so much.”

“Dead weight,” Simon said between clenched teeth. “So to speak.”

“But you’re sure he’s not?”

“Positive,” Simon said as he put his shoulder under one side of Hayden’s body, and Andrew adjusted to take the other side. They began their uneven stagger down the dark subway tunnel, back the way they had come. Every minute took them a few steps farther from the safe house and closer to their secret exit. “Did you smell the gas in the safe house?” Simon said breathlessly. “I know that stink. Not poison, immobilization gas.”

“So he’s alive-”

“-but paralyzed. Hopefully temporarily.”

“Hopefully?”

Simon shrugged under Hayden’s weight.

“Depends on how big a whiff he got.”

“My god, Simon, do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Don’t know,” Simon replied. “We have to get him to Samantha as quick as we can.”

Hayden could barely feel his body being carried through the tunnel. All he could feel was cold: cold face, cold fingers, cold curve of his eyeballs.

He concentrated as hard as he could on moving his head, but nothing happened. He tried lifting an arm, turning a hand, even crooking a finger. Nothing. His body was as limp and unresponsive as a corpse.

But he could hear-too well, in fact. He was fully aware of every sound around him, and was able to see-in a distant, blurred way-whatever happened to pass near his open, unfocused eyes. He could hear Simon’s voice and Andrew’s. He could see a faint show of bouncing lights as they carried him down the tunnel. Nothing more. Nothing.

Don’t leave me, he prayed. Don’t get tired, don’t give up, don’t think I’m dead. Please. Please.

They picked up the pace, straining to find a light in front of them or detect the sounds of pursuit from the rear. It was harder to haul Hayden’s body than Simon expected, but both of them were in good condition. They could do this, he knew. They had to.

They trudged along in silence for almost five minutes. Finally Andrew couldn’t stand it anymore. “How much farther do you think?” he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice.

“A few more minutes, but I can carry him alone, if you’d like,” Simon insisted.

“No,” Andrew said, “I’m good.”

Simon set his jaw. “Hayden risked his life for me and my father.” He took in another lungful of air and forced his breathing to normalize. “This is my responsibility. None of this would have happened if I had kept my mouth shut.”

Andrew shook his head. “You’re wrong.” He pointed his flashlight ahead of him to see how far they needed to go. It looked like an endless shaft of blackness. “You couldn’t have known. There’s definitely something much bigger going on here.”

Hayden’s weight had started to become overwhelming, but Simon pushed on. Ignore it, he ordered himself. Get him out of here. Hayden’s survival was the only thing on his mind. He pictured Samantha waiting just outside the tunnel; he knew she would snap into ‘doctor mode’ the minute she saw a patient in need. She’d pull out of her silly, passive stupor and help. For the first time, he was almost glad she had forced her way into the team. Her presence just might save Hayden’s life.

“Can’t be much farther,” he said aloud, as much to himself as Andrew. “Can’t be.”

* * *

All Hayden could hear was soggy footsteps and rasping, heavy breathing. All he could see was a swaying, indecipherable slice of light against endless blackness as they stumbled slowly down the abandoned tunnel. It seemed to have been going on for hours. It felt as if it would go on for hours more.

Too easy, he told himself dreamily.

The ops team, they’ll get through that door. They’re not going to let a brain like mine get away without a fight.

Not my big, big brain.

Not long after, he heard the gunshots. But he never did see them.

* * *

Simon’s legs were stiff as logs. He felt as if he’d been hauling Hayden’s inert body down the rocky track bed since the beginning of time. Conversation between the two of them had stopped. They needed every ounce of energy to just keep moving.

The exhaustion made Simon slow. He didn’t notice the green dot on Andrew’s neck until the very last second.

What the hell? He thought. Green…

“Andrew!” he bellowed. “Watch out!” He shoved them all to the side as hard as he could, tripping and falling as he heaved.

The first bullet made a harsh, metallic thwang as it hit a pipe embedded in the subway tunnel wall-approximately the same position Andrew’s head had been, seconds before.

Andrew rolled onto his back, groaning. “What…?” he said.

“Laser-guided sight,” Simon grated, scrambling to his feet. “Saw the dot on your neck.”

Andrew pulled himself up beside him. “Jesus…”

They looked back with sudden clarity and saw the glint of gunmetal and goggles in the near-darkness. They were being followed. They couldn’t tell how many, but they were gaining ground fast, but cautiously.

There was no time for Simon to be cautious.

He reached down and jerked Hayden’s body up with a strength he didn’t know he had. “Run,” he said as he tossed the man’s body over his shoulder, bowing under its weight, but still upright.

“What?” Andrew said, still swaying. “But-”

“RUN!”

They pounded down the tunnel as fast as they could. A second shot thwanged off the concrete wall, and then they were around the last curve and out of sight of their pursuers, if only for a few moments.

“There,” Simon said breathlessly. Hayden felt like a thousand pounds across his back, but he couldn’t stop-not now. “There.”

The open iron grate of the staircase up to the surface was fifty feet away.

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

Range Rover

As Samantha walked toward the convenience store, she realized how refreshing the air was. She had been stuck in the Range Rover for far too long. She needed time to think, to move.

The tea shop was a tidy, little place run by a husband-and-wife team who kept it going despite the speed and efficiencies of the twenty-first century-a proud throwback to the past. Sam took her time browsing through the aisles, breathing and thinking and not saying a word. Ten minutes later she bought a bottle of water, a small packet of biscuits, and a pack of cigarettes. She even lingered over a conversation with the husband and wife, then-feeling a thousand percent better-slipped out of the store and back into the parking lot.

Clouds as dark and heavy as iron had closed in again, covering the sky over Oxford from end to end and side to side. Just what we need, she thought glumly as she stood on the curb and looked at the silent, immobile Range Rover on the far side of the street. More rain. The overcast had reduced what light existed to almost blackness. She knew the look of it; it would be pouring in minutes.

She pulled the cigarettes from her bag and looked at them for a moment. She had quit smoking at the age of twenty-two, and hadn’t felt the urge to start again, not once, until today. What the hell, she told herself. If all of this doesn’t warrant a smoke, nothing does.

The air was suddenly, unexpectedly chilly against her skin as the storm front rolled in. Still, she stood a moment longer on the sidewalk, in no particular hurry to rush back to the car. I wish Ryan would get here, she thought. Then at least I’d have someone else to talk to until Simon and Andrew get back. The thought of quietly, meekly sitting with Jonathan in the car irked her. The whole thing felt as if it was her fault that she was here and concerned about Simon’s safety-about all of them.

Part of her was very angry with Simon. How could he have gotten himself involved in all of this? How could he have kept all of this from her? It was all too unreal, too dangerous…

She absently rubbed the side of her neck as she brooded, passing her palm over and over the rough red spot where the drug-patch had been. She noticed a wall covered in graffiti illuminated by the streetlight, and trash on the far side of the street, beyond the Rover as she started to cross. Then she noticed how unevenly he had parked. She allowed herself a small, bitter smile. Expert driver, she thought as she approached. She squinted at a foggy patch on Jonathan’s side of the car.

Jonathan’s head was resting on the window. Can’t blame him, she thought grudgingly. I wouldn’t mind taking a nap myself. She walked around the back of the vehicle and opened the far passenger door, mentally preparing herself for another unpleasant conversation. Maybe he’ll keep dozing, she hoped. Then I can avoid the entire scene.

She pulled the door open as silently as she could, trying not to look at Jonathan in the front seat. The clouds had blocked most of the light; she was grateful for the dimness inside the car, and as she closed the door with the tiniest click, she made a show of sifting through the contents of the bag, trying to look busy.

Jonathan didn’t speak. His head didn’t move from the window.

Good, she told herself. Let him sleep. She had to admit he must’ve gone through a very difficult flight; the travel had to have been exhausting. She tried not to wake him as she placed the bag next to her on the seat and looked at her watch, wondering what was taking Simon and Andrew so long. The entrance of the tube was in front of them and off to one side; she knew that soon-very soon, she hoped-they would appear, followed by an as-usual unhappy Hayden behind them. At least when they were all here, she thought, they could sort out this bloody mess, and everyone could go home.

She cranked her own seat back with a muted ratcheting sound; she was glad to see that Jonathan still didn’t stir. She relaxed against the cushions herself and thought again about how nice it would be to have a few minutes of rest. She hadn’t stopped moving since she’d bolted awake terrified, hours earlier. And after everything that had happened…

Seconds later, she dozed off.

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

The Hidden Entrance

When Simon and Andrew burst out of the tunnel entrance, the first thing they noticed was how dark it had become. My god, Simon thought, have we been down there all day? Then he registered the low, dark clouds and the chilling breeze of the storm. It’s just the weather, he realized. A storm is about to break.

The street lamps all along the road flickered, weak but illuminating. The orange sodium glare spiked off the Range Rover as Simon hauled Hayden’s body up the last few steps and stumbled onto the pavement. He could barely muster the strength to speak.

Andrew, close behind him, reached for the body still slung unevenly over Simon’s shoulders. “Let me help-”

Simon cut him off. “I’ve got it.” With tremendous difficulty, Simon went down on one knee and carefully, if awkwardly, rolled Hayden’s body onto the median strip of stunted grass next to the curb. Hayden turned boneless to face upward, looking sightlessly at the storm clouds overhead. There was no sign that the scientist was alive at all.

Simon pushed himself to his feet, every inch of his body aching. “I’ll run over and get the car.”

“But-”

He shook his head tightly and ran his fingers through his hair, gathering himself.

“No. Watch him. Make sure…”

Make sure he’s not dead yet, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead he just turned away and started running unevenly toward the Range Rover.

Andrew looked at Hayden’s body on the cold sidewalk next to him. “This is just a bad dream,” he said under his breath. Mere hours ago they’d been talking about embarking on a grand adventure, like some intrepid band of explorers in a Jules Verne novel. And now … now he was exhausted and terrified after carrying an unconscious body along what felt like miles of train track, two hundred feet below the street, while being shot at by…someone. Soldiers, spies, mercenaries, someone. Now he was too tired to even think about the danger that they were really in. All he could do was kneel on the ground next to Hayden and watch Simon approach the car and open the passenger door.

Andrew’s adrenaline was pumping so hard that he felt like the world around him had slowed down. The street was mostly quiet, save for the distant sound of cars approaching or long passed. The only thing that broke the silence was the sound of the opening door on the Range Rover.

Hayden could hear footsteps as well, but he had no idea where the noise was coming from. He was still locked in his body, staring blindly at the blurry image of the lowering clouds and wondering if the coming rain would blind him, since he couldn’t even close his eyes. Not at the moment, he told himself. Maybe not ever again.

The next thing either of them heard clearly was Samantha screaming.

* * *

Moments before, Simon had pulled open the passenger door, thrown himself in, and slammed the door behind him. As the interior lights dimmed, he saw Jonathan beside him, dozing against the glass, and almost laughed. “Let’s go, Jonathan,” he said, noticing how dark it was becoming. Even though it was early evening, it was almost black in the car…though he could clearly see Samantha sitting behind Jonathan, beaming at him, delighted to have him back.

“Thank god,” she said. “I’ve been-”

Simon ignored her for the moment. “Come on, Jonathan,” he said. “Wake up. Let’s get out of here!”

Jonathan still didn’t stir. I understand jet lag, Simon thought, but this is ridiculous. He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and shook him. “Come on, we don’t have time for this, turn the damn car-”

Jonathan’s slumped forward and twisted as he fell. His head turned and skidded down the window glass.

It left a thick streak of blood on the glass as it slid across it.

Samantha was sitting right behind him. She saw the window. Saw the blood streak. And for the first time in the dying light, saw the ruin of flesh and bone at the base of Jonathan Weiss’ neck, where he had been shot at close range.

Her scream was so loud it nearly made Simon deaf.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” she shrieked. She popped open the car door and threw herself out, backing away from the car, screaming and screaming. The interior lights clearly showed what had happened. Jonathan’s shoulders and back were drenched in blood, completely invisible until he had fallen forward.

She had been sitting in a car with a dead man. My god, she thought numbly, I slept in there while he bled to death.

“Christ, what the…?” Andrew muttered under this breath as he watched Samantha back away from the car.

Simon froze for an instant-but only an instant. His training-all those years in mixed martial arts, many of them with Jonathan himself-finally paid off. He felt a cold, implacable control clamp down as he examined the wound, then pulled back, and slipped out of the car.

Andrew stood up when he saw Simon get out, go around the front of the vehicle, and open the driver’s side door. Only now was he aware that something was wrong. He left Hayden’s motionless body and ran to join them.

He was still twenty steps away when he saw Jonathan’s body fall lifelessly out of its seat and slump into Simon’s arms. He stopped short, unable to believe what he was seeing. Not another one, he thought. Just like Hayden.

Simon put his arms around his old friend and knew in that instant he was dead. The flesh was sticky with drying blood, and it was cold, cold, and heavy with death. He stood there trembling, Jonathan’s body half-in, half-out of the car.

Everything was happening so fast. He couldn’t think clearly-not anymore. His home invaded. Samantha attacked. Hayden paralyzed, maybe dead. And now Jonathan. Jonathan. Jonathan, the spy, the hero, the man who couldn’t be stopped, not ever. Jonathan was shot in the head and dead in his-

Andrew grabbed Simon’s sagging shoulders from behind as the shock of it hit Simon like a lightning bolt. His knees buckled and he started to collapse, but Andrew caught him, held him up. After a silent, steadying moment, they straightened together and pulled Jonathan’s lifeless body from the car, then dragged it back three feet, and loaded it into the back seat, into the place where Samantha had been sitting just moments before.

As they pushed the door shut a black helicopter, silent and menacing, flew overhead-high and fast at the moment, following the underground route of the subway, looking for them but not seeing.

Yet, Simon thought numbly. Not seeing yet. They had closed and locked the gateway and the door to the subway entrance before the black-clad soldiers had come round the bend. He didn’t think there was any way they could have known about their escape route; they should’ve continued down the dimly lit tunnel for at least another mile before they realized that Andrew and Simon and their valuable cargo had disappeared. But he couldn’t know that for sure. They could come surging up out of the underground or roaring down the street at any moment.

Samantha stood far from the Rover, hugging her arms and trying to keep her body from shaking. “What’s happening?” she said in a tiny voice. “What the hell is happening?”

Simon tried to rub the shock away with the heels of both hands in his eyes. Focus, he ordered himself. Focus. Shouting he said, “Hayden. We have to get Hayden in the car!” With a fighter’s discipline, he pushed himself into the driver’s seat and put his hand on the ignition key. “Get in, Sam,” he said harshly. “Right now!”

She didn’t move. She just pressed both hands against her mouth and shook her head, crying.

“Get in, I said! We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!”

Andrew put a hand on her bare arm and felt her flinch. “Get in the front,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to look at him.” He led her gently but insistently around the car. He opened the door for her and helped her inside. She was still trembling. Then he got in the back seat himself, next to Jonathan’s dead body.

The car started moving before Andrew was completely in the car. It didn’t matter; Simon only cruised fifty feet forward and stopped next to the motionless body of Hayden, sprawled on the side of the road near the entrance to the underground.

Andrew jumped out of the car as it stopped just short of Hayden’s body. Samantha turned her head to see what he was doing, then looked back, confused, as Simon exited the car as well. Andrew heard her gasp as he struggled to lift Hayden’s body all by himself.

“Oh my god, is he dead too?” she said, her voice going higher and louder at the end. Andrew noticed lights from the surrounding apartments had started to snap on; a few pedestrians were slowing to watch them, distracted by the commotion.

“No!” Simon said sharply. “He’s not! And you have to help him!” Together, the men maneuvered Hayden’s body into the back seat, shoving him unceremoniously to the middle, next to Jonathan’s corpse.

It’s like a bad dream, Simon thought looking at the grisly tableaux in the back seat.

He pushed away his despair and forced himself back to the driver’s seat, doing his best to ignore the blood-soaked backrest as he got inside. Andrew climbed into the back, far too close to Hayden’s body, looking just as repulsed as Simon.

Still trapped in his paralyzed body, Hayden only gradually became aware of the grotesque scene that was transpiring around him. But as he was manipulated into the back seat of the Rover like an unwieldy corpse, he found that his hearing was not the only sense that was unaffected by the gas; his sense of smell worked perfectly well, too. He knew because it was assaulted by the stink of blood that hung around Jonathan’s body like a cloud. A dead man, he thought frantically. I’m sitting next to a dead man! He tried harder than ever to move his body-any part of it, even a tiny amount-but nothing happened.

The instant Andrew was back in the car, Simon stamped on the accelerator and the car sped away from the curb. They were away from the entrance, away from the little shop, and through the intersection in seconds.

Meanwhile, the black helicopter that had passed far overhead was circling back-lower now, looking even more carefully.

“You think they’re giving up?” Andrew said, craning his neck to watch the chopper slide through the air above them. “Or narrowing the search?”

“I have no idea,” Simon answered. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He forced himself to keep his speed under the legal limit, matching the other cars in the increasingly busy highway. They can’t know who we are, trying to convince himself. We’re just another vehicle on a crowded road in a crowded town. Just keep it slow. Concealed in the chaos of traffic.

* * *

Takara studied her little satellite display. She watched the hysteria from over four hundred yards in a small cavity between two buildings, hidden by the shadows. She had fulfilled her promise to Jonathan. She knew she would find him. Now he was one of her victims. She felt no remorse as she slipped through the shadows and disappeared into the night.

* * *

He drove for ten minutes with no real destination in mind; there was a dead man and a paralytic in the back seat, and his other companions were silent and in shock. Finally, he activated the safe phone. He punched the icon Andrew had programmed into the phone as he focused his eyes on the road.

Ryan answered almost immediately. “Sorry, Simon, there’s just so much to do. I had to reschedule my classes, and all of the family business, and Sabrina-”

“So you haven’t left yet?”

“No, but I’m half out the door, I swear-”

“No. Just stay there.”

“What? Why?” He sounded absolutely bewildered.

Simon didn’t have the time or the energy to explain. “Just stay. We’ll come pick you up.”

“But-”

“Stay,” he said, tired of playing the game. He disconnected before Ryan could ask any more questions.

At least now, he thought, they had a destination.

At that moment, he had no idea he was signing someone’s death warrant.

OXFORD, ENGLAND

Ryan's Estate

Hayden could barely open his eyes, but he knew the worst was over. He could feel a gradual warming sensation; his muscle control was slowly coming back. At first, the interior of the car was a haze of dark colors and blurred textures, but it was making more sense, one small bit at a time. He struggled to gently open his mouth. Speak, he ordered himself. Speak, you idiot.

The massive iron gate outside Ryan’s estate opened as the Land Rover approached. Simon had been talking-almost shouting-at Ryan over the safe phones for the last ten minutes. They were expected…or at least he hoped so.

The rain poured down in an unending torrent, but Ryan and Sabrina were standing on the covered porch, waiting for them-and arguing. It was clear even at a distance that things were not going well for either of them. Sabrina had her arms tightly crossed; there was a small case sitting at Ryan’s feet-all that he would need for the trip in one small bag.

“Let me deal with this,” Simon told the others and reluctantly stepped out of the Rover as it rolled to a stop.

“Quickly, please,” Andrew said. “We gotta get outta here.”

Simon walked the thirty feet from vehicle to porch, hunched over in the rain, hating to be there. He heard Sabrina speak as he approached.

“You’re going,” she said.

Ryan nodded. “I have to.”

And you can’t even tell her why, Simon realized, ashamed to be watching the exchange at all. The more you tell her, the more danger she will be in-and you know that.

“I don’t want you to,” she said simply. Her eyes were huge and brimming with tears.

“I don’t want it either,” he said, “but I don’t have a choice.”

“They can’t make you,” she said, casting a hateful glance at Simon, past Ryan’s shoulder, cursing the others with a single look. “They can’t force you to do what you don’t want to-”

He put up his hand, palm out, pushing to make her stop. “Sabrina,” he said. “Don’t. Please. I have to do this, and I can’t explain why. You’re just going to have to trust me a bit.”

Her pretty, carefully made mouth fell open at that. “A bit?” she paused. “Trust you a bit?”

She shook her head as she stared at him. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”

She turned away and opened the door to the estate without another word. Simon saw her shaking her head-no, no, I can’t-as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

Back in the car, there was a sudden, unexpected shifting in the back seat.

“Hey,” Hayden grunted from the back seat, sounding slurred but determined. “You got anything to drink in this crate?”

Samantha turned suddenly in her seat, hysterically relieved to hear him. “Hayden!” she said, holding back tears. “I’m so glad you’re okay!” She reached back and gently placed her hand on his knee.

He was moving very slowly, struggling to keep his eyes open, muscles twitching as he slowly regained control, grunting with the effort to move his body. Samantha opened the door and called out to Simon.

“Simon, it’s Hayden!”

Ryan gaped in surprise when Simon suddenly turned away and sprinted back toward the car. He watched in astonishment as his friend opened the back door and shouted with delight.

“Hayden! God, I’m so glad you’re okay!”

Hayden managed to give him a sketchy version of his usual scowl, “So am I,” he growled.

Then Simon looked past him and saw Jonathan’s body slumped in the seat, covered in blood. “We’ve got to do something about this.”

Hayden didn’t have to turn around to know what Simon was talking about-not that he could have managed the task quite yet anyway.

Simon turned abruptly and went back to the porch. The others watched as the two men had a short, clipped conversation-a quick, almost businesslike back-and-forth. Finally Ryan nodded, and the two of them ducked into the rain and approached the car.

“We’re ready,” Simon said swiftly as they reached the Rover. “Let’s go.”

* * *

We need to move, Simon told himself as they cruised out of the iron gates and bounced back onto the road. We need to get out of here. He could feel the black-clad mercenaries out there, looking for them. There wasn’t time for this.

“What now?” Ryan said, clearly appalled by the smell in the vehicle. He felt detached, somehow numb. He had never even touched a dead body before that day, and now he was staring at Jonathan. He shuddered and wondered if he could ever get the smell of it off his hands.

“You know the area,” Andrew said from the driver’s seat. “Hell, you own the area. Tell me where we can find a body of water-preferably slightly polluted or worse. We need to get rid of the body.”

Ryan stared at him. “Are you fucking serious?”

Andrew glared at him. “Does this seem like a good time to be joking?”

Ryan swallowed. “No.” He thought about it for a moment and then said, “Turn left at the next street you see. There is a small reservoir-really a pond that most people ‘round here use as a dumping ground. That may work.”

“Deserted, I hope,” Andrew said. “Wooded or invisible from the street would be nice, too.”

“As it happens, yes it is.”

“Good.”

Everyone was silent for a moment while the stormy afternoon grew even darker. Andrew had to turn on the headlights to see the road signs ahead.

“You may need to pull a few strings,” Simon said as they plunged through the storm. “You’ve got connections everywhere. You can see it already Ryan, we are going to need to get out of here-out of London and to Dad’s estate in Corsica, at least for a day. And it’s going to have to happen fast.”

Simon had already told him the plan and the unorthodox route he had worked out. They had spoken about alternate ways to travel, and Ryan had charted a route that would take them from the Island of Corsica to Chile and beyond to the southern continent undetected. The route had to be unorthodox. It had to be an atypical system of back roads and unregistered flights that would get them there. At least that’s what Simon and the others hoped.

“Well,” Ryan said finally. “It’s not as if any of us have a lot of choice, now, is it?”

Simon turned his head toward him. “No,” he confessed. “Not much.”

“Look at the bright side,” Hayden said sarcastically, keeping his eyes ahead, listening to the directions from Ryan. “At least it’s a beautiful island, even if it is for one day.”

Ryan absent-mindedly said, “Turn right. Half a mile, then take the dirt road.” He was running his hands through his hair as he said it, pulling at it, looking entirely distracted. “I just can’t believe it,” he said. “Riding around the countryside with a dead body in the back seat. Jonathan Weiss’ dead body. Someone just walked right up to the car and killed him. Killed-”

“Wait a minute,” Andrew said. A thought struck him so suddenly he almost hit the brakes. “Wait a second…”

He thought furiously as he drove the last half-mile. “How did they know where he was?”

“What?” Ryan didn’t understand.

“He was killed in this car. My car. Not his. If they were tracking him through his car, they would have lost him at the crash.”

Ryan just stared. “But they didn’t. They knew enough to either follow him or find him again…”

“…and waited until he was alone before they killed him.”

He took the last curve of the dirt road just a little too quickly, and Ryan was bashed painfully against the passenger door. “Hey!” he said.

“Sorry.”

They had arrived. As promised, it was a small, deep pond surrounded by a copse of threadbare trees. The shore was strewn with a random collection of blown-out tires and broken appliances. The water itself was so dark it was almost black; its surface, pockmarked by raindrops, wobbled with a faint, oily rainbow.

Simon, Andrew, and Ryan climbed out of the vehicle without a word. The downpour had relented, at least for the moment, to a thin but penetrating drizzle.

They dragged Jonathan’s body from the Rover and laid it on the ground, facedown, treating it with an unspoken respect. It was the last time, Simon knew, that this body would be afforded any dignity at all. He deserved so much more.

“I hate to say this,” Andrew said, “but we need to undress him.”

“Ah, shit, Andrew.”

“I know.” Grim but efficient, he squatted by the body and peeled the bloody, filthy clothes away with as much delicacy and speed as he could manage. As soon as he was done, he pulled a flat device from his wallet. It was no larger than a playing card and the color of mother-of-pearl; it vibrated very slightly in his hand. He passed it close to the body, scanning every inch from close in, barely an inch from the skin, checking the number that skittered along the device’s silvery surface.

It took Andrew almost fifteen minutes to find what he was looking for. Ryan and Simon remained silent the entire time.

“My god,” he said when he finally located it. “Somebody out there is a bloody genius.”

Simon felt as if he had been holding his breath the entire time. Now he let it loose and said, “What?”

Andrew took his Swiss Army knife from his pocket, flipped open the blade, and said, “Look away.”

Ryan was happy to. Simon did not. He only moved a bit to one side to block the view from the Rover completely.

There was no reason for anyone else to see this.

Sixty seconds later, Andrew straightened up and sighed with relief. “Will you look at that?” he said. Ryan turned back, and Andrew showed him a flat, flexible piece of metalized plastic about the size and shape of a dime, but much thinner. It was sticky with Jonathan’s coagulated blood.

“What the hell is that?” Ryan said, completely unable to keep the revulsion out of his voice.

“A locational tracker. No microphone, no GPS, just a tiny little ULF pulse generator.”

“‘ULF?’”

“Ultra Low Frequency Radio. Three hundred hertz to three kilohertz. Really low. Sends out such a tiny little informationless pulse that standard scanners would only detect if they were looking for it.” He shook his head and chuckled. “What a joke. I block their surveillance by going under it with my scramblers, and they go under me with this little bitch.”

“This is how they tracked Jonathan-and us,” Simon added, understanding it completely for the first time.

“Exactly,” Ryan said. “When he fell off the grid, when the CCTV cameras couldn’t see him, when even thread interrogation didn’t work, they started looking for this thing’s little ping, ping, ping. And they found it.” He crushed it in his palm, and for one instant, Andrew looked so filled with hate his eyes were nearly on fire. “They found him.”

Ryan just stared at it. “Why didn’t Jonathan know he was carrying it? He must have changed clothes, searched his-you know, himself.”

Andrew nodded. “They put it in a perfect place. Right here.” He cocked an elbow and pointed over his shoulder to the small of his own back. “The one spot on your body you can’t see or touch. Just under the skin, flat and flexible. Probably couldn’t feel it anyway. And powered with a micro battery, trickle-charged by Jonathan’s own bioelectricity.” He gazed at the device again, almost admiring. “It could have been there for months. Years. Since he started working for UNED.”

Simon started. “Battery? You mean it’s still working?”

Andrew shrugged. “Might be. Or it might have quit when he died.”

God, he thought, what a mess. Aloud, he said only, “Get rid of it. “

Andrew put the device in his pocket and then bent over the body one last time. Together, the three men carefully dragged Jonathan’s corpse to the edge of the water and rolled him in until it was entirely, if only slightly, submerged. Then they weighed the body down with a few large stones and a concrete block, gathered from the trash-strewn shoreline.

The wind and rain were beginning to pick up again as the last of the light drained away. Ryan had never felt so miserable.

“Won’t stay hidden forever,” Andrew said shortly. “But long enough. And the crap in the water, along with fish and vermin, should destroy any forensic evidence.”

Ryan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood there for a moment.

They were dumping a person’s body. Dumping it, as if they were the cold-blooded murderers. Ryan was speechless, rendered mute by all he had just seen.

Andrew was the first to turn away. Ryan followed him almost gratefully. Simon stood alone over the body for a moment longer, saying nothing, revealing nothing.

Finally, he turned away and trudged back to the Rover.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

They drove away from the polluted pond. No one spoke for a long time.

* * *

They drove to a working tube station.

“I can’t bloody believe this is happening,” Ryan muttered as Andrew pulled to a stop.

“It isn’t,” Samantha said dully. It was the first thing she had said in more than an hour. “None of it is.”

Andrew popped the door so suddenly it sounded like a gunshot. “I’ll be right back.”

He hopped out of the car, carrying the small silver device in his right hand. Without looking back he crossed four lanes of traffic, dodging expertly between the oncoming cars. When he reached the far curb, he turned on a dime, scanned the vehicles, and raised an arm.

“Taxi!” he said. “Taxi, here!”

One of the semi-automated electrics that scoured the city pulled up almost immediately. The cabby was an older man-semi-retired, Andrew guessed-with chubby cheeks and a bright red drinker’s nose.

The back door opened automatically, and Andrew jumped in.

“Where to?” the cabby said, already abysmally bored. The car would do all the work: plot the course to the destination, avoid traffic problems, and calculate the fare. His presence was more a matter of union politics and public jobs programs than necessity.

“Heathrow Airport!” Andrew crowed with absurd enthusiasm.

The door started to close as the cabby punched the destination into his console…and Andrew stuck his foot half-out of the cab, so it couldn’t close.

“Oh!” he said in the same giddy tone. “Silly me! Forgot my luggage, forgot my wallet, and forgot I’m not leaving ‘til tomorrow. Never mind!”

He hopped back out of the cab and walked briskly away, leaving the old cab driver gaping at him.

“Bloody drunkards,” the driver said and veered back into traffic, returning to the never-ending quest for passengers while carrying the ULF locational tracker with him, wedged between the cushions of the cab’s back seat.

“Take that, you bastards,” Andrew said between clenched teeth. “The Invisible Man strikes again!”

Three minutes later, he was back behind the wheel, guiding the Rover and the rest of the team toward their destination. He almost managed a smile when the familiar black helicopter, still flying far too low to the ground, passed overhead, going in entirely the wrong direction.

* * *

They stopped at a nearly deserted pub, miles from the estate and the pond. As they ate, Andrew took each of them to the restroom-even Samantha-and used his handheld scanner to check for implants. At the same time, Ryan began to make phone calls-half a dozen of them, all very quiet, all very intense. As the rest of them lingered over bad coffee and lukewarm tea, he excused himself from the table, drove off in the Rover, and returned in less than fifteen minutes.

Ryan and Andrew both returned to the table almost at the same moment, from different directions. Andrew broke the silence with a ghostly imitation of his old chirpiness. “Finished!” he reported. “I think we’re clean.”

“Good,” Simon said, feeling a bit better about the entire journey.

Ryan cleared his throat politely, all business. “I have something for you all.” He began to pass out packets to each of them, dealing them across the filthy table as if they were oversized playing cards. “Made the calls, cashed in a few favors, greased a few palms, and hacked a few databases.”

The packets contained old-fashioned paper airline tickets and shiny new passports for each of them: Hayden, Andrew, Simon, and Samantha. He shoved his own into the pocket of his sports coat. “Different airlines, different times-for most of us-and names you won’t recognize and will never see again. These are temporary identities. They’ll last for seventy-two hours or so and then poof, dissolve into thin air.”

Andrew smiled-his first genuine grin since he could remember. “Very nice,” he said, examining the documents closely.

Ryan laughed. “I’m flattered. And I am now officially out of the forgery business.”

He turned to Simon with a very serious expression. “I think you should go with Sam. I set you up as brother and sister, traveling together. I hope that’s okay.”

Simon glanced briefly at Sam. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “A good idea.” He was frankly unsure if she could have made it out of the country on her own-not in her current state. She didn’t look back at him. She didn’t even bother to push the hair out of her eyes.

“Okay, then,” Simon told them all, “I think we’re set. Andrew, why don’t you drive us all to the nearest hotel. We can catch individual cabs or busses or shuttle from there-split up and fade away. You can just leave the car in extended parking. It’ll be weeks before they notice something odd.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Andrew said.

Simon looked up at the rest of them. He knew that they would all meet again in Corsica. He had to go. He had to find out more about his father’s travels. Oliver’s private hideaway nestled in the remote mountains of Corsica would give them the perfect place to be undetected while he searched for more clues.

“And so it begins,” Hayden said grimly and looked at the door.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Andrew added.

Simon’s eyes moved from face to face, as if he was memorizing each of them. As if this was the last time they would be together.

“Thank you again,” he said. “I’ll see you in Corsica.”

NORTH OXFORD

Ryan's Estate

Sabrina stood on the porch and waited for the rain to stop. She stared at her car, glistening in the downpour.

She wanted Ryan to come back. She wanted to confront him one last time. She wanted to know, to understand, why he was doing this-why he was disappearing with his friends without so much as a word of explanation.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t like Ryan at all.

And she knew deep down, there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop him.

But it was too late now. He was gone, disappeared into the night and the storm. He wasn’t even answering his mobile. He wasn’t-

— a hand snaked around from behind her and slapped something on the side of her neck.

Sabrina tried to scream, but the hand darted forward and clamped over her mouth, blocking her voice completely. She tried to struggle, but her attacker’s other arm slipped around her waist and lifted her off the ground before she could jump or kick.

She felt her body break as she was slammed against the side of the building. For one instant, she saw the face of her attacker quite clearly. She was beautiful. Very tall, very thin, wearing a camelhair coat, and absolutely without expression. So perfect she didn’t seem human at all…

“Why?” Sabrina whispered, choking on her own blood.

Her attacker did not answer.

The light was starting to drain away. The lamps were liquefying, the windows growing dim. Even the sound of the rain was moving farther away…and farther still.

The sound of the rain was the last thing Sabrina ever heard.

PART TWO:

THE MISSION

THE ISLAND OF CORSICA

Oliver's Estate

The frigid dusk breeze was sharp enough to sting as Simon drove a little too fast down the dark and secluded road to his father’s old hideaway. Three days had passed since the team had separated in London; since then, he and Samantha had made their slow and circuitous way across Europe, acting exactly like brother and sister on an extended holiday, even though they felt the weight of the world on their shoulders.

The farther they got from Oxford and its madness, the more Samantha acted like her old, tough, smart self. She had avoided talking about the future entirely; there were moments along the way, Simon thought, when she actually seemed to forget why they were traveling and where they were going.

But now they had arrived, and the darkness had returned. She had been very quiet ever since their small charter plane had landed on one of Corsica’s World War II-vintage airstrips.

Simon made a sharp turn as the road took another twist to the south, then an almost immediate twist to the north, winding between yet another set of steep, rocky peaks. The island seemed to be made of nothing but small mountains with the occasional pocket valley just large enough for a single cottage and a pasture.

Simon almost smiled as the SUV pushed on and the mountains unfolded around them. He vaguely remembered this approach to his father’s property. He knew they would be reaching the nearly hidden gate any moment now. Assuming I don’t miss it entirely, he told himself.

Simon hadn’t spoken to any of the team since Oxford. He didn’t dare-and didn’t need to. They each had their own route, their own set of tasks, and they all had the same destination on the same date: the cottage on Corsica, no later than sunset on May 22. It wasn’t written down anywhere; it didn’t need to be. They each knew it by heart.

Still, Simon couldn’t help but wonder if they were all still alive.

He gazed idly at the winding road, the ragged hillsides, the tiny, tidy cottages. Nothing’s changed, he thought as they sailed along the roughly paved road. He hadn’t driven to this cottage in twelve years, but the roads were etched in his mind as if he had driven through them yesterday.

And then there it was: the Gate, an overgrown alcove of trees at the side of the road that blocked the main entrance to the property. Anyone who was unfamiliar with the entrance would easily miss it in the deep blue shadows of the thick foliage; the fact that it was dusk made it even harder to decipher.

The cottage had always been a mystery to Simon. Ever since his childhood, conversations about the hideaway were discouraged. Oliver never liked to discuss it, and Simon himself had only been there twice-once as a child, and once when he was in college. The college trip had been terribly important, but for some reason his childhood memories were far more vivid. Like a dream, he thought. One of the few really good ones I had as a boy.

He looked into the rear-view mirror and saw that Samantha was sleeping soundly. Good, he thought. She needs it. He saw her stir and mumble something he couldn’t quite hear. He hoped it was a good dream. He could use a few of those himself, he thought.

As he drove up the rough dirt road, he realized that he needed to focus on why he had come. He reviewed the next stage of the plan one more time. It wasn’t going to be easy; the cottage’s remote location made it safe and secure, but it made the communication links that were crucial to the plan very difficult-almost impossible.

One night, he thought. If they were right about the location of the S.S. Munro and its precious cargo, they would have a single window of less than one hour, on this very night and no other, to make contact. Ryan had told them that he could scramble the satellites in their specific location for one hour before it raised suspicion. If they succeeded, they would all leave together-and stay together from now on, until the end. There was a chartered yacht moored in a small lagoon near town. It would wait until one hour past high tide for them to board and no longer. Or at least that was what Ryan was supposed to have arranged, he told himself.

“Timing,” he said aloud, but very softly. “It’s all about timing.”

As he passed through the final copse of trees, so dense it was black as coal, the rich smell of the pine in the cold mountain air brought a sacred memory back to him: three days with Oliver, here on Corsica, when he was no more than seven years old. He remembered everything they had done together that long summer weekend-making breakfast, fixing the porch steps, hunting for foxes with a shared compound bow in this same slice of wood he was passing right now. They were together every moment until the late evening of every day, when his father had disappeared into his upstairs study and closed the door behind him, locking it and leaving Simon alone.

The study, he thought. I need to get inside the study. There were secrets in there, he knew, enormous secrets his father had kept locked away for a generation.

He pictured the door to the study as if he had seen it yesterday. He was convinced-almost certain-that the key to Oliver’s predicament waited for him inside.

Ask Leon, the coded message had said. He knows. It was more than a decade since Simon had seen the groundskeeper. The dour old Corsican native had terrified him when he was a boy and made him bloody uncomfortable when he’d visited as a young man. Now, somehow, he was at the center of this mystery.

And Simon needed his help.

He remembered how scared he was when he’d first met Leon as a child. He was an unusual person to Simon-he would have been to any child-and Simon had been terrified by his stark, cold demeanor.

The groundskeeper never talked much. He was a tall, slender fellow with hair as black as obsidian and hands the size of shovels. He had dedicated his entire life to caring for the estate-and it really was an estate, Simon admitted to himself, not just some modest cottage in the Corsican hills. He and Leon had never been friends; they wouldn’t be friends now, he knew. But he needed to talk to the man, and he needed his help, if only for the next few hours.

Simon had sent him a message from Oxford and had received a one-word response: COME. They hadn’t exchanged another word since.

He maneuvered around the trees, then tapped his brakes, and slowed the car as they approached the massive iron gates that had been hidden from sight. They blocked the entrance to a winding road that led even further up the mountain. As the vehicle crawled forward, the gates started to open slowly. So he did get the message, Simon thought. Otherwise, he knew, that huge threshold would have remained silent and immobile. He’s expecting us.

The road beyond was narrow and covered deeply in gravel that was so coarse it was almost like cobblestone. The popping crunch of the tires pushing down onto the small stones unnerved him all the more; it was an all-too-familiar sound he hadn’t heard in years. Outside, the mountain was strangely quiet, almost expectant, as they slowly drove up toward the cottage.

Simon didn’t know why he felt so awkward as he drove the last quarter-mile to Oliver’s cottage. It was as if he was about to meet his elementary school principal again-a feeling of tacit anticipation he couldn’t shake off, even as an adult. Was it the caretaker himself who gave Simon this awkward, nervous feeling, or was it the prospect of all that had to happen once he’d arrived?

No, he told himself. It’s Leon. I’m ready for the task, the trip. But Leon is another story.

He was ominous, pure and simple. Sometimes it felt as if he knew more about Oliver than Simon and his mother ever did. As he navigated the last bend and the cottage itself veered into view, he recalled the phone call he had made to tell the caretaker about Oliver’s death, just weeks earlier. “All right, then,” Leon had said in response, and that was all. As if he had been expecting it for a long time. As if he expected Simon to say something more. But it was just, “All right, then.” They had disconnected with scarcely another word.

It was the last time Simon had communicated with the groundskeeper, save for the message that he had sent from Ryan’s estate.

Simon killed the engine and sat there, listening to the car ticking and popping in the high-altitude chill. He hadn’t realized how fast dusk could claim the day on this tiny, ancient Mediterranean isle. It was dark enough to require headlights, just to see the shadows of the overgrown trees at the edge of the clearing.

He turned and put a hand on Samantha’s hip. “Sam,” he said gently. “We’re here.”

She startled out of her sleep, surprised and frightened, if only for a moment. It was how she had awakened every time since their escape from England. Simon hated seeing the fear in her eyes; he was grateful that it faded so quickly these days. He was grateful it faded at all.

She looked around, through the windows on all sides, and a faint smile crept across her face. “Look at that,” she said. “It hasn’t changed a bit.” The smile was sweet and painful at once. She hasn’t forgotten, Simon thought. And neither have I.

“HEY!”

Something banged against the side of the car. Simon shouted involuntarily and spun around to confront a thin white face hovering outside the glass.

It was Andrew.

“HEY!” he said again, his voice muffled by the glass. “Welcome to bloody Corsica, you git! You’re late!”

Simon forced himself to take a deep breath, then opened the car door. “We are not,” he said. “We’re absolutely on time.”

He climbed out to see Ryan stepping carefully, down the wooden steps (the same ones Simon and his father had repaired, decades before); Hayden was behind him, leaning against the cottage itself, his arms were crossed and he was scowling as usual.

“Welcome,” Ryan said. “As you can see: you’re the last to arrive.”

“And about bloody time,” Hayden grumbled. “We thought maybe you two had lost your way.”

“You know,” Andrew said as he pulled Sam’s luggage from the vehicle’s boot, “you said this was your dad’s cottage. You never mentioned it was more like a castle.” The structure rose behind him like a Mediterranean fortress. Most of the lights in the building were off; only the window of the main room and the entrance itself glowed with a faint light.

Simon felt Oliver’s presence even though he knew he was far, far away. He looked up at the two-story building, and immediately picked out the narrow window that opened into his father’s study, centered above the entry. The curtains were drawn-as usual-and the room was pitch-black.

As always, he told himself. Just as he remembered it.

“Well?” Andrew asked, moving impatiently. “How do we get in?”

Simon started to answer-

— when he spotted Leon’s formidable silhouette standing at the end of the drive, waiting for them like an apparition.

Leon hadn’t changed since Simon had last seen him, almost ten years earlier. His hair had grayed slightly, but the life he lived in these mountains seemed to have preserved him. His weathered skin and strong features were a testament to his hard, steady, relentless way of life.

Simon approached him slowly, painfully aware of the crunch of the gravel pathway under his feet. He paused several feet away.

“Leon, thank-”

Leon’s hand went up and stopped him, as if to say “no thanks necessary.” His voice, carrying a hint of a French accent, rumbled from deep in his chest. “This way,” he said, and gestured toward the entrance.

The chill in the air was sharper than ever as they approached the ghostly cottage. “How long have you been here?” Simon asked Andrew as they followed the groundskeeper across the drive.

“About half an hour,” he said. “We haven’t gotten any farther than the front door. He wouldn’t hear of it, until you arrived.”

Simon nodded. For some reason, he felt Oliver’s presence here at the cottage far more profoundly than he had ever felt it in London, perhaps because this hideaway had always been his father’s place and no one else’s. Oliver had always felt more at home here than in London.

“I’m surprised Oliver never told me about this place,” Hayden mumbled, gently grazing an olive branch on his way in.

“Please,” said Leon as he stood next to the door, gesturing for everyone to step in.

The temperature inside the cottage didn’t seem too different than outside, but at least the rising wind was cut off as Leon slammed the door behind him, making Samantha stare like a wounded deer.

She couldn’t keep her eyes off Leon. She seemed both fascinated and terrified by him, just as she had been years earlier.

The foyer was almost bare; only three cabinets and hanging art served as showcases for relics from Oliver’s travels. The large staircase at the far end led directly upstairs to Oliver’s bedroom and his private study. Downstairs, the foyer opened into a wide, low-ceilinged sitting room-the great room, Simon suddenly remembered. That’s what his father and Leon had always called it. The floor was covered with Armenian rugs from Oliver’s travels to the Middle East; the river stone fireplace at the far end was already stoked and alight with a huge, crackling fire casting a warm glow through the room.

It was amazing to Simon how Leon had managed to keep the cottage exactly as he remembered it. After everyone had entered, Leon stumped across the great room and carefully added two more branches to the fire. It crackled, almost appreciatively.

Ryan grabbed a bottle of wine from the huge central table. It was already opened and sitting next to a half-filled glass. He turned it quizzically, squinting as he searched for the label.

“Don’t bother,” Samantha said with a hint of her old charm. “It’s local.”

There were a few pieces of cheese on a plate next to it. Apparently this had been Leon’s dinner prior to their arrival.

Samantha began to tour the walls in a long, slow circuit like a child in a museum. Hayden scanned the collection of old, often-moldering books scattered around the room. Simon, on the other hand, watched Leon, preparing himself for the conversation he had been anticipating for over a week.

Leon barely glanced at him as he left the room, apparently to retrieve something. Simon, startled, mumbled, “Excuse me for a moment,” and followed him down the hall, toward the stairway that led down into the basement kitchen.

“Leon!”

There was no response. He followed him down the steps and entered a remarkably well-appointed and excruciatingly clean kitchen, about as large as a master bedroom.

“Leon.”

The caretaker stopped by a glassed-in cabinet and turned to face him. He said nothing. His expression was guarded, carefully neutral.

“I never had a chance to explain everything to you,” Simon told him.

Leon nodded, just once, then turned to pull wine glasses out of the cupboard one by one. “Not necessary,” he said. “I understand.”

“You know we’re going to leave here in the morning?”

“I know.”

He turned back, glasses for all of them somehow held in his two massive hands. He looked directly at Simon, into Simon, for the first time.

Then he turned and started to climb the stairs.

Simon stopped him. “Leon, I need to access Dad’s study.” He braced himself for the response.

Leon’s head turned instantaneously, snapping back to Simon. “No one enters his study,” he said.

Simon squared his shoulders, as if he had to prove to the gruff caretaker that he was no longer the eight-year-old child he had terrified twenty years ago. “I’m not ‘anyone,’ Leon. I am Oliver’s son, and I need access to the study.”

The caretaker merely stared at him without speaking.

Simon cleared his throat, feeling as if he had somehow lost command of the conversation.

“And…there is much more that I need to share with you.”

Leon’s gaze did not waver. He simply stared without speaking a word, and in that moment Simon knew that the only way to enter his father’s study would be without Leon’s knowledge.

The caretaker turned away and left the kitchen, climbing the creaking stairs toward the great room.

It’s going to be a long night, Simon told himself.

* * *

Hayden was the first to approach Simon as he re-entered.

“We don’t have much time,” he said, looking more annoyed than usual.

“I know,” Simon replied. “Why don’t you guys start the process and let me take care of Dad’s study. I still-”

He stopped himself as Leon entered the room with the glasses on a tray and an additional bottle of local, unlabeled wine. He set it on the broad dining table and began to pour without asking or inviting.

Andrew looked at Ryan and shrugged. “Guess we better get the stuff out of the truck,” he said. Both of them slipped out the front door and moved to the battered panel truck parked around the side of the house-the vehicle they had somehow procured shortly after their arrival on the island.

Hayden was the first to the wine. He snatched up a glass with such enthusiasm he almost spilled it. “So, Leon,” he said with false joviality as he brought the glass up. “Where can we set up our equipment?”

Leon stopped short and lifted an eyebrow-a look of unbridled astonishment in his world, Simon knew. His eyes-only his eyes-glanced at the wide, long table that dominated the great room. “Here would be fine,” he said carefully. “I suppose.”

“Excellent!” Hayden said, clapping the caretaker on his narrow shoulder as if he was an old friend. Simon winced inwardly at the obviously unwanted contact, but Leon didn’t flinch-he didn’t even move. Hayden may as well have slapped a stone statue.

Once again, Simon began to prepare himself for the conversation he needed to have with his father’s retainer. He needed to know if there was anything that would give him a better lead on Oliver’s whereabouts, perhaps a document or a map of a specific rendezvous point in Antarctica that his father had left in Leon’s care before he had departed. Leon knows, the coded message had said. Leon knows. And now Simon needed to know as well.

Simon walked to the window to see what Andrew and Ryan were unloading, but the night had come on fast and little was visible in the feeble window-light of the estate. He noticed how hard the wind was blowing through the mountains; the ancient trees were twisting and writhing like dancers in pain, casting black shadows in the ice-blue moonlight.

Why was Leon being so difficult, he asked himself. As far as the caretaker knew, Oliver was dead, and Simon was his only heir. He should be more than willing to cooperate. Of course, the cottage and the grounds weren’t precisely or completely Oliver’s to begin with. Technically, he supposed, they belonged to Simon’s uncle, Peter.

Uncle Peter, Simon repeated to himself. He hadn’t thought of that mysterious family member in years.

Throughout his childhood, Oliver’s brother-in-law Peter was always somewhere else, always away on business or on an extended journey to far-off places. He was the one with the summer house in the Mediterranean; he was the one who gave Oliver and his family free use of it whenever they liked, without so much as a request or a word of permission. “Treat it as your own,” he had told Oliver-or at least, that was what Oliver had told Simon. The odd fact was that Simon had never actually met this uncle. Oliver rarely spoke of him at all, and when Simon brought up the subject of Peter-as he had on many occasions-the answers were always very short, and the subject was changed very quickly. By the time Simon was old enough to question Peter’s whereabouts, Simon’s mother passed away, and his only real source of information about his uncle had passed with her.

The shafts of light cutting through the leaves of the treetops cast an eerie glow on the mountaintop; their silvery dance was almost hypnotic. In the distance, Simon heard Ryan and Andrew struggling to carry their equipment from the truck to the house. He turned at the sound of their grunting and cursing, and saw Hayden clearing a large portion of the dining table, readying the space. This is going to be more elaborate than I thought, he thought as they staggered in, weighed down by huge armfuls of heavy equipment.

As they went back for a second and even a third trip, Andrew and Ryan told him breathlessly about their adventures in southern France and the boot of Italy, where they quietly acquired bits and pieces of the technology they knew they were going to need. “It’s amazing what you can still get for cold, hard cash,” Andrew said, “and it helps when you’re knobbing about with someone who has a great deal of it.” Most of the tech was ten years old-some of it far older-but it was in working order and would do the job.

Ryan agreed. “I just had to become accustomed to the concept of keyboards again,” confessing as he rested from his labors. “I’ve really rather adjusted to voice commands and holo-displays.”

Hayden was uninterested in the travelogue. “Time,” he said impatiently. “Time. Can’t a one of you read a damn chronometer?”

Samantha watched the entire affair from a huge armchair in the far corner of the great room, near the still-roaring fireplace. Simon glanced at her frequently, trying to gauge her state of mind, but she was nearly expressionless and quiet as a sphinx.

They set up a large flat screen at one end of the table and angled it so everyone could see. One small hollow base, no bigger than a dinner tray, was put at the other end, and the familiar black box of the display blossomed above it; another unit, cobbled together from half a dozen modules, had a physical keyboard and a flat monitor of its own-tech that looked more like something from the previous century. It was set off to one side as Andrew drew up a hard-backed chair in front of it.

“This is mad,” he said as he cabled and linked the last of the modules together. “Utterly mad.”

“Not as mad as this,” Ryan grumbled from the far end of the room, where he was trying to mount the curved dome of an ancient satellite disk on its pedestal.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Hayden said as his last shred of patience disappeared. “What the hell is the matter with you?” He joined Ryan with a grumbled curse; five minutes later they had the unit assembled, squatting on the landing and pointing expectantly upward at the starry sky over the estate.

“Will that thing actually work?” Simon asked incredulously.

“All right, so it’s old,” Ryan said defensively. “But the laws of physics haven’t changed this century, you know. Will work just fine.” It sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as the others. “It’ll do the job.”

“Let’s get to it,” Hayden said, casting another look at the clock.

“All right then,” Ryan said, settling in front of the old-fashioned keyboard. “Here goes nothing!”

He hit the ON switch, and the linked modules all sprung to life at once.

“Huh,” Andrew said. “How about that.” He immediately hunched over the tiny holo-display, columns of figures and cones of wave front projections sliding past him in a mute, miniature parade.

Simon stood by the fireplace and watched the whole operation, focusing on Andrew’s every move. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t dare disturb him.

Samantha flinched as the servomotors in the satellite dish made a tense little grinding sound, and the hemisphere rotated, tipped, rotated again-and found its target. An instant later, the flat screen flickered to life, and a monochromatic, grainy image faded in, then faded out, then faded in again and stabilized.

It was the image of a fifty-year-old cargo ship, a large one, seen from a thousand feet or more in the air. The vessel was obviously under power, cutting through a moderately choppy sea at a considerable speed. White foam churned along its prow; a wake peeled off its stern in a long, narrow “V.”

“Behold,” Andrew said, barely glancing up from his display. “The S.S. Munro, cruising near the Southern Sea, under the command of one Dominic Donovan, carrying the Spector I to its unknown test site.”

“Unknown,” Simon muttered, “until now.”

“Right,” Andrew said. “Because now it’s ours.”

Hayden paced behind him nervously, trying to contain himself. “Not yet, it’s not,” Hayden said. “And it won’t be if you don’t move. Are you getting any juice to those modules yet?”

Andrew turned to him, his usual disposition buried in tension. “If we’re going to do this correctly,” he said between clenched teeth, “you’re going to have to give me a few minutes. I need a little time to catch the proper algorithms. You know better than I do that we’ve only got one chance…Professor.”

Hayden shook his head in disgust and turned away to pace the room again.

Simon moved closer to Samantha, who was watching them work with large unblinking eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Is it working?”

“It comes in two steps,” he said very quietly, careful not to disturb them. “First: commandeer one or more satellites to locate the Munro. Find the ship, find its data stream. And Andrew’s already done that.” He nodded at the aerial shot of the ship as it surged through the water. “That image is coming from the STS-192, an environmental survey bird orbiting at twenty-seven thousand feet, now completely under Andrew’s control.”

“Not quite,” Andrew said. “Got the satellite, found the ship, but getting that datastream…still working on that.”

Samantha looked from the screen to Andrew to the screen again. “My god,” she said.

“Step two,” Simon continued, “is the hard part. Now that we have located the ship, Ryan has to decrypt the data it’s sending and receiving, match the algorithms it’s exchanging with the military, and replace it with our own datastream to take control of the ship.”

“Can he do that?”

“Theoretically, yes. He’s the world’s leading expert on this process; it’s called Remote Access Intervention.”

“But I’m not going to be able to do it at all,” Ryan said acidly, without looking up, “if the two of you don’t stop disturbing me.”

“Sorry.” Simon clamped his mouth shut, and Samantha shrank even deeper into the overstuffed chair.

After a moment, Simon put a hand out and touched her on the wrist. “Come on,” he whispered as quietly as he could. “Come help me in the kitchen.”

“All right.” She carefully placed her glass of wine on the side table and followed him toward the basement kitchen.

He didn’t really want to talk-not yet. He simply wanted to draw her away from the mounting tension in the great room and get a sense of how well she was holding up.

She seemed appreciative as they walked downstairs and entered the underground kitchen.

“Do you want to check the freezer for smoked fish?” he asked casually as he walked into the pantry. He already knew what the latter contained; it hadn’t changed a bit since his childhood days. Oliver had always had a deep love affair with French cheeses of every kind; he stocked them in abundance, along with everything else he thought might go well with them: smoked fish, fruits, fresh vegetables, and wine. None of it had appealed to him as a child, but now he was rather relieved to see all of that and more on the meticulously maintained shelves.

Searching through the pantry, he almost smiled at the thought of how age had changed him. Over the years, he had grown to appreciate what his father had loved, and he was pleased to see that Leon had continued to satisfy Oliver’s habits.

Beyond the pantry was a large room built specifically to house an extensive wine collection. It was also packed with shelves of preserves, some of which looked questionable. He randomly grabbed several items from the shelves as he heard Samantha’s voice: “You’ve got your pick.”

“Sounds good,” he said, walking out with several jars and a large block of cheese.

Samantha was peering into the walk-in freezer, looking curious. “What has he got in there?” he asked.

She pulled out a long, thin platter and showed him a beautifully filleted salmon, fresh and pink. Clearly Leon had been busy. “Let’s see what we can do with this,” she said.

As they started to assemble a quick dinner for the team, they heard Ryan’s voice from upstairs. “Synchronizing!” he shouted.

Turning to Samantha with a desperate look, Simon asked, “You’ve got this?”

“Sure. See what’s going on. I’ll take care of it.”

Before he had reached the steps to go upstairs, he heard Andrew’s response to Ryan. “Give me a couple of minutes. I’m almost there.”

Simon re-entered the great hall to find Hayden hovering over Ryan, more intense than ever. “You’ve got to make sure the algorithms are in sync,” he said. “Otherwise the communication will shut down.”

“I’ve got it,” Andrew said, carefully holding his finger above one of the little buttons, trying to synchronize the time to push the appropriate button on the device.

Andrew looked up at the flat screen, staring at the Munro as it cut through the open sea. “Almost there,” he said to himself, not daring to smile.

Simon’s gut sank, realizing they were about to hijack a secret multi-million-dollar government vehicle from the British military. There was no way to stop now, no way to turn back. They had gone too deep and were already in grave danger.

There would be no solace for the team. From this point forward they were committed. And once the British military found out, they would be on their tail without pause and forever.

All three men watched Andrew as his finger rested on the button of the small device he had rigged to the stolen modules. The room fell absolutely silent except for the crackling noise of the wood burning in the fireplace and the random clatter from the basement kitchen. They watched Andrew, anxiously waiting to see when he would connect to the vessel.

For the first time, he noticed a thick bar at the top of the flat screen display. Half of it was red; near the middle of the screen it turned blue. As he watched it, the red portion grew a bit, consuming a fraction more of the blue. It looked exactly like an old-fashioned download indicator, the kind he’d seen on the very first computer he’d ever owned.

Ryan risked a glance at him and saw what he was looking at. “That’s the turnover indicator,” he said. “I invented it myself. As soon as it’s all red, we’ll have fully synced the algorithms…and the ship will be ours to take.”

“Thirty seconds to completion,” Andrew said in a low voice.

Simon understood what they were saying. Once the algorithms were fully integrated, the information they would be sending could not be traced; the Munro would recognize Andrew’s instructions as if they were genuine commands sent by the military. They could turn the ship, stop it, send it to wherever they wanted, and no one on the vessel-not the navigator, not the Captain, not even the on-board AIs-would think to question the commands.

Four men, sitting in a cottage in Corsica, using twenty-year-old contraband equipment, were about to take control of a top-secret military operation without anyone’s knowledge.

The red bar grew longer and longer, and then the last of the blue blinked away.

The S.S. Munro-and the Spector I that slept in its hull-was theirs.

They all stood speechless for a second, trying to take in the reality of the moment. Simon finally broke the silence. “As my father used to say, ‘Dis-information is power.’”

Hayden looked at him with a serious expression and then slowly nodded as he frowned. “It’s the truth,” he said. “Back in the beginning, thirty years ago or more, we called this ‘The Information Age.’ But it’s not. Never was. We learned damn quickly that just having all that information didn’t mean a thing. We learned that it’s not what we know; it’s what we believe. Your dad was right: dis-information is power. Change the reality and you change the outcome. Controlling destiny.”

Ryan looked up at them with a new kind of horror and elation in his eyes-like a child who had just done something without understanding its consequence.

“Control your destiny,” he echoed.

“Wow,” said Andrew, taking a deep breath. He too was just beginning to realize what they had done.

The window of opportunity had been locked open.

They were on their way.

* * *

Simon cleared his throat abruptly. “Let it sit for a while,” he said. “Let’s make sure we’re a hundred percent.”

The others looked at each other, then looked back at him.

“It’ll be okay,” he said soothingly. “Let’s have dinner, then we can send the new coordinates to the ship.”

Ryan inhaled deeply and placed both hands behind his head. He looked pale and shaky, as if he hadn’t taken a breath in an hour.

“Good idea,” Andrew replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. He stood up as Samantha walked into the room, trying to balance several large platters of food.

“Let me help you there,” Simon said with a smile. “It’s been a while since you had to pull off the two-armed double truck.”

She almost laughed. Simon was teasing her about her short-lived job as a waitress-the only gig she could get back in college to pay for her tuition. It was a mandate of her parents that she learned the hard way, even though they could easily have helped her. It was a disaster and they both knew it. “You know,” she said, “the same bastard may have fired me three times, but at least I learned how to do this. It’s second nature to m-oops!”

Simon dove to catch one plate as it slid from her forearm. He got a hand under it just before it hit the Armenian rug. They all laughed-all of them, even Sam-and the tension that had filled the room for an hour suddenly burst like a bubble.

They were careful to put the food at the far end of the table, well away from the computer modules and the flat screen. And for the next twenty minutes, the old friends shared a meal and a bottle of wine and tried to forget that they had just changed their destiny.

* * *

Hayden didn’t talk very much during the brief meal, far less than the younger people at the table. He was in no mood for small talk. He finished quickly and excused himself with a grunt, then moved away from the table to the warmth of the fireplace at the far end of the room where he could gaze uninterrupted into the flames and just think.

Deep down inside, Hayden knew the truth. No matter how hard they tried, no matter how clever they were, they would eventually be discovered. And deep down inside, at least it didn’t matter-not to him.

His life was over.

Two decades of scientific research flashed before his eyes. Tonight, his career as a scientist had taken a turn that he hadn’t expected-one he thought never would, no matter what his mad dreams might have been. Whatever he had been before was finished now. The technology he needed, the funding necessary for his level of dedication…no one would ever give it to him, ever again.

He suddenly felt very old, and at the same time brand new.

There was a burst of laughter from the table behind him. He hunched his shoulders as it sent a chill down his spine. The others were famished from their traveling, relieved and exhilarated by their easy success. But the journey ahead would be extreme and challenging for all of them, and it was quite possible that they wouldn’t have another moment like this together in the coming weeks. He was glad they could have this, at least. He wished he could share it.

He stared into the fire. It had dwindled to a few pieces of glowing orange wood. I would have thought Leon would have kept a better eye on this, he thought absently. After all…

Hayden suddenly looked up, looked around, thought back.

“Simon,” he said, breaking through the easy conversation. “Where’s Leon?”

* * *

Something twisted in Simon’s stomach. He stood up from the table a little too fast and said, “You’re right. Where the hell is he?”

He turned and almost ran from the room. The others sat very quietly now, listening to Simon move swiftly from room to room, calling the caretaker’s name.

“Leon! Leon!”

There was no answer, and no halt to the search.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Andrew said. “Not good at all.”

Samantha heard a door slam, then saw a flash of movement beyond the great room’s windows. She stood up and peered out, into the night.

“Look,” she said. The others joined her at the window, just in time to see Simon disappear into the darkness, still calling Leon’s name, then reappear almost immediately, grim-faced as ever.

A moment later he was back in the great room. He turned to Hayden and said darkly, “I might be a while. Help them set the rendezvous coordinates for the Munro and then everyone- all of you-try to get some rest. We have to be down by the dock before five a.m.”

Ryan looked at his watch. It was half past one. He rushed over to the digital display and began to monitor the Munro’s activities halfway around the globe.

Simon left without another word. There was only one more place to look-the one place he had been thinking about and avoiding since the moment they’d set foot on Corsica.

Oliver’s private study.

He began to climb the stairs to the second floor as quickly as he could. Then, unaccountably, he found himself slowing, moving just as he had as a child, almost tip-toeing to the upper landing, creeping down the hall, and pausing before the study doors, his eyes locked on them, his heart pounding.

They were stout double doors made from oak, thick and lovingly crafted. The knobs were huge and ancient; the brass locking plate below polished and free of the slightest fingerprint.

An envelope was pinned to the center of both doors. Even from a distance, Simon could see what it displayed.

After ascending a few more steps closer to the door, eyes locked on the envelope, he recognized it. It was an unusual geometric symbol he had seen before. It looked like some sort of insignia.

He had not seen it in years. When he first noticed the geometric symbol at eight years of age, it was on Oliver’s briefcase. He had asked his father what it was, but had only gotten a vague response. For years it had remained in the vast pages of his childhood’s unresolved memories.

He felt something cold and hard sink in his stomach as he slowly approached the door. Each step felt like a dream as fear began to grip his body. Even his own legs seemed to weigh him down as he inched closer to the door. Simon, stop the paranoia, he told himself as he covered the last few steps. It’s time. It has to be time.

The wooden floor beneath his feet announced his approach with each new creak. For a moment-just for a moment! — he was absolutely positive his father was waiting on the other side of those doors, that he would open them and find Oliver Fitzpatrick sitting behind his massive oak desk, grinning and congratulating him on a job well done.

But that’s a lie, he told himself. He wanted it so badly to be true, but it wasn’t. His father was thousands of miles away, trapped in the loneliest continent on Earth. His father was waiting for him there, he knew-counting on him.

He stopped two feet from the double doors and gazed at the brass knobs…and saw, to his amazement, a small key inserted into the right lock-a key bearing the same insignia as the envelope he had not yet taken as his own. His heart started pounding. That key was never there before. That key granted him the access he needed. That key could open the doors to a secret fragment of his childhood that had haunted him for years.

He reached out and touched it, his stomach cramping with tension. He closed his eyes and knew the unknown world he longed to discover was only inches away.

Then, instantly as if controlled by some outside force, he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the note pinned in front of him, between both doors. He paused, staring, almost hypnotized.

Then he let go of the key and reached for the envelope, tearing it free of the two pins that had pushed it deep into the wood. He ripped open the envelope even as he heard Hayden’s voice from downstairs: “Rendezvous coordinates laid in. We’re good to go.”

The note was written with an unfamiliar hand and obviously in some haste. The work was messy; the lines a bit crooked. But none of that mattered. He read:

This door leads to more than you are ready to embrace. Oliver knew this and kept it from you. He knew you would enter when you were ready, but that time is not tonight.

Things reveal themselves to us when we are destined to see them, and not before. Inside those doors you will not find what you are looking for. If you must enter, then that is what fate has written for us all. But I will not be here to witness it.

I leave you with this choice, Simon. The key is in your hand.

Farewell,

Leon

Simon was speechless. He stood in front of the door to his father’s study and looked back at the tiny brass key inserted into the lock. He dropped his head and closed his eyes as he thought of Leon’s words.

Simon wanted more than anything to enter that room. More than anything. He touched the knob again, thinking with all his might, trying to understand his father and his fate as he never had before. He gripped the key, crushing it between his fingers.

Then, he released it and looked at the note one more time. He folded the note, and was ready to put it into his jacket when he caught a glimpse of something written on the back of the notepaper.

His heart raced. He held it up, turned it in the light, and saw three lines written in Leon’s hasty, crooked hand:

— 73 degrees South

— 82 degrees West

— 10,022 feet

His eyes lit up. Coordinates, he knew. What we really need. Without another thought, he turned his back on the mysterious study and ran downstairs to join the others.

* * *

He found three of the team members huddled around Ryan’s display, waiting for the final course-alteration confirmation from the Munro. Samantha had curled up in the huge armchair and fallen asleep.

Simon stood waiting as Ryan entered the coordinates for where the team would rendezvous with the Munro. “Port Williams, Chile it is,” Ryan said as his fingers shook on the keyboard. “When we leave Corsica, that’s where we’ll reconvene. Donovan and the S.S. Munro will be waiting for us there.”

Simon walked closer to Ryan’s screen and said, “Check these other coordinates for me will you?” He recited the West and South numbers he had read on the note and memorized, but he kept the final line-the “-10,022 feet”-to himself.

Hayden raised an eyebrow. “So you found something?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied absently, then put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Hurry.” He repeated the figures.

“Okay, okay.” Ryan’s fingers danced over the old-fashioned keyboard. He was almost used to the ancient tech by now.

After a moment, Ryan’s face grew pale. He looked like he had seen a ghost. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Look at that.”

The display was showing a specific location on the Antarctic continent-an outpost marked as “Station 35.” Simon froze for an instant and his heart began to race; this could be the coordinate of Oliver’s location.

“How did he know?” Simon whispered and then stopped himself. Leon’s note was carefully folded and stored in his jacket pocket. No one else needed to know about it quite yet, he decided.

He thought about Leon for a moment, and chills went down his spine. He leaned forward and peered at the monitor, double-checking the numbers he had recited. Ryan was right.

Hayden couldn’t keep curiosity to himself. “So?” he asked Simon. “You discover anything else up there?”

Simon thought about telling him the whole story, but only for a moment. Then he just shook his head and said, “Not really. Not much up there.”

Ryan didn’t seem to hear him. “These are still pretty coarse as locational coordinates go,” he said. “And the UNED maps don’t show any stations or outposts near that specific area.”

Simon knew why, and that was why he had kept the last part of the coordinates to himself. “Still,” he said, “This is where we need to go after we get the Spector-Station 35.” He tapped the digital map on the screen, and wished that Leon had given him more.

Hayden scowled at him, skeptical as always. “Are you sure?” he asked Simon. “Are you 100 % positive?” For a brief second Simon thought to himself, how can I be sure? Leon must know something or he would have never given me the coordinates. It’s better than nothing. This must be why Dad wanted me to see Leon.

“I am,” he said, knowing deep down inside that Leon must have known all along.

Andrew shrugged. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s start packing up. We’ve got a boat to catch in a couple of hours.”

Simon got up, deep in thought, and walked to the window. He looked out at the moonlit landscape, still tortured by the night wind, and wondered if he would ever see Leon again. Or if he would ever have a chance to enter that study.

The image of the wooden door had permanently embedded itself in his mind. For an instant, he thought of throwing caution aside and running back upstairs, fast as he could, turning that key and throwing open those doors-

“Here.”

He turned in surprise. Andrew was standing there, a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Here you go, mate. Won’t have much time for this in the near future.”

Simon looked down at the fine crystal glass and then took it from his friend. He turned it in his hand, marveling at the rich, luminous color, thinking of his father. He looked back at Andrew and somehow managed to construct a smile. “Dad’s favorite,” he said. “Glenlivet 18.”

He took a slow sip, savoring the taste and the memory alike. The scotch blossomed like a lovely fire in his chest. He looked at Hayden, Andrew, Ryan, and Samantha and made himself smile. He was grateful to be here-with them, in this place, at this time.

He just didn’t know if they could endure the treacherous journey ahead. No one knew.

THE ISLAND OF CORSICA

Dockside

The brutal chill of the morning air was painful to Simon. He hunched down inside his coat and pressed his arms tight against his sides, trying to trap even a fraction of the heat from his body.

It was pointless. The constant breeze and the driving mist off the ocean cut right through him as he stepped away from the rental car and walked toward Slip 9, where a mid-sized yacht was waiting. Samantha slipped out of the passenger seat and joined him. The panel truck carrying Andrew, Hayden, and Ryan pulled in close behind.

They gathered in a tight group at the entrance to the dock.

“We have thirty-two hours. This boat will take us to Malta. From there we’ll travel on different routes to get to Santiago, Chile.” Ryan said. “We’ll meet at a warehouse in Valaparaiso-you’ll find the address in the packets you receive. And then-Port Williams. I’ve got it all set up; we’ll get the paperwork, tickets, and passports at the next stop. But just to reiterate: everyone has a separate route-everyone, this time, Sam. Even you.”

“I know,” she said.

“This is the last time,” Simon said to them. “We had to be all together for the hijacking. Next we’ll meet for the rendezvous. And after that-”

There was a deep, fuzzy roar from the yacht that Ryan had chartered. Simon turned and picked it out of the tangle of vessels at the far end of the dock. It was an older boat, over forty feet long, but still capable of making the journey to Malta safely, even swiftly.

Four men in heavy wool sweaters and scuffed black work boots swarmed off the yacht and hit the dock with a single thump. They looked at Simon’s team with identical expressions-a combination of amusement and disdain. Simon raised a hand to them, and the one in front nodded briefly.

“All right,” he said, low and hard. “As we said last night: no talk of the mission-none at all-while we’re on board. We don’t know who is listening; we don’t know who they report to.”

“Got it,” Andrew said. “Loose lips sink ships.”

“Quite literally,” Ryan agreed.

They were carrying an annoying amount of luggage this time-some of the primitive cyber-equipment had to come along if they hoped to maintain their remote control of the Munro, and beyond that, they had begun to collect the cold-weather clothing they knew they would be needing, sooner rather than later. All that gear was universally bulky and heavy.

The crew gave them poisonous looks when they saw the small mountain of suitcases, bags, and crates. They actually muttered curses under their breath when they realized how heavy some of the articles really were.

The sun rose as the last of the luggage was lifted on board, but the morning light brought no real heat with it. It was still achingly cold and quiet as the top of a mountain. All Simon could hear was the distant cry of seabirds and the constant, hollow slap of the Mediterranean Sea against the pylons of the dock.

Soon, he knew, the Munro would reach the Straits of Magellan. They needed to rendezvous with it before that happened, or all of this would be for nothing. They had to reach Santiago in thirty-two hours or they would never be able to reach the Munro on time.

The captain of the yacht-its name was obscured by barnacles and moss-was a fair-skinned Greek in his fifties with a charming smile and a gentlemanly demeanor. He shook hands with Ryan, kissed Samantha’s hand, and invited the team into the main cabin where he had prepared a light breakfast.

He murmured commands to the four-man crew as he led the team below. Before the last of them were fully below deck, the yacht had cast off and was chugging away from its mooring.

The captain puttered with his small cups for a moment. Then he turned and addressed Samantha-the only woman in the group. “You like the Greek coffee?” he asked in a thick Greek accent. He pointed to little espresso cups sitting on the table next to a platter of cut fruit.

“Yes,” she said, rather charmed in spite of herself. “Thank you.” He offered her a cup on a chipped saucer with undisguised pride, and she took it gratefully.

“Beautiful morning in the Mediterranean Ocean,” he said and awarded the rest of the team with cups of their own. “Beautiful day to come!”

After their meal, some of the team went topside, if only for the air. It was a brilliant morning; sunlight glinted off the chop as if there were mirrors floating in the sea.

The other members of the crew seemed to be of Mediterranean descent as well, and none of them spoke English-or claimed not to, at any rate. Still, conversation-even among the team members-was kept to a minimum. Most of them enjoyed the warmth of the sun for a few minutes, then found their way to the crew quarters and gratefully accepted the offer of a newly made bunk. They had already discussed this: their time aboard the yacht was a perfect opportunity to catch up on sleep before reaching Malta.

As he watched the others go below, Simon thought deeply about all that had happened last night and in the last two weeks. Although exhausted beyond what his body could bear, he could not sleep. Less than an hour after boarding, he found himself alone, restlessly pacing the deck-forward-aft, aft-forward-and thinking about geostationary satellites, datastreams, and Andrew’s gadgets.

What if they don’t really work? He asked himself. What if they stop working? They had agreed to travel separately on this last leg of the journey, but would that be enough? It was true: following individuals, with or without tech, was easier than following groups, but finding individuals in a sea of seven billion people was far more difficult.

At least that was the theory. And if he was wrong, someone, or many, could die. Max, he thought. Max, what the hell happened to you? I could have used you here. I don’t know if I can do this by myself.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was behind him. Simon turned to find the captain standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He had a package in his hand-something flat, wrapped in wax paper, like a parcel from a butcher shop.

“This is for you,” he said. “It was given to me by…well, it was given to me.”

He passed it over almost briskly, as if he was glad not to be touching it any more. Simon accepted it with a murmured “thank you,” and the captain fled, clearly happy to be finished with his chore. He passed Samantha as she climbed the steps from the crew quarters, rising gracefully out of the shadows like a weary naiad. He put the package in his pocket as she approached.

“Simon,” she said. Her voice was soft and betrayed her own exhaustion. But Simon turned away, not ready for conversation-not now.

“Simon,” she said again and put her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn back; he kept his eyes fixed on Corsica as the boat pulled away, deeper and deeper into the open sea. “I’m worried about you.”

He still did not turn to her. “Well, I’m worried about you, too,” he said.

She looked around the deck. The sailors were far from them, probably beyond earshot, but she was still careful with her words.

“I know I have been…a handful,” she said. “I probably will be again. And the irony isn’t lost on me: I chose this…destiny…and then came to regret it almost immediately.”

He almost laughed and nodded his head. At least she’s honest, he thought.

“It’s not that I regret my friendship with you, Simon. You know that. Just…”

“It’s more like, ‘be careful what you wish for,’” he supplied. “‘You just might get it.’”

“Exactly.” She pulled gently on his shoulder, forcing him to turn to her. Her eyes were full and stunningly clear. “I love you, Simon,” she said. Before he could respond she put up a hand to stop him. “I know, you don’t love me, not in the same way. We’ve had this conversation already, and not so far from here. But I thought this whole thing would be an opportunity. A chance to remind you how deeply I felt, and how…how easy it would be to reciprocate.”

“It’s not, though, Sam. Not-”

“I know that now,” she said. “It was stupid and immature from the beginning. But that doesn’t change two things for me, Simon. One: I have to live with the consequences of my decision, no matter how much I regret it. And two: I still do love you. I want to protect you more than ever.”

“…Even if I’m constantly putting you in danger?” Simon looked past her out over the water. “It’s not right. I just wanted to find my father. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

She shook her head. “You need to get some sleep. You’re going to collapse soon. There’s nothing that you can do, no problem you can solve between now and the time we reach Malta. So stop trying.”

“But-”

“Rest, Simon. Please. We need you.” She looked straight into his eyes and squeezed his arm. “I need you.”

He looked deeply into her eyes and knew, for the first time, that she would be fine on her own, at least for the next leg of the journey.

They joined the others in the galley, where his team was drinking strong coffee and sampling all the baked goods the cook was happy to supply. Simon sat at the table with them; Samantha stood close behind him with a casual, warm hand on his shoulder.

He pulled the packet from his coat, opened it, and withdrew a sheet of papers. Ryan recognized them immediately.

“Ah,” he said. “They came.”

“They did.”

Simon leafed through the contents of the package very quickly, then handed it over his shoulder to Ryan. Ryan inspected the papers and the passports a bit more carefully, then passed them out to each team member, once again like a dealer distributing cards. They took the individual packets with a strange, wordless solemnity. They all knew, each of them, that the world was about to change again.

Hayden was the first to speak up. “Are you sure these are going to work, Ryan?”

Ryan’s response was quick and convincing. He had obviously been thinking about it. “I can’t guarantee anything,” he said, “but this is the best option we have.”

Hayden grunted, hating to agree, then stuck the papers in his pocket and looked out of the murky window of the boat. The old paved road-the one leading away from the coast-was still above and beyond them.

Simon took only a moment longer to examine his new identity. He could barely make out the name in the dim light of the moving vehicle, but he didn’t care who he was, as long as they reached the rendezvous point for the Munro with plenty of time to spare.

“When we land in Santiago,” Ryan said, “there’s to be no talking, no sharing cabs, nothing. Go to the hotel or inn that is listed in your packet. Stay there until you receive the signal on your safe phones. We will meet again on the deck of the S.S. Munro.”

They all looked at their papers with renewed curiosity, anxious to see where they would be spending the next, solitary leg of their journey. Simon saw that he was set in a hotel with an unpronounceable name on a street which sounded just as odd.

Then something unusual caught his eye.

There was a piece of paper inserted in his new passport-a thick, creamy sheet, exactly like the paper Leon had used for his handwritten note back in Corsica.

What the hell…he thought. Without bringing any attention to it, he pulled the note free and read it quickly. All the others were busy looking at their own documents; no one seemed to notice he had an extra sheet. It read:

When you reach Chile, call a scientist by the name of Nastasia, who will help you on your mission. Do not speak to anyone about this note. It may jeopardize everything.

Who the hell wrote this? he wondered. Doing his best to look inconspicuous, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the note from the study door-the note that had changed his life, that he had kept in his pocket, on his person, since the moment he had discovered it. He compared the handwriting on the two documents, squinting in the dim light of the gallery to be absolutely sure.

No. They were different. Whoever wrote the first note-and it had to have been Leon, he signed it-did not write the second.

Then who…?

He pushed the thought away and carefully stashed all the papers-including the note-in the inner pocket of his coat. The others seemed to have found safe places to store their own documents.

Enough intrigue, he told himself-prayed, actually. Enough secrets.

Suddenly, Simon realized just how tired he was…and imagined just how good a hot shower and a nap would feel.

UNDISCLOSED ISLAND

The hovercraft that pulled out onto the remote island was no unusual experience for Blackburn. He sat blindfolded, escorted by a team of men that he had never seen. He had done this before. Flown off the coast of Argentina for hours; and then onto a hovercraft to different islands each time. It usually took less than two hours to reach his destination once the plane had landed, but for some reason this time it took a bit longer. He was accustomed to what would happen next. He would be blindfolded until he had reached a specific chamber, usually large enough where he could hear the echo of his own voice reverberating.

The Hovercraft came to a complete stop and deflated. Blackburn was escorted off, and in less than fifteen minutes he had entered the chamber. His blindfold was taken off and like always, the room was nearly pitch black. Only a faint glow surrounded his figure and cast the shadow of his body onto the floor.

Blackburn was ruthless, a coldblooded villain in his own right. However, each time he had to confront the chamber, it made him more uncomfortable. He had never seen the ones he answered to, and was never sure if each time might be his last. It was almost as if a fear, greater than he could explain, compelled him and guided his life. He lived completely in two separate worlds, one as a politician in Washington and the other as a servant to powers he could not comprehend. Each time he stood in the chamber, like this very moment, he could sense the silhouettes of the multiple figures that sat around him. He could almost feel their eyes, peering into his back and was never sure if one wrong word would end his life. As always, he was rarely given a chance to repeat his words, so he had to choose carefully when asked. Then like a knife, through the darkness of the air, the voice cut through Blackburn.

“Speak.”

“We are making progress, and I anticipate that within a couple of weeks I will have answers,” Blackburn said, noticing his own voice tremble, as it echoed through the room.

“And the asset you spoke of?” asked the Voice.

“We are very close to making him confess,” replied Blackburn.

“And if he does not?” asked the Voice.

“He must. He is our only asset, and the only one that knows what’s going on.”

“For your benefit, he must confess sooner rather than later. For we have no time.”

“Understood,” said Blackburn.

A minute later he was blindfolded and escorted out of the chamber. He knew that his life was in danger, and the next time there would not be another chance.

SANTIAGO, CHILE

Via Casa Hotel

It was just past four a.m. when the old-fashioned phone in Simon’s hotel room rang-a long, burring, ugly tone. It didn’t wake him up; he hadn’t been able to sleep at all since he had set foot in Santiago hours before.

He put a hand out to answer it-an automatic gesture, a standard response to stimulus-and then he stopped himself.

Who could be calling him at this time of night? The only people who knew where he was would use the secure phones if they needed to talk to him, not an open line. And even then, they knew better than to call. Anyone could be listening.

His hand was hovering over the handset when it rang a second time. He peered at the tiny screen on the phone, with its crude approximation of caller ID. It told him the call was local-coming from somewhere within Santiago, which made even less sense.

Will answering this jeopardize the mission? he asked himself. If it is someone on the team, for whatever reason, not answering the phone might…

It rang a third time. Seconds before it cut off he thought, What the hell, picked up the handset and put it to his ear.

The voice at the other end did not wait for him to speak. “Simon,” it said in a calm and strong tone.

The voice was familiar. But so much had happened recently, so many changes had taken place that he couldn’t quite place it from a single word on a bad connection.

“Who is this?” Simon asked.

“What do you mean, who is this?!” said the voice on the other end, sounding amused and offended at the same time. “I can’t believe you don’t recognize my voice! Come along: it’s four in the morning, I’m tired and easy to annoy, and you could have at least chosen a more reputable location.”

It’s him, he realized. Simon’s jaw actually dropped open in amazement. “Max?” he said. “Is that you? How did you…” but he stopped himself. It’s still an open line, he thought. Be careful.

“So, are we going to look at that cafe or what?” Max said easily, as if they were continuing a conversation they’d begun just minutes before. “I have a lot of other projects to design and I just flew in.”

Simon smiled to himself. Clever bastard, he thought. “Sure,” he said, trying to match the casual tone. “Do you want to meet downstairs at nine a.m.? I’ve got the plans, but the owner said the lease has to be signed, so you better impress him.”

“No problem,” Max replied. “But let’s make it eight forty-five. See you in the morning.” He hung up before Simon could utter another word.

Suddenly the ancient handset was heavy as a stone in his hand. He plopped it back in the cradle and slumped back on the bed, excited but utterly confused. He took a deep breath and straightened up. Finally, he thought. Finally.

Minutes later, he composed himself and started to pack his belongings. Max was an unexpected surprise, and a great one, but he still had business to conduct-another appointment to make and keep.

He stopped long enough to pull out the slip of paper he had found with his fake passport and other identification. It took only a moment to key the numbers into his secure phone-no reason to leave a record on the hotel’s number. As he dialed he wondered who, exactly, had put that note in his packet to begin with, and why it was so important.

The phone at the other end never really rang. A beat after he finished keying in the sequence, a soft and slightly accented female voice spoke to him.

“Nastasia.”

Simon was speechless for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said, as steadily as he could manage, “I think we need to meet.”

The answer came immediately and without hesitation. “Three thirty at the Longo Cafe.” Then the phone cut off abruptly.

Simon was left holding the dead instrument in his hand, almost overwhelmed with apprehension and futility. Something didn’t seem right here, he knew, but what choice did he have-did any of them have? They needed all the help they could get and someone-someone friendly, it seemed-was trying to put them together.

He sat on the edge of the bed with his eyes closed, going through the entire operation…and oddly enough, he felt a rising wave of confidence. Max was with them now. They had slipped UNED’s surveillance net and traveled halfway round the world, apparently undetected. And now with Max he could see the journey unfold with greater clarity.

* * *

Simon tried to nap one more time and gave it up for good an hour later. He showered, changed clothes, packed a second time as slowly as he could, and still arrived in the lobby half an hour before Max was scheduled to arrive. He paced the well-worn carpet for a few minutes, then decided to get a cup of coffee at a cafe he remembered passing, right across the street. Sooner or later, he told himself, the lack of sleep is going to hit you, and you’re going to need that caffeine.

A skeptical bell boy twice his age nodded at him as he pushed through the revolving glass door to the sidewalk, and he flinched as the chill of the outside air nipped at his cheeks, as if to remind him that Antarctica was far closer than it had ever been before.

He stopped on the sidewalk and took in the frozen morning, pausing for a moment to get his bearings, then trotted through a gap in the early morning traffic to enter the small coffee shop. Just one espresso, he promised himself, and I’ll be ready to meet Max.

The shop was warm and pleasantly claustrophobic, smelling of good coffee and busy people. There was a long line just inside the door, and he had to press forward a bit to let the door close behind him. As he waited, he noticed a pair of scientists huddled at one of the cafe’s many tiny tables, speaking in hushed, excited German, gesturing over a wrinkled paper map. Something to do with an exploration, Simon could tell; he knew that much German, but not much more. It wasn’t surprising, really: Santiago was the closest modern city to the now forbidden continent, and many of the researchers, soldiers, and businesspeople who had been exiled because of the quarantine had come here to wait, and plot, and be first in line to return.

When he reached the counter he asked for a double espresso and a small panini. As they prepared his order, he noticed the front page of a discarded newspaper lying on the polished wood. His first thought was, look at that, an actual paper newspaper. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen one. His second thought concerned the image on the front page: a murky shot of a ship, half-submerged in a choppy sea.

The text was in Spanish, and Simon was embarrassed to admit that his Spanish was even worse than his German. While he waited for his order, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and removed the card-shaped reading lens-standard equipment for international travelers. It took only a moment to pass the translucent card over the printed material; an instant later an AI with the gentle voice of a British female whispered the translation in his ear: “UNED gun ship sinks freighter off Valparaiso,” it said.

Simon’s heart raced at the translation. Could it be the Munro? All his plans would be for nothing if some overeager UNED unit got trigger-happy. But the voice in his ear continued to read, and he quickly learned that the sunken ship was named Orchid Dawn that sailed under United Korean registry. It was chartered to a private energy exploration firm and was going the opposite direction of the Munro when it was identified as the victim of a pirate hijacking. In short, it had nothing to do with them. Simon felt a wave of relief as he pocketed the lens and received his espresso.

He looked for a place to sit for a minute or two and spotted one small table with a single occupant, a man hiding behind another old-fashioned newspaper, this one fully opened like the wings of a giant, ink-stained bird. There were two other empty chairs at the table. Simon wound his way through the crowd, pulled out a chair and sat down. The other man, still hidden, continued to read and nurse his cup of coffee.

Simon sipped his espresso, enjoyed the first bitter bolt of caffeine, and then glanced at the wall clock. Eight twenty-five, it read.

Shit, he told himself, I can’t be late. He started to push back his chair, and the voice of the other man at the table stopped him.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Simon stopped short. He swallowed. Then he said, “Max. You bastard.”

He reached up and pulled down the top edge of the paper. It lowered obligingly, revealing his best friend and his familiar smirk.

Simon grinned. “You know how I hate being followed,” he said.

Max let the paper drop the rest of the way and made a production of folding it into smaller and smaller sections. “Now tell me what this is all about, you lunatic, and how I fit into your mad plan.”

“You know what’s going on, Max.”

He made a “thinking” face. “I know about the quarantine, of course. I know some ships are sinking here and there, and I know this beautiful city has lousy weather and that you have a room in one of its shittiest hotels, but beyond that? Clueless.”

Simon sighed and nodded, not believing a word of it. Max was a top-level operative, a man five times farther up the ladder of international intelligence than Jonathan Weiss had ever climbed. His special forces military background gave him an even deeper knowledge. But he would play along. He would start at the beginning.

“You remember Hayden?”

“You mean the weird hermit-guy in the robotics department? Yeah, I remember him. I remember Oliver loved him, and that you were fascinated with his work when we were kids. What the hell is he up to now?”

Simon paused for a moment. “We’re hijacking his amphibious submersible,” Simon told him. “The one he’s been working on for years.” He couldn’t help himself; he looked over his shoulder, back at the counter to make sure no one was listening. He knew he couldn’t make himself look more suspicious if he’d tried.

Max moved closer. “What the hell are you talking about? Simon, that guy has been building freaky stuff since we were kids; don’t tell me he actually finished one.”

Simon nodded. “For UNED, no less. We have access to one that we hijacked and will use it to go find Oliver in Antarctica.”

“-and I’m supposed to pilot it, is that it? I’m the driver?”

Simon just stared at him. Then he smiled.

“You’re smiling you bastard?” Max said. “Why can’t the weirdo himself pilot his strange creation?”

Simon gave him a sarcastic look. “You know better than I do that this thing isn’t going to be guided by AIs connected to GPS, and god knows what other navigation nets. And those are the only types of vehicles that Hayden knows how to drive.”

“The ones that practically drive themselves.”

“Right.”

“Okay so I’ve got a job, a hired skipper.” Max grunted rolling his eyes. Then he slapped the table and said, “That’s fantastic. I’m getting another coffee.” He levered himself out of his chair, shaking his head in exasperation, and walked toward the counter.

Max, at six-foot-two, was broad-shouldered and thin-waisted, built like an athlete with a chiseled face. Behind the tough exterior, Simon knew, was a fiercely dedicated friend and a cold-blooded, efficient soldier. Now at thirty-seven, he had spent most of his life in the British Special Forces. He’d spent the last few years as a “freelancer,” doing the things that even Black Ops professionals couldn’t get official permission to do. No one but Max himself knew the whole story-not UNED, not the CIA, and certainly not Simon. All he knew for certain was that his friend was resourceful, fearless, and-above all-loyal.

Max turned from the register, coffee in hand, and sat down with a sigh. He put the cup on the table in front of him, turned his chair 180 degrees and sat on it backwards.

“You know, you should have let me know about this before I flew all the way out here.

Never mind how I found you, I could have turned you down in two minutes’ time.”

“Max, I need your help. Only you can cut off the some of the AIs and pilot the vessel blind.”

Max shook his head as he leaned forward and took a sip of his black espresso. “A ten-year-old can speak to a robot.”

“It’s more than that. Far more.” Simon paused for a moment contemplating the best delivery. “Listen Max, this thing is like no other submersible, it takes several super AIs to coordinate all the functions. But if we’re running all of them at the same time, we don’t have a chance of slipping beneath UNED’s radar. So we need to shut some AIs down if we have any chance of succeeding-and no one I know has more experience with these types of vessels than you.”

Max sighed at him, clearly frustrated. “Simon, I do have some experience with AI-assisted vehicles like this. I can get them to cooperate. But your biggest problem is RAI, and you know it. If anybody finds out what you’re doing, they can take control of an AI just long enough to hurt you-and hurt you badly.”

“I know that.”

“You know that. But despite knowing it, you want me to steer a strange experiment of Hayden’s into one of the most hostile environments on the planet?”

Simon had to force himself to keep his voice low. “Look, we’ve taken care of the RAI problem already. We can shield from that. We can cut them off from the satellites and from each other.”

Max pretended to be surprised. “Oh! Oh, well then! Great! Now all I have to do is steer the ship and simulate the actions of half a dozen of Hayden’s experimental brains at the same time! Sure, I can be the world’s greatest pilot and fill in for four or five super computers at the same time. Why was I worried?”

Simon pushed his empty cup of coffee to one side and said, “You’re not the only one that’s going to be there. We’ve got a whole team.”

Max huffed, even more frustrated. “Now you’re talking,” he said. “A bunch of college nerds from Oxford is going to save the day.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted at even contemplating the project. “Why do I get myself into these things?” he sighed.

“Max, you can’t just do it yourself. There is no way you-anyone-could understand the complexity of this vessel alone. This thing has features that are beyond the comprehension of one pilot.” Simon did not want to elaborate on the specifics at this point; he knew time was too short. They would soon meet at Port Williams, as was the plan, and there, Max would see for himself.

“I understand what you’re saying. But I’m also not about to babysit a bunch of college boys on a lark, through unknown terrain in temperatures of eighty below, let alone do it secretly, inside the most intensive quarantine in human history. If we get caught, Simon-even after the fact, even years later-you can kiss your comfy little life in Oxford goodbye forever. Forever.”

They sat and stared at each other for a long moment. Max was the first to look away. He stared into the dregs of his espresso and said, “So tell me, what do you know about what really happened to Oliver?”

Simon caught himself for a split second looking at the Max’s wool overcoat, remembering the thread interrogation that Andrew had told him about. Wonder if he knows someone could have heard the whole conversation, he thought to himself as he looked directly at Max.

Head tilted with a sarcastic grin Max said, “Relax.”

Bastard, Simon thought, I’m always one-upped on this kind of shit with Max. Then he took a deep breath and told him everything-everything from Jonathan’s first arrival, to his meetings with Hayden, to the chess journal and its deciphering. From the attempted hijacking to Hayden’s paralysis, from Samantha’s kidnapping and chemical interrogation to Jonathan’s murder and the disposal of his body. From their flight to Malta and their intended interception of the Munro.

To his credit, Max sat silently and listened during the entire recitation. He simply could not believe a word of what he was hearing.

Simon knew that deep down inside Max wished that he had been there for all of it.

Almost an hour after he began, Simon drained the last of his third espresso, now stone cold and gritty, and said, “And here we are. That’s everything until now.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“No,” Simon answered with absolute sincerity. “I’m not kidding you.”

Max covered his eyes, squeezed his temples between thumb and forefinger, and said, “Well then. I guess we’d better get started.”

He stood up and brushed the last of the pastry crumbs from his coat. “Let’s go get packed,” he said. “We have a ship to catch.”

As they walked toward the door Simon stopped and turned to Max for a brief second. “By the way, how the fuck did you know I was here?” he asked, realizing that if they had managed to go under the radar, how could his best friend have found him.

Max anticipated the question before it was asked. “Don’t ask questions, and I won’t tell you lies,” he said with a wink.

Simon’s body went cold for an instant as he remembered the last time he had heard those words. He looked at Max with a mixture of confusion and anger as they stood five feet from the exit.

Max had some explaining to do but did not want to elaborate too much. He chose his sentence carefully. “I wasn’t involved, just watched the spectacle from the first phone call you made, this is way beyond your comprehension, and I needed to get here.”

Simon turned back toward the exit trying to take it all in.

They left the cafe shoulder to shoulder. Max asked plenty of questions-Simon was actually glad he did-but he never questioned the mission again. It was really quite simple: if Simon was committed, so was he. There was no reason to speak of it again.

Before they reached the Via Casa, Max said, “What do we have for protection?” He put up one finger to stop the inevitable joke before it began. “And don’t get cute. You know what I’m talking about.”

Simon couldn’t help but smile. “Well, we haven’t had any so far,” he said, “but I understand a weapons specialist has just joined the team.”

“Presumptuous little bastard,” he said.

They found themselves in front of Via Casa. Simon pulled up short, not sure what to do.

“Max,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

Max waved the sentiment away. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m just sorry it took me so long to get here. It was hard getting free of the cops.”

Simon nodded. “Don’t I know it. If it wasn’t for Andrew’s scrambler cards, we’d still be sitting in Oxford grinding our teeth.” He had given Max a scrambler card of his own just a few minutes before. Now he was better protected.

They shook hands and agreed once more on where to meet for the next leg of the journey. Simon could scarcely wait for the moment when he could introduce his best friend to the rest of the team.

“Okay, then,” Max said. “See you soon.”

“See you then.”

It seemed to be an oddly anti-climactic ending to one of the most important meetings Simon had had yet. But his mind was already rolling forward to the next meeting; the one he hadn’t mentioned to anyone-including Max.

* * *

Simon checked the time again-two fifteen. He had to meet Nastasia at three, but he hadn’t realized that the Longo Cafe was on the far side of town, and that Santiago’s greatest marvel wasn’t its majestic mountains, its beautiful women, or its stunning architecture. It was its traffic.

By two forty-five he had reached the proper neighborhood-a quiet part of town in a quaint walking district between a residential neighborhood and a commercial district. The cafe itself looked old and popular; even in mid-afternoon it was busy.

Simon chose a remote corner and sat down, snagging another quaintly old-fashioned newspaper at the door as he entered. He studied each new face that came through the front door, and noted every person who left. In between, he took a good, long look at everyone who was already there, wondering how in the world he was supposed to recognize a woman he had never met.

The tables were made of heavy, over-varnished wood. The art on the walls looked as if they had been made with a chainsaw and a blowtorch. The drinks were huge and generous, and the prices surprisingly moderate.

A slim figure with straight, jet-black hair and a worn but beautiful leather jacket suddenly loomed up in front of him, blocking his view. She was five-seven, but with heels she was much taller. She moved in so they were face-to-face. If she had a two-inch blade, Simon thought as his stomach fell, she could gut me and walk away unnoticed. How had she gotten so close? How could he have been so stupid?

“Good afternoon, Professor,” she said in a voice as smooth and warm as velvet. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Simon stood awkwardly, smoothing the legs of his pants, suddenly and quite inexplicably nervous.

She was absolutely stunning. Her eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were a blue he had never seen outside of photographs before, a glittering light aqua. She had slightly broad shoulders, graceful fingers, a slim waist, and legs that looked long and strong even in simple blue jeans. It was literally impossible to stop staring at her.

“I am Nastasia. May I sit?”

He glanced around the room in surprise, as if he had completely forgotten where they were. “Oh! Of course. Let me…”

They found nearby chairs in an instant. “Have you eaten?” she asked politely.

“I’m fine,” he told her.

She nodded, graceful as a flower bobbing on a stalk. “All right then.” She looked up at him, squarely into his face, and he was completely swallowed by her light blue eyes. “Professor,” she said, “I understand you have plans to go below the surface of Antarctica.”

Simon reeled back. “How did you-”

“I assume, then, that you have all the gear that’s needed to sustain the extreme temperatures you’ll find down there?”

“The note,” Simon whispered.

“I thought not.”

“In my passport. How did you-”

But Nastasia just continued. “But no matter, it’s all been taken care of. The last German team that went down about three hundred feet below the surface had spent a fortune on hi-tech gear, and when the quarantine took effect, they had to find channels to sell this stuff. I’ve convinced the authorities that I’ve bought it out of sheer scientific interest. As paraphernalia, of sorts.”

Simon was speechless.

“And furthermore, I assume you have someone on your team who can navigate the terrain below the ice? Someone who can guide you to Station 35?”

Simon was speechless.

“No again?” Nastasia leaned forward and told him with a delicate voice and a small smile, “Then Professor Fitzgerald, I have a proposition for you.”

VALPARAISO, CHILE

De Costa Azul Shipyard

It was well past midnight when Simon’s cab pulled up to a remote warehouse near Valparaiso’s largest shipyard. It was cold. He was tired, and the persistent coastal fog was seeping into him with a relentless chill that made his bones ache.

He fingered his copy of Andrew’s scrambler card in his pocket and wondered yet again if it was still working. It had to be. Without it, he and the others would be completely exposed to UNED and whoever else was watching them from the satellites and the security cams, tracing them through phone calls and RF relays and thread interrogations. Being invisible isn’t too difficult, he told himself, trying to make light of it. Trying…and failing.

He pulled himself out of the cab and paid the driver with cash. Then he simply stood there, smiling tightly and waiting for the man to drive off. They were in the center of a lopsided square of buildings, gates, and offices. He could easily head into any of them, and he didn’t want the cabbie to have the slightest idea where he was going.

The driver eventually got the hint. Simon gave him a half-serious wave as the vehicle hummed off into the night. Only then did he turn to the southwest and head down a narrow alley strewn with sheet metal waste and trash everywhere.

The shipyard was even quieter than he had expected. Now the damnable fog was muffling and blending every sound together as it rolled in like a noxious cloud. All he was able to distinguish was the sound of a distant ship’s horn and the barking of agitated guard dogs blocks away.

The alley opened into a deserted street lined with industrial buildings. Broken streetlights flickered and flared down one side and were entirely absent on the other. He was glad it was that way. Not the kind of place where locals feel comfortable, Simon thought, and then smiled at himself. Let alone foreigners.

He had seen this street in the GPS imagery when they had planned their rendezvous coordinates with Ryan. It was a particularly accurate rendition: the garbage in the gutters, the broken windows and stuttering lamps, the grimy whitewashed building with an open gate and a sign on the door that read Deportes de Motor.

At last, he thought, as he stepped into the alcove in front of the repair warehouse. His heart began to pound when he heard voices coming from inside. Voices he recognized.

Thank god, he thought. At least some of them made it. Simon’s life had been turned around over the last few weeks; tonight it would take yet another spin.

And he was ready.

He raised a fist and rapped on the sheet metal door, sharp and quick: rap-rap-rap. The voices inside stopped abruptly, and a tiny security cam in an upper corner swerved and pointed its single eye toward him. Simon raised a hand, spread his fingers, and waved them in greeting.

He heard footsteps approaching from inside. There was the screech of a barricade being pulled back and the squeal of the door pulling open on un-oiled hinges.

Andrew’s smiling face appeared under his typical rat’s nest of blonde hair. “Well, well,” he said. “Right on time.” He pulled the door open a bit more, and Simon strode in, trying to look in every direction at once.

He waited for Andrew to re-secure the door before shaking his hand warmly. “Good to see you all again,” he said. “I didn’t really know…”

The building they had chosen was a manufacturing facility for boat engine mounts that had closed due to renewable fuel mandates. It reminded Simon oddly of the Spector construction domes under Oxford: huge, high ceilings, but nearly empty-this one wasn’t stuffed with equipment or exotic power conduits. It looked as if it would never be filled again.

Simon’s team was waiting in the center of the huge, unheated room, where a dimly lit lamp hovered over a large table, and the team members sprawled on couches and huddled in a few random chairs, trying to keep warm.

Hayden was the first to spot him. “Well, well,” he said, giving his usual sarcastic grin.

“Looks like we all made it,” Simon said, smiling at each of them. His eyes lingered on Sam a bit longer than the others. She looked good-better than he could have hoped.

“All and then some,” Andrew said, scowling. He had gotten the call from Simon like the rest of them had, explaining the newest addition to their team, and looked less than pleased. Now he was glaring at the shadows over Simon’s shoulders.

Simon turned and peered into the shadows at the edge of the warehouse. A large figure was moving urgently but systematically from window to door to window again, checking locks and seals. There was an undeniable intensity about the silhouette; Simon recognized it immediately, even from a distance.

“Max!” Simon called out, “It’s clear! Andrew’s already gone through the motions.”

Max’s shadow turned to look at him. “Just like to check for myself,” he said with false good cheer. Then he turned and finished what he was doing.

Simon let him be. He turned back and gave the rest of the team an indulgent smile as he sat down and poured himself a generous cup of coffee from a kettle sitting on the table. After a moment, he reached into his jacket pocket, took out his silver hip flask, and added a dollop of scotch. He lifted the flask and offered it to the others; more than half of them gratefully responded, and gradually the sour mood shifted.

Hayden lifted his mug, into which he’d poured a generous serving of scotch. “Thank heavens for the Scots. This is one invention they can be proud of.”

Max moved out of the shadows, his self-appointed mission at an end. “Thanks,” he said to Hayden. “You knew I was part Scottish, right?”

Hayden cocked an eyebrow at him. “‘Course I did,” he lied.

Max stood at the edge of the circle and took his time looking at each face, old and new. After a moment, he pulled out a chipped and rickety old chair from under the table, spun it around, and sat on it backwards.

Andrew was to his right, busy calibrating a holographic display unit, which was acting up. Samantha was to his left, and he offered her a smile, glad to see she was still with them. Hayden was the most distant from the table, but he was clearly engaged, watching everything carefully. Ryan, who knew him the least, was watching Max very carefully, very warily, almost as if he expected him to explode at any moment. And Simon, in the middle of the table, watched everything.

Suddenly, there was another quick rap at the door. Simon flinched in surprise at the sound, then cursed himself for flinching. The others looked at each other, panic flooding their faces. Max stood up fast, right hand automatically went to his lower back to grab his pistol, ready to address the situation. Simon stopped him quickly.

“Hold on,” he said. “She’s expected.”

“Wonderful,” Hayden said as he glared at Andrew’s work. “Another newbie.”

The others watched silently as Simon crossed the deserted work floor and opened the metal door to the outside. Nastasia entered, sweeping in as if she owned the entire installation.

As she joined the others, Simon noted just how shocked both Max and Hayden looked. The last thing you were expecting was a woman who looks more like a supermodel than a scientist, he told them silently. Nastasia herself must have seen the same expressions, but she chose to ignore them. She simply moved forward with a smooth, professional gait and offered her hand.

“Hayden. Max. A pleasure to meet you.” She gave a small but powerful smile to the others, her stark blue eyes sweeping the group. “All of you.”

“Everyone,” Simon said to the mildly hostile gathering, “this is Nastasia. She’s a research specialist from Russia working here in Chile for the Antarctic Weather and Scientific Institute (AWASI). Nastasia knows more than anyone else out there about the Antarctic infrastructure and the recent activities of UNED immediately prior to the quarantine. She’s also providing us with the gear we’ll need once we land on the ice. To all intents and purposes, she will be our guide when we make it to the ice.”

“Hrmph,” Hayden grunted, not believing a word of it.

Andrew barely glanced up. They needed this holographic display to work perfectly for the briefing; his attention was there, until he saw just how beautiful the new arrival was.

As he looked at her directly for the first time, he stopped working. Completely. And just stared and smiled at her for an unusually long moment.

Simon looked at Max, who was looking at Nastasia. His suspicion was painfully plain on his face. Simon guessed that her beauty and even her prominent Russian accent actually worked against her; beautiful women and Russian spies were archetypal enemies for men like Max.

Getting his old friend past that assumption was going to be difficult, but necessary. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it at this second. He just frowned as he watched Max fold his arms across his chest and study the mysterious, beautiful woman in the dim light. Simon knew what he was thinking: this one is not to be trusted.

The men and woman who had given up their lives to be here, who had traveled literally halfway around the world to help Simon and his father, stared at the new arrival with a slowly dawning realization. This was actually going to happen. They were actually going into Antarctica-the most desolate continent on earth. And now, in addition to every other risk they had already taken, every other sacrifice they had already made…they would have to put their fates in the hands of a total stranger, or it would all be for nothing.

“Well,” Ryan said. “In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say.”

Samantha, who had regained at least some of her old warmth, stepped forward and put her hands on Nastasia’s. “I’m Samantha,” she said. “And quite frankly, it’s rather nice to have another woman along for the trip.”

“Thank you,” Nastasia said warmly.

“Calibrated and ready,” the holo-display said politely.

“Good,” Simon said. “Let’s take that tour you promised, then, shall we, Andrew?”

Simon looked to one side and then the other, taking them all in as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Spector VI, Hayden’s invention and our ticket to Antarctica.”

Andrew stroked a panel on the holo-display, and a three-dimensional model of the Spector blossomed on the tabletop, as big as a rain barrel and exquisitely detailed. Still standing off to one side, Hayden regarded his creation with an undisguised look of self-satisfaction.

At first sight, the Spector resembled a huge metal insect, studded with electronics and covered with multiple layers of glittering, electrically active skins, like a hybrid of a robotic armadillo and a praying mantis.

“Look here,” Hayden said. He approached the table and gently thrust his hands through the 3D hologram, manipulating the image, opening it to reveal various sections.

“Propulsion is here,” he said, “in the aft compartments. Engineering and environmental tech here, along the left sides. Living quarters for eight without squeezing-here, here, and here. A nice, big ready room between the sleeping quarters and the ops bridge. And this port on top opens to an airlock that links to the bridge-that’s the shielded blister here, forward and high on the beauty’s back. That’s where we’ll do the watching and steering.” He moved sections and layers as if he was peeling away the scales of a fish, showing them all what was hiding inside his remarkable vehicle. The amazement in everyone’s eyes was apparent as Hayden described the functions of each section. As he spoke his accent faded, his speech accelerated; he was entirely in his element, entirely absorbed by his amazing design for the first time in months.

Max concentrated on every word the inventor said, and knew almost immediately that he would have to spend hours more with the man just to get the slightest hint of what was to come. He pointed at the two long graceful blisters near the bottom of the Spector’s hull, one on each side. “What are those nacelles?” he asked.

“Ah,” Hayden said. “Those. Well, in point of fact, friends, we’ve been mis-labeling Spector from the beginning. It’s not really a submersible.”

“What?” Ryan said. “I thought-”

“It’s more than that,” Hayden said, plowing through. “Much more. It’s actually an amphibious vehicle. It can move almost as well on land as it can on water. And those-” He swept his fingertip down the length of the nacelles, left and right, “-those are its treads. They can be deployed any time there’s solid terrain under the hull-at the bottom of the ocean, at the shoreline, or anywhere else.”

The others goggled as he used his fingers to expand the bridge into fine detail: the status panels, the navigation station, and the command chair. He looked at Max and gave him a sidelong grin. “This,” he said, flicking a finger at the padded seat sitting in the middle of it all, “is the pilot’s seat.”

“And I presume that would be you?” Hayden said sarcastically, looking at Max with a smug grin.

Max ignored him and looked at Simon, as the others tried to comprehend the recent development, and the surprise inclusion of Max as their guide and pilot.

Simon had seen it all before of course, but once again he was amazed at how everything on the bridge looked bare, almost as if there was no serious instrumentation at all. He looked at Max with a confident stare. “You’re the man,” he said.

“It’s not enough,” Max said, arriving at the same conclusion. “Look at the complexity of this thing. The propulsion units alone require a three-man crew of nuclear engineers; environmental controls for a ship going this deep is a two-person job at minimum. And the sensor matrix, the attitudinal controls, the communications linkages-this is ridiculous. Where is everything?”

“Run almost completely by a cooperative team of AIs,” Hayden said proudly. “Dedicated to the ship and to following human guidance.”

“But we can’t use them,” Ryan said suddenly. They turned to look at him. He was pale as a ghost, bloodless with sudden realization.

“What?” Samantha said. This was making less and less sense to her.

“RAI,” he said looking from face to face. “Remote Access Intervention, remember? Whoever seized control of Hayden’s robot and destroyed the other two Spectors will sense their activation immediately and seize control again. Sink the ship. Kill us all.”

Simon frowned. “I know we’ll have to cut off some of the systems,” he said. “We’ve talked about that. The ones that link up to the satellites will have to be muted somehow-that’s your job, right-but others can surely stay in-”

“No,” Ryan said. “You don’t understand. All AIs talk to other AIs. That worldwide noospheric matrix is what makes them intelligent, and not just old-fashioned programmed response robots. Their judgment, their language skills, their fuzzy-logic reasoning abilities, those are all grouped effects. So all of them-all of them-have to go offline or we’re dead before we start. At best, they’ll be simple servomechanisms-programmable modules, like your home computer or pad.”

“I understand,” Simon said patiently. “But we can make it work. Max won’t be alone. We have you for sensor administration, Andrew. Ryan, you’re the data coordinator; you can query the AIs independently, without fully activating them-and Andrew’s scrambler won’t allow them to do it on their own. Hayden knows everything about the Spector; he’s an AI himself-”

“-without the ‘A’ part,” the inventor grumbled.

“-and Samantha can oversee the environmental and life support functions.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Hayden said.

“No,” Simon allowed, “but it’s not impossible. We are not going to give up before we even try.”

“Even if we die in the attempt?” Ryan said.

No one had an answer to that.

“The biggest problem I see,” Max said, “is the sensor array, without the aid of the visual information that it provides and translates digitally, how am I supposed to see where the hell I’m going?”

Hayden leaned into his holo-display and frowned. “How so?” he said.

“Because there are no damn windows in this thing,” he said. “All of your sensor input- even visual-is digitized, channeled through and interpreted by fully functional AIs before it gets to whoever is piloting this monster.”

Hayden nodded. “We had to do it that way. The intelligent surface-the cloak of invisibility, so to speak-can’t be interrupted by windows or ports. We had a hell of time even working out the wiring shafts and hatches.”

“I have to be able to see,” Max said. “I trust my eyes; they have never failed me. But holo-displays and wireframes only? No. Can’t work.”

Nastasia stepped forward. “The underworld of Antarctica can be quite dark,” she said. “Very deceiving. Even when there is light, the depth recognition is impossible. It fools the eye.”

Max interjected, “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve had to trust my instincts in blind operations.”

“To hell with that, Maximilian,” Hayden said. “I’m not letting a man take twelve years of my life and destroy it simply because he doesn’t trust the equipment.”

“And I’m not putting thirty-seven years of my life away in a prison cell if this operation blows up because some fucking AI has been taken over by long-distance hypnotists!” Max snapped back.

Hayden made an angry gesture. “Don’t be daft! I-”

“No, I am not driving this thing into the hands of the authorities!”

“Then maybe you’re not driving it at all!”

Simon cut in. “Hayden, please!” he said. “Max-hold on.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “We can always calibrate the front console to display holographic readouts without AI signature or assisted connectivity,” he said.

Max turned on him. “What?”

“There is a straight digital feed coming from the external sensors. I can plug in a nice, dumb interpreter to throw that up on a display right in front of you. It’ll be just like an open window. And meanwhile Ryan and I can decouple the AIs, dumb them down enough to get their readouts, too, without even a whisper to the satellites.”

Hayden rolled his eyes, “Fine. Rebuild the whole damn ship, why don’t you?”

Simon sighed. “Hayden. Is it possible?”

He gave Simon a withering look. “Probable,” he admitted with great reluctance. “But I’ll tell you one thing: it’s impossible to do without being inside the Spector.” He tossed back the rest of his heavily laced coffee. “I suppose Andrew and I could start on some preliminary programming,” he muttered, “but…goddamn it.”

Max almost sneered. “And I gather you won’t have to fire up any of your AI buddies to do that,” he said. “One little signal and-”

“You don’t need to explain my work to me,” he snapped. “I designed them. I know what they are capable of.”

Samantha shifted in her chair. “Excuse me,” she said. “If the AIs can’t be used, how can I read the data from the bio-devices feeding info into the main frame medical console?”

Max gave her a sidelong look. “What did you do when you didn’t have the assistance of bio-devices,” he asked her, “years ago? I presume everything was just fine back then.”

She blinked at him in surprise, started to say something, and then stopped herself. A moment later she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. Her mouth was an angry line.

Simon tried to bring them all back together. “Guys,” he said. “We have to operate with minimal AI intervention. That’s all there is to it. We have to operate with our gut and do things as we used to when we were kids. We have gotten used to AI-assisted devices, but the threat to the whole operation and to ourselves is too great if we’re discovered.”

“Simon is correct,” Nastasia said, her accent broad and exotic. “You remember, the quarantine deadline was extended by two weeks? ‘Logistical problems,’ UNED told us.” She shook her head. “No. The truth is, fourteen different teams of scientists and explorers broke away and tried to hide in the ice after the quarantine was announced-some of them under the ice, in the tunnels and caverns they created. They were all caught-as far as we know. But the South American team was the last to be detected. They had managed to stay free for three weeks longer than anyone else, because they used no AIs-none at all.”

Hayden humphed again. “They also didn’t have an amphibious vehicle with no windows, trying to navigate from ocean to ice three hundred feet below the surface,” he said. “But…we’ll manage. Somehow.”

And that’s as close to unanimity as we’re going to get today, Simon told himself. Better end this on as good a note as I can. He stood up and said, “All right, then. Let’s talk about the days ahead.”

Ryan took that as his cue to stand up and pass out yet another set of forged documents and fake passports. “As you all know, we have to get to Valdivia. From there, the journey will be a little rough. According to the data Simon gave me, the Munro is currently entering the Straits of Magellan, so once we make it to Valdivia, we will have to take a short flight to Puerto Williams.”

Max frowned at that. “That route is very carefully monitored by the Chilean military,” he said. “Trust me, I speak from firsthand experience. Nothing flies, floats, or swims in or out of Puerto Williams that the local military doesn’t see and approve of. But then,” he allowed himself a very small smile. “Luckily, I have some-let’s call it experience with these fellows; we’ll be fine-if we’re careful.”

“It’s not this route that I’m worried about,” Ryan said looking at the holographic image of the vessel.

“It’s the entry into Antarctica.” Max already knew where he was going with that.

“Precisely.”

“Are we sure there is no other was to enter the continent besides this Station 35?” Hayden asked.

For a moment Max was caught by surprise, as Simon had not elaborated beyond what they discussed before.

Simon tried to explain the situation so that the whole team was in sync, including Max. “Our first point of entry will be a location known as Station 35, which Nastasia knows intimately and will describe it to us. Our coordinates are deeper into the continent, and we will need to enter from inside the water to avoid detection. Station 35 is our only option for a stealth entry during this quarantine.”

Nastasia nodded to Simon in recognition and began to describe their entry point in further detail. Station 35 was an experimental program by a special German scientific team that had dug tunnels from the top of the ice shelf to approximately three hundred feet below. Their mission had been to study possible habitation and logistics for future expeditions, and so they had developed an extensive underground network dug into the ice. During the process they had hit a fissure that had later flooded from the melting of ice, and thus the project had been evacuated. This entry through the channels of water was where Nastasia would lead them toward their coordinates with the Spector.

Simon looked at his group with a mixture of amusement and concern as they listened to Nastasia. They still handled the papers like they were alien objects. They had become so used to their electronic helpmates, their holograms, and pads that they were visibly uncomfortable with paper and the printed word.

“Guys,” he said, trying to sound gentle. “We have to get used to this. The way things were done in the past.” He weighted the envelope in his hand and smiled sadly. “This is the way it will be for us from now on.”

“Welcome to the Stone Age,” Hayden muttered.

“Or the age of tissue, anyway,” Andrew said, trying to make a joke.

No one laughed.

PUERTO WILLIAMS, CHILE

8:32 AM

The evening fog that filled Puerto Williams to the brim made it impossible to see more than ten feet in any direction. Which is not a bad thing, Simon told himself. There’s not a chance of being seen by anyone…or anything. They would each be able to approach the harbor without being noticed, and the frigid air was an eerie reminder that they were getting very close to the icy continent of Antarctica.

Close, Simon said to himself as he moved from one street to the next, following the route he had memorized hours before. So close. He knew the others were feeling more and more apprehensive-he couldn’t blame them-but Simon could feel no fear. His father was closer than ever, and the hope in him was almost overwhelming.

He knew that the others had their own reasons for being here: Hayden wanted his ship back; Andrew wanted to prove his tech; Sam was here to try and protect them all. But Simon had not forgotten the one and only reason he had set all of this into motion: to find his father. To save him. To bring him home safe.

Simon was the first to arrive at Doc A-67. The hollow sound of his boots on the wooden slats was far too loud to suit him; he felt like a giant tromping on a drum skin. His father’s journal was a constant weight against his heart. As he walked closer to the water’s edge, he noticed an old freighter looming out of the sea-a black-painted cargo vessel with two huge, dormant smokestacks, dark and silent since the vessel’s energy conversion. Until all this had begun, Simon had been unaware of how completely sea travel had changed in the last fifty years, with new propulsion systems and new fuel economies. Still, a seaworthy hull was a seaworthy hull, and every ship that could stay afloat was still working, one way or another, including this barnacle-encrusted behemoth buried in the fog. He strained to find its name and registry number painted on the bow, and almost gasped when he found it.

The S.S. Munro.

It was the ship they had been looking for-the one whose navigation system they had already hijacked, back when they were in Corsica.

Simon already knew how it was going to work out. It would not be pleasant for Donovan or his crew, but no one would die; if they were lucky, no one would even be hurt. That remained to be seen.

As he approached the large vessel he noticed a wide-bodied, broad-shouldered man in a seaman’s cap standing at the bottom of the gangway, smoking a twisted cheroot and staring into the fog. Simon recognized the iron-gray hair and the hands as gnarled and scarred as an old oak. Doug Donovan looked exactly like what Hayden had described: a once-retired ship’s captain who had spent most of his career at sea in the last century, and who had returned to the sea because it was where he belonged. A man who had managed to wrangle an incredibly important contract with the military and the UK because he was one of the best damn sailors still at sea, under any flag, and everyone knew it.

He turned and looked at Simon, his gray eyes glittering with amusement and curiosity.

“Well, hello mate,” he said, chewing on his cigar. He looked to one side and gave the choppy sea of Puerto Williams an assessing glare. “Almost didn’t make it, the southern seas are pretty rough. Swell was pounding the whole way through.”

Donovan pointed over Simon’s shoulder with his chin. “Look behind you.”

Simon turned to see almost his entire team walking down the dock toward them.

“Quite a group you got there,” Donovan allowed. “Though one did arrive a bit earlier-hours ago, in point of fact.” He chewed the cigar a bit more and squinted, deep in thought. “Quite a looker.”

“I hope you’re not referring to my buddy Max?”

Donovan pretended to scowl at him. “Don’t be cheeky, you know who I’m talkin’ about.” The team reached his side with Max slightly in the lead. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?” he said to Donovan, as if they were old friends. “Permission granted,” the captain said gruffly. “All’a you.”

They murmured greetings to Simon as they filed by, hefting their bags and crates of equipment as they went. Simon noticed how much more confident they all were, approaching and boarding the vessel as if they had done this before.

“Come on,” Donovan said, “Let’s get out of here, I have cargo that needs to be delivered.”

As Simon boarded the Munro and put his feet on the main deck for the first time, his eye tried to measure the breadth and depth of the boat. It didn’t seem nearly large enough to accommodate Spector VI.

Donovan knew what he was thinking. “It barely did the trick,” Donovan said, waving a gnarled hand at the huge doors set into the deck itself. “The whatever-it-is takes up the entire hull. Used the biggest damn crane I’ve ever seen, at a loading station no one’s ever seen before, just to get this bloody thing on board. Not nearly as heavy as I expected, but big, Simon. All of six feet clearance front and back, and a hair more than that left and right. Extremely tight fit.” He stopped at the base of a massive winch that was bolted directly to the superstructure of the boat with connectors as thick as his wrist. “My engineers tell me this here winching system will get that whatchamecallit out of here once it’s free from its wrapping-wherever or whenever that might be.” He scowled and almost bit his cheroot in half, then leaned forward and spoke in a mock-whisper, his rough voice dripping with sarcasm. “You can see, I assume, how much I enjoy being left in the dark.”

The Spector had been camouflaged in a sealed wrap when it was first placed into the vessel-Simon knew that much. No one had seen it “undressed” yet; not even Donovan had an idea of what it really looked like, nor was anyone supposed to. His orders had been simple: get it aboard, sail at best possible speed to a particular location, and wait. Nothing more, and don’t ask questions. Donovan hadn’t even been particularly surprised when the destination coordinates had changed completely and unexpectedly in mid-mission. That kind of evasive maneuver was fairly common during black ops; he’d been through it before. As far as Donovan was concerned, Simon and his team were military personnel-that’s what he’d been told. According to the coordinates and instructions he had received, the team was supposed to rendezvous here at Port Williams. And all had gone as instructed.

“I feel as if we’re the slaves who dragged that horse up to the gates of Troy,” Donovan said. “Some big damn piece of work, here for some big damn important reason.” He cocked an eye at Simon.

“One of these days,” he said, “Someone’s going to have to tell me what that thing is.”

“Oh, I think it’s better not to know too much sometimes,” Simon assured him. “But let’s just get to where we need to go and we’ll see.”

He looked at his watch as he spoke, and Donovan nodded in agreement. “I know. We have a three-hour window starting in about eight minutes. I need to get this thing moving.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Simon said.

“Don’t mention it. Your guys in the military pay me a good sum for this bloody job.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Simon turned away and asked for directions to the hull.

I wonder if you’d say that, he thought wordlessly as he moved below decks, if you knew what we were actually planning to do.

THE SOUTHERN SEA

S.S. Munro, 10:46 AM

As Simon entered the main cabin, he noticed the team gathered around the table waiting for him. He could sense the hesitation and fear but was glad to see that everyone was there on time. Max was the last to walk in. He looked at his watch and smiled at Simon.

“I think this is the first time you’ve beat me.” He dropped his bags at the door and said, “Okay, we need some coffee.”

Simon noticed Nastasia in the corner, chatting away with Samantha and Hayden. Ryan greeted him with two mugs of coffee-one for Simon and the other for Max.

“Here you go. Just poured.”

Hayden looked back at Simon and said, “Nastasia tells us there’s a storm approaching. We need to go downstairs and power up the Spector.”

Donovan paused at the door long enough to scrape the room with his eyes. “Lines are free,” he said. “We’ll be on our way in a moment.” His gaze held Simon’s for a moment. “Hope she’s intact,” he said referring to the cargo, and then he was gone.

Max turned to Simon with a look of stunned surprise. “What?”

“He knows, Max. I think he knows something.”

“Andrew could have guided the ship remotely from here on in. There was no reason-”

“He could, but why? We have one of the best captains working for us, and he’s willing to help. That’s far better than a remote handheld console, calibrated by Andrew.”

The vessel’s engines rumbled like an awakening beast as the Munro pulled gently away from the dock, and Donovan guided her massive bulk through a maze of other vessels almost as if the fog wasn’t there at all.

Closer, Simon told himself. Closer.

He stood silently for a long time deep in thought, until Max put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on, we have to go over the gear and exercise one more time.”

They had started doing drills with the extreme weather gear that Nastasia had provided Simon in Santiago, but practice was important for them all-important for survival. He turned to call to the rest of them when Donovan suddenly appeared at the door again.

“Look smart,” he said. “The Chilean Port Authority is coming alongside.”

Simon turned quickly and peered out one of the cabin’s portholes. A sleek Coast Guard vessel with blinding lights was heading toward them at high speed, even as Donovan used the ship speakers to order his crew to the fishing equipment. He barked an order to the bridge as well, and the Munro immediately slowed in the water.

“You all stay here,” Max said to the rest of the team. They were standing together in the center of the room, looking wide-eyed and nervous. “Simon? Captain? Let’s see what this is about.”

As they moved down the corridor, Donovan noticed the pistol hidden behind Max’s back, held in an open holster and inches from his hand. “Hmph,” he said, catching the man’s attention. “Just so’s you know, there are a few more of those hereabouts. I’ll show you where I stash them.”

Max gave him a cold smirk.

The Coast Guard vessel closed the gap between them and pulled alongside. Donovan appeared topside just as the Guard’s spotlight cut through the lifting fog and illuminated a sharp-edged circle on the deck. At the same instant, the thin ribbons of a bright blue scanning laser blossomed from the Guard’s cutter and scanned the Munro’s hull, looking for data on the cargo as well as the identification tag embedded into the ship’s superstructure, along with its registration and shipping license-a mandatory series of serial numbers displayed for satellite and ocean-going recognition.

Simon stood out of sight, at the hatch that led below deck, and held his breath. He knew that the original ‘owners’ of the Munro and the Spector alike had prepared for this eventuality. There were scramblers, not unlike Andrew’s own, already mounted in the hold, set to broadcast false data about the cargo: all they would find were nets, trawling lines, and empty bins-the detritus of a fishing vessel that had just left port.

“Identify yourself,” said an almost mechanical voice from the cutter. It gave the same instruction in English, French, Portuguese, German, Chinese, until Donovan pushed the loudspeaker button on the ships console and said, “Fishing Vessel Kappa Alpha Theta Three One Niner Niner Four Alpha Sigma, designation Munro. Captain Dominic Donovan here.” As soon as he spoke English, the mechanical voice responded in kind. Simon had done his reading; he knew the code was a specific number given to certain ships, allowing them a short window of time to be in the open sea. The scarcity of sea bass and the decline of other species in the ocean had caused very strict regulations to be enforced, with precise limits on fishing times per vessel. And meanwhile, the Guard’s radar was being shown exactly what they expected to see: an empty hold with scattered fishing nets and gear.

“We have an eight-hour pass for commercial fishing,” Donovan said through the megaphone, trying to sound bored and slightly annoyed, just as a commercial fisherman stopped for inspection would sound.

“Noted,” the Guard voice said so quickly that Simon wondered if it was, in fact, an AI. Was the entire cutter being remotely guided? “Munro, your radar and navigational systems are shut down. Are you in need of assistance?”

“Damn it,” Simon muttered under his breath. The systems were down to avoid showing any electronic signature at all, even less than Andrew’s scrambler would show. They hadn’t considered that the absence of the signature during visual contact would make them more noticeable.

But Donovan was a quick thinker. “You notice the lousy catch hereabouts?” he said, letting some anger into his voice. “Soon as I have a decent haul, I’ll have the money to repair and upgrade all that fancy tech, but until then-this is what I got to work with.”

“Regulations strongly suggest electronic augmentation even on retrofitted-”

“I know what ‘regulations strongly suggest,’ thank you. I also know it’s not required, and I promise you I can navigate with a handheld and stick to the eight-hour window without assistance. We will be perfectly safe.” The captain took his finger off the loudspeaker button and Simon held his breath. The Guard could order them back to port for any damn thing they wanted. If the AI had any reservations…

“Window is reduced to six hours due to incoming inclement weather conditions,” the accent-less voice said.

“Fine,” Captain Donovan said, obviously anxious to end the conversation. “Six-hour window acknowledged. Clear to sail?”

Without another word the lights from the Port Authority cutter snapped off, and the boat roared to life and veered away into the disappearing fog at breakneck speed.

The captain watched it go for a moment, and then released a huge sigh of relief to match Simon’s own. Then he spun on his heel and bellowed, “Current heading, full speed ahead! Full throttle!”

The Munro boomed and surged into the open ocean, spray pouring over the bow as it crashed through the rising swell.

Simon backed down the stairs and Donovan joined him. “All right then,” he said, “we’re heading south toward Antarctica now. We’re already running silent, and we’ll be in international waters in four minutes or less. A set of slightly more precise coordinates would be appreciated.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Simon told him. “In the meantime…full speed ahead.”

Donovan snorted. “As if I had a choice.”

* * *

Simon’s team assembled in the hull of the ship-a surprisingly huge space from top to bottom and side to side, filled almost entirely by the bulbous, dead-black mass of the Spector VI, wrapped in a radar-invisible, non-metallic, sound-absorbing neo-fabric that defied scans of any kind. The inside of the ship looked nothing like its aged exterior. The hull itself was scrupulously cleaned and recently repainted; Donovan ran a tight ship, and there wasn’t an oil stain or a misplaced bolt anywhere in sight.

The sheer physical size of the space needed to transport the Spector impressed Simon all over again. The eight-inch-thick cloaking material made it even bigger, but still, the vessel was much larger than the loading hatch above it. At the moment, it crouched on the deck like a dangerous thundercloud being held captive.

The team was close behind him and completely cowed, looking at Spector VI with a mixture of awe and terror. The gigantic vessel looked nothing like what they had seen in the holographic image. In real life it was menacing-harsh, sleek, and mechanical. Donovan shouted from above deck. “Guys, looks like the storm will hit sooner than expected. We have to speed things up.” The roar of the Munro’s engine surged even higher-though Simon hadn’t thought that was possible-and the feeling of speed pulled at them more strongly than ever. The Spector VI, still in its cloak, swayed slightly in response.

“Time to unwrap our present,” Simon told them. “We’ll need everyone’s help.”

This was another process they had discussed and trained for. Each of them carefully moved into position to unlock the connectors that attached the sections of the fabric.

As Max started to open his section of the cover, he got his first good look at the reflective “smart skin” that covered the craft, and his eyes opened up in absolute amazement. Fascinating, he told himself. It was both translucent and metallic at the same time, and absolutely without temperature-not cold, not warm, not even cool. It exactly matched the temperature of the air in general, and of Max’s own fingertips, so it felt rather unusual. Even his time in Special Forces had not exposed him to anything like this.

Hayden grinned as he looked over at Simon, whose contribution to the surface materials used on the Spector was pivotal. Simon shrugged easily and gave him the “go ahead” gesture.

“What you are looking at is an intelligent surface,” Hayden said, “thanks to research that was originally done by Simon. Once we turn this baby on, you will not be able to see it. The surface is charged with super molecules that not only conceal and mimic the environment but they are also intelligent.”

“Intelligent?” asked Samantha.

“Yes,” Simon answered, “but to activate the surface molecules to their maximum potential, the mainframe of the Spector needs to be fully functional, and that means going inside and powering up.” He turned to Hayden and almost bowed to him. “Hayden?” he said. “Would you do the honors?”

Hayden reached into his pocket and took out a device the size of a small cellular phone. He moved his hand across it to reveal the remote console. He spoke into it: “Hayden Sebastian Paulson,” then wrapped the device’s wristband around his right forearm, close to the wrist.

“Hayden Sebastian Paulson acknowledged. Welcome.”

“Welcome to you, Spector VI. Open up, please.” He motioned everyone to step aside, and what felt like a long minute later, the vessel shifted its skin like a recoiling insect. Layers of the exterior shifted, revealing what seemed to be a hybrid of a submarine and a tank. The metallic blue material resembled molded steel but seemed different than that somehow-more like fabric in some places and ceramic in others. The name was etched on the side in letters that glowed slightly and seemed to stand away from the surface itself: Spector VI.

The vessel automatically opened its hatch doors and turned on its interior lights. Hayden climbed up the molded steps to the hatch and entered, barely pausing long enough to motion for everyone to follow. Max, with a look of absolute focus, motioned for everyone to get in. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before. Bring only your life support gear and essentials.”

The Munro started to sway more vigorously than before. Many of the team lurched and grabbed for handholds for support, trying to balance themselves, but the message was clear.

“We need to get this thing out of here sooner rather than later,” Hayden said. “Or something very unpleasant is going to happen.”

ANTARCTICA

Ross Ice Shelf

Blackburn’s chopper descended in the pitch-black darkness of the early morning sky, completely undetected by radar as it approached the giant iceberg off the coast of Antarctica. The special landing pad floating on the ocean less than two hundred feet from the ice made it especially dangerous for the pilot to navigate the descent. Blackburn knew that this would be his last chance. It would take him eight hours to reach the asset, and if this time he was unsuccessful, he would not have another opportunity. As the chopper descended, he and his team geared up into the special suits that would shield them from radar and satellite detection. They were used to this procedure, and it was necessary for the secrecy of the mission. The chopper contacted the launch pad, magnetically connecting to the moving structure, and they felt the violent surge of the ocean as they exited. Twenty-five seconds later, the four men entered into the launch pad through a special hatch underneath the aircraft. As the door closed behind them, compressing the air to create a watertight seal, the chopper detached, disappearing silently like a ghost. Then, with a deafening hiss, the launch pad submerged into the icy waters in less than a minute.

THE SOUTHERN SEA

Spector VI Boarding

The Spector had been fully provisioned for a six-week test cruise before it had been concealed in the Munro’s hold. The first thing Samantha and Ryan did was check to make sure the rations-stored in the same space that had been designed to be taken up by military gear-was filled and secure, and that the oxygen tanks were topped off and ready. They were. Then they moved to their second set of objectives even as the rest of the team made their way inside.

Andrew helped Nastasia climb aboard. She was carrying a small satchel. As she entered the first alcove, the satchel she was clutching onto fell from her hands. It hit the deck with a soft exploding sound, and the contents skittered across the floor.

Embarrassed and slightly annoyed, she moved quickly to gather the scattered belongings. Andrew bent to pick up a small white inhaler that had shot halfway across the alcove.

“Give me that!” she said frantically.

He looked up surprised and handed it over immediately. It was a standard, flat white inhaler used by people with asthma or other lung disorders. In fact, a lot of drugs were delivered as aerosols these days; it was simple, cheap, and sanitary.

“Sorry,” he said briefly. “Just trying to help.”

Nastasia colored for an instant, then composed herself. She took the inhaler from him as if she was receiving an offering. “I apologize,” she said, her Russian accent thicker than normal. “I am slightly embarrassed by my…condition.”

“No need to be,” he said. “I-”

“Come on, people,” Simon said sharply. “Let’s get moving!”

All the team members-now the crew-had assigned tasks, and they got to them now with a sense of renewed urgency. There was little conversation and no time for small talk. The pressure was mounting.

It took less time than they had anticipated to convert the experiment monitoring consoles that lined the bridge into actual work stations for team members who were taking over for the sidelined AIs. In less than an hour, Andrew and Ryan had rigged an eighty-inch holo-screen just in front and above the captain’s chair to deliver a direct feed of the visual data that the wireless cameras were receiving from outside the ship-a virtual picture window of the forward view, eighty degrees wide, just as Max had insisted on. He could even pan left and right an additional fifteen degrees each way, for a full one-hundred-twenty degree arc.

“That’s more like it,” he muttered as he ran his forward-facing holo-screen through its paces.

Barely more than an hour after boarding, the new crew of Spector was released to explore their tiny quarters and prepare for entry into the frigid Southern Sea. Simon, Max, Hayden, and Andrew found themselves alone on the bridge.

“Do you think we should tell the crew before we do it?” Andrew asked Simon.

Simon had thought it through. “No. There’s nothing they can do but worry.”

It was time to activate the power source-the incredibly powerful, dangerous energy system that had caused the military and the British government to make the decision to send the Spector halfway around the world for its initial test.

It truly was black-and-white decision, Simon knew. The power plant would either work as planned, or a fraction of a second after activation it would vaporize everything within a quarter-mile sphere of the source-point, leaving absolutely nothing behind-not even hard radiation.

Simon glared at the panel that would do the work. “So?” he said. “Turn it on.”

Hayden looked up at him from the console and said, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said grimly.

“You’re positive?”

“Hayden, for god’s sake, just do it.”

Hayden smirked. “I activated the damn thing two minutes ago. We’re fine.”

For one instant everyone froze. Then Andrew burst into laughter, and everyone else joined in.

Everyone but Simon. There was nothing to laugh about-not yet. And one ugly task still lay ahead.

He forced a thin smile and said, “Max? We’d better get this done.” Then he turned away and drew Max to a far corner of the bridge while Hayden and Andrew double-checked the power curves.

“You’re sure there’s no other way to do this?” Simon asked his old friend.

“I’ve been over it and over it,” Max said. “And no-there’s not. Look, Donovan seems like a good man; I’m as sorry as you are. But even if the weather were better-and it’s not going to get better, Nastasia says, not for at least a week-we can’t have the Munro operating that winch and powering up those systems in broad daylight, or even in the dead of night.” He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“It’ll work out okay, Simon,” he said. “Everyone will be fine.”

Simon nodded. What was to come was certainly the worst part of their mission so far.

He turned and told the others to finish the prep checklist and to double-check the full operational capabilities of the forward and aft cutting tools. Andrew and Hayden both nodded obligingly. “We’re going to talk with Donovan for a moment,” Simon told them. “Then…we’re off.”

They came back to the floor of the hold and began to cross to the hatch at brisk pace. Simon had rehearsed the speech in his head a hundred times, but now the words were coming to him at a snail’s pace. Everything sounded slow and contrived. How could I have let it come to this? he asked himself.

He brought his hand up to the keypad that would open the door to the corridor-

— and the door slid open all by itself, revealing Dominic Donovan and his nameless lead engineer standing in the hatchway, looking inside, staring at the fully revealed Spector VI as if they were looking at the angel of death.

Shit, Simon told himself silently. Shit! He and Max crowded out of the hold, physically pushing the captain and his lead engineer up the corridor, and keying shut the hold behind them.

“Captain,” Simon said quickly. “You are not seeing this!”

“What the hell is that thing?” Donovan asked, clearly shocked at the site of the massive submersible. He knew he was transporting some type of military machine, but what he was staring at was beyond his wildest imagination.

“I’m telling you: you didn’t see it. It can only cause you a great deal of trouble for the rest of your life.”

Donovan stared at him for a long moment…then nodded slowly. The lead engineer behind him seemed absolutely frozen.

“Look,” Simon said, hating himself, “I’ve come to give you some bad news.”

“Bad…news…” Donovan echoed, losing track of the conversation entirely.

“There’s no easy way to say this. We need to get…the cargo…out of this vessel now.”

“Impossible,” Donovan said, regaining at least some of his composure. “I’ve got a Category 4 storm outside, we can’t possibly operate the winches.”

“I know that,” Simon said. “But the fact remains, we have to release the cargo now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Donovan said, dismissing him. “If we don’t use the winches, you’d have to cut a hole the size of Texas in the bottom of this…”

He stopped himself. He looked at Simon and put all the pieces together.

“You’d have to scuttle this ship,” he said.

“Yes,” Simon answered. “We would. We are.”

“Like hell-”

Max stepped forward, much harder, more aggressive. “Captain!” he barked, and pulled the older man up short. “There isn’t any choice. We’re inside; it’s programmed. And nine minutes from now our cutting lasers are going to peel open the hull of this boat to make a hole wide enough for us to escape, simple as that.”

Donovan was absolutely stunned.

“Get your crew to the lifeboats,” Simon said. “Now. You can activate the beacons-we will activate the beacons-as soon as we’re clear. We’re not far from patrolled territory; you should have a rescue plane homing on the GPS in no time and be home for dinner.”

“Without my ship, you mean,” Donovan said, seething.

“Yes,” Simon answered, calm and smooth as the ice itself. “Without your ship.” He looked at Donovan squarely in his face, “You know the protocol. You’ve sworn secrecy to her majesty’s military, and the last thing you and your crew can do is speak a word about this procedure.”

Donovan opened his mouth-ready to argue, ready to threaten. Simon put up a hand, surprised at his own certainty and calm. “There’s no other way,” he said. “If you care about your life and future-if you care about all the people in there and out here-you won’t waste time fighting with me. You’ll just get everybody to the lifeboats. No one needs to get hurt. Everyone can be safe. But you have to move NOW!”

“But-”

“The damage is done. We will be cutting open the hull in-”

He glanced at Max, who glanced at his chronometer. “Seven minutes now.”

Donovan stared daggers at him for ten more seconds…then tore himself away. “Son of a bitch,” he said, and pushed his lead engineer down the corridor. “Go, go!”

Simon and Max turned away; Max keyed open the door to the hold and Simon stepped in first. Max didn’t like the look on Donovan’s face; he had dealt with too many people in situations like this-situations of life and death that caused people to do irrational things. He was definitely worried.

The instant he was through, Max touched the control again and paused the action. “Simon?” he said. “Get back on board. I’ll join you in two.”

Simon spun around, astonished. “What?”

“I have to get something from up top-something important.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter, just go. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

Simon stared at him for a moment, deciding whether to argue or not…then turned on his heel and sped toward the Spector. He was up the gangway and inside the vehicle in seconds. Max waited until the hatch behind him was secure.

Then he turned back and touched the intercom pad embedded in the bulkhead. “Captain Donovan?” he said. “This is Max. You and your lead engineer need to meet me in the hold, now. Just you two. There…there may be a way out of this.”

He didn’t have to wait long. He knew they would come. By his own internal clock, it was less than sixty seconds later that they stepped through the hatch and entered the hold. Max closed the hatch behind them with the single touch of a button.

“Thank god you came to your senses,” Donovan said. “I’m sure there’s something we can do to-”

Before Donovan could say another word, the bullet from Max’s pistol penetrated his skull. He tumbled to the deck, dead before he hit. A moment later, a second shot and his executive officer’s body fell on top of him with a heavy thud.

Max knew that the sound of his silencer would never be heard, especially in the noise of the thunder outside and the thick walls of the Spector.

He made it up the gangway, opened the aft hatch of the Spector, entered and sealed it behind him in less than a minute. He didn’t have a speck of blood on him.

Except on my hands, he told himself as he double-checked the seal on the aft hatch. For a second, he thought about what he had done, but just for a second. He knew the best thing for everyone was that Donovan was not interrogated or possibly tortured for answers.

He told himself it was the more humane thing to do.

* * *

The rest of the team was well aware of the audacious plan that would sink the Munro and send them on their way; they just thought that Donovan and his crew had been in on it as well. When Max re-entered the bridge, they were all in their places and strapped in. The main entrance hatch hissed as it compressed the air inside the vessel and locked the outside air, within its nine-inch impervious skin.

Max settled into the pilot’s chair. Simon sat beside him; Andrew was in the navigator’s chair and Hayden was conning the engineering station. Max looked around him as he pulled the canopy at the back of his seat’s headrest forward a bit. It slid out in a cupped arch, casting a golden glow on the crown of his head. No electrodes were necessary; no probes needed to be set. The interface was entirely wireless.

“Okay,” he said. “AI separation complete?”

“Complete,” Ryan said. “Nothing’s getting through.”

“Camouflage and chameleon circuitry operational?”

“Ten by ten,” Andrew reported.

“Power and Engineering?”

“I’m going to say…it’s fine.”

Max flicked a cautionary eye at Hayden, who lifted his hands in surrender.

“All right then, go.”

“Medical and Life Support?”

“Ready,” Samantha chimed in.

“Navigation?”

“Go.”

“And Simon? Focus the lasers.”

“Focused,” Simon said a moment later. The crosshairs of the cutting lasers were showing on his console, and a blue dot flared on the hull of the ship itself, visible in the forward-facing flat-screen.

“Then let’s do it.”

Simon depressed the luminous switch. A visible beam, so intensely blue it hurt to look at, lanced out of the gimbaled projectors to the left and right sides of the hull and began to cut along a pre-set course: up and over, down and back.

Water began to gush through the cut, so fast and hard it looked like a beam of white steel. They could all hear it thudding against the hull of the Spector like a battering ram.

The cutting continued. The thin line of water became a torrent, and the steel plating of the ship’s hull began to peel back like the skin of an orange, driven open by the force of the in-rushing water.

The hold was filling quickly as the lasers continued to cut. Plates of steel as large as garage doors began to fall away, swirling into the black depths of the ocean beyond.

“Engaging engines,” Max announced. The controls were set out in a colorful array in front of him, three arcs of holographic symbols and hues, like the multi-tiered keyboards of a high-tech musical instrument. A floating cloud of spheres-the isolated and dormant AI icons-floated off to one side like slumbering attendants waiting for their wake-up call.

The roaring of the water became muted as the levels rose. Max nudged the Spector forward just a fraction, and suddenly the vessel lifted from the buckling floor of the Munro’s hold.

The few objects in the hold that were not secured or welded to the bulkheads floated in the turbulent water that boiled up around them. Max looked away from his holo-display and up at his front-facing flat screen for a moment-then cut the feed, moving it to his own console so no one else could see.

The corpse of Dominic Donovan, arms spread and legs swaying, was floating past the bow camera. A then red ribbon of blood leaked from the bullet hole in his forehead.

The vessel that had carried him for the last month had become his coffin.

“Problems?” Simon asked, looking up to see the holo-display blank.

“Nope,” Max said smoothly, “just checking something out.”

A moment later the turbulent water had pushed the body away to one side behind the ship. Max breathed a sigh of relief and returned the view to the main screen.

“Here we go,” he said and put his mind to moving the vessel forward-smooth and fast, he told himself. Smooth and-

— the submersible shot out of the gaping hole in the bow of the sinking ship, floating free and under its own power for the first time in its existence. Free.

Simon took a moment to imagine the chaos he assumed was taking place a few hundred feet above them: the tilting hull of the Munro moving aggressively against the swell as the storm’s strength intensified, the life boats dropping into the angry sea. He was sure they would hear the loud creaking noise followed by a rumble as their vessel began its final descent to the ocean floor. Donovan and his crew would survive in their sealed life pods, he knew, though it would be an ordeal, bobbing and turning in the stormy water, in waves made even rougher by the sinking of the Munro itself.

He knew nothing of Donovan’s corpse floating in the hold of the doomed freighter. He never would.

“Ryan?” he asked. “The distress beacons are working?”

“Every one of them,” Ryan confirmed. “I’ll keep an eye on them and monitor radio traffic passively until they’re all safe.” He frowned at his console. “Sorry, guys,” he whispered, so no one but Simon could hear him.

Seconds after the Spector had detached entirely from the Munro, the team felt the thundering vibration of the submersible’s thrusters push the vessel down toward the blackness below. The immediate effect was so powerful that Samantha-standing to check a readout that was too high to see while sitting-was thrown off her feet. She landed poorly, banged her elbow and cursed under her breath at her bad judgment and worse luck…but she got to her feet and back to her console without complaint.

“How are we doing?” Simon asked.

“So far so good,” Max said.

Then the lights went out.

* * *

Max had absolutely no idea what was going on.

No, he thought as the console flickered back to life and the front-facing holo-display rolled and fluttered again. Check that. I just don’t know nearly enough.

Sophisticated artificial intelligences grown for these specific tasks were supposed to be handling ninety percent of this craft’s operation. Instead, the cut-off and dumbed-down versions-the only parts that Hayden and Andrew agreed could be trusted without sending signals to the British military-were running about thirty percent of it. And not the important thirty percent, Max thought. Not the part that’s going to get us out of this alive.

He was struggling to make sense of the makeshift digital modules that Hayden had prepared. Some of them seemed to be working wonderfully; others didn’t make a damn bit of sense. He just hoped that Sam on life support and Hayden on the power plant were doing marginally better than he was.

Worst of all, he was sailing blind. Well, not quite blind, he corrected himself. That jerry-rigged front-facing flat screen did give him a trustworthy eyes-up view of what was dead ahead. But there was nothing else-no radar, no sonar, no active or passive sensor of any kind, short of some super-luminal spotlights that made the endless ocean ahead of them glow like a cloud of phosphorous. What was going on above and below him, to the left and right sides, even to the rear was a complete mystery.

But he knew one thing for certain: there were eyes in the sky, far above the surface of the sea, that could penetrate to more than three hundred feet-and those were just the ones he knew of. According to his old-fashioned compass and his trust passive GPS-thank god that was all right to use-they were dead on course for Antarctica, but they were still running far too high in the water. One good deep sonar scan of the region by UNED and they could be detected.

They had to go deeper. Now.

Max eased forward on the luminous controls that would take them down-down to a thousand feet, down into the cold blackness of the Southern Sea, where no one would ever find them.

Ever.

ANTARCTICA

The Command Center

Blackburn wasn’t quite as alone as he preferred to be. He could hear the buzz of activity in adjacent rooms, the occasional and unwelcome sigh of a footfall nearby.

This was not like the room of ice where he preferred to work. There was a desk here and a full communications system that linked him with the rest of the world. A great advantage in some ways; a curse as often as not.

A soft female voice whispered in his ear: Takara, reporting in on her way to Corsica.

“I’ve lost them,” she said.

“Damn. The tracker?”

“We’re scanning, but…they may have found it.”

“May have?” This wasn’t what he wanted to hear, Simon Fitzpatrick and a handful of his compatriots, completely off the charts.

“Shall I get back to London?” Takara asked.

“No,” he said. “You have your mission on the island. That’s where you’re needed.” He cut the connection with a sharp gesture and not a single word.

They’re afraid, he told himself. Terrified. Simon’s oldest friend, murdered by an unseen hand. All of them chased by some shadowy government agency, and they don’t even know why. They’ve run to ground. They’re hiding. Cowering.

Whether that was true or not, it didn’t matter. He turned away from the annoying little episode and put his mind elsewhere.

He had far greater matters to deal with.

THE SOUTHERN SEA

Fifty Miles from Antarctica

The Spector cut through the blackness of the ocean at blazing speed. Simon sat staring wordlessly at the holo-screen and engulfed in deep thoughts.

I wonder if we’ll find him? he asked himself. What if he isn’t there at all? How will I explain all this-justify it? What if the entire mission was for nothing? He played the worst possible scenarios over and over in his head, accompanied by the discordant rummmmble of the Spector’s engines.

The coordinates scrawled on the back of the envelope still haunted him. They persisted in his mind’s eye as if he had looked at them mere moments before, rather than a week in the past and thousands of miles away. He had not shared the last number in the coordinate sequence with anyone; he knew the last of the coordinates signifying the depth would startle the team. It made no sense. He wondered if it was a mistake. How could the last coordinate be over a thousand feet below the ice? And how did Leon know?

The rest of his team sat in silence as well, each submerged in their own grim worlds. Simon watched as Andrew twiddled idly with the sensor controls and Samantha dozed. Nastasia, both nervous and bored, dug into her satchel and pulled out what seemed to be an asthmatic inhaler. Absent-mindedly, she flipped the mouthpiece’s cover open and closed.

“Oh, wonderful,” Ryan said from his station. “Just wonderful.”

Simon roused himself from his bitter reverie. “What’s up?”

Ryan signed bitterly. “Icebergs ahead,” he said. “Lots of them.”

“What?”

“Blame global warming,” Max said from the console. “The glaciers and permafrost on the continental masses have been calving icebergs at a huge rate; both poles have a ring of icebergs floating around them just offshore. Huge navigational hazard.”

Simon seethed. “And you didn’t think to mention it until now?”

“Well,” Max replied acidly, still not taking his hands from the holographic controls or his eyes from the visual and sensor display, “I’ve been a little busy recently, and I was rather hoping that she would be a bit easier to steer so it wouldn’t be such a task.”

There was a low, deep, monotonous beeping sound-not deafening, but impossible to ignore. A shapeless mass appeared on the sonar display and started pulsing a dark, dull red.

“Ah,” Hayden said, recognizing the tone. “Proximity alert.”

“Apparently I was wrong,” Max said through clenched teeth.

He moved his hands almost gracefully, guiding the Spector ten degrees to the right and a gentle five degrees downward. The red blob of the iceberg drifted away from them on the display, fading out of range.

“Problem solved?” Sam asked hopefully from her seat at the environmental station.

“For the moment,” Max said. “There will be others.”

“Lots more,” Ryan said. “I just upped the range on the forward sonar/radar scans, as far as I could. There’s a goddamn forest of these things. The closer we get to the ice wall, the worse it gets.”

Hayden squinted first at the sonar display, then the front-facing holo-screen. It was difficult to see anything through the unadjusted cameras, even with the high-intensity lights on. “Are we still on target for Station 35?”

Max responded without moving his head, “I’m not sure. My instruments are showing a different depth than the Spector.”

Simon saw Nastasia stiffen in her seat. Her eyes narrowed. She tucked the inhaler into her satchel and looked grim.

Hayden scowled at Ryan and Andrew. “I don’t like this,” he said.

“There must be an explanation for it, Hayden,” Ryan said. “I know you believe the instrument cluster over the jerry-rigged holo-display cameras, but-”

“You don’t understand the amount of sensors this thing has,” Hayden said. “They work independently of each other; then the information is cross-referenced and reanalyzed in a thousand ways before you get a signal. Even in its dumbed-down state, the Spector wouldn’t give a warning signal or suggest a course of action if something wasn’t drastically wrong.” He glanced from one instrument set to another, glowering at the console where he was sitting. “But this data is crazy, Simon. I don’t get it. Feels like we’re in the goddamn Bermuda Triangle.”

Max shook his head, trying to make sense of what was going on himself.

Andrew called from the navigation array. “Guys,” he said, “the computers are freaking out. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Hayden,” Max said, “I’m going to adjust course, get us back on track using the instruments only.” The team looked on with growing concern as Max navigated the vessel back on course, ignoring the warning signal.

“You’re going to kill us!” Hayden shouted. “You just can’t ignore the information like that! It-”

“Hayden!” Simon snapped. “We made a decision in Chile to trust Max and his experience. He knows what he’s doing.”

I hope to hell you’re right, Max thought silently. Because at the moment, he felt as if they would be very, very lucky if he didn’t drive them directly into a rogue iceberg and kill them all.

“This is what it shows is directly ahead of us,” Max said. “We’re really traveling at a depth of six hundred meters, down from 350. I’m sure of that. I can see that on the front-facing cameras. No digital interference there. And it shows us nothing but clear sea for at least two hundred feet above us, while the instrument cluster shows…chaos.”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. The instrument holo shows icebergs; my eyes see open water. The holo gives six different depths a minute; I see 350 feet. The cluster shows the opening of Station 35 in one place; the map shows the opening in another place. Strap back in.”

The last comment caught Simon by surprise. “What?” he said.

“Strap back in!” Simon clutched at the belt, clicked it shut, and Max pulled the Spector up into a seventy-five-degree tip, as he avoided another iceberg, shot forward past an oncoming chunk as big as a skyscraper and tipped level again.

The entire team stared at the flat-screen, then at the holo, then back at the flat screen again. The black octagonal dot of Station 35 was growing slowly, steadily larger on both. They all frowned or cursed quietly in confusion.

Nastasia turned back and said, “It’s the same opening.”

“But-”

“It is the same opening!”

Hayden cursed. “Listen! We need to make a decision, there can’t be two Station 35s…we need to make a choice now! We are less than three thousand meters from site one, and five thousand from site two! It’s do or die, people!”

Or both, Max told himself as they surged forward, closer and closer to the final decision point.

Years of covert operations had taught him not to expect the expected. He was convinced that one of the two sites that appeared on the navigational instruments was a decoy, a fake…and he was determined to plant the Spector in the right tunnel, the one that would save their lives.

Max pushed on. Simon watched the octagons of the two Station 35s grow and grow.

“None of this is making sense,” Ryan said. “None of what I’m seeing is what’s displayed in the satellite maps, and the depth that we are looking at is completely different than what I’ve studied.”

“Okay,” Max said. “If we can’t trust the sensors…we trust my gut.”

Simon said, “Max…”

Max said, “Do or die.”

“MAX!”

Max stood up suddenly, threw his arms out, and pushed to the left and up as hard as he could.

The Spector rushed toward the opening that the map didn’t show, the one the instrument cluster insisted wasn’t there at all.

Do or die, he told himself one last time.

Little did he know that the Spector had already passed the threshold of an invisible security parameter deep underwater. Soon, whatever was down there would know that they’d arrived.

VECTOR5 COMMAND POST

One mile below the frozen surface, in the depths of the Antarctic ice, an officer turned to his Black Ops commander and said, “Sir, we’ve got an incision in Fissure 9.”

The commander’s neck almost cracked as his head spun around to face the officer. He never wanted to hear the words “Fissure 9.” Hearing “incision” was bad enough.

The Black Ops commander, designated “Roland” (everyone in Black Ops had strict orders to use aliases), was an impressive-even intimidating-man in his late forties with graying hair shaved barely above the skull and a tall, athletic build. His military presence and strong frame overpowered the small control room.

He and the men who surrounded him had the most important secret in the world to protect-and they would fight to the death to keep it.

Roland’s approach was instantaneous upon hearing the officer’s report on Fissure 9. He walked to the console where the officer was sitting and told him, “That’s not possible.”

He shifted uncomfortably in the extreme weather rig he was forced to wear made from a heat-equalizing polymer that could function in temperatures from thirty below to 120 above; it wore like a body suit that was half a size too small, complete with ribbed sections running the entire length of the limbs. A highly sophisticated heating system transferred the body heat through the suit’s internal channels, keeping the temperature at a comfortable level in the freezing cold.

The mission patch on his right shoulder read “Special Ops-Fissure 9.” The insignia above the patch read “Vector 5.”

Roland knew that an unauthorized “incision”-their official term for entry into the ice shelf-was not only impossible, it was unheard of. He had never known of such an incident in the seventeen years that he had been commander of the unit. It was particularly impossible now. Antarctica was in an absolute quarantine, which prevented anyone landing on the continent. And even before the total lockdown, no one had made an entry through Fissure 9 in twenty years-since its creation.

Fissure 9 did not exist, according to any maps. To make things even more obscure, the depth readings near the ice shelf were manipulated by a set of dedicated computers so all incoming vessels were remotely guided away from the entry through false readings.

As he stood above the officer, Roland realized that if this young man’s report was true, it could be one of the greatest security breaches in history, and it was NOT going to happen on his watch.

He had to do something immediately. Not only could his job and possibly his life be in danger, but the political stability of the entire world-precarious as it was at the moment-was at stake as well.

No one could know what Vector5, the nebulous, nefarious organization for which he worked, was doing deep inside the Antarctic ice. Not now-not ever.

Roland composed himself and calmly asked the officer, “Did you check the log? Is it one of our subs scheduled for a pickup that managed to enter with an AI malfunction?”

“No, sir,” the officer replied. “We aren’t due for a transfer until the thirtieth at twenty-two hundred hours. And the uranium capsules won’t even be ready to transfer until the twenty-fifth.”

“What the fuck is this, then?” the commander said, raising his voice for the first time.

The officer gulped. “I…don’t know, sir.”

“A whale? Some sort of…giant fucking squid?”

“Negative, sir, we’ve scanned for that,” the officer replied instantly.

The commander turned without another word and walked into the adjacent room. Like all the chambers of the station, it had no real corners, just a flat ceiling above and a flat, pitted floor below a circular wall that curved at the junctures, as if they were standing inside a large square that was trapped between two plates of ice. The shape had something to do with the technology that built the labyrinth; he had heard the explanation about “unusual inflatables” and “induced crystallization” and never understood a word of it. He didn’t care; as long as they held up and prevented millions of tons of ice from burying him, he could live with them-cold as they were. Most of the time his surroundings reminded him of the interior of a submarine-curved, windowless spaces connected by hatches and narrow corridors. Except, of course, this “submarine” was thousands of feet below the ice.

The monitor room he had entered was the largest in the station. It was filled with officers carefully studying hundreds of security cameras placed throughout the continent, both above and below the ice. From the outside, the station looked like a cocoon tethered under a huge dome of ice that curved five hundred feet into the frosty air, like a subterranean football stadium. The structure was designed as one of Vector5’s key control and command centers-this one chiefly responsible for Fissure 9-and connected to it through several tunnels of various diameters meant for various purposes. These days, since the total quarantine, the primary function of the station had been logistic coordination for incoming submarines picking up minerals, including uranium. The minerals were packaged in special containers and transferred up to Fissure 9 from various locations around the continent.

The entire operation was incredibly efficient, absolutely controlled, and highly secretive, and it had run without accident, incident, or security breach since its creation.

At least, the commander thought bitterly, until today.

Over the years, Roland had come to hate and respect Fissure 9. The massive tunnel led to three dozen entry points in to the Southern Sea, and stretched for fourteen miles under the ice, to another gigantic dome, far larger than the one that was home to Roland’s own recon center, approximately five thousand feet below the surface of the ice. The far end of Fissure 9, so distant from shore, opened into a large underground basin at sea level, where submarines docked to drop off and pick up valuable resources and minerals. But that was all miles away.

The center’s unique placement and design allowed it to be heated during construction, so it could penetrate the dense ice and then be frozen solid in place. Its sophisticated anchoring system allowed Vector5 to create a network of structures that attached themselves throughout the icy continent thousands of feet below by a series of intricate tunnels. Here in Roland’s three-level recon station, sixty officers carefully monitored the entire length of the construct and carefully accounted for all the submersibles that came to pick up and deliver tons of illegal uranium, and other valuable resources that’d since become scarce.

Roland stopped for a moment and contemplated the motto etched in the wall over the door to the monitor room: Abditus perpetuo…Forever secret. Ultimately, secrecy was the motto of Vector5, a privatized military force designed for this-one of the greatest heists in human history. Its primary mission was to extract valuable minerals from the core of Antarctica, exporting them to a classified location in the US and covering their tracks forever. Vector5 was so secret that not one of the leaders of the Pentagon, the White House, the Kremlin, or the Chinese Central Committee knew of their existence. Not even the world government in waiting that called itself UNED had a clue.

It was the most daunting international smuggling operation the world had ever known-vast and deadly in its scope and sophistication.

If the rest of the world-especially China, with its great interest in Antarctica-discovered what was going on in Antarctica, it would mean instant, inevitable, and unending global warfare. This wasn’t simply an economic scandal of monumental proportions; the scarcity of minerals and the planet’s depleted resources made this exploitation a matter of life and death for billions of people. It would not go unpunished.

So it could not be discovered. It was that simple.

Roland shook off his rare contemplative mood and turned back on his team. He was the very picture of barely controlled rage.

“What are the fucking cameras looking at here? Tell me what the hell has entered Fissure 9!”

The officers monitoring the information scrambled to answer the question, but nothing made sense. Some of the digitally enhanced images of Station 35-one of twelve separate entrances to Fissure 9-were absolutely blank. Others showed ghost images, or flickers of heat that disappeared as quickly as they came. One radar scanner showed a blob as big as a beluga whale; another showed a writhing tentacular thing that looked like a weather balloon with fingers.

No one wanted to tell Roland that they had absolutely no idea what they were looking at.

Finally one of the specialists at the far end of the room cleared this throat and said, “Sir, I think I’ve got a prelim signal, but the cameras are having a hard time reading it.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Roland replied. “We have the most sophisticated camera system in the world, and you can’t tell me what the fuck has entered the tunnel?”

“It seems to be iridescent, sir-almost invisible. The computers cannot analyze the exact material makeup, or even gauge its size or mass.” He dared to glance at the commander, and then wished he hadn’t. “Assuming, ah…assuming it’s there at all.”

“Invisible?” Roland asked and pushed the officer to one side as he moved closer to the console to check the screen himself. He tried reading the information for himself, but he wasn’t satisfied by the answer. The holo-display didn’t make a damn bit of sense, and he had more than thirty years of experience reading output like this. It’s beyond them, he realized. Instead, he turned toward the center of the room where a large table showed the sophisticated tunnel system in a ten-by-twenty-foot holo-display.

“Expand Fissure 9 five to one, Station 35 to three miles.” The AI responded to his verbal command instantly, and the image zoomed forward and in, bringing the long tunnel of Fissure 9 into sharp relief.

This section of Fissure 9 looked like a digital worm ten feet long floating above the surface of the table. There was the entrance in question: Station 35, one of the digitally camouflaged entrances to the Southern Sea.

“Give me an infrared readout and locate movement of anomalies,” said the commander. Instantly, the computer analyzed the tunnel, showing a small speck of…something…moving at a rapid speed, deeper down the submarine feeder-tunnel toward the main corridor of Fissure 9- moving toward them, as it happened.

Roland tapped a small patch on his left shoulder and spoke distinctly, “This is Fissure 9 Command. Connect me to headquarters.”

He heard the response in his ear through the tech implanted there years ago: “Roger that.”

Two seconds later, he heard the voice of the computer on the other side, “Central Command, verify password.”

“Fissure 9, 9005105,” said the commander, looking at the tunnel with the flickering things moving forward at a steady-and impressive-speed.

“Hold on, sir,” the computer said, instantly analyzing the password and connecting him to the voice on the other side.

“What the hell are you doing going audio?” the voice on the other side asked.

“We have an incision,” said the commander. That was all the explanation the other side would need.

The voice belonged to the man designated as Mathias, the commander’s counterpart in Central Command. Although Central Command was miles away and over five thousand feet deep in the ice, it was also the point where everything converged. Most of the transport tunnels that crossed underneath the ice connected there, and Mathias would be just as displeased at hearing that word as Roland had been. The moment Roland pronounced it, the other man’s tone changed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” replied Roland. “We’re still working on the recognition sequence, but I’m convinced it’s not one of ours.”

Roland hadn’t taken his eyes off the multiple screens, but he was no closer to understanding what he was seeing than he’d been five minutes ago. “Command,” he said, hating the decision even as he made it. “I am requesting a dispatch.”

Mathias responded immediately, “You do realize how long it will take for the DITVs to get up there?”

“We’ve got a situation up here,” Roland said, biting it off. “I need assistance.” Dispatching Vector5’s Deep Ice Transport Vehicles (or DITVs) were the biggest, most decisive response he could think of. It was important to hit hard and hit fast. But that wasn’t all.

“Central,” he continued. “Can you send the Spiders up Dragger Pass as well?” Dragger Pass was a three-thousand-foot-long crack in the ice, an incredibly dangerous crevasse as wide as two-hundred-feet in certain areas, which opened on the Fissure at various points along the way. The CS-23s, or the Crevasse Spiders, were the perfect tools for forcing unwanted intruders to stop or die, and the only machines capable of navigating the vertical fissure.

Mathias humphed at the request, thinking it through. “We haven’t used Dagger Pass in years,” he said. “There are easier ways to travel now. It’s going to take some time.”

“We don’t have time,” Roland said. “While you’re deploying, I’m dispatching the Drones to get a better visual of what this thing is.”

“I haven’t said if we’re deploying-”

“Roland out,” he said and tapped his shoulder one more time to disconnect from Central Command. He didn’t have to repeat himself; he saw the surveillance duty officer was already at work.

“Sir, I’ve dispatched eight underwater drones along the cord,” he said, referring to the Fissure 9 tunnel. The tiny robotic cameras no larger than baseballs would travel to their assigned destinations at speeds exceeding thirty miles an hour. Once they reached their goals, they would dig in and remain dormant until activated.

Roland nodded and allowed himself a tiny moment of satisfaction. He walked outside of the monitor room in search of a decent cup of coffee. “Good,” he muttered to himself. “Once we get a look at this thing, I’ll know how to deal with it.”

He only knew one thing for certain: whoever, or whatever, had entered Fissure 9 had a death wish…and he was more than sure he would make it come true.

FISSURE 9

Twelve miles from the open water, deep in the dead-black tunnel of Fissure 9, the Spector pushed on until Max, terrified beyond thought, stopped dead.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t drive this thing blind.”

The bridge was lit only by the dim blue light of the instrumentation. They had doused all the other illumination, as well as the high-intensity external lights to avoid detection.

Max and Simon were both convinced they were being watched-or at the very least, being sought. Sonar and radar-active scanning of the outside world-would draw attention like moths to a flame. So they made themselves absolutely blank…and absolutely helpless. Without the external lights, even the front-facing flat-screen was useless. It just showed black on black on black.

“We have to figure something else out,” he said as he slowed Spector VI to a barely suspended state in the middle of the tunnel-or what he thought was the middle, based on what he had seen just before he slowed the vessel down. He had to keep the vessel moving. There was a hint of a current outside, and holding it in almost the same place would be virtually impossible without power. He just hoped it wouldn’t run into anything before they figured out what to do next.

No one could guess that a military force was already on its way, or that they were less than twenty minutes from the vast central dome of Fissure 9.

Hayden’s depth indicator, working from passive pressure readings, was still functional. That told him how deep they were, and Max could tell from that input alone that they had been traveling in a straight, level line for more than fourteen miles; but that was it. Otherwise: he was blind.

Hayden sighed deeply. “Okay,” he said, “enough with the ‘run silent, run deep’ game. We have to turn on the AIs. It’s our only chance of understanding what’s going on, or we might kill ourselves against the tunnel wall.”

“And if we do, we’ll bring UNED to us within hours,” Simon said.

Andrew was staring at the console, deep in thought. “Can’t we engage just a few of Spector’s outside components?” he asked. “Without turning on the AI module?”

“Like what?” Hayden asked.

“Like the intelligent skin that Simon here created. It ‘sees,’ doesn’t it? It gets a ton of optical, sonic, pressure-wave information over every centimeter of its surface, and uses that to make itself invisible. So if we activate just that, and channel the data through our captive processors here, we can see clear as day without so much as striking a match, or waking up the AIs.”

“And,” Simon added, suddenly realizing the possibilities of Andrew’s plan, “it will make the Spector closer to invisible at the same time. Almost impossible to detect.”

“Well, crap,” Andrew said. “Hit the switch!”

Hayden and Andrew exchanged looks. They had worked on this prototype together for months; they both knew every inch of it, including maintenance tunnels and access tubes.

“Oh, no,” Andrew said. “Please don’t say it.”

“I can’t do it,” Hayden said, “or you know that I would.”

Andrew seemed deflated. “Crap,” he said and lowered his head.

“What?” Simon asked.

Hayden sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his long silver hair. “There’s only one possible way to make the passive aspects of the smart-skin active without AIs,” he said. “It requires some gross rewiring right at the juncture of the dataflow and the skin itself.”

“It ‘requires,’” Andrew echoed, mimicking his boss’ words with a slightly corrosive edge, “crawling on your elbows and knees through an access tunnel about eighteen inches high for about sixty feet. Right under here.” He pointed at the deck’s floor plates and stomped down with the flat of his foot for emphasis. “Great fun.”

“Well, if the treads were out, you could walk through standing up!” Hayden said, sounding oddly defensive.

“Well, the treads aren’t out, are they? And can’t be if we don’t want detection.” He pulled himself up short, raised a hand to stop the response before it began. “No. Wait. Sorry. I just…I really don’t want to do this, mate. That’s all I’m saying.”

Hayden nodded and looked away. “It’s almost impossible to maneuver underneath the cabin while the treads are retracted,” he said. “In fact, we’ve never actually tried it with the treads pulled in and the ship underwater, so…”

“So, no time like the present,” Andrew said. He levered himself out of his seat at Navigation and moved into the ready room. A central floor plate had a ring set into it; it was the work of seconds to pull the ring up and open the plate like a trap door.

Simon saw that the two scientists hadn’t been exaggerating. The plastic-lined crawl-tube that ran the length of the room-and probably the length of the submersible itself-didn’t look wide enough to accommodate a ten-year-old boy, much less a man in his mid-twenties. But Andrew already knew that. He simply disengaged a small flashlight from a wall console, slung it around his neck by its halyard, and sat down on the edge of the access hatch.

Samantha, always concerned about other people’s safety, was the first to speak out, “Andrew,” she said, “are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He shrugged. “It won’t be so bad as long as I can maneuver my way through the madness down there.”

Simon knelt down next to him. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Besides, let’s get serious, we’re blind. We’re dead in the water. Our only chance of surviving this god-forsaken place is to get the sensors on the outside of the vessel working. Then we’ll be able to see miles into the ice.”

Simon forced a smile and stood up, watching carefully as Andrew slid into the access tunnel, turned over on his belly, and-just as he had described-crawled away on his elbows and knees. He waited until he was completely out of sight before he turned back to Hayden and asked, “Have you ever run the smart skin without an AI involved?”

When he heard no response he looked up and caught Hayden staring back at him.

“No!” Andrew called from under the floor. His voice sounded tinny, but otherwise he might as well have been in the ready room with them. “But it’s worth a try!”

They returned to the bridge, following the sounds of Andrew snaking his way under the floor. Max was still in the pilot’s seat, staring at the motionless console, ready to jump at a moment’s notice.

He glanced around as Simon and Hayden reappeared. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I think you should all put on your cold suits-those lovely outfits Nastasia brought for us, Simon. If we hit something or spring a leak before we get sensors back…well, it could get ugly.”

Samantha made a face, as if she had just tasted something very bitter. But then she took a deep breath and said, “I’ll help break out the gear.”

As she stood, Max turned to Nastasia. “You’re a scientist specializing in ice, right?”

“You know that I am,” she replied calmly. “Why?”

“Then maybe you can tell me why we are traveling in a tunnel miles under the ice shelf of Antarctica without it freezing over.”

She paused for a long moment and then said bluntly, “I’m honestly not sure.”

Max just stared back, his suspicion growing deeper.

Hayden made a surprised sound from his post at Engineering. “Huh,” he said. “What a good question. Wonder why I didn’t think of it.” He powered up a small sampling station to take a half-liter of seawater for analysis.

Sooner or later, Max told himself, I’m going to find out who you are, Nastasia.

Nastasia looked away from him. A moment later she got up and moved back to the ready room.

They could all hear Andrew clanking and grunting as he wedged his way forward, threading through the maze of electrical and mechanical components that were the heart of the Spector. The specs were right, he told himself. At some junctures, there really was less than ten inches of space-barely enough for a human body. Some of the nodes and connectors he was passing were sharp-edged or jagged; others were just plain deadly. He knew that the high voltage, produced by the hydrogen reactor and relayed through some of these components, could kill him instantly if he came in contact with it, and there were points where the up-thrust gears and spokes of the tread system made it almost impossible not to touch a live spot.

Andrew was starting to sweat, and he knew he wasn’t halfway there yet.

“Huh,” Hayden said. “I’m looking at the results of the seawater analysis, and I’m picking up something…unusual.”

“What do you mean, ‘unusual?’” Simon moved over to see for himself.

“I’m not sure.” He glanced at Nastasia, who had just re-entered the bridge. She rushed to his station and looked at the data.

“Perhaps,” Hayden said in a concerned tone, “it’s some sort of chemical additive. It does, in fact, resemble the molecular components of a type of retardant.”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with the sampling system,” Nastasia said frowning. “This isn’t the kind of stuff you’d expect to see in Arctic water…though, I admit, it could explain the lack of ice.”

“What are you suggesting?” Simon asked Hayden. “That it’s a type of anti-freeze? That’s crazy.”

“I agree, crazy. But it sure as hell isn’t a compound that would exist naturally.”

Samantha was pacing directly over Andrew’s last known location. “Andrew?” she called down, worried about his safety. “Are you all right?” She turned back toward the rest of the team and said, “I’m not sure what’s going on down there, but this is taking far too long.”

Hayden nodded in reluctant agreement. “Let’s give him a bit more time. The space is impossible to maneuver.”

“Maybe everyone should suit up right now,” Max suggested without lifting his eyes from the holo-display in front of them. “If something comes for us, or we drift into an obstacle.”

The team members rose and moved quickly to the sleeping quarters at the aft of the Spector to put on the suits. Nastasia explained that the outfits were meant for deep subsurface work and were waterproof; they would stabilize the wearer’s metabolism while the batteries supplied enough heat to survive, at least for a few hours before they needed to be recharged. Without them-on land or underwater-it would be impossible to withstand the sub-zero temperatures of Antarctica. The safe phones that Andrew had given them weeks and thousands of miles earlier were going to be useless now; they would never stand the extreme cold. But each of them activated and tested the wrist communicators Andrew provided that resembled watches-the ones that would work at subzero temperatures.

As the team members pulled on the three separate layers of the suits and attached the communication devices to their wrists, the stark reality of being hundreds of feet below the ice became a real notion to them for the first time.

“Hayden, I need you in the front while I suit up,” Max said.

The inventor goggled at him. “No!” he blurted. “I mean…I…I’m not a pilot. I don’t actually drive these things, I just build them.”

“So who better to sit behind the console?” Max said, standing up. “Look, there’s nothing to it; we’re barely moving at the moment. Just watch this indicator and this attitude gauge, and adjust as needed. Easy as that.” He didn’t wait for an answer; he just stood up, pulled Hayden into the command chair, and slid back toward the ready room and beyond.

For the first time in his life, Hayden was in command of one of the ships he actually built. A sense of claustrophobia set in. He questioned why he had gotten himself involved in the operation in the first place. I’m a goddamn reclusive genius, he told himself, not Indiana Jones.

Meanwhile Andrew had wormed his way to the crucial juncture between the smart skin and the datastream connectors, just below the command console of Spector VI. Ironically, he was the only one not wearing one of the temperature-regulating eco-suits, but he was the closest to the freezing water rushing past, literally inches away and making the chamber icy cold. He shivered as he lay on his side, barely holding onto his flashlight, desperately wishing the fuselage lights hadn’t been turned off.

This is it, he told himself. His hands were only twelve inches away from the fiber optic connectors, each one as thick as a finger, but they were almost completely surrounded by silver contacts, sizzling with discharge from the smartskin. Any sudden move, any momentary contact, would end his life instantly.

Twelve inches, he told himself. Might as well be twelve miles. He pushed his body forward slowly, very slowly, stretching out one arm, extending three fingers to reach the connection. Careful…he told himself. Careful…

Above and behind him in the ready room, all but two members of the team had suited up and returned to their work on the bridge. Simon and Nastasia still remained.

Simon was cinching up his boots when he saw Nastasia struggling with the third layer of her rig, getting it twisted and putting it on half upside-down. He moved over and took the limp sleeve from her. “Let me help you with that,” he said.

“I think I am all right,” she responded.

He ignored the stubbornness and moved closer. “Here. The battery pack connects with the exterior suit like this,” he said. He took it gently from her fingers, reversed it, and plugged it effortlessly into the socket she’d been struggling with for ten minutes.

“Hmm,” she said, quirking her mouth. “I suppose I could use some help.”

He tried to untangle the connector as she pulled her hair up through the suit…and in that moment, Simon’s childhood flashed in front of him.

He caught a quick glimpse of a tattoo on Nastasia’s neck, right at the nape, just below the hairline. It was a hauntingly familiar design-identical to the one he had seen since he was boy on his father’s briefcase, identical to the one on the door to his father’s mysterious study in Corsica-the symbol that had haunted him all his life.

Simon had always associated the symbol with his father, but Oliver had never explained what it was. And now here it was again-on Nastasia’s neck. A chill ran through him.

Nastasia sensed something had changed. She turned back to him and frowned when she saw that he was white with shock.

“Are you all right?” she said. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

He stared at her for a long time and then nodded. “I’m fine.”

He noticed something more as she looked at him: her eyes. It wasn’t their shape as much as the color-a strange light blue, pale and almost colorless in certain kinds of light.

The only other person he knew who had eyes that color was his father.

Ryan interrupted the moment with a nervous call to Sam, who was still hovering over the open maintenance hatch. “Sam!” he said sharply. “What’s going on with Andrew downstairs?”

Before she had a chance to respond, Andrew’s voice came up through the deck-plates: “We’re good to go!”

They could hear him rattling and scraping, crawling back the way he had come. Hayden began to activate the holo-displays and monitors immediately, one after another, moving into the seat next to Max to begin the calibration process.

“Andrew!” Hayden shouted, “I’m not getting a thing! Which channel did you use, there’s no-”

Andrew’s head popped out of the maintenance hatch so suddenly it made Samantha jump back in surprise. “Use the standby mode! That should work!” He lifted his arms, and Ryan and Samantha helped pull him free of the tunnel and close the hatch, while Hayden struggled to reconnect the passive sensor functions to the displays.

It happened all at once. The display in front of Max flickered and burst into brilliant full-color life, showing the view in front of the ship as clearly as a well-cleaned picture window. Three different hologram displays-one complete sphere of the space around the ship out to three hundred feet, one deep scan aft, and one deep scan forward-blossomed to life in an almost blinding rainbow of color, filling the entire forward section of the bridge.

And all of them showed exactly the same thing: they were drifting nose-first into a solid wall of ice.

“Brace yourselves!” Max bellowed and lunged at the command console. Before the team had a chance to react, he reversed the thrusters and tilted the submersible violently upward, throwing everyone off balance.

“Collision alert!” the voice of the Spector called. “Collision alert!”

CENTRAL COMMAND STATION

“Sir, we just lost a drone,” the Surveillance Officer said, sitting in front of a holo-display.

Roland spun on him. “What the hell are you talking about?” he shouted. Before the officer had a chance to respond, the commander continued. “How could you lose a drone? You’re sitting right there navigating it.”

“I think I hit something, sir.”

“You hit something?” Roland bent over his shoulder and peered at the display. “Get the rest of the drones on its tail. What were your coordinates?”

He reeled them off without taking his eyes from the screen. “At 1,032 feet, sir,” he said.

Roland turned to the digital holograph of Fissure 9, thinking it still displayed the beacon of the intruder. But the tiny blinking light had disappeared.

“God damn it,” he hissed. The vessel it represented could be almost anywhere in the labyrinth by now, but given its last known location, its direction and speed, he knew exactly where it was going. “Whatever the hell this is, it’s made its way to the loading station,” he said. Then he turned to his team. “We’ve got to get there as soon as possible.”

He tapped his shoulder again, trying to connect to Central Command. After relaying his password he asked, “What’s the status on Dragger Pass?”

Mathias came on immediately this time. He didn’t sound happy. “We’ve dispatched four units, fully armed. They’re on their way to you now. ETA is twenty-eight minutes.”

Too damn long, Roland said only to himself, then tapped his shoulder and disconnected. Once again, he turned to his team. “We don’t have a goddamn half an hour,” he said. “Load up the DITVs. We’re going to take care of this ourselves.”

The officer in charge of special operations stood up suddenly. “Sir,” he said, crisp and cool, “if I may, it will take us more than twenty-five minutes to reach the loading station ourselves with the DITV. Only the third tunnel up to the Dragger Pass is available. Tunnel Two has caved in.”

Roland was furious. “Damn it!” he said again, and smashed his fist against the console. Then he spun away and stalked from the room, throwing his last command over his shoulder with venomous contempt. “I’m getting the goddamn flares!” he snapped.

* * *

Three thousand feet below them, four CS-23s, the dreaded Crevasse Spiders dispatched from Central Command, crawled through a pitch-black opening to Dragger Pass. They were marvelous machines: 160-foot wide, eight-legged robotic transport and weapons platforms, designed to travel everywhere and anywhere through the deep ice. Each robotic craft housed a crew of eight special operations soldiers in the main cabin; that spherical cabin rotated 360 degrees, keeping the crew level while the main body of the Spider violently twisted and turned on its sixty-foot expandable legs, rotating and extending for extreme flexibility and speed. This CS-23 could climb any icy terrain by compressing against the walls or stretching across wide crevices; it could travel vertically with ease or streak like lightning along a flat horizontal surface at more than thirty miles an hour. The tips of the retractable legs even had specialized heated anchor joints that could penetrate the ice and lock the leg into place, allowing the robot to hang from no more than three of its eight legs if necessary.

Only the cockpits were illuminated as the Spiders pressed against the walls of ice and crawled upward at tremendous speed. Below them, the dark fissure of Dragger Pass dropped another several thousand feet straight down to the ice-locked bedrock below. The Spiders looked like apparitions coming up from the depths of Hell itself; even their mechanical sound was no more than a whisper; a subtle mechanical hissing made by the constant rotation of their arms.

They were closing in. Fast.

* * *

Roland wasted no time. He made his way to the armament room and pulled down a crate of the special rifles that Vector5 had nicknamed “flares.” The long-barreled weapons, stored in racks of twenty with thirty-cartridge magazines, were designed for illumination more than offense; they actually shot luminescent bullets that, once in the ice, could be turned on remotely to make the translucent walls glow with a penetrating, bluish light. Although these were not used as standard rifles, they had powerful destructive potential as well; the shells could easily pierce the armor of any sub-ice vehicle.

Roland wanted a full rack of flares in his DITV, along with two extra crates of ammunition. He was certain of his goal: he needed to stop whatever had entered Fissure 9 before whoever was inside got a look at the loading cranes above the dome. He knew that the fate of the planet rested on the secrecy of the operation. He knew there could be no half measures.

He didn’t like it, but Roland was prepared to take lives if he had to. There was no other solution.

Six Vector5 soldiers under Roland’s command followed him silently onto the Deep Ice Transport Vehicle. The transport looked like something out of a science-fiction movie: three gigantic tires, bigger than a jumbo jet’s-two in front, one in back. The two front tires extended outward through a complex structure protruding from the central part of the body like a cat ready to lunge forward. Below the main cabin that hovered eight feet above the ice was a ramp that lowered to make an entrance into the vehicle. But what made the DITV unique was its fragmented surface, as if it had been covered with the shards of a shattered mirror. It was stealth technology-a variation on the same stealth-tech that every Vector5 vehicle employed.

Although the depth of their operation was too great for satellites to detect, Vector5’s engineers were taking no chances: the surfaces of all its vehicles were broken up into polygons, making radar detection almost impossible, and they were covered with non-reflective, sound-absorptive coatings to make them even harder to scan. What’s more, they were silent, powered by tremendously efficient batteries that allowed them to generate great power and speed. A sophisticated AI unit ran the entire vehicle without any help. It was almost entirely self-guided, requiring only audio commands but rarely needed physical manipulation of certain components.

As the Vector5 team entered the vehicle, the commander took the central seat. It offered a 360-degree view of his surroundings through digital displays. The DIT Vehicle had no windows; they were unnecessary. The crew had better visibility with the advanced camera systems on board.

Roland shifted restlessly as the crew ran through the standard systems check. There was no time to waste; he knew that. It would take them more than twenty-five minutes to ascend the thirty-degree incline, up through Tunnel 3 to the loading station at Fissure 9-where the mysterious visitor would be waiting, he was sure.

The vehicle’s door closed with a hissss, compressing the atmosphere in the airtight cabin even before the soldiers had taken their positions. The pilot, his eyes fixed on his guidance console, spoke the words: “Destination: Loading station. Via: Tunnel 3.”

In less than three seconds, the DIT Vehicle adjusted its wheels and rotated toward the direction of the specified tunnel. The movements were so fluid the crew could barely feel the turn of the wheel from inside the compartment; the first clue was the sudden, serious push of the invisible hand of momentum on Roland’s chest as the DIT accelerated swiftly and smoothly, like a rocket-powered tank, moving with eerie silence into Tunnel 3 without hesitation.

“Let’s have the readout of the drones,” Roland said, still restless. The DITV’s AI instantly connected him to the recon station they had just left.

One of the soldiers on board, deep-scanning their destination, raised his head. “Sir, I’m spotting an unusual type of submersible, in Fissure 9, not far from the loading station,” he said.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Roland shouted. “Are you sure it’s not one of ours?”

“Sir, the computers have cross-referenced all possible embedded codes given off by our subs. Nothing is showing up.”

Slanting forward and adjusting the handgun on his side, Roland said, “This better not be the Chinese! If it is, their goddamn military satellites have already followed the entry.”

“Sir, the submersible gave off no signals, not even to our own satellites,” the surveillance officer said. “If they did, we would have picked up the incision ourselves.”

“Nothing can be that stealth,” Roland said flatly. “Check for anomalies in the Southern Sea within the past month. Look for sighting, undocumented arrivals, unexplained sinkings-anything.” Something would give away the source of the intruder. It had to.

“Sir.” It was one of the soldiers, working on a handheld device the size of a lighter. “Central Command has given us three anomalies. The strategic AIs give low significance scores to two of them. The third is a freighter called the Munro; it foundered and sank at the sixtieth parallel at approximately 1100 hours yesterday. There are no codes assigned to it, but standard satellite surveillance logged a rendezvous with the Chilean Coast Guard just a few hours before it sank.”

“Sank?” the commander repeated, analyzing the situation. “Interesting. Send me the data.”

The tactical officer who had started the discussion touched his device in the corner, and Roland’s own handheld buzzed and showed him the Munro’s stats: length, draft, age, registration. “Sir,” the tactical officer said, “the boat has been traced back for two months. Origin seems to be a port in Portugal-Tavira-and seems to have docked several times, disappearing for a month in Argentina at San Sebastian, before making its way through the Straits of Magellan.”

“That’s our bogie!” Roland said. The size of the ship, the size of its hold, its utter lack of shipping manifest. Fishing boat my ass, he thought. They brought that damn intruder in from Portugal or farther north. “Check the probability of speed from the sinking of the boat to Fissure 9.”

“Sir,” responded the soldier…and a beat later with all efficiency, “Central Command suggests a possibility but low probability. The reason given is that the speed of the vessel would be too high to reach us in time.”

“Oh, I think that little bastard can go just about as fast as it wants,” he said and glared at the display that showed his intruder as a three-dimensional blob, moving closer and closer to the central lake so far below the ice. “I bet it can do almost anything.”

FISSURE 9

The Spector VI missed the wall of ice by thirty feet. Max could read that measurement quite clearly on the holo-display in front of him. That had been more than ninety seconds ago; now they were speeding away from the side of the tunnel at an oblique angle, moving laterally with great speed and carefully, carefully, even deeper into the tunnel.

On the bridge and in the ready room, the team members tried to gain their composure while Hayden hunched over the tactical console and focused frantically on controlling the new exterior functions of the Spector. Max, intense and committed as ever, simply concentrated on keeping them all alive.

Simon sat next to Max in the co-pilot’s chair and tried to watch the console, the holo-screen, and the crew all at once. He cast a long look over his shoulder and called out, “Is everyone okay?”

“We’re fine,” Ryan replied as he helped Samantha to her feet. The Spector was swaying side to side, fighting the invisible currents of the tunnel’s treated water. It was difficult to stand while the craft gained its equilibrium.

“We’re reaching the end of the tunnel,” said Max, frowning at the forward deep-scan. Not all that deep at the moment, he told himself. This ice interferes with all the passive scans. Might as well be concrete. Not knowing enough-hell, he corrected, not knowing much of anything in this environment-was frustrating and unfamiliar to him. Max was used to being on top of the situation; he was trained to think three steps ahead. But this constant, knife-edge improvisation was wearing on him.

“You have an idea what’s above us?” Hayden asked, still peering at his version of the scans.

“No,” Max said flatly. “My visibility is about three hundred feet. Yours?”

Hayden scowled. “No better.” He spun in his chair and confronted both Simon and Max. “But look,” he said. “The invisibility functions are up and running. All of them. We are now invisible to just about every sensor spectrum known to man: radar, sonar, visible light, infrared, acoustic, even mass spectrography.”

“Very impressive,” Max said.

“Yes it is,” Hayden replied, trying not to sound proud of himself. “But more important, it means we can use the active sensor array and not get caught.” He glanced sideways at the console and allowed himself a small shrug. “At least, we can do it in microbursts, fractions of a second every ten seconds, so that no one can get a lock on us.”

Max grinned as he piloted the vessel toward the end of the tunnel. “So lots of quick peeks are okay, but no staring allowed.”

Hayden nodded eagerly. “Exactly.”

Simon thought it through. “Okay,” he said. “We really do need to see farther and deeper than three hundred feet in any direction. Give it a try. And look for an approaching…anything…at the same time, okay?”

“Done,” Hayden said and spun back to his console. Another hologram block, this one far longer than it was wide, blossomed on the left side of the bridge. “Engaging deepscan burst…now,” he said.

The new image of the world around them snapped into place. The Spector was a tiny glowing button in the middle of a huge-an unbelievably huge-network of tunnels and basins, carved out of the ice of Antarctica. The channels and fissures and caverns and alcoves stretched off in every direction-above, below, forward, aft, left, right-in a 360-degree view that moved slowly as they skimmed down the tunnel.

Even Hayden was amazed. “Mother of god,” Hayden whispered, unaware he was speaking aloud at all. “What’s going on in this frozen hell?”

Simon and Ryan noticed the movements in the tunnels at the same instant. “Forward, about twenty degrees right and…am I reading the scale right?” Simon said. “About half a mile away?” He jumped up and pointed at the blue-diamond blob in one of the approaching tunnel projections.

“Right,” Hayden said. “About three thousand feet as the laser scans.”

“Oh my god,” Samantha said, putting her hand on her stomach, terrified. “Whoever’s out there-they can see us.”

“No,” Simon assured her, “they’re just heading to our last known location, before we disappeared from their scans. Which means we should be somewhere else.” He cast a hard look at Max who nodded without looking back.

“No worries,” he said. “We’re out of here.” He ticked up the power to the thruster, and they surged forward, finally emerging from the endless tunnel that they had entered fourteen miles earlier, back at Station 35, and flew into a vast basin, half a mile deep.

The holo-display showed it clearly: The Spector had burst into a large bowl-shaped depression several hundred feet in diameter. Above it was a gigantic dome and a thin blue plane just a hundred feet over the Spector itself. It took Simon a moment to realize it was an indicator of the water/atmosphere interface.

“So…some of these tunnels are dry?” he said. “I mean, above the water line?”

“By my estimate,” Ryan said, “most of them. We’re more than ten miles inland, remember. We may have entered at four hundred feet below sea level, but we’ve gradually-very gradually-been moving upward. And now, we’re at sea level.”

“It’ll take us a few minutes to breach,” Max said. “Assuming we want to. Then we’ve got to find a way to take cover and quick.” He glanced at the deepscan holo-display and scowled. “Whatever is in that tunnel,” he said, referring to the Dragger Pass, “is approaching us pretty rapidly.”

“I agree. I don’t want to introduce us just yet,” Simon added.

Everyone on board knew the consequences. If they were discovered, their careers and possibly lives would be short-lived.

They ascended to just a few feet below the surface in silence, every eye focused on the deepscan or the flat-screen, trying to draw more information-or even a solution-through sheer force of will.

Hayden was gazing into the infinitely complex maze. “Simon,” he said, “Whatever Oliver has told you must be true. We’ve stumbled on to something dangerous here. Too dangerous for us to be a part of.”

Simon looked at Nastasia, trying to guess at what she was thinking. “I can’t tell you anything that will help you, Simon,” she said. “To my knowledge, there is no technology that can create these tunnels, let alone survive this deep within the ice. These are not the tunnels I spoke of.”

Ryan nodded in agreement. “Way beyond anything I’ve seen. And I’d have to agree with Hayden, this is definitely something we shouldn’t be a part of. It’s just too unbelievable to be true.”

Samantha was shaking her head in astonishment as she stared at the approaching blobs of light. “It makes no sense,” she said. “The Madrid Protocol is still in place, not to mention that Protocol 7 was just initiated. There is an absolute quarantine in Antarctica. No one should be here. No one. This is a violation of global magnitude.”

Simon took it all in, thinking furiously as the Spector pushed toward the open air above them. He tried to take in everything they had learned, everything that had happened in the last few weeks-even in the last few hours. He wondered if Oliver had been dragged down here knowingly or by force. But it didn’t matter-his father was in danger, and he would find him.

Whoever was down here, whoever was running this mad operation, knew where Oliver was and what had happened to him, and Simon would find him and find out for himself.

A small, sudden movement made him turn to look at Nastasia. That mark on the back of her neck, he thought. What does it mean? What does it have to do with my father-with Nastasia herself, and her reason for being here? Does she know I saw it? Why would she have that symbol on her neck?

Her remarkable sapphire eyes revealed nothing. Her small, enigmatic smile offered even less.

Max’s voice broke the silence and brought Simon back into the moment. “Ready to surface,” he said to Simon. “Shall we?”

“Won’t we look like a big dent in the water?” Samantha said. “I mean, just because the Spector is invisible, it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Hayden shook his head. “No, the smartskin samples the terrain and builds a multi-spectrum camouflage. We just look like another piece of the sea, with the right color and wave action.”

She shook her head. “Amazing.”

“Yes,” he admitted.

In the brief seconds that remained, Simon tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He wondered if there was a connection between UNED and what was happening in Antarctica. Did they know what was going on, or was this somehow beyond them as well? Oliver himself may have been played for a fool. He was requested by UNED for the Antarctica project, but soon he was working for some “department” that had no real name, and not long after that he had “died”-or, rather, disappeared.

And then there were the rumors of all the other scientists who had mysteriously vanished in recent months and years.

Max let the Spector hover just below the surface and put his full attention on the blobs of light-the whatever-they-were who were approaching from the side tunnels. They would be arriving in ten minutes or less.

“Invisible or not,” he said, “I think we’d be much better off confronting these…people…from land. I’m going up.”

Simon turned back to Max with a new look of resolve. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Max grinned. “Thought so.”

He put his hands out, spread his fingers and lifted them both very slowly, and Spector VI rose to breach the frigid water, like some vast supernatural creature of the sea, invisible to mortals but larger than any whale. Water streamed down its glittering sides. Flukes on the left and right side opened, breathing out foul carbon dioxide and replenishing the breathable air.

They were just a few hundred feet from the edge of the icebound shoreline. The cavernous space was lit by some sort of dull illumination that seemed to come from within the ice itself. It was no brighter than the outside world would have been a few moments after sunset, but it was enough to see by. More than enough.

“Let’s get her to shore,” Max said. He snapped his fingers together, locking the console for a moment, then pulled his hands back and turned to his best friends. “So,” he said, “you want to help me engage the treads on this monster?” referring to the tracks that would convert the Spector to an amphibian transport vehicle.

Simon grinned. “What do you need?” he asked.

It took the consent of two pilots, one at either side, to convert the vessel from full submarine capacity to amphibious form. They both palmed the sensor plates at the same time, touched the approval panels when they turned green, and looked down at the floor as the faint rrrrrrrr sound grew louder. The exterior plates were pulling back and locking. The tread compartment was flooding as it was supposed to. The treads were extending downward, covering the curved underside of the vessel, then locking into place. Test lights flashed. Ready lights illuminated as the treads extended fully.

Max slipped back into the command chair and grinned. “We’re good,” he said. He looked at Simon almost triumphantly. He could barely believe what they had accomplished. “We’re going to the surface of the ice.”

For a moment Simon stood silently looking at the holo-screen in front of them. Then he said without needing acknowledgment, “Let’s go get my father.”

TUNNEL 3

“Commander,” the surveillance officer said, “I think you should see this.”

The DITV was making record speed, careening down the slick, smooth walls of Tunnel 3 at twice the recommended speed. But Roland was determined to get there first and do what needed to be done.

Screw Central, he told himself. Screw everybody. Fissure 9 is my responsibility. It has been for nine fucking years, and I will be goddamned if anyone, anyone enters this place without my permission!

The gyroscopes that were designed to keep the transport’s cockpit steady despite its speed and attitudinal changes were whining with stress. In a normal vehicle, the passengers would have been plastered against the walls and quite likely injured already. In the DITV, pushed to the limit as it was, Roland and his men were safe enough, but they found it impossible to stand without help as they traveled at a truly insane speed. Still, Roland made it to his feet using the back of his seat and the edge of the console to stagger across the chamber to the surveillance officer’s side.

There were six different screens and three-dimensional displays arrayed across the forward half of the transport. Five of them showed the churning gray static of interference or a rock-solid, entirely believable representation of the Shipping Dome, their destination.

The Dome looked completely quiet, silent, undisturbed.

The last console, a three-dimensional hologram as large as a steamer trunk, showed something entirely different: the glowing, shimmering, oil-on-water rainbow reconstruction of an amphibious vehicle that was half-beetle, half-tank.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, both shocked and angry about what he was looking at.

“I have no idea,” the officer said. “It’s entirely invisible to every one of our imaging scans, except this new one, this gravimetric mass detector. We just installed it last month and even that is only getting partial data. This…this thing is almost entirely undetectable. I’m not even sure you could see it unless you were standing right in front of it.”

“It has to be one of ours,” Roland muttered, still having trouble believing his eyes. “No one else on the planet could do this.”

“Of course, sir,” the officer said, then swallowed nervously. “But…”

“I know,” Roland said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it, either.”

The vehicle’s tapering bow was almost insectile. It swelled back in long, sinister curves, its iridescent skin almost convulsing with colors that seemed to flicker in and out of the visible spectrum. It had no windows, no visible means of propulsion, and no hatches-none that he could see, at any rate. And the mechanical arms at its side, the treads below it, made it more than just menacing: it made it an undeniable, and probably unstoppable, weapon of war.

“I don’t care what you have to do,” the commander said to his crew. “I don’t care how hard you have to push this piece of shit or what chances you have to take. Just get me up there NOW!”

They were less than six minutes from the basin. One of the soldiers made the mistake of quoting the ETA to his commander, and Roland turned on him quick as a snake.

“NO!” he bellowed. “Not fast enough!”

“Sir,” the navigator said hating the sound of his own voice, “the Spiders are trailing behind us by eight minutes but making headway.”

“Of course they are,” he said. “They’re bigger, more sophisticated, and more mobile than we are.”

He stepped forward, hoping against hope that he was really seeing what he thought he was. “My guess? Whatever that thing is, we’re going to need some heavy armament to stop it.”

SPECTOR VI

The members of the team braced themselves as the Spector VI lifted up toward a shallow edge of the submerged ice. Max had already scanned the shoreline for a thousand feet in either direction, and this was by far the most gradual and gentle slope in the visible terrain.

The treads of the amphibious vehicle were completely extended and made a slight grinding sound just beneath their feet. It was a little hard for Simon to fully visualize, but it was true nonetheless: what had been a submarine just minutes ago was now fully capable of carrying them into the open-air tunnels that lay in front of them.

Hayden, meanwhile, was studying the increasingly detailed schematic of the tunnels that his microburst deepscans were creating and updating every ten seconds. He had already succeeded in mapping the maze for miles into the deep ice, but he knew the vast network of tunnels he could see-or rather, that the Spector could see-went on for many miles more. “Maybe across the entire damn continent,” he muttered, more to himself than his companions.

“Contact now,” Max said with an almost gentle tone, and the Spector jumped and leaped as the treads grabbed at the icy terrain. This time everyone was as prepared as they could be; they were all seated, strapped in, poised. They gripped their armrests, braced their legs as the vessel grabbed at the ancient ice beneath its treads and surged forward with an awesome, rumbling skirrrl of rubber against ice.

The Spector pushed upward and forward with enormous force. Simon peered at the forward-facing holo-screen, watching the white-on-gray-on-white shoreline grow closer and more differentiated. Max, meanwhile, realized for the first time that if the Spector had been as originally described-just a souped-up submarine-they wouldn’t have had a chance of survival now. He thought about how incredible the vessel actually was as it pushed its way out of the water with no effort at all; his heart started pounding at the thought of finally being here-here, on solid ground in Antarctica, though he had never imagined he would be a thousand feet below its frozen surface.

“Where next?” Andrew said, his voice betraying the level of tension they were all feeling.

“I vote for this tunnel here,” Hayden said, pointing to a specific opening in his holographic display. “It’s wide and it’s deep, and if this imaging system is even half right, it can get us far away from here faster than anything else.”

“How so?” Simon said, frowning at the display.

“Because it’s a nearly seventy percent down slope. We can downhill ski out of the danger zone if we do it right, and leave our pursuers in the dust.”

“Or frost, as it were,” Andrew said, smiling at his own comment.

Simon had to admit, he liked the elegance of the solution: using the ice to help with the getaway. But his eye captured the pulsing red blob as it approached. “Do you think we are being detected by them? By whatever we’re looking at?” he asked. “I thought we were functionally invisible.”

“We are!” Hayden insisted. “It’s just better safe than sorry.” It sounded weak, even to him. He had built stealth systems and shields to fuddle every scanning technology and detection system known to man, but technology was always changing, always evolving-that was its very nature. There was always some smart kid with another invention and if one of them had come up with something entirely new, something different…

“Safe?” Samantha echoed bleakly. “I don’t think we’ll ever be safe again. Not in this place.”

Amen, Hayden answered silently.

Simon stuck his finger into the hologram right at the point where the down sloping tunnel opened into the dome. “Do we know how far it goes?” According to the note Leon gave, it’s better to go farther down, he thought to himself.

“I can’t tell,” Hayden confessed. “But deep, and the farther the better as far as I’m concerned.”

“What about the angle of descent? Can the Spector handle it?” Max asked, glancing with mounting concern at the red blob. It was approaching with ever-increasing speed.

“In theory it can, but it’s never been tested,” Andrew said. Then he looked thoughtful. “Of course, we’ve never tested much of anything on the Spector, at least until now.”

Hayden looked impatient. “It will be fine. The dedicated AIs will automatically adjust the handle and grab-strength of the treads while it configures the correct tolerance necessary to maximize friction.”

Samantha and Nastasia watched the forward-facing screen as the light grew brighter. The water broke over the cameras, and suddenly they were out of the basin, looking at the icy shore as the Spector hauled itself out of the water like some huge aquatic beetle climbing onto dry land. The gigantic dome above them, they realized, was large enough to contain a ten-story building and wide enough to house several submarines with space to spare for maneuvers.

“Want to see something amazing?” Hayden said. “Now that the full array of sensors is working, we can do this…” He stroked a long rectangle to the right of his console and the walls faded away. The Spector’s exterior sensors were now in full operation, and the interior panels all around them were charged with the digital data streaming into the smartskin. As amazing as it was, it looked as if the ceiling and the walls of Spector VI had disappeared, and the entire team was standing on a flat metal plate in the middle of the wide-open ice cavern. The image was only broken up in a few areas where the panel connected.

“Oh. My. God,” Samantha whispered. “This is bizarre.”

“Not exactly,” Hayden said. “It just looks that way.” He stood up and looked around at the icy ground, stretching off in all directions. “And look, just double-tap the wall anywhere you like, and a foot-wide segment will zoom forward, up to thirty-to-one.”

Nastasia was standing next to him, head thrown back, looking straight up. “Then zoom in on that, please,” she said, and pointed up. There was a complicated structure of arms and beams hanging from the center point of the dome, but it was impossible to see it clearly from so far away.

Hayden reached over his head and double-tapped the ceiling. A good-sized section suddenly zoomed forward with a nauseating suddenness; now they were staring at the mysterious technology from a viewpoint that looked no more than ten or fifteen feet away, with a crisp clarity that adjusted for atmospheric distortion.

“What the hell is that?” Andrew asked.

“I admit,” Hayden said, “I can’t fathom it.”

“There is a whole new world down here,” Andrew said, sounding awestruck and delighted at the same time. “A whole world, deep within the Antarctic ice.”

Simon didn’t care. Yes, it was amazing. No, he had no idea how deep and wide the conspiracy was-any more than he knew how deep and wide these tunnels were. And it didn’t matter. He simply felt that his father was down here, and he was going to find him. He was sure of that now: he was going to find him.

“We’ve got about four minutes until our unknown visitors arrive,” Max said with a sudden urgency in his voice. “Simon?”

“Go,” Simon said without pause. “The downslope tunnel you wanted-take it. Now.”

The Spector lunged forward, twirling on its treads, and rocketed toward the tunnel mouth Max had chosen. It moved with such speed and grace the whole internal world spun with it, and the passengers felt the force of its thrust all over again.

“Stop the exterior visuals,” Samantha said as she clutched at her seat for support. “Turn it off.”

“Ah,” Max said and dialed down the transparency feed. The walls faded back into place. Now the view was restricted to the front screen, and the movement was more tolerable.

The tunnel mouth was approaching fast.

Everyone hunkered down in the seats. Belts were fastened. Armrests were gripped. Samantha ducked her head down and held her breath as the black hole of the tunnel mouth grew larger and larger.

“Hold on!” Max shouted as the amphibious vessel took a dive into the descending tunnel. They yelped in unison as the front of the vehicle tipped down, hard, and they found themselves zooming downhill at a fifty-degree angle.

The acceleration pushed every member of the crew back into the seats. Max had to redouble the effort to lean forward, fighting the pressure to keep his hands up and steady over the holographic command console. The severe pitch felt much stronger than any of them had imagined it would. They could hear the treads below the Spector recalibrating themselves over and over, struggling to navigate despite the severe angle and shifting slickness of the ice like glass below.

New sequences of tunnels revealed themselves through Hayden’s deepscan, showing an ever-increasing complexity that stretched for miles in every direction.

“Good Lord,” he whispered. “What the hell is this place?”

The Spector suddenly sloughed to the right, then bit down again and steadied.

“Too fast for the treads,” Max said between clenched teeth. “We’re starting to slide.”

“For what it’s worth,” Ryan said, “I’m actually starting to believe these read-outs now. They tell me we’re more than five hundred feet below sea level and under more than 1,500 feet of ice.”

Max’s head was pounding. “Any chance this angle’s going to level out?” he asked Hayden.

“Not that I can see,” Hayden said.

They slipped violently to the left, lifted up almost forty-five degrees on one side…and then slammed back down to level, though they were still pointed downward to an even greater degree. It was like being trapped inside a windowless toboggan that was slaloming down an impossibly difficult track.

We have to get off this roller coaster, Simon told himself.

Max glared at the front-screen, then flicked an eye at the deep scan. “You see what I see? An alcove, off to the right? About three thousand feet ahead.”

Simon shifted his view to the right, downrange…and found it. Little more than a vertical shadow in the harsh spotlights of the Spector.

The back end of the sliding ship wagged like the tail of an angry cat. They could all hear the ice rushing under the treads now-not catching, not holding, just screeching as the whirring treads spun helplessly over the frigid surface. Max checked his speedometer readout. 60…70…80…

“Shoot for it,” Simon screamed.

“Then I’ll have to lose velocity,” Max told him as the shadow of the alcove grew closer and sharper. “If I try to turn into it at this speed, we’ll disintegrate into the far wall.”

“One hundred twenty miles inland,” Ryan shouted. “Depth is 1,782 feet below the ice sheet and increasing.”

“Hayden!” Max called. “Standard braking isn’t working for shit here! I can’t slow her down!”

Hayden frowned. “The blades-”

“I’ve reached maximum extension on the blades! We’re sliding, goddamn it!”

“That’s not possible.” Hayden pulled up the diagram of the extended tread, searching for a solution.

Max checked his velocity again: 85…90…

The surface flattened a bit, lost at least ten degrees of descent as they slipped at ridiculous speed-but it was too little and too late.

“You know what, Max?” Hayden shouted to Max, sounding somewhat terrified. “You’re right. We’re losing traction.”

“What’s next?”

Simon didn’t allow fear to take hold. Rescuing Oliver is my only mission in life, he told himself…and was suddenly struck with a mad inspiration.

“Max!” he screamed. “Heat the treads and bend their front points toward each other! Make a ‘V!’”

“That’s not possible!” Hayden snapped. “This isn’t a goddamn set of skis! You’ll destroy the integrity of the entire mechanism! Hell, at this speed, they might snap and destroy the whole vessel! You want that?”

“Beats slamming into a wall head on,” Max said. He cocked his wrists over the tread controls and rotated his thumbs inward, as if turning down two enormous dials. The tread icons above the controls shuddered for a second and then moved, slowly at first, from two parallel lines to an upside-down “V” shape.

The treads began moving together.

The Spector started to vibrate, to shudder like a derailing train. The rattling was so violent

Simon was sure the vessel was going to come apart at the seams.

“Heat it up, Max!” Simon demanded. “Retract the right blade, let the rear slalom to the right!”

Immediately, Max adjusted the controls. The Spector was slowing but still not enough, still going far too fast, and now it was turning as it slid, not quite broadside to the downhill slope but close enough to scare the living daylight out of him. If they hit a pothole or a crack at this angle, and it caught the edge of the tread, they would roll over and over, tumbling downhill like a rolling pin totally out of control.

He ticked up the heating elements as they slid. He heard the thundering grumble through the screech of the ice as the treads started digging deeper, leaving an eight-inch groove behind them as they careened downhill.

The entrance to the alcove was a narrow, gray rectangle in a raddled field of white now…sliding into view from the left, to the center, to-

Simon was staring at the screen, trying to calculate the speed. Think like you’re skiing, he thought. Timing is everything. “Ready?” he said.

“And waiting,” Max said tightly, his hands still deep in the controls.

“When I tell you, just tap the accelerator-jump us forward, fast and hard, but not too much.”

“Got it.” Max said tightly. Come on, then. They were sliding, sliding, goddamn it.

“Ready?”

“YES!”

“NOW!”

Max pounded on the thrusters, bashed them forward with a leap of thrust that shot them straight toward the opposite wall at a vicious angle-straight toward the endless white vertical barrier that grew closer and closer and-

— the gray gap of the alcove slipped into view, right in front of them, just a few feet before they hit the vertical ice. In that instant they shot through it, and Max stood on the brakes, purposely swaying them to the right and up, riding halfway up the curved wall of the alcove itself. He could feel the treads, still pointing into a “V,” dig deep into new glass-like ice, dragging them down, lowering their speed, more and more, until the Spector slid sideways one last time, back to the level floor of the alcove as the forward momentum bled away. It wallowed for a beat, rolling back and forth on its treads like a fat man on a swing, and then finally stopped. “Not dead yet,” Andrew said as he watched Samantha and Nastasia, white as ghosts, still gripping the armrests on their chairs.

“Thank god,” Samantha said.

Nope, Max thought from the front of the vessel, not yet. He eased back in his chair, lifted his arms from the console and stretched. “Take a rest, everyone. We’ll get out and explore in a bit.” He did his best not to sound completely relieved and breathless.

Not dead yet, he repeated. And I am absolutely amazed at that.

SUBMARINE DOCK

Roland ordered the DITV to halt at the end of Tunnel 3, just a few hundred feet before it opened into the dome. His hand gripped the sides of his seat until the plastic cracked like dry paper; he was that angry, that frustrated.

The goddamn Spiders had beaten him there. The DITV crew had received the CS-23s locational beacon signals just thirty seconds before, and the coordinates were unmistakable-they were waiting at the shore of the dome’s basin, deciding what to do next.

“I can’t believe they’re already here,” he spat out. “What the hell happened?”

“They move quickly,” the tactical officer said very quietly. “Even more quickly than we thought they could, I suppose.”

“Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go. I want to see this.”

The DITV tumbled forward and entered the dimly lit dome. Flare fire and the remnants of the bullets penetrating the ice shelf gave it a ghostly level of illumination, not like most of the tunnels and chambers at this depth and below. As they entered, Roland strode to the surveillance officer’s console and hovered over him. “Show me how far they’ve gone,” he said. “They’ll reach the extraction tunnel if they continue like this down Tunnel 3. We can’t have them discover what’s down there.”

The display showed the Unknown Intruder icon slipping rapidly down a feeder shaft, far ahead of the larger, slower-moving blue diamonds of the first CS-23s.

“Get me the fuck down there,” he demanded.

The soldier shook in fear as he responded, “Sir, we can’t enter Tunnel 3. The Vehicle will automatically abort the command because of the angle of descent-it’s past our ratings. And it’s caved in between Shelf 2 and 3. We can’t handle that grade of terra-”

“DAMN it!” he said and pounded the back of the chair. It made the tactical officer duck away, fully expecting to take a blow to the back of his head.

Roland didn’t want to hear any of it. “Stop here,” he said shortly. “Wait.”

He heard the CS-23s coming up from deep inside Dragger Pass. The ground itself shook with their approach. He knew that the Spiders would take care of whoever was down there, and that knowledge frustrated him terribly. “Get me a closed visual,” he snapped. “They’re only a thousand feet away now, just over the edge.”

His central view screen showed the Spiders in excruciating detail as they climbed the last three hundred yards. Their bulbous central bodies churned with dimly visible personnel inside; the long multi-jointed legs flexed and stretched for the best possible purchase, the greatest possible speed. They moved with an eerie combination of human intelligence and machine efficiency. Roland knew they could easily navigate the tunnel the intruders had just entered, just as easily as they could clamber up a mile of nearly vertical cliff face.

The massive size of the CS-23’s legs extending out of their bodies made them even more than menacing, and the sheer power and weight of the Spiders caused the ground to vibrate as they pulled themselves higher and higher.

They reached the edge of the precipice of Dragger Pass, a night-black cliff that fell straight down for more than five thousand feet. Roland watched with an outraged fascination as the first of them pushed upward over the edge, its huge arm digging into the ice twenty feet away from the commander’s vehicle, then pulled its metal body upward out of the fissure, limbs hissing and clanking.

The gigantic machine crawled over the commander’s vehicle, coiling in on itself to a smaller size just for a moment, then pushing forward into Tunnel 3 behind the intruders.

The two CS-23s that followed also reached over the commander’s vehicle, disappearing into the dark tunnel in a matter of seconds. The communications console inside the commander’s vehicle beeped in acknowledgment of the Spiders’ arrival, but he barely heard it. He was almost hypnotized by their passage; it took an effort of will to force himself to turn to his communications officer and ask a question.

“What’s your ETA for rendezvous with the intruders?” he asked. “For the Spiders, I mean?”

“Sir, the computer’s telling us eighteen minutes and counting, but we estimate the intruder will have to stop at Shelf 2, and we will immobilize it if it stays put. We are reading zero armament present on the vessel.”

Zero armament, he repeated to himself. So it’s not a military vehicle. It’s a spy ship. A fucking ghost.

And now it’s haunting my labyrinth.

THE ALCOVE

Trapped in the ice. Trapped in the dark. Utterly, completely lost. But glad they were not dead.

Still alive, each of them thought-almost in unison, barely aware of it, feeling the identical bloom of relief and dread. Still alive…but now what?

Simon realized they needed to regroup and make decisions quickly. “You think we’re still being followed?” he asked Max, who scowled at the thought, and then nodded.

“What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?” Hayden said, his voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. “This wasn’t supposed to be like this. Underground? In tunnels, for Christ’s sake? And being chased by I don’t know what!”

“Relax,” said Max, strong but reassuring.

“But-”

“Relax,” Max said again-and this time it was more an order than a bit of advice.

Hayden started to argue again. He opened his mouth; brought up an accusing finger, and suddenly Max was out of his seat and hovering over the inventor, almost nose to nose with him. The rest of the crew watched them in fascination and horror.

“Hayden!” he hissed. “We agreed to do this, all of us, together, no matter what. You

remember that?”

“But-”

“No fucking ‘buts.’ None of us knew what we were getting into at the time-how could we? But this is what it is. Now. Here. And if you can’t handle it properly, okay. Then get your gear and get the fuck out of the Spector.”

Hayden gaped at him in disbelief.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“No, Hayden. I’m not. Get on board or get out.”

Hayden lifted his chin, still defiant, but his tone had changed. The hysteria was gone; the anger tightly controlled. He looked at the others now, talking to all of them. They listened in rigid silence. “We need to decide what to do quickly,” he told them. “That’s all I’m saying. We’re descending farther and farther into this hell, and if we don’t have a plan for escape, we will all freeze to death, stuck thousands of feet below the ice.”

Simon was in deep thought, listening with one ear as he contemplated their next move. These are ordinary people, he realized. Extraordinary brains maybe, but ordinary people. None were equipped for the danger that was confronting them. He was asking far too much, and he knew it, and there was nothing he could do about it now.

He stood up suddenly, nodding at his father’s oldest friend.

“Hayden, you’re absolutely right. None of us want to perish in this hell.” He looked at Max, who watched him closely, eyes narrowed. “So let’s assess what our options are and decide what we should do together, all right?”

“Maybe we need to contact the authorities, guys,” Samantha said, quiet but steady. “This is out of our scope. This is out of anybody’s scope.”

“Who is it that you want to contact?” Max said, frustrated at the sheer naivete of the comment. “Do you realize that we are violating international law by even being here?”

“You want to try and go back, then go,” Simon said with a weary finality. “Me, I’m ready to pack my gear and go searching for Oliver on foot if I have to. These very tunnels are evidence that something crazy is happening down here, and we’re part of it now, all of us, whether we like it or not.”

“And the longer we sit here,” Andrew said, his eyes still on the deepscan console, “the closer our pursuers get.”

“Still on our tail?” Max said, already knowing the answer.

“Tight as a tick on a dog’s ass, I’m afraid. Someone-three someones actually, though I have no idea what they are or what they look like-is heading our way this very moment. I’m gathering we don’t want to confront them quite yet.”

“Exactly,” Max said, but he couldn’t suppress the glint in his eye. “Not yet.”

While the others had been talking, Ryan had been scanning the walls of the alcove, looking for options. “I do believe I’ve found a possibility,” he said, and they all turned to see. “Max,” he said, “can you make just this section of the hull transparent? Right here?” He pointed to a large blank patch to his right.

“Sure,” Max said. He manipulated the console, and a portion of the wall as big as a bathroom mirror faded away, revealing the rocky floor and the cracked and not-so-distant wall of the alcove.

“This looks just large enough for us to go into,” Ryan said, walking to the transparent image and double-tapping on one particular portion of a crack in the ice wall-little more than a gap in the ice. But as the image zoomed forward at his command, they could all see it: a vertical crevice just a bit wider than the Spector itself that seemed to go far back into the wall, revealing an open, lighted area beyond.

“Good work, Ryan,” Simon said and clapped him on the shoulder.

Then Simon turned to Max. “You think we can fit in there?”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” replied Max, as he slid his hands over the holographic controls. The Spector turned on its slowly churning treads and trundled toward the opening. As they approached, Max noticed the sharpening image on the forward deepscan display: the crevice was indeed a passageway through the ice wall-a very long and twisted path that descended gradually to another dome, hundreds of feet below.

As they accelerated toward the new opening, Hayden made a disgusted sound in this throat. “So that’s the plan? Just keep running until…when? We run out of power, food, or luck? Or just whichever comes first?”

Simon was the one who rose to the bait this time. “Hayden,” he said, seething. “If you would like to wait here for whoever is on our tail, then be my guest. But we are moving on. You want to complain, fine, but right now is not the time. We’re going to be discovered any second.”

Just as the nose of the Spector entered the small passage, Andrew stiffened at his display and said, “I think we already are.”

Suddenly, a huge mechanical tentacle, a flexing arm, curled around the corner of the alcove wall at the edge of Tunnel 3 and flailed, searching for a hold. It banged into the ice, anchored itself, and pulled. An eight-legged creature made of unusual materials, three stories tall, dragged itself into view.

“Mother of god,” Samantha whispered. “What in the world?”

Max accelerated before Samantha spoke another word. The Spector cut through the ice, treads spinning, and penetrated the narrow passageway, turning slightly to the left to keep to the widest portion.

Don’t get much smaller, Simon prayed. Ten feet narrower, fifteen feet at the most, and we’ll be stuck like a plug in a pipe.

There was a deep mechanical thoom at their back. Simon didn’t have to look to know what that sound meant-the mechanical Spider, like an angry dragon from hell, was approaching. He felt a rush of adrenaline as they pushed forward.

“What are your thoughts now?” Simon asked Hayden, dripping sarcasm. The effect was dampened a bit by the sudden high, screaming contact of the Spector’s smartskin with an upthrust outcropping of ice. It sounded far too much like a human scream.

“Max,” Simon said. “Dial up the transparency on the rear-sorry, the aft-section of the Spector. I want to see what’s behind us.”

The vehicle suddenly veered to the right and nearly sent Samantha into yet another tumble, but she grabbed at a locked-down cabinet as she fell, and it helped to steady her. An instant later the entire rear of the vehicle seemed to disappear, and the crew could see the jagged opening of the passage and the bluish light of the dome they had just left behind.

The robot Spider, swooping and twitching, was still coming for them on all eight legs. They watched in horror as the huge beast wasted no time in its graceful gallop across the alcove floor. It looked more menacing the closer it came, the blinding lights attached to its limbs swiveling to focus directly on the back of the Spector.

Max was getting more and more concerned as the passage continued to narrow. He had very little room to maneuver; a few yards farther and he would have even less. And one subtle mistake would take off one of the side panels, he knew that for sure: the ancient ice was as hard as stone.

If anything irreparable happened to the Spector, they were as good as dead. They would all freeze, stuck in the icy tunnel. And given the Spiders behind them and the narrow passageway all around, Max knew there was only one way to go, and that was forward.

Behind him, the rest of the crew swiveled in their seats to look at the approaching robot, their eyes fixed on the visual displays.

Simon was both fascinated and horrified. This is the world you came to, Dad, he thought. This is the world you’re trapped in. And now he knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that his father was in terrible danger. But Simon wasn’t afraid; he was angry rather than terrified. It swelled in him like a tumor as he imagined Oliver experiencing his own version of the frozen hell they had entered.

Nastasia was transfixed by the bizarre machine crawling toward them. “From the look of that thing,” she said with typical Russian reserve, “it does not feel as if we are welcome.”

“It sure as hell doesn’t,” said Hayden, petrified at the sight of the massive machine on their tail.

By the time the Spider had reached the opening of the tunnel, the Spector had moved several hundred feet inside. To everyone’s amazement, the massive robot stopped moving at the opening of the crevice, its lights glaring, its arms waving and poking into the passageway. From their vantage point, they could see only the legs of the robot through the opening of the tunnel, not the central command bubble that glowed a dull blue.

“For god’s sake,” Samantha said through clenched teeth. “Why did it stop?”

“It has no choice.” Max responded, measuring the essential distances with his expert eye. “It’s too big for the passageway.” He glanced down at the readouts from their sensor array and allowed himself a small smile. He was right; the mechanical creatures were about ten percent too big to make it more than a few feet inside, and it would never reach as deep inside as the Spector already was. But the smile died as he looked up again. The damnable thing was huge, almost as tall as the alcove itself, and now two more of the massive creatures were joining it, their spotlights bobbing and swaying as if they were unconnected to the bodies, casting shadows and glittering points of light all along the icy walls.

The beams of light were like physical things, he realized-like endlessly long shafts of glowing force, piercing the translucent walls, cutting through the freezing air, reaching for them-pinning them-holding them in place.

And as he watched, the huge claws at the end of the robot’s flexing arms opened and closed, as if testing their strength, then gripped a chunk of ice at the edge of the opening and broke it off with a single jerk.

They weren’t giving up. They were just making the tunnel bigger. Simon had never felt more trapped in his entire life.

DOME AT FISSURE 9

Inside the DITV, Roland was seething. He watched helplessly as the Spiders clambered into the downsloping tunnel, pursuing the target-whatever the hell it was-their mechanical legs flexing and stretching to such an extreme degree they could fit almost comfortably into the shaft.

“We’ve lost them, sir,” his pilot said.

“I know,” he snapped. “I can see that. Any suggestions?”

“Sir, the only things that can go into these old tunnels are the MagCycles, but we have no way of bringing them up here.”

“How far does it go in?”

“To be honest, sir, the tunnel is no longer registered in our system. We’ve abandoned the old utility tunnels like this one over ten years ago.”

“Then use your fucking scanners, but get me an answer asap!”

The officer almost popped out of his seat to respond. “We have, sir! We have! But-but the tunnel slopes down toward Shelf 2, and we lose the visual from ice density.”

“Then I’ll alert Central Command and dispatch drones to Shelf 2.”

“But they already have their CS-”

“They can’t do it! It’s not their mission!” Roland’s head was pounding with the tension; he would not put up with bullshit from his own soldiers! “We have to stop this vessel,” he said, forcing himself to calm down. “Even if it means we go in on foot!”

The officer looked as if he had told him to shoot himself in the head. They hate the ice, Roland reminded himself. That’s why they got into Transport amp; Ordinance. They hate the cold.

He slammed the armrest on his seat, concerned and frustrated about his personal safety and the safety of the whole operation. Vector5 had a zero tolerance for intruders or leakage of information. No one knew what the consequence would be if this secret operation blew open, but Roland knew he wouldn’t be around to find out. Central Command did not tolerate failure, and they didn’t pay death benefits to widows, either. Thinking for a moment, he turned to the driver of the ice transport vehicle.

“Re-route toward Shelf 2,” he grated. “I’m sure I’ll need to have an unfortunate meeting with Central Command about this mess.” He started to turn away and then checked himself. “And make sure the Scrambling Drones are operational throughout the continent. I don’t want any information going out or coming in. Who knows how many more of these damn bogeys there might be?”

The officers jumped to fulfill the orders; the DITV turned and headed back to the lifts that would take him a thousand feet lower to Central Command-whether he liked it or not.

The intruders won’t survive, he told himself, trying to sound reassuring at least to himself. They can’t possibly-not in this frozen hell.

CENTRAL COMMAND

A few thousand feet below, in the Ops Room of Central Command, Blackburn was watching it all. His body was little more than a silhouette against a vast wall that was covered, top to bottom and side to side with holo-screens and projections; he watched every one of them with a tight intensity, closely studying the intruders. Ops gave him a 360-degree view of virtually any part of the ice world. All around him, the walls displayed everything he needed to know about the covert operation of Vector5.

He had arrived from the surface barely three hours earlier and instantly relieved Mathias of duty. Wherever he went, wherever he landed, he was boss; he didn’t need challenges to his authority. He would handle it; they would follow his orders. Woe to the first man who looked to somebody else for permission or advice.

Twenty-five years, he told himself as he watched the strange, iridescent vehicle scuttle into the narrow passage and evade the Crevasse Spiders. Twenty-five years of building, planning, and operation, and never so much as a temporary breach. Now, two serious leaks in the last month.

He hadn’t thought of that before. Two of them-so close together. It made him wonder if there was some connection between Jonathan Weiss’ betrayal and this bizarre machine from…somewhere.

He was standing on a black carbon fiber catwalk that protruded into the huge, circular Ops Room. Fifteen technicians sat below him, monitoring the mega-computers, controlling the entire Vector5 operation deep within the Antarctic ice. He knew exactly what was happening. And he knew who was going to pay.

“Status of the Black Ops team assigned to Roland?” he asked. That decision had been made long ago. The commander had failed to stop the intruders and Blackburn simply wouldn’t tolerate that-if this was his last chance, it’d be everyone else’s, as well. And as with any officer-related ‘disciplinary action,’ he knew it had to happen quickly; there was always the concern that a Vector5 officer might defect to save his life, and Roland was no different. But he knew as well as Blackburn did: he had nowhere to go. Even if he somehow miraculously managed to escape the continent, Vector5’s reach extended to the far corners of the globe, controlling and manipulating information at all levels of society.

Forever secret, Blackburn thought, and smiled.

As he walked back toward the adjacent building to meet with his advisors, he wondered how he could have missed the possibility of a connection between Weiss and the intruder. In fact, he realized, it was quite possible that Simon Fitzpatrick himself, and maybe some or all of the scientists recently reported missing from Oxford, could be part of this-even on board the mysterious vessel. Certainly their whereabouts were unknown; Ryan’s fiancee had been interrogated until they had killed her and knew nothing-or gave them nothing-concerning his whereabouts.

Deep down, something told Blackburn that he had hit on something. This intruder was the team he had been looking for. “It’s them,” he said to himself.

One of his assistants looked up quizzically. “Sir?” he said.

“Never mind,” Blackburn said. His complement of eight officers and advisors followed him to the meeting room to start the debrief.

* * *

It was a long-standing custom: when Blackburn returned to Antarctica, his commanders met with him immediately and brought him up to date. Nothing was ignored, nothing was held back, or that would be the commander’s last meeting. In fact, the debrief itself was more of a checksum for Blackburn than a necessity. He could access any information he needed wherever he was on the planet, any time he chose; he prided himself on knowing every important detail of the vast covert operation at any given moment. But the debriefing did give him valuable insight into just how well-informed and in control his commanders were-and how forthcoming.

At home back in North America, Blackburn led a very deceptive life. He played at being an average mid-level Pentagon official, currently assigned to UNED. No one at either organization knew exactly what his roles and responsibilities were, and no one was privy to his existance in Antarctica. Nobody needed to know. It was Blackburn’s operation-his, and the Committee he answered to, the men he had actually never met.

He leaned back in his well-padded leather chair and studied his command team with deep, piercing eyes. Very little affected Blackburn. He believed in himself with a strength, a ferocity that was intimidating to most. He was rarely questioned, and always, always deferred to.

But today was different. This was the first breach of Antarctica’s security in over twenty years. Someone somehow had managed to enter the ice continent and penetrate the network-his network. And his job-his life-depended on getting to the bottom of it.

Vector5 called a security breach an “incision” for a reason: it was a violation of the body; it was a threat to the operation’s continued health. It was dangerous, and it was expected to cause some pain-to someone.

Just not to Blackburn.

“Commander Roland is on his way down,” were the first words out of his mouth. Everyone in the room knew what that meant. The relief they shared-that this time, at least, it wasn’t them-was palpable.

One of the Ops advisors straightened in his chair. “Sir,” he said, “We believe we can-”

Blackburn cut him off with a gesture.

“Don’t. It’s pathetic. You have no solutions; you-all of you-are responsible for this happening in the first place.” He leaned back again and stared at the blank white walls. “This is what we will do. We will wait for the intruder-the intruders, plural, as it happens-to come to us.”

“But sir,” one of the defense commanders protested, “If they were to somehow penetrate-”

“They will penetrate nothing. There’s no way they can send any signals beyond the continent, and the farther they run from the Spiders, the deeper they go-and the closer they get to us.” He shook his head briefly and tapped the grey tabletop. “No, we will meet them at Shelf 3…if they manage to survive until then.”

“But sir, if I may,” said one of the officers. He tried to stand, saw the expression on Blackburn’s face, and gave it up as a bad idea. He cleared his throat nervously as he retook his seat. “Sir,” he said again, “We still have not been able to locate the eighteen scientists that escaped a few weeks ago. What if…?”

“What if what, Lucas?” he asked the officer very quietly. “Your inability to hold on to operational assets that were in your care is hardly the accomplishment you want to mention at this meeting, is it? It was a failure to begin with…but, I am quite sure, not terribly dangerous. They will run out of rations and freeze to death in the next few days, if they haven’t already.”

Another advisor-my, they’re feeling bold today, Blackburn thought, almost amused-half-raised his hand in a timid bid for attention. “Sir,” he said, “We have reports that several pieces of our old MCs have been dug out of the ice and are probably in the hands of those scientists. The tracker-bugs on them started to fire-for a while, until someone disabled them. So we know-”

Blackburn shrugged it off. The intruders are not the only ones who keep digging themselves in deeper, he thought. “Fine,” he said, dismissing it. “I couldn’t care less. Where the hell do they think they’re going to get the hydro-fuel?”

“They are the scientists who created the machines,” the advisor said. “If anybody can-”

“But nobody can,” Blackburn said. He looked closely at the advisor, his dark eyes drilling deep. Well, at least this one has some balls, he thought. Throw him a bone.

“All right,” Blackburn said. “I’ll go out on a limb for you. I’ll authorize the use of special armament to find and deal with the renegades, as long as it doesn’t raise our profile.” He cast a glance at one of the tech officers. “What’s the probability of vibration being picked up above ground by UNED or civilians if we unleash the hounds?”

“Nil, sir,” replied the specialist. He was sitting across the room, behind some of the officers. “Thanks to your efforts, the continent is clear of significant sensor arrays. UNED is constantly monitoring the total quarantine, but their ears are nothing compared to ours.”

“Excellent,” Blackburn replied. Then he gave a gentle smile-almost merry. “So let’s not waste the opportunity. Let’s try explosives on the defectors.”

A sense of panic filled the room as many of the officers cleared their throats. It almost made Blackburn laugh-all the shifting and throat-clearing, all the sudden tiny beads of sweat. The foolish defense officer raised his hand again. Fool, Blackburn told himself. You’re next.

“Sir, if I may, we have never used explosives in the network before. We have no idea what its impact will be. At this point, it’s all theoretical.”

Blackburn stood up suddenly and turned his back on his men. He couldn’t stand looking at them anymore. Instead he stared at the silver-blue hologram of the entire Antarctica complex that filled the black well near the end of the room. It was a beautiful thing. Beautiful and strange.

“So you’re telling me,” he said without turning around, “that after ten full years, millions of man-hours, and billions of dollars spent on investigation and development…we still can’t put this stuff to use?”

“Not yet, sir,” one of the I amp;D advisors said. “It’s too…unpredictable. Just last week, some of our vehicles started to levitate, and we still cannot understand how this is possible.”

Blackburn closed his eyes and tried to will the man away. It didn’t quite work.

“Our estimate still holds, sir. Eighteen months until we can safely build a prototype.”

“Safely,” Blackburn said acidly. “Maybe that’s the problem-too goddamn many people concerned with their safety rather than changing history.”

He gave it up. Maybe it wasn’t the time, but at least he’d made his point: keep moving or get run over. Now, back to the crisis at hand…

“All right then,” he said as he turned around. “Let’s just blast the fuckers out of their hidey-holes with the biggest conventional weapons we’ve got. How does that sound?”

The grinning and back-slapping was unseemly, but they were all so relieved Blackburn allowed it. No one wanted to tell him about the other part of the problem, about the oxygen depletion effect that literally sucked the air out of a man’s lungs if he even came near the new fusion tech.

What they don’t know, Blackburn told himself, is that I’m already aware of it. Have been from the beginning.

What they fail to understand, he thought as he looked at his craven “team” of advisors and mercenaries, is that I just don’t care.

TUNNEL 3

Max pushed on.

The narrow passageway opened up a little more than a hundred yards from the opening. It was by no means wide enough or straight, but at least they weren’t surrounded by walls on all sides.

Max had never thought of twenty miles an hour as a dangerous speed. But now, guiding the Spector on its massive, swiveling treads, dodging pieces of ice as big as houses, veering past deep arroyos and avoiding patches of blackness that indicated yet another feeder tunnel, running off in yet another direction…now, twenty miles an hour seemed insanely fast.

The massive robotic Spiders hadn’t given up. Their arms, it turned out, were not just endlessly flexible; they were as strong as wrecking cranes. The others had watched through the transparent aft section and reported as the robots pulled away key patches of ice and outcroppings, pounding at the accumulated ice of the narrow entrance until, all too soon, it gave away, and they gave chase.

It was slow going for them, but they were relentless. Max could see that; he watched their progress on the holo-display of the rear scan as they moved forward, paused, pounded or pried another obstacle out of the way, then moved forward again. He could see that they were still a thousand yards behind them, and not gaining-but not falling back, either.

Focus, damn you, he told himself. There was no room for error here. He could take a wrong path, make a bad choice, and they would crash, fall, turn over, be crushed; he’d run out of grim alternatives. Only one thing left to do, he told himself. Succeed.

Simon sat in the co-pilot’s seat next to him, silent and determined. Max had known the man his whole life, and when Simon had said he would leave them behind and go on foot to find his father, Max had believed him completely. It was the kind of man he was-just like Max himself. Now Simon was focused entirely on the task at hand-getting the hell away from the CS23 and finding a place to hide, until they could figure out what to do next.

The terrain began to slope downward-not the steep fifty-degree grade of the first tunnel, but a relentless fifteen-degree angle of descent that took them deeper and deeper. And the deeper they went, the greater the tension they felt. It was as if they could feel the weight of the ice and stone growing above them, pressing down, worse with every inch they moved forward. Everyone’s eyes were locked on the transparent section behind them, showing every detail of the robots as they followed close on: their flexing arms, the bulbous, roiling central body, the grasping claws and the blinding spears of light that passed back and forth over the Spector, piercing it again and again like swords.

Without warning Max shouted, “Get down! We’ve got company!”

As if on cue, the entire crew whirled around to look at the front-facing screen, their window on the world that lay ahead.

The screen was a flat black shadow, given texture only by the reflected lights from the robots, the Spector’s own shadows, and a thousand tiny points of green light. Like fireflies out of the swamp, like luminous birds no bigger than a sparrow, they were swarming just outside the vehicle-straight in front, off to the left, off to the right.

They paused. They seemed to focus, to aim.

Then they streaked through the blackness and smashed against the Spector like gunshots.

Phit! Phit! Phit-phit-phit! Hundreds of lights were striking the Spector, slamming against the shielded surface, sounding like a barrage of stones. Everyone ducked as Max stopped the Spector instantly and spun his chair away from the line of fire.

The front-facing camera that had served them so well sizzled and went black. Tiny bumps, reverse dimples, appeared in sudden lines stitching across the cabin as the bullets dented the smartskin but did not penetrate.

Not yet, anyway, Max thought.

Max knew the sound of gunfire all too well. He rotated his seat to face the crew, cowering all across the bridge, and started to move the Spector in reverse, backing away from the gunfire, moving toward the approaching Spiders. For a moment the transparent aft walls stayed transparent, and he saw the gleaming arms of the CS-23 sway and grip one more time, and then the transparency flickered away, and he was staring at a blank interior wall.

Phit! PHIT phit PH-ph-PHIT!

Samantha clapped her hands over her ears and screamed. Max could see that Andrew and Ryan were only a step behind her.

It felt like an ambush-foot soldiers to the front, heavy artillery at the rear. But why waste men? Max wondered. They could just set off a couple of grenades and block us in without exposure.

Phit PHIT PHITPHITPHITPHIT-

The deepscan holos sizzled and disappeared under the continuing assault. The bridge was little more than a hollow shell now-and one that was starting to crack under the relentless hail of bullets.

“What’s going on?” screamed Samantha as Simon threw himself from his seat and jumped half the length of the cabin to throw his arms around her. He had never felt so helpless: caught between the menacing machines in one direction, a barrage of gunfire in another, a thousand feet below the killing ice.

Death-the real, imminent, tangible specter of Death-flashed before his eyes as he tried to comfort her. Hayden, doubled over in the tiny space below the tech console, bellowed through the noise of the thunderous bullets as the last of the Spector’s emergency lights blinked out. “They hit the main electric panel!”

But the Spector kept moving. Just as Max had directed, it staggered in reverse, away from the gunfire, back toward the robots, foot after stubborn foot-

— until it smashed into something huge, immovable, and utterly invisible, just beyond the buckling metal hull.

The team was thrown across the darkened cabin as the vehicle shuddered to an instant halt. The pounding bullets didn’t even pause; if anything, the rattling tattoo of the attack grew even louder, more angry, as the soldiers approached and redoubled their fire.

The next few seconds felt like an eternity as Max scrambled to find his pistol. Simon asked Samantha in a quiet whisper, “You all right?”

“I’m not dead yet,” she whispered fiercely. “At least I don’t think I am.”

“Down, guys!” Max shouted from the floor. “Unbuckle, get down!” He frog-marched to Andrew and helped him with the complex arrangement of belts. The left side of the bridge exploded in a shower of sparks. A new vibration, deep and almost subsonic, rumbled through the vessel. It seemed as though it was coming from the outside and getting stronger with every second. It was accompanied by a low hissing noise that sounded like an approaching eighteen-wheeler.

Max grabbed Simon’s shoulder and said, “It’s zero time.” He saw Simon struggle with the words for a second; then a look of realization dawned on him. It was a bit of slang from their childhood, back when they only played at being spies and adventurers. It meant “now or never,” “do or die.” But it meant something more, too. It was a phrase only they used, and only with each other. It was part of a secret language that had made them more than friends from an early age.

It meant, “Brothers forever.” It meant, “I will always have your back.”

He grinned in spite of everything, and was surprised to feel burning tears in his eyes. “Zero time,” he said.

Phit-PHIT! Ph-ph-ph-ph-PHIT!

The subterranean vibration grew deeper, stronger. They could feel something approaching, like an army of horses stampeding straight for them.

PHITPHITPHITPHITPHIT

“We’re trapped!” screamed Hayden. “We can’t open the airlock without power!” And without power, they all knew, the heaters had stopped working, too. With every passing second, the temperature of the vessel was dropping, and with the seals still locked in place, the air was growing thin as well.

The end? Simon asked himself. Cowering under a metal console, suffocating as he started to freeze? Not yet, he prayed, thinking of the people who had trusted him, thinking of his father. Not yet…

And the gunfire stopped.

In an instant; all at once. It didn’t trail off, or sputter to a halt, or simply pause and begin again. It stopped.

The five-second silence that followed was absolutely deafening.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, a bank of harsh lights in the Spector’s ceiling blinked on, died, then blinked again and stayed on. The first thing Simon’s eyes fell on was an astonished Hayden, gaping at the ceiling from his hiding place.

“Son of a bitch,” the inventor said into the cavernous silence. “Emergency back-ups. Completely forgot about those.”

Even the smartskin flickered back to life, but only in bits and pieces. Simon found himself peering through transparent foot-square patches randomly scattered across at the front and side of the ships, into a craggy darkness illuminated by the skittering beams of the approaching robotic Spiders and the blue-green luminosity of the foot soldiers’ weapons, still glowing even as they approached the Spector.

The rumbling grew louder. The vibration from below them shook the entire crippled vessel like a toy.

Then a giant cycle-like vehicle with a large single wheel roared down the passageway, behind the foot soldiers. They ignored it as they moved forward, weapons still raised, but the bullets had stopped flying.

The front lights of the large cycle were blinding; it made it hard to estimate distance or size. Andrew turned away momentarily from the brilliant light and saw Nastasia bent over almost doubled, sifting through her nutrition case again.

She looked up at Simon, and he saw she was holding her inhaler in one hand and what seemed to be a pre-packed powder in the other. “I just…because of my condition I can’t live without this.” As he watched she pushed the inhaler into the kit, forced the lid shut and snapped it tight, then put it aside.

They both turned and stood as the huge cycles accelerated toward them, skidding to a halt in unison almost a hundred yards away.

Several figures, dressed in heavy gear to protect themselves from the bitter cold, started running toward the Spector. They were holding rifles, coming at the crippled vehicle like a SWAT team with laser-guided instrumentation. It was hard for Max to see them; the light source from the rifles themselves was shooting straight toward the Spector.

Simon and Max had already moved to the door, prepared to protect the others if they had to. Max gestured with his pistol, waving toward the ready room and shouting at the rest of the crew. “Move toward the back.”

Simon stood with his back pressed firmly against one side of the door, opposite Max. He looked across the bridge to Andrew, who was sitting in the crooked, half-broken pilot’s seat.

“Shut her down,” he whispered.

Max watched the approaching figures with every ounce of his concentration, calculating, gambling. His gut told him these men were somehow not connected to the menacing robots. He knew all too well how trained mercenaries would move, and these men with the rifles clearly did not move that way at all. They weren’t professional soldiers; he would bet his life on that.

One man, face fully covered by a cloth and plastic mask, was ten steps ahead of the others. He was holding an unusual weapon, a rifle unlike any Max had ever seen, its stock pressed tightly against his chin. He was using the light on the weapon as a flashlight, trying to study the unusual surface of the Spector.

More men started approaching the vehicle, and Simon tried to count them. It looked as though there were eight or ten-it was hard to tell in the blinding, dancing lights.

“Lay down,” whispered Max, as the team watched the scene unfold on the half-blind wall panels.

Simon had reached the same conclusion. “Max, these guys don’t seem like they’re after us. They seem as scared as we are.” He couldn’t help but notice how the men were studying the Spector’s exterior in amazement. Not like soldiers at all. More like…

“Let’s open the door,” he said impulsively.

Samantha almost choked in fear as she tried to express herself. “I don’t want to die.”

“Don’t think that will be the case,” Max said. “Just relax and lay down.”

There was a sudden thud toward the front of the vehicle as one of the men smashed his rifle against the thick armor of the Spector. Inside, the team only heard a faint sound, but could clearly see the man trying to smash the exterior.

“He has to stop that,” Hayden said. “The surface is still carrying a charge, he could-”

Other white-clad gunmen attacked the hatch that Max had sealed only moments earlier. One had found a piece of torn metal he used to scrape and scratch at the smartskin; the other had an actual crowbar he was trying to insert in the tiny crack that outlined the hatchway.

“They’re going to kill themselves!” Hayden said, jumping up in spite of Max’s orders. “The skin is still charged, it’ll electrocute them if-”

“Andrew!” Simon screamed. “Open the fucking door to the outside hatch!”

Simultaneously, Max bellowed at the others-a deep voice, a commander’s voice: “All of you into the ready room! NOW!”

This time they moved, scrambling over each other for cover.

The instant they were safely out of sight, the hatch began to shift and open, very slowly. Max turned and raised his pistol with the laser guidance system and pointed it straight at the hatch door.

Simon stood flattened against the door, a two-foot piece of razor-sharp steel in his hand. It was the only weapon he had.

They weren’t going to take any chances.

And they sure as hell weren’t going to die today.

THE PASSAGE

There was no time to think. Everything happened in a matter of seconds.

The door depressurized with a hiss, and the armed men outside moved back a pace, their rifles still high. The temperature isnside the Spector plunged as the arctic air invaded, rushing in with a crackling sound as everything that could freeze in an instant did exactly that. The only other sound was the ominous, rhythmic rush of heavy breathing through the masks that everyone wore, friend and foe alike.

“Identify yourself!” shouted the man in front of the foot soldiers as the beams of light from the laser-guided rifles penetrated the Spector. The illumination created an eerie glow on the ice, on the dying instrumentation, on the flat glassy surfaces of masks and goggles.

“We mean no harm,” Simon said loud enough to be heard but-he hoped-quiet enough to sound reasonable. He was still out of sight, his back pressed against the inside of the vehicle.

The man standing just outside the hatch responded, “Show yourselves!”

Simon knew this was his chance. Either he would be shot, or this would be the beginning of their journey. He looked at Max across the open hatch. His oldest friend nodded in silent agreement. Simon slowly turned and moved sideways into the open doorway, exposing himself to the enemy, first his hand, then the rest of his body with arms lifted and hands empty.

He felt the chill of the tunnel as half a dozen laser-guided rifles moved to point straight at him. He squinted into the glaring lights and heard a voice ask him, “Who are you? You’re clearly not Vector5.”

“Who’s Vector5?” he asked.

Max, close behind and to one side, moved toward the door with his pistol up.

“Drop your weapon!” screamed one of the men-not the one in front but one of the men behind him who was gripping his odd rifle so hard it trembled.

Nervous, Max thought. Nervous men are dangerous. Very gently Max lowered his pistol and set it on the deck of the Spector. When he rose again, his empty hands were up and in front of him, fingers spread wide.

The leader shouted again, “Identify yourself!”

“We’re scientists,” Simon said, loudly and carefully. He wanted everyone to hear. “We’re not soldiers. We’re looking for my father.”

For one long second, everything froze in place. Then the tip of the rifle held by the man in the lead slipped down. He gestured for the others to drop their weapons as well.

Simon let out a tremendous sigh. He wasn’t even aware he’d been holding his breath. The lights from the robotic Spiders still cut through the tunnel, randomly illuminating the bodies of the men standing outside the Spector.

As the man in the lead moved closer, Simon heard him ask another question through the filter of his mask, “Who did you say you were here for?”

He was a tall and stocky gentleman with layers of clothing that made him look heavier than he really was.

“My name is Simon Fitzpatrick. I am looking for my father, Oliver.”

The man seemed frozen for a long moment. Finally he said, “Oliver Fitzpatrick?”

“Yes. My father.”

There was another long pause. Then the man seemed to shake himself out of a dream. “How many are you?” the man asked.

“Eight, including myself.”

“How the hell did you get here?” It was hard to decipher exactly what he was asking through the heavy mask.

“It’s a long story,” Simon said, almost smiling. “Who are you?”

The man snapped open his mask to show his face. He was a gentleman in his fifties with gray hair and pale skin. His sharp, bony features looked like they had not seen sunlight in years. “I’ll ask the questions for the moment,” he said, careful to keep from inhaling too much of the fatally frigid air. “If you don’t mind.” After a moment, he let the heated air of the mask blow back against his mouth. “Come on out.”

He shuffled back two paces, and Simon and Max stepped out of the Spector and stood on the tunnel’s ice for the first time. Behind them, the others crept out of the ready room, arms up, legs moving very slowly and carefully.

The leader casually switched his lowered rifle to his heavily gloved left hand and stuck out his right one. “I’m Lucas,” he said. “Thank god you’re here.”

Not too far in the distance, they all heard the screeching of the robotic Spiders tearing a path through the passageway.

“Those are the CS-23s that are after you, you know.” Lucas pointed to the tunnel they had just come through.

“CS-23s?” asked Max.

“Crevasse Spiders,” Lucas said, looking grim. “One of the most dangerous vehicles in Vector5’s arsenal.” He looked back in that direction with an expression that was half eagerness, half dread. “If we could get hold of one of those things, we could actually get out of this hell hole,” he said.

Simon found himself nearly hypnotized by the steam rising from Lucas’ breath. It all seemed so impossible.

Max cocked an ear. “But that’s not them hissing in the background. What’s going on?”

“It’s the hydrogen generators,” he said. “Fuel for the cycles and other things. Hidden in places too small for the Vector5 people to detect or destroy.”

Lucas turned suddenly to his men and called out, “Let’s get the rations out of the vehicle,” he shouted, and then turned to Simon. “Get your team ready to go quick as you can. And have them travel light. We don’t have room for all of them as it is.” He turned away again, intent on looting the Spector, and threw his last orders over his shoulder. “Hurry. We have little time. They will cut through this tunnel in a few hours to reach this thing.” Lucas said, referring to the Spector.

As if in response, the not-so-distant Crevasse Spiders cracked a pillar of ice in half and stumped another ten yards closer.

Simon’s team scrambled back inside the vessel, trying to grab their meager personal belongings while Lucas’ men methodically and rapidly stripped every useful thing from the inside of the Spector. The men wasted no time, dragging the cases of food along the icy floor of the tunnel toward their vehicles, still brilliantly lit with their own spots.

Hayden was in a daze from the gunfire, the sudden turn of events, the looting of his precious invention. “What about the Spector?” he asked Simon, sounding lost and a little shaky. “We can’t just leave it here. It’s…we can’t just abandon ship, can we?”

Lucas didn’t look at Hayden; he spoke to Simon directly-and firmly. “Listen, this thing can’t go down much further. These tunnels get pretty narrow and dangerous. Not to mention, it’s a sitting target. And it won’t stand a chance against the dense ice and fire from Vector5’s heavy weaponry.”

“Heavy weaponry?” asked Hayden. “Here?”

Lucas dropped what he was doing and turned to look Hayden straight in the eye for the first time. “You have no idea. You need to get out of here.” Hayden gaped at him, stunned to silence, until Lucas turned away in frustration and helped Samantha carry a large bag of medical supplies out of the Spector.

Simon put a hand on Hayden’s shoulder. Suddenly the inventor seemed frail. “We’ll come back for her,” he said gently. “I’m sure we’ll need the fuel cells.”

“If it’s still here,” Hayden said hollowly. He looked up at the walls, turned to look at the console. “If we’re still here. If anything…” He trailed off, overwhelmed by everything that had happened.

We can’t afford this, Simon told himself. He took Hayden by the shoulders, turned him so their faces were very close together.

“Hayden,” he said severely. “Hayden! Focus! Remember why we’re here! You are a brilliant man, and I appreciate how your incredible invention brought us here. It was a miracle. I mean it. But right now, we can’t care about what happens to the Spector. Something is very wrong down here. Very wrong. We need to find Oliver and get the hell out of here.”

Nastasia passed close to him on her way out, clutching her satchel as if it was a life preserver. Ryan was frantically grabbing at anything that wasn’t bolted down. Max stood off to one side, grimly amused at the chaos. He turned to see Lucas watching him from the hatchway. Clearly, the leader of the men in white had identified him as different than the others.

You have no idea, he thought, but he said nothing aloud. He just smiled and touched a finger to his brow-a little salute between friends.

“We’re out in one minute, people!” Lucas called as he backed away from the Spector. “No stragglers!” The clanking roar of the CS-23s was growing louder, their lights more intense than ever.

Moments later, Simon and Max joined Lucas on the ice, gulping at the heated air from their suits, feeling the cold seep through the insulation with sharp, cutting fingers. The Spector was a dark and broken husk behind them.

Max noted how awkwardly Lucas handled his strange rifle. In that moment, he was reminded how little he knew about these people-where they had come from, what their agenda might be. Still, he told himself, they were lucky to find them and they may have something to offer: energy, rations, knowledge…hope.

They walked up to the massive cycles and stood in front of them, frankly astonished.

“What the hell are these?” Andrew asked.

Each cycle had a huge cockpit-comfortable for two, a squeeze for three-with a cargo hold and some sort of engine compartment. It seemed to be built to fit around a massive wheel and knobby tire, twelve feet tall, but the cockpit and cargo hold didn’t actually seem to touch the wheel at any point. The two components seemed to be held together by some type of magnetic force-field-a field that was deactivated at the moment, so the cockpits sat crookedly on the ice itself, waiting to be lifted up and borne away.

“These are MC-7s, or better known as Mag-Cycles,” Lucas said as he approached the nearest upright wheel. It towered over him, almost twice his height. “They are the old-generation Vector5 tech. Used to be standard issue for fast ice transport.”

“MC-7s?” asked Andrew. He’d never heard of such a thing. “How did you get them? How do they work?”

There was an ominous thoom from deeper into the passageway. They all turned to see the lights blazing brighter than ever.

The Crevasse Spiders were on their way.

“Later,” Lucas said. “Let’s get moving.”

As one of the cycles fired up with a thundering, sizzling WOWWing sound, Simon smelled the tang of ozone in the air, despite the frigid temperature. A blue glow radiated from the wheel housing, and Max and Simon stood in awe, their faces lit by the blue light of the MC-7 as the cockpit levitated, floating rapidly to ten feet above the icy ground, and hovered just above and behind the upright wheel. There was a breathless pause-just an instant-and then the wheel spun madly, dug into the icy floor, and sped away. The cockpit rode high above it in complete silence-except for the deep vibration of the ice itself, the vibration that Simon’s team had felt in the Spector just moments before when the cycles first approached.

The first cycle to leave had been stuffed with provisions and equipment, so completely filled there was barely space for the pilot. But it was clear that two passengers and the pilot were all a MC-7 could handle-and there were only two cycles left. Simon saw Nastasia being helped into one of the remaining vehicles already, by a pilot who kept looking nervously over his shoulder at the Crevasse Spiders as they broke barrier after barrier, still slowly approaching.

Simon gestured to Samantha and Ryan and pointed to the cycle nearest to them. “You go ahead,” he said. He looked at Sam for a moment, then looked at Max. “Andrew can handle a little exercise,” he said. “He and I will go on foot along with Lucas. Will you take Sam with you in that last cycle?”

Max looked positively offended. “What the fuck are you talking about? You know I’ll have nothing of that. I go where you go.” His expression was fierce, even angry. Simon had seen that look before; he knew there was no arguing.

He sighed. “All right then. Sam, why don’t you go with Andrew, and we’ll join you on foot.”

Samantha looked back at the rapidly approaching Spiders. A few more barriers, a few more twists and turns, and they would be right on top of the Spector. Then she looked forward at the darkness beyond the down-sloping passageway-more unknowns, more danger.

She really didn’t have any choice, and she knew it. Andrew pulled gently at her arm, helping her into the cockpit of one remaining cycle, while the one next to them glowed brightly and roared to life. As they were about to enter, the man in front of the cockpit said, “Bit tight in here. These aren’t made for three.”

Seconds later however, the hatch had closed over them, and Simon caught a glimpse of Andrew holding Samantha tightly in his arms as the cockpit lifted up into the air. Before they knew it, the cycle shot away, screeching as it barreled down the passageway and disappeared into the black tunnel ahead.

The first of the CS-23s forced itself past the final mountain of ice and stone. There was nothing between them and their quarry but an icy clearing as long as a football field.

Simon eyed the strange weapon that Lucas had been firing at them mere moments before. “You have any extras?” he asked.

Lucas grinned and called to one of his lieutenants, who threw him a new weapon. “This do?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

The other foot soldiers melted into the dark, out of sight and beyond the scanners of the Crevasse Spiders. The last three men-Lucas, Simon, and Max-confronted the black tunnel ahead them.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Lucas said.

They moved forward into the icy darkness.

TUNNEL 3

“How deep does this thing go?” Max asked.

“Do you mean how far?” replied Lucas. “For miles in all compass directions, a thousand feet above us and thousands of feet below us.”

Despite everything he had seen so far, Max was still shocked at the answer. Simon said nothing, at least not at the moment; he was content to listen carefully as they walked, the icy floor crunching and whispering beneath his boots.

“Actually, this particular passageway starts to wind down in a tight spiral just a mile ahead and then drops into a fissure called the Gorge. We’ve managed to gather our belongings into a little safe house tucked below the bend. We’ll meet the cycles and your people there.”

Simon shook his head mutely. It was hard for any of them to comprehend the vastness of the world below. “Please tell us,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and patient as he boiled inside. “Please. Who are you, and what are you running away from? I mean, why do you guys have these strange rifles and vehicles deep within the ice? And who the hell is Vector5?”

Lucas stopped for a moment, turning back toward Simon and Max, who were following two steps behind. With the bright light from his helmet shining right into Simon’s face, he asked, “You mean you have no idea what the fuck is going on down here?”

“Absolutely not,” replied Simon.

“Then how did you bring this amazing vehicle three thousand feet below the ice? How did you possibly escape from the CS-23s?”

“Would you mind?” said Max, referring to the beaming light from Lucas’ helmet that was blinding him.

“Yeah, sorry.” Lucas flipped the light mechanism upward, which illuminated the ceiling of the tunnel.

Simon didn’t really know how to begin. “We were heading to Station 35, thinking that maybe we would find some sort of clue as to where my father had been taken.” He didn’t want to give up too many details-the journal, the message, the coordinates given to him in Corsica. Simple is better, he thought. And safer. “The submersible started to malfunction, and we got lost, only to find ourselves in a long underwater tunnel. It led us to the gigantic dome under the ice.”

Lucas nodded, knowing all too well what Simon was referring to-the submarine drop-off at Fissure 9.

“The next thing we knew, we were being chased by these strange whatever-the-hell-they’re-called, and then you started shooting at us.”

Lucas looked stubborn and embarrassed at the same time. “Well, you looked like new Vector5 tech at first. You understand. But as soon as you showed yourself-”

“-you mean ‘didn’t fire back,’” Max said acidly.

“-then we stopped.”

Max held his hand in front of Simon for a second and interjected, “Before Simon continues, I should ask who the hell you are and what the fuck is going on down here.”

“All right guys.” Lucas picked up the case he had dropped. “Let’s keep on walking before we all freeze. I’ll explain.”

He had barely taken a few steps before the words came out of his mouth. “This is the greatest secret ever kept. We were lucky enough to escape from the people who control it just a few weeks ago, and we’ve been trying to navigate through this maze ever since, hoping to reach the very fissure through which you entered. But we’ve never been able to find it.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” Max said. “All the ocean-to-dome entrances in the Fissure are underwater for a significant portion of their length. You’d need a submersible or gills to escape the continent that way.”

Lucas looked crestfallen. “I know that now,” he said. “Just from what I learned talking to you and glancing at your data-logs. It’s very…disappointing.”

“Escape from what?”

“From here. From the underworld of Antarctica. We escaped from the Vector5 installation after being imprisoned for years, but we never could figure a way off this damn continent, not even during the crazy quarantine evacuation.”

“You keep talking about them-about this ‘Vector5.’ I’ve never even heard of them.”

“Not surprising,” Lucas said. “In fact, I’d be surprised if you had heard of them. I don’t really know their exact origin. They’re a military force, an intelligence-gathering operation, and a global smuggling cartel. They’ve used advanced technology to penetrate thousands of feet through the ice, and they’ve been extracting valuable minerals and resources from Antarctica without anyone’s knowledge for almost twenty years.”

“But that’s impossible,” Simon blustered. “You mean, no one knows this has been going on? With all the satellites, telescopes, and scientific explorations on the continent in the last two decades?”

“If anyone found out, the whole world would turn upside-down.”

“So how did you end up here?” Max asked. “What makes you so special?”

Lucas turned for a quick glance back at Max while he kept on walking. “They still need scientists and technicians. Always will. I was recruited for a legitimate job as a chemical engineer by one of their shell companies and brought to Antarctica to work at one of the topside stations, thinking I was going to assist in a mining robotics research project.” He stopped and swiveled his flashlight left and right, looking for some sort of landmark or signpost. He must have found what he was after; a moment later he turned forty degrees to the left and trudged off, obviously expecting the two men to follow.

“I must have impressed them,” Lucas said. “After three years, I was taken captive and dragged below, where I’ve lived for over eight years. My wife and kids have probably forgotten about me by now. They think I’m dead.”

The last few words pierced Simon like a dull knife. He and Max exchanged a quick glance, both of them realizing how similar Lucas’ story was to Oliver’s.

Simon took a long step forward, clapped a hand on Lucas’ shoulder and pulled at him. “Stop,” he ordered.

Lucas halted without resistance, as if he was expecting it. He turned to face the other two men, his mask unbuckled and blowing warm air again, so at least they could see his pale, haunted eyes.

“Do you know my father?”

Lucas’ smile was as cold as the terrain. “Everyone knows your father, Simon. He’s a very important man to Vector5. One of their prized possessions.”

The response sent chills down Simon’s spine, totally unlike the penetrating cold of the arctic caves. “Have you spoken to him? Can you get a message to him? Where is he?” He wanted to shake the truth out of Lucas. He wanted to know, now!

Lucas put his gloved hands in there air. “I only had one chance to speak to him, and that was months ago,” Lucas said. “Just before we broke out. I tried to convince him to come with us, but…but you know what? He said we’d get free of the prison, but never get off the continent.” His smile grew bitter and dark. “He was exactly fucking right.”

“What did he say? Where-”

“He mentioned your name to me.”

Simon was absolutely stunned. “What?”

“In those few minutes, when he knew we were going to try and escape, he made sure to mention his boy Simon and made me promise to tell you everything if we ever met.”

Max gaped. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

Lucas shrugged inside his well-insulated coat. “Neither do I,” he said. “But here we are.”

“Then what…” Simon began. “Where…?”

“He’s being held in the special facility-the secret one that everyone knows about, almost five thousand feet below where we stand right now. Part of it is secret, though. No one really knows what Vector5 is doing down there, but everyone knows its name: Ground Zero, sometimes called ‘The Nest,’ though I’m not sure why.”

Simon stood stock-still, surrounded by the freezing dark, as Lucas continued.

“That’s where I last saw him, anyway. It was almost a year ago. I and the rest of the guys you saw today had been working on the eastern side of the continent on coring machines that had mysteriously stopped working. We were called in but couldn’t find a thing wrong. That’s when they brought Oliver in-under armed guard, no less-to take a look, since he’s the spook expert.”

“‘Spook expert?’” Max echoed.

“Something weird happens, call Oliver. Somebody sees something scary, or goes crazy, or starts talking about the elder gods eating the earth? Call Oliver.”

He looked past them now, deep into the endless darkness. “Simon, Vector5 is one of the most secretive military forces ever assembled, and the fact that they have created this world is beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. But listen to me carefully-there is something far stranger down here. No one knows anything about it, but your father was brought down here when certain…unexplained things…started to happen at the lower depths. Geophysical anomalies and such. These are just rumors. I’m just an engineer specializing in heavy machinery, so I’ve never been allowed in Central Command, but believe it or not, this is only part of the mystery.”

Max’s eyebrow lifted as soon as he heard the words. “The tip of the iceberg, so to speak,” he said.

Simon had been listening very carefully. “So there is a central command?” he said.

Lucas nodded. “That’s where the whole operation is controlled. Down on Shelf 3. Deep. So deep even the air is thin.”

Simon hunched his shoulders inside his suit to try and trap just a fraction more heat. Max wrapped his arms around his torso and squeezed. They both knew no matter how good the exo-suits were, it was cold in these tunnels. And the topic of discussion was chilling them in an entirely different way.

“I can’t believe they’ve kept it a secret all this time,” Simon said, still trying to get his mind around the idea.

“That’s the biggest miracle of all, isn’t it?” Lucas said. “But it’s all about the control of information. Vector5 has been monitoring activity on and around the continent for three decades, making sure that no radar would discover their tunnels, especially the obscure entrances to Fissure 9. That’s why your submarine started malfunctioning as it approached; they can manipulate sound waves, radio waves, even light. Makes you wonder what the theories around the Bermuda Triangle were all about, eh?”

They were moving again, heading downhill toward an almost perfectly circular side tunnel lined with ice and permafrost. Simon thought he could detect the slightest hint of light glowing deep inside it.

“They control information, too,” Lucas continued. “No messages can enter or leave this land mass without Vector5’s watchful eye. You cannot send information to anyone outside the surface of the ice. Even the vehicles that Vector5 uses are designed to escape radar detection by some accidental fly-over or rogue intel-gatherer who happens to try a deep scan.”

“You mean, this whole continent has been under Vector5’s surveillance and control for over twenty years?”

“Longer,” replied Lucas. “But I’m afraid it goes further than that. Information around the world has been controlled to allow this operation to take place. It’s the only way they could have remained secret for so long. I’m positive that high-level members of all the most powerful nations are part of it. How could they not be? And they are benefiting from the steady flow of energy resources, strategic metals, and innovation out of this place.” He clapped his hands together and suppressed a shudder as he trudged forward. The cold was starting to get to him, too. “I hate to admit it, but I’m sure some of the scientists that have been working on the surface are connected in some way as well.”

Lucas continued, struggling to breathe and still speaking through the thick mask covering his face.

“We’ve been trying for years-years-to transmit information to the outside world, but our efforts have been futile. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that eighteen scientists including myself escaped the Dragger Station, approximately two thousand feet below where we’re standing.” They were inside the branching tunnel now, traveling over a sheet of ice so hard they left no footprints at all. “Frankly, it was a miracle that we escaped at all. It took literally months of planning-stealing supplies, hiding and even building weapons. There were forty-eight scientists, researchers, and support staff all together. Eighteen of us got out. The rest…dead. And we’ve been surviving on stolen tech and leftovers ever since.”

He sighed heavily and shook his head. “I never imagined I could be capable of cold-blooded murder,” he said quietly, not looking at either of them. “But I had no choice. None of us did. All we wanted was to get out of this icy hell! That’s all we wanted.” He paused to contemplate what he had done for a moment and then continued, “Anyway, it’s done. We seized an opportunity and capitalized on it. Since then, we’ve been on the run. Luckily, we found an old repair station that was connected to one of the utility tunnels. Thank god, with the group of scientists and engineers that we had, we were able to re-activate some of the old vehicles that had been abandoned. We are only traveling in adjacent tunnels at the moment, the ones that were used for ventilation and removal of ice during the coring process years ago. Vector5 can’t reach us-at least not at the moment. It’s not worth their time. But if and when they really want to dig us out, believe me, they can. And that will happen sooner than later, I’m afraid. Unless we can finally find a way to escape Antarctica completely.”

“So these aren’t the main tunnels?” Max said, looking up into the endless dark, remembering the massive domes, the high arches all around, the incredibly complex map they had seen in the Spector. “These are the utility tunnels?”

“Max,” he said with a wicked smile, “Believe me, you wouldn’t stand a chance against the machinery that travels through the main tunnels.”

Simon pushed it away. It was too much, just…too much. But he still had only one question; he still wanted only one answer. “Where, exactly, is my father, Lucas? How do I get to him?”

Lucas slowed down for a second and hunched over, putting his hands on his tired knees as he tried to catch his breath. Then he said in a very different voice-one far older, far wearier than the one that had begun his story.

“Simon,” he said, “there are a few hundred scientists that are held captive. I’m not positive exactly how many. But those that are finished with their task are terminated very rapidly and without remorse, or a sense of humanity, or even the remotest inkling of guilt. No one down here is certain if they will live from one day to the next. I can’t tell you if your dad is still alive, but I’ll tell you something for certain: entering this world is suicide. Suicide. And I, for one, will not face Vector5 again!”

He straightened up and looked forward-at the tiny, glowing light that was the scientists’ current refuge.

It was a robot graveyard. There were wheels, legs, pistons, printed circuit boards, hydraulics-all the left over pieces of two generations of technology, from vehicles to computers to discarded AIs. They filled the narrowing cave from side to side, a tangle of metal and wire and fiber-optics that would never be untangled. A set of inflatable tents, luminous domes, cones and ziggurats was attached to the ice as the floor curved up into a wall-living quarters for the renegade scientists.

They had nearly reached their destination. Lucas was nearly home.

“We are almost out of this hell,” he said. “And whether we make it the rest of the way or die right here, I don’t care, you are not dragging me or any of my people down there.”

He risked a glance at Simon only when he had finished. All he saw there was grim determination. No fear, no weariness, no fatigue, just resolve.

Simon gave Lucas the hardest look he’d ever seen. “Fair enough,” Simon told him. “You’ve made yourself clear. Now you listen to me.” His head lowered. His eyes seemed to burn with a fire all their own. “I don’t give a fuck who is here, or how dangerous they think they are. I will find my father even if I have to climb all the way to the bottom of this hellhole myself. And all you have to do is tell me how to get to Central Command.”

Lucas’ chin came up defiantly as if he was about to challenge Simon’s demand. Max saw the worst possible outcome. He put a hand on his best friend’s shoulder and squeezed, very gently, ready to counter an angry, reflexive blow. He knew that Simon could kill this man with a single blow if he wanted to. But Simon didn’t move. His shoulder felt like solid stone inside his suit.

“Simon,” Lucas said in a surprisingly measured tone, “I don’t care what the hell you do. But don’t count me in. I’ll tell you how to get there. I have no reason not to. You haven’t got a clue where you are, and I’ll make sure you couldn’t lead Vector5 back here even if you tried. So you’ll get your intel and all the supplies you need, and that’s where we part ways.” He turned away from him and crossed the last few steps toward the encampment.

“This is your hell now, not mine.” Lucas said. “I would rather die of hunger and hypothermia than to go down there again.”

He pulled away from Simon and moved steadily, determined, toward the tents.

There were shadowy figures near the tents, moving slowly in the bitter cold. One of them detached itself from the group and came toward Simon. It took him a moment to recognize Samantha as she approached.

She smiled as the light from his flare and flashlight connected them. “I’m glad to see you,” she said. “We were getting a bit concerned.”

Simon shrugged, trying to put on as casual a demeanor as he could manage. “Just talking a bit,” he said.

She gave him a huge hug, put her head on his shoulder, and sighed. “Simon,” she whispered. “This is crazy. What the hell is going on?”

Simon shook his head. “Right now, Sammy, I must tell you…I really don’t know. But we’ll figure it out.”

He gently turned her around, put his arm around her padded waist, and walked her back toward the tents and the rest of the team. “So tell me,” he said, “did Ryan get that case of Macallan out of the Spector?”

CENTRAL COMMAND

Blackburn stood alone at the apex of his empire and looked on all that he’d helped created.

All this, he told himself, in half a lifetime. And we have barely begun.

From where he stood, he had almost a 360-degree view of the buildings that hung like tethered wasp nests from the underside of Command Central’s massive dome. They were constructed completely of modules like a space station, built piece-by-piece by submarines delivering components one at a time over a twenty-year span. From below, he knew, the buildings looked like upside-down skyscrapers, unbroken cocoons, their surface soft and pockmarked, but clinging to massive sheets of ice so compressed, they were strong and durable like steel. Inside each structure was a web of interior insulating modules that kept the core temperature at a constant comfortable degree for human habitation, while the exteriors took advantage of the subzero temperature to freeze themselves immovably to the ice dome itself.

The Vector5 network was both vast and efficient. Blackburn was certain of that; he was the one who had hired or captured the scientists and engineers who made it so. He had witnessed the construction of all three phases-the first shelf at three thousand feet, the second at six thousand, and Shelf 3 at more than nine thousand feet below the ice. He had overseen the construction of the tunnels and speedways. He had piloted virtually every kind of vehicle that Vector5 used, from the personnel transports to the weapons platforms to the robotic vehicles that moved too fast for humans to pilot directly.

And he had been there on the day that The Discovery took place, and the entire world changed without knowing it.

Half a lifetime, he thought again. And tomorrow…still unknown.

Blackburn heard a discrete cough at his back, but he did not turn away from the floor-to-ceiling window that comprised one wall of Command Central’s main conference room. He knew what was waiting behind him: his commanders and advisors, arranged around the conference table, watching him, assessing him, judging his every move.

Tension permeated the briefing room. They were all in jeopardy. The world they knew was in jeopardy. They needed to find the intruders and recapture the missing scientists before they could escape and tell the world.

Blackburn still did not turn to them when the coughing officer stood up to address the others.

“We have a report from Dragger Pass,” he said. “The CS-23s have the exact coordinates of the intruder that has penetrated the network, and have confirmed reports of reconstructed MagCycles that rendezvoused with the intruder.”

Oh, excellent, Blackburn thought, burning. The invaders and the renegades have found each other. Perfect.

“Because of debris in the connecting passages,” the officer continued, “the Spiders were unable to acquire confirming visual imagery associated with the MagCycle operators, but we have a strongly held con-”

“Stop,” Blackburn said, too weary of it all to turn and confront them. “It’s the scientists. We all know it’s the scientists. Now move on.”

“But where did they find the MC-7s?” asked one of the commanders.

“The wrecks were buried above Shelf 1 in utility tunnels,” Blackburn said. He remembered the day they had abandoned the MagCycle technology in favor of the more powerful, swifter MC-9s. “Fourteen years ago. Is that not correct?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Clever little men,” he said, almost admiring. “They’re using the old utility passages and air shafts to travel the network. No wonder we haven’t been able to locate them.”

Blackburn finally turned but not to address his followers. Instead, he looked past them at the black wall of the hologram deck that filled the opposite end of the room, beyond the conference table. He lifted his head to address the AI that ran the conference room. “Calliope,” he said, “open the old construction maps.”

Instantly, an elaborate holographic diagram appeared above the table, coruscating greens and blues.

“No,” he said, “This is too current. Go farther back, to 2021.”

The display instantly changed and a large 3-D map of the continent’s utility tunnels around Dragger Pass appeared, as they existed a decade and a half in the past.

“Go to Shelf 1 utility tunnels frame at ten cubic kilometers.” Blackburn said, concentrating fiercely. “Focus specifically around Dragger Pass and prepare digital logs showing the coring activities. I want to know exactly where these bastards can hide.”

The men in the room stood up almost simultaneously when the map displayed in great detail the old tunnels around Dragger Pass. Many of the officers had never seen these tunnels.

Blackburn rounded the table and stalked to the hologram display. He didn’t waste an instant looking at his staff; they didn’t deserve the attention. He stood in front of the enhanced diagram and held up one hand, making a circle that covered a specific section of the grid.

“Jim,” Blackburn said, “how much ammo would you need to cave in this ten-kilometer area? To dump it into the Gorge?”

The commander code-named “Jim” went bone-white. “Sir, do you mean create an internal avalanche?”

“Yes. Take the whole fucking area-intruders, rebels, MC-7s, the lot of them-and drop it into the Gorge.”

All heads turned to Blackburn and stared in absolute shock. Jim was the head of explosives and coring activities; he had thirty years of experience in demolition and two advanced degrees in geology and structural engineering. He could barely contain his horror.

“Sir, with all due respect, the vibration would almost certainly cause the full length of the shelf to crack and cave in. That would destroy the entire…the entire, um, complex.” Now Jim was starting to sweat. He pulled a handkerchief from his ice suit and mopped his gleaming brow. “It could kill us all, sir. And-and even if, somehow, it didn’t, the seismic activity would alert every listening post and geo-satellite in the southern hemisphere.”

Blackburn waved that away. “Not an issue. We can scramble that information before they receive it.”

“Are you sure about that, sir?” the surveillance commander asked, his voice shaking with fear. “Seismic waves, too? We’ve never…”

The look the commander received from Blackburn was enough to kill. The commander stopped in mid-sentence and wilted. “All right, then. Sir,” he said meekly and sat back.

The Gorge was a horizontal fissure caused by a massive quake that had shaken the continent in 2018, creating a tremendous crack more than five hundred feet wide and four thousand feet deep. It went down to the continental bedrock-and perhaps even lower. None of the scans or camera descents had actually established its lowest point.

“You’re sure about that?” Blackburn asked sharply. “About the danger to the entire project?”

“I’m not sure about anything,” the commander said in a rare unguarded moment. “No one has ever operated in subterranean ice environments like this before. We learn something new every day, and it’s not always-or often-very good news. But the explosive release of trillions and trillions of tons of ice? The excess heat alone could generate enough melted water and steam to cook every living thing in the network-the entire network, sir.”

“So you’re not sure,” Blackburn said skeptically. It was just as he’d suspected-another coward.

Blackburn spun to the Ops commander, opened his mouth, and froze. For one horrible moment, every officer in the room was sure he was going to do it-to order a small tactical nuke into that ten-kilometer region where he thought the escapees and the intruders were hiding, just to stop the threat.

But…

“Jim,” he said, “Use whatever is necessary to cap the old network of utility tunnels. Make sure these bastards have nowhere to hide. In the meantime, Philip, start drilling toward the last known location of the intruder-vessel from Dragger Pass. I want to be able to haul the big guns up there if we need to.”

The relief in the room was like a cool breeze. Half of the officers sat back, relaxed, as if they had just been reprieved.

Not quite yet, Blackburn thought, and he swiveled to confront one of his most powerful executive officers. “Hollinger,” he said, “What’s the status of the operation at Ground Zero?”

The room chilled a second time. Most of the advisors knew little about The Nest, and wanted to know even less. It was unusual-and dangerous-for Blackburn to mention it in open session.

“Sir, we have identified more, but we cannot effectively close in to investigate. Machinery seems to shut down instantly.”

Blackburn scowled, clearly suppressing his rage. “I want an answer within forty-eight hours,” he said. “We need to get our hands on one of those fucking things and pull it up.”

“Sir,” replied Hollinger, nodding in tight acknowledgement. He was a tall, skinny fellow in his late forties who looked like a cross between a mad scientist and a vicious special-ops soldier-an anomaly in many ways. His weathered skin and white hair, cut long and rarely combed, was unusual enough, but in recent months he had also developed strange lesions on his hands and neck that no one spoke of.

Hollinger was the king of the spooks, as far as the rest of Vector5 was concerned. He was responsible for The Discovery, the most secretive mission the enterprise had ever undertaken-the one established at a depth so low it was scarcely 350 feet above the continental bedrock. No one in the room knew exactly what the Nest’s mission was, or what Blackburn was referring to when he said “those things,” and most of them were glad to be in the dark.

“I’ll have a feasibility breakdown and a timetable in my hands by 0300,” he said.

“Yes, you will,” Blackburn agreed. And with that, he dismissed the team with a gesture and watched in silence as they filed out of the briefing room.

It had been pointless, maybe even foolhardy, to mention Ground Zero in front of the general staff. But he was burning with curiosity and impatience concerning the most recent discoveries they had made down there at the bottom of their deepest shaft. He had to know what they meant, how they were to change the world yet again.

History has already been rewritten, he told himself as the last of his lackeys scurried away. But now the possibilities are literally endless.

Oliver Fitzpatrick was the key. As much as it pained Blackburn to admit it, without Oliver’s cooperation Vector5 would never be able to reach its ultimate goal.

He wondered for the tenth time if Oliver’s son Simon was-or had been-in the vessel. If he had come here looking for his father, or if there was a far larger, far more complex and sinister plan at work.

He would have to make double-sure that Oliver was closely guarded, and that Simon would be terminated long before he reached his father’s side. Oliver lives for the hope of seeing his son, he thought to himself, if he does, I will surely loose him. He will lose all his will to live and impart the secrets that he holds.

“He’s done,” Blackburn said, though there was no one else in the room to hear it. “Done.”

THE NEST

Deep in the earth, barely five hundred feet above Ground Zero, Oliver Fitzpatrick lay in his cell and wished for death.

He struggled weakly against the restraints that tied him to his life-support system. If he could have freed himself, he would have torn the tubes and wires out of his body and simply died, but he could barely move.

He was trapped.

Oliver was almost blind from exposure to radiation. He had developed first-degree burns on thirty percent of his body from contact with unknown chemicals that flowed like polluted water in caverns close by. He drifted in and out of a dream state-wishing for death, fearing rescue, making impossible plans, and remembering-always remembering.

Memories of his son’s childhood kept him alive in his dark captivity. He tried to dream about Simon as a little boy in Oxford. His first step. His first word. Their summer together in Corsica, and the wonders they uncovered together.

Deep emotions swelled in him, and he shivered-in pride or grief, or simply as a reaction to Vector5’s harsh medications, he did not know. What a life they had lived, together and apart. What people they had known, what adventures they had shared.

And it all came down to this. This. And the awful things he had done that had brought him to this place. How could he have been so selfish all his life? What would happen to the memories, the history that man had created? What would happen to those children who knew nothing but love?

Oliver had never been sure about the existence of God. The wonders of the universe seemed too complex; too amazing to be random, but how could God justify this? Vector5 in all its evil vastness, and the things that waited beneath him, five hundred feet below.Why would the universe turn its face away from mankind this way?

His hope was fading, but a new kind of courage was rising at the same time.

Death was the answer.

The secrets-all of them-would die with him. It would be better if no one knew what was on the horizon. And death was very, very near. He could feel it-death was a heartbeat away.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, thinking of Simon playing in their cottage on that single, perfect summer day.

Thinking of the past and praying for death.

THE ENCAMPMENT

Lucas led Max and Simon to the far end of the encampment toward a meeting area fifty yards deeper into the cave. “Your people are down here,” he said.

Lucas led the two friends as they trudged toward the camp, so weary they could barely lift their feet. It had been a long, cold hike from the Spector, and the information they had been given had stunned them completely. It was hard for Simon to think clearly at all.

Nastasia was waiting for them on the edge of the camp-waiting for Simon in particular, it seemed. She was looking only at him with a wild mixture of relief and obsession, as if she had done nothing but stand and wait for him constantly since they had parted.

What does she want? he wondered as he approached. What could be so important?

He pretended not to notice her strangely intense gaze. He just nodded to her briefly as he passed and saw her turn toward him out of the corner of his eye, swiveling to face him, still staring, as if she didn’t dare to let him out of her sight now that he had returned.

Never mind, he told himself. Not now. Besides, with the revelations of a decades-old, worldwide conspiracy of politicians, business people, and scientists, he wasn’t sure he could stand talking to her at this very moment. He trusted his friends from Oxford; he had known them for years, worked with them just as long. But Nastasia had been included at the last minute, picked up along the way because of the words-or manipulations-of others. He didn’t know about her. At all.

He had to sit and think. He had to talk with Max and Samantha-the ones he could really trust-and work this out.

The rest of the team had set up a temporary encampment next to the escaped scientists. It was heated by a cobbled-together network of battered and mismatched thermal units, hastily adapted from a half dozen vehicles of different designs and haphazardly connected to create a tiny area barely warm enough to allow the opening of the masks and relatively easy breathing. That circular meeting area-a campfire without a flame-was directly in front of a dimly illuminated structure, the likes of which Simon had never seen.

The structure’s surface was constructed of a durable plastic or vinyl material that seemed to be made of a million tiny cells no bigger than a fingernail, each one filled with air and somehow stiffened or solidified. From a distance, it looked like crystalline rock with an unnaturally smooth, organic exterior. Up close it looked like a honeycomb made of artificial materials, but as rigid as stone. The construction itself was unlike anything Max and Simon had ever seen.

“It’s a Vector5 inflatable structure used for emergencies,” said Lucas as he dropped his bag on the icy ground. “We found it inside one of the larger vehicles we uncovered last week. Thank god we did; it’s no fun sleeping in an ice cube.”

The other members of the Spector VI team had gathered with some of Lucas’ scientists in that small, warm circle, making seats out of crates that seemed to be ammunition cases or empty ration cubes. Simon recognized a few of them as recent arrivals from Spector VI.

As they entered the circle, Andrew greeted them with one upraised arm. It held a nearly full bottle of scotch.

“Greetings,” he said to Simon. “Sit on down, warm yourself up.”

One of Lucas’ men, sitting heavily in a field chair near the edge of the circle, suddenly broke into a wide grin. “Oh yeah!” he rumbled. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“It was packed in a case that traveled with us in the Spector,” Andrew said, slowly opening the bottle with flourish. “Personally, I’ll drink anything that comes my way, but some people around here are a bit picky about their personal brand of scotch.” He cast a sarcastic look at Simon, even as Lucas stopped to gaze in awe at the bottle of liquor.

“Wow,” he said sounding more like a frat boy than a scientist, if only for a moment. “We haven’t seen one of those in years.”

“Well, it’s time you re-established a meaningful relationship,” Andrew said, grinning. He reached down and snagged one of a half-dozen bottles at his feet, this one unopened, and tossed it easily to Lucas, who caught it with some difficulty. Lucas, in turn, offered it to his thirsty colleague, who moved as quickly as he could to seize the prize, but as the scientist tried to take the bottle, Andrew noticed for the first time just how frail the man was. He wasn’t going to be able to stand without help, let alone have a drink.

Andrew was suddenly, painfully aware of how the extreme environment had taken its toll on these men-all of them.

The lesson wasn’t lost on Samantha, either. “Hey,” she said to everyone with a false, almost brittle cheer, “how about we open one of these ration crates and have little celebration?”

They had been waiting for the invitation. In a heartbeat, the scientists, under Lucas’ watchful eye, ripped open one of the Spector’s ration crates and pulled out bag after bag of self-contained, self-heating meals-ready-to-eat; they descended on them like ravenous animals. They just ate-without benefit of utensils or table manners. The sound alone was enough to turn Simon’s stomach.

After all too short a time Lucas called a halt. “Take it easy, guys!” he said. He pulled the last of the few unopened packs from his people-even the ones who fought him-to store them in his own bag for later. “Think about what you’ll eat tomorrow and next week. There’s no telling when we can mount that resupply operation, so this is going to have to last us until then.”

One of the men-the first one to ask for liquor-gave a sarcastic snort. “‘Resupply operation,’” he grunted. “Hitting that bunker at the base of Tunnel 5 is a pipe dream, Lucas. Never gonna happen.”

“You see the guards they have posted down there?” another scientist said. “We wouldn’t have a chance.”

“Not before, we wouldn’t have,” Lucas said, then hefted a long, heavy wooden case off the icy ground and plopped it between the men. “But now…”

The complainer glared at the battered wooden box. “Where’d you get that?”

“The abandoned weapons dump up at Tunnel 36. Remember? That’s why we went out in the first place? Well, food and new friends notwithstanding, it was worth the trip.”

He pried open the box to reveal the strangest weapon Simon had ever seen-a structured box like weapon that seemed to look like a retractable robot. The only thing he recognized was the decal of a skull on one matte-finished panel. The international symbol of deadly.

They looked too small and compact to be rifles, but far too large and complex to be a pistol. Max too was fascinated. To him, they resembled the folded gloves of an experimental exo-skeleton he had seen in a government facility years ago-multiple sections that folded out and clicked together to make…something very strange.

Lucas noticed Max staring. “What?” he said in a voice that was almost prideful. “You’ve never seen a ray gun before?”

“Come on,” Simon chuckled, just as curious as Max. “What the hell is it really?”

“I’ll be happy to show you,” Lucas said. “Follow me.”

They moved to a makeshift firing range they had created a safe distance from the encampment, and facing away into the dark far reaches of the cave. With a few gestures, Lucas indicated where he wanted the observers to stand, and Simon noticed for the first time that Nastasia had silently joined them, a look of naked curiosity on her beautiful features.

It only took a few seconds for Lucas to expand the rifle. He depressed a thumb-latch here, pulled sharply, clicked the folding stock up and then down, and twisted, and the weapon had suddenly stretched to five times its original size and locked itself into an entirely new shape-half-rifle, half-glove, wrapped around his forearm like a robotic parasite. Simon couldn’t keep from being impressed; it was beautifully designed, a compact and clever construct of multiple sections that telescoped into a weapon slightly larger than a machine pistol, with a thick, round muzzle the diameter of a broomstick.

Lucas planted a knee on the frozen ground and set his body, as if preparing for heavy recoil. He raised the weapon and pointed it toward the far end of the range at a carved target over a hundred yards away.

“Behold,” he said, with no sense of irony whatever. “The wonder of Vector5 technology.”

He depressed a side plunger with his thumb and a series of extremely bright rays illuminated sections of the weapon. A stream of glowing projectiles, each the size of a shotgun shell, streamed out of the front with a high-pitched pew-pew-pew sound, and Lucas was thrown back by the force of their flight. Before he stopped moving there was a low hissing sound followed by what felt like a small sonic boom.

A hundred yards away, the black curve of the ice-tunnel wall lit up with pure, bright light.

“What the hell?” asked Max, gaping and taking an involuntary step forward.

“Luminescent bullets,” said Lucas, peeling off the weapon with three quick moves. He handed it to Max, who took it eagerly but gingerly-exactly as one would handle a loaded weapon. “These were experimental prototypes,” Lucas explained, “designed specifically for ice exploration and, if necessary, combat. Vector5 needed something to illuminate fissures in the deep dark tunnels of the underground, so the scientists developed a gun that would penetrate the ice and make it glow internally and kill people at a considerable distance, if necessary.”

Simon stared at the brilliant light glowing from the ice. It was blue-white, without heat, and so bright it almost hurt to look at. “How long will it last?” he asked.

“Each bullet glows for approximately five minutes and dims out gradually.”

Max looked at the gun with awe and trepidation, almost as if it was his first time holding a weapon.

“It worked beautifully as a tool of exploration. Became the standard for excursion teams all over the network, I’m told. But it wasn’t until two years ago that one of these was used on a person.”

Max looked up as if waiting for him to continue, but Nastasia was the one that asked. “And so what happened?”

“You can only imagine how grotesque the effect was,” replied Lucas. “I’ve heard stories of entire bodies glowing, bones and all. It was just too…it was more than they wanted. Energy release and hydrostatic shock made them instantly lethal. You don’t get wounded by one of these ray guns. You get killed. There are no grazes or flesh wounds; you blow up like balloon of blood set on fire. In an instant.”

“How does the technology work?” Simon asked with a boyish curiosity.

“The bullets are the key. I’m not a specialist in materials, so I can’t tell you.”

“Are you serious?” asked Max.

“You bet I am. You saw the bullets fly out of this thing. What you heard was the sound barrier breaking.”

Lucas chuckled at the look of pure amazement on Simon’s face. “This is why I wanted to show it to you, Simon,” he said. “You can take a set, of course, and all the ammo you can carry. But that’s not the point. The point is, this is the stuff they threw away. As incredible as it is to you, it is yesterday’s news, out of date and out of favor with Vector5.” He casually handed the unit to one of his assistants as they headed for the main tent, ready for an evening meal made primarily from Spector supplies, and an actual night’s sleep.

“The technology being used here is light years ahead of the rest of the world. You literally have no idea how advanced Vector5 really is-you couldn’t, but one thing is certain: you are facing one of history’s most technologically advanced military machines. If you survive the journey, you will witness it for yourself. But you can’t possibly plan for it.”

He slapped Max on the shoulder and smiled. “Now let’s grab a quick bite, and I’ll explain where you need to go and what you need to do.”

OPERATIONS BAY 32

Eric Schultz had an advanced degree in mechanical engineering and an international award for his work in quantum alloys. Robert Pallaso had two doctorates, one in industrial chemistry and the other in high energy physics. Each of them had worked for less than two years at jobs in Antarctic Station 9 for UNED and a series of companies with names no one could pronounce when they were “recruited” to the deep research stations on Shelf 1 within a week of each other-part of a horrible storm-related “accident” that “killed” seventeen scientists and engineers and made them Vector5 slaves for the rest of their lives.

Today, these award-winning innovators and technologists were considered something less than mildly talented mechanics, assigned to the DITV operations bay, a thousand feet under the icy surface. Their assignment: to load heavy-voltage weaponry onto the killing machine’s chassis in less than ten minutes. If they did not do so, they would receive no end-of-shift meal. If they made an error, they would receive no end-of-shift meal. If they were caught complaining or refusing to contribute with the proper enthusiasm, they would simply be shot in the head. Twice.

A coterie of Vector5 soldiers formed a loose ring around the operations bay, watching impassively as the team of prisoners fought the weather and the mismatched technology to complete the task. The work was dangerous and difficult and unimaginably cold, but they kept at it. They had little choice. After all, the end-of-shift meal was one of only two given every day. Missing it wasn’t simply unpleasant; it was life-threatening.

“What the hell are they planning to do with these?” Eric asked under his breath as he tried desperately to mount the high voltage generator below the hull of the DITV.

“I have no idea,” Bob said in classic prisoner’s monotone. He could only be heard a few feet away; his mouth barely moved at all. “But it sure as hell seems like something is going on with the Black Ops team. Some kind of ambush.”

A dark look passed over Eric’s features. “Hope it’s not Lucas and the boys. They were good guys.”

“They were idiots,” Bob said bitterly. “Plain stupid to escape like they did. I mean, what the hell are they going to do?”

A Vector5 soldier at the edge of the circle banged the stock of his rifle against a pipe to get their attention. “Hey!” he barked. “Stop the chatter and move on!”

“Finishing up,” Eric said quickly and got back to work.

The vehicle was so tall they needed a special robot to hoist the generator to its mounting plate. It was perilous work, and the frozen conditions made it almost impossible, but they were motivated. Eric and Bob worked as fast as they could.

It wasn’t fast enough.

Eric was tightening the last two nuts on the generator when a five-man Black Ops squad came double-timing out of the shelter, complete in tactical gear. They rushed to the cargo doors that swayed open on their own-in response, Bob knew, to the special-status code chips embedded in their ice suits. It was virtually impossible to open the DIT, let alone operate the complex machine, without one of those s-s chips. Without its answer-back, the controls simply would not respond, the engines wouldn’t fire.

“They’re early,” Bob said.

“They don’t care,” Eric replied.

“This doesn’t look good,” Bob said and hurried to finish. He could feel the vibrations of the special team’s boots echoing from inside the hull; he knew they were stowing gear, strapping in, responding to the lash of the sergeant’s constant goading, “Move it, move it, move it!”

A heartbeat later, the main engine began to cycle up, but Eric and Bob still weren’t done.

“Robert, don’t forget the cable underneath the fuelling hatch. It’s going to catch.”

“I’ve got it,” Robert replied, and scrambled toward the back of the vehicle. The cable was lying in front of a massive, knobby twelve-foot tire; if the DITV rolled over it in its haste to depart, the vehicle itself wouldn’t know the difference, but the cable would be crushed and ruined and would have to be replaced-which meant more work, more punishment, and fewer meals for them. They just couldn’t let that happen.

As he started to jump for the cable, the engines directly over his head roared to full life. It made him flinch-just a bit-and when his boots hit the ground he slipped on the icy floor. Simultaneously, the massive hydrogen boosters whined to life, and the floor under the vehicle-under Bob-start to vibrate.

Bob shouted, “Wait!” and struggled to get to his feet.

It was too late.

He had only made it to his knees when the DITV, impatient to be on its way, jumped forward, smashed the cable deep into the ice, and rolled directly over Robert Pallaso, beginning with his knees and ending with half his skull.

He was crushed to a pulp in an instant.

Eric stood motionless for a long moment, frozen in horror, then dropped to his knees and screamed-a sound of absolute, inarticulate anguish as he stared at the pieces of his friend’s body splattered on the tunnel walls. The DITV had already disappeared into the deep tunnel, unaware and unconcerned about what it might have done. The asset loss would be logged in Vector5 files; Eric would be moved to another team, and he would continue to work until he, too, was no longer of any use. There would be no funeral, no service, no obituary. Vector5 would just…continue.

Eric couldn’t stop screaming. He couldn’t see anything but the crushed body of his friend.

One of the soldiers-the one who had shouted at him earlier-stepped close behind Eric and buried the muzzle of his weapon in the nape of his neck. The soldier knew the protocol. There was no room for mourning. The mission was greater than any one man.

“Get up,” he said.

Tears streamed from Eric’s eyes. He didn’t rise.

“Get up,” the soldier said, and before Eric could respond, looped an arm around the scientist’s neck, pulled him roughly to his feet, and dragged him, struggling, into the security shed at the edge of the Ops Bay.

The moment he was inside, he dropped him on the floor and said, “Get yourself together before you’re locked up.”

This was life underneath the ice, and the soldier knew it well. He was doing the prisoner a favor by reminding him of that fact.

Eric tried to compose himself, struggled to make his body move, stand, work.

He risked one look at the blank, glittering helmet of the Vector5 soldier. “Why?” he rasped, scarcely able to speak. “What could be so important? What could matter so much that…what happened…just wouldn’t matter?”

The soldier did not speak. He did not remove his helmet. After a moment he simply moved the end of his rifle, from aiming at Eric’s stomach to aiming at his head, and said tonelessly, “Get back to work.”

Eric got back to work. The pulped body of his friend had already been removed by others just like them-other laborers, other workers just a little too valuable to kill…just yet.

Over a mile away, the DITV began its climb to the side of Tunnel 5, a huge and deadly robotic insect on the prowl. The team knew their mission.

They would be taking no prisoners.

THE ENCAMPMENT

Samantha walked through the encampment without any real destination. She just needed to keep moving-for her peace of mind and for the tiny amount of warmth that movement generated.

She came across Nastasia, sitting in a corner of the roughly hewn ice room by herself, holding her inhaler in one hand and looking thoughtful. Sam had noticed the device when they were still in the Spector, but she hadn’t mentioned it before-there was simply too much going on.

She stopped in front of the Russian beauty. “Hey,” she said.

Nastasia’s head snapped up, surprised by Sam’s sudden arrival. For one moment she looked almost afraid-then just embarrassed.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I do not like to…take care of this…in front of other people.”

Sam gave her a gentle smile. “I am a doctor, you know. I might be able to help you.”

Nastasia shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not with this.”

“Is it asthma? There are many more advance treatments available these days, far past the old nebulizers.” She nodded at the little canniser-and-pump device in Nastasia’s hand. “That looks like a pretty up-to-date gadget, I admit, but-”

“No,” Nastasia said shortly. “It’s not asthma. And I prefer not to discuss it.” Her eyes burned for a moment, and then she looked away. “Thank you,” she said, dismissing Samantha.

“Oh,” Sam said, slightly stunned by the rudeness. “Oh. You’re welcome.” She turned on her heel and walked away quickly, stung by the rejection. Around the next ten-foot pile of debris, she found Simon and Lucas in deep conversation, and she didn’t like what she saw.

Lucas was lecturing their leader-again-and Simon was not taking it well. He shifted from foot to foot, scowled with impatience, tried to interrupt and didn’t succeed, balled his fists and let them loose again, all in an attempt to remain reasonable-or at least give that illusion.

Lucas was holding a complicated bit of robotics, a roughly spherical mechanism with more legs than body-something she had heard called a “scrambler drone,” just hours before.

“You have to understand the scope of what we’re dealing with here,” Lucas began again.

Finally, Simon had taken all he could stand. Samantha could see him snap, even from a distance. She held her breath and tensed; she almost covered her ears in anticipation of Simon’s explosive reaction.

“No,” Simon said, his voice dripping with badly suppressed anger. “I don’t ‘need to understand.’ I understand enough. You need to understand that I’m not waiting here anymore. Now just tell me: where the hell is my father being held?”

She had never heard him sound more tightly controlled…or more dangerous.

“Look,” Lucas said, sounding perilously close to condescending “I don’t think you-”

Simon grabbed Lucas by the neck and yelled, “I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

Max stepped forward and put a hand on Simon’s upraised fist. “Hey, let’s-”

Simon shrugged it off, his muscles tense as iron. “Tell me!”

It was Samantha’s voice that cut through him. “Simon!” she snapped. “Please!”

He faltered then, but only for a moment. His eyes flicked to the side to meet hers, and he abruptly let loose of the scientist’s jacket collar and stepped back, letting the man collapse to his knees, clutching his throat and gasping for breath.

Samantha started to say something more, but Simon held a hand up to her to stop the interruption. He had already communicated what he had intended: there was no stopping him, and Lucas understood that now.

“All right, then,” he said roughly, rubbing his neck. “Traverse the broken tunnel above the Gorge; that will descend a mile onto the opposite side, and take you to Dragger Station, where there are more Vector5 than I’m willing to deal with.” He gave him a hooded, hostile look-no longer the friendly colleague of a few minutes ago. “You’re welcome to take one of the MagCycles with you, if you think you can manage it. And good luck in that frozen hell.”

Simon didn’t thank him. He simply turned and walked out of the encampment alone, finding his small duffel bag and stuffing it with a few of the ration packs they had brought from the Spector and some climbing supplies. Max followed close behind, looking grim and resigned. He knew there was no stopping him at this point.

Samantha’s body had gone cold with the realization of what was coming next. It’s too soon, she thought. Too fast. The team had been given no chance to sleep; they had barely eaten. Their level of tension concerning their own survival was higher than ever, and here was Simon, already pushing ahead.

Ryan stood up and said, “Simon, how are we all going to fit inside one ice cycle?”

Simon turned back instantly. “We’re not.”

“But…”

“But what, Sam? I’m going down myself.”

Andrew shook his head violently. “No,” he said. “No. We’re in this together. You can’t just do this on your own.”

Simon held up his hand again as if he didn’t need compassion any more than he needed argument.

“I need you guys here,” he said. “You need to figure out how the hell to get us out of here.” He snapped a look at his father’s friend. “Hayden,” he said sternly, “I’m counting on you to get back to the Spector and make her operational again before I return. And that won’t be long.”

“You’re daft,” the inventor said.

“…And you’ll need Ryan and Andrew both to pull that off.”

Hayden looked stubborn for an instant. “You’re still daft,” he said defiantly. “You’re right, but you’re still daft.”

“Don’t you think for a moment that you’re leaving this camp without me!” Samantha said sternly.

“I am. They need you here, and so do I.”

Her mouth tightened into a hard line of pain. Nastasia was already gathering her own belongings. “I’ll come with you,” she said as if she already knew what the response would be. “You’re going to need someone to help you navigate, and I’m the only one here who has a sense of the continent’s topography.”

Right then, something clicked inside Simon’s head, as if it was meant to be. The note, the rendezvous, the sign on the back of her neck. It felt as if she was supposed to be here. He could not put his finger on it. He looked at her head on and simply said, “I know.”

Max allowed himself a small smile knowing there was more to this than he originally thought.

The room fell silent for a few seconds. Simon threw his half-filled duffel over his shoulder and said, “It’s time.”

He walked over to Samantha and kissed her. He tried not to notice how she was fighting to hold back tears. “Sammy,” he said gently, “I’m coming back. With my father.”

She couldn’t contain her emotions as he let her go; she turned from him, weeping as he stepped away and tapped Hayden on the chest.

“I’m counting on you.”

Hayden’s nod was almost too delayed, but Simon pretended not to notice. He had already moved on before Hayden had any time to respond.

Samantha turned back to look at Simon one more time. Instead, she caught a glimpse of Nastasia’s slim figure following Max and Simon toward the fleet of MagCycles at the far end of the dark tunnel, the silhouettes of their bodies growing smaller and smaller as they walked away, until she could no longer see them.

Max took only a moment to squeeze into the pilot’s seat. He was already adjusting his helmet as Simon climbed into the passenger seat, and Nastasia pressed in front of him in a space not truly meant for a third party. Seconds later, the cycle’s powerful engine fired up and an electric blue light began to glow from the sides of the magnetic wheel. Before they even had a chance to feel the vibration building beneath them, the cycle tore up the ice below its wheels and exploded into the dark tunnel at lightning speed.

Nastasia’s body pressed tightly into Simon. All Simon could think of was Oliver.

* * *

Samantha turned back to see Hayden and the men already hard at work. Exhaustion and starvation didn’t matter to them; they had been given a job: fix the Spector, find a way out, and they were going to do it. They had little time to reach the Spector before the CS23s reached it. They had to move fast. She approached and heard the tail end of an odd conversation.

“…there is more than one network of tunnels down here?”

“Precisely,” replied a German scientist named Rolfe-once rotund, now hollow-cheeked and flabby from malnutrition and stress. “High-speed tunnels, not meant for human transport. They are using special pods that travel hundreds of miles across the continent suspended magnetically from structures embedded into the ice tunnels for transport of resources from one end of the continent to the other. There are only a few vehicles fast enough to travel in these high-speed shafts, and sometimes Vector5 uses them. They are known as Ice Raptors.”

“Well, people wouldn’t need to use them for the most part, would they?” Ryan asked. “Moving resources and supplies I understand, but surely with the cameras and communication systems, it doesn’t make sense for Vector5 to have humans travel these distances at these speeds.”

Rolfe shrugged. “I agree, but sometimes Vector5 has to transport personnel. Using the Raptor is very dangerous, however. There have been more than a few catastrophes where pods have slammed into the receptors and sliced through them. We’ve heard of a few openings on the other side that are easier to escape with, but I definitely do not suggest traveling through the transport tunnels to get there!”

Hayden looked bitter-another alternative eliminated. Samantha watched the men converse for a moment longer, then turned to walk along to the makeshift kitchen area where their meager food supplies had been laid out, scattered over random cases sitting on the icy floor.

She started to pick up an unopened MRE and noticed Nastasia’s nutrition pack slumped against the back of a crate, half-buried in discarded wrappers. It almost looked hidden.

Samantha pulled it from the trash and walked over to Hayden with a confused look on her face. Hayden was still in deep concentration over the plan to restart the damaged Spector, even though it was stuck in an icy tunnel miles away. She plopped it down on the floor next to Hayden.

“She left her med-bag here.”

Hayden looked up, completely distracted. “Who left what?”

It caught Andrew’s attention. “That’s odd,” he said. “She held onto that thing as if her life depended on it.”

Samantha nodded thoughtfully, then turned the pack over, letting the contents spill onto the worktable next to Hayden’s plans.

“Hey!” he protested, but she ignored him.

She pushed her fingers through the debris that had been in the bag. Nothing important, really: scraps of papers, a pen, a bottle of headache pills. “The inhaler is gone,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “She must have taken it with her.”

“No she didn’t,” Andrew said. “She left it on the Spector.”

Samantha frowned. “But I saw her with it, just a few minutes ago-just before they left.”

“I’m sure,” he said and squinted as he recalled the last few minutes aboard the amphibious vehicle. “She was using it for whatever was bothering her. Then she shoved it into her nutrition pack and left it in the ready room. I’m positive.”

Samantha shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she do that? And why would she have two of them?”

“Back-up?”

She shook her head one more time. “Have you seen these new inhalers? A year’s supply or more. And still: why put it in with a med-pack of vitamins and protein powders of all things?

“Maybe she took the other one with her,” replied Ryan. “She-”

“No,” Lucas said shortly, still out of sorts from his earlier disagreement with Simon. “I helped her buckle in. She was carrying nothing-certainly not an inhaler or…or any kind of small bag. “

Samantha began to lose herself in thought.

Lucas mistook her confusion and concern for weariness-though he wasn’t far wrong.

“Here,” he said, “let me show you a place you can rest for a little while.”

She wanted to say “no”-she wanted to resist with all her strength, but she realized resting would be the smart thing to do. She was going to need her strength.

“Thank you,” she said quietly and followed him to an insulated sleeping tent.

THE NETWORK

7:05 AM

Nastasia used all her strength to grip the armrests of the chair beneath her, steeling herself against the tremendous pressure of the MagCycle’s acceleration. She gritted her teeth as the unrelenting weight pushed and pushed against every square inch of her body.

The MC-7 was an ergonomically designed little cockpit connected to a massive ice-tire by a magnetic field, and that huge wheel carried its passengers down the cored tunnels of the Vector5 network at speeds that were beyond comprehension. It felt as fast as a bullet shot from the barrel of a rifle because of the narrow tunnels. Max struggled to control their headlong flight through a console that closely resembled the yoke of a small fixed-wing plane with foot-pedals and slide-buttons that dictated speed, attitude, and acceleration. He wore a flat-faced HUD navigation helmet that gave him a supernaturally clear view of the tunnel ahead, complete with luminous annotations on cracks, irregularities, and potential hazards. Max had used similar rigs in supersonic fighter planes over the years, but he had never seen one on a land vehicle before-and certainly never on a magnetically constructed unicycle that traveled over a hundred miles an hour.

All Nastasia could see outside the cockpit windscreen was a blur of black shadows flowing past in an endless torrent, illuminated only by the fitful flicker of the MagCycle’s own headlights. Her body swayed to one side, then the other, then back again as they careened forward through a darkness as thick as ink. And still the pressure made it almost impossible to breathe.

Max concentrated on his HUD diagram. In no time at all, he knew, they would reach the end of the tunnel, where it had been sliced open, sharp as a knife-cut from the great earthquake a dozen years ago. They would actually have to leap across that gap to the tunnel opening on the far side, if they hoped to reach Dragger Pass and below onto deeper tunnels and the elevator shaft that would take them to Oliver Fitzpatrick. He knew leaping across that Gorge almost meant suicide and they needed to accelerate full speed to even have a chance.

He did the only thing he could: he pushed his foot down even harder on the accelerator pedal and poured the last bit of power from the MagCycle’s electric generator into its wheel. He actually felt it jump forward, yet again, hitting and exceeding its top speed.

It was the fastest he had ever traveled on land.

Nastasia was painfully aware of how the massive acceleration was hurting Simon, sitting behind her, but there was nothing she could do about it. “Simon?” she said between clenched teeth. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t speak, but she felt the tight, brief nod of his head against her collarbone as he struggled to bring it forward from the pressure of the speed.

The downward angle of their headlong flight suddenly grew steeper, and the MagCycle picked up even more speed. I didn’t think that was possible, she told herself. She heard Simon curse under his breath as blood started rushing into their heads.

“Mother of god!” Max shouted as he looked into the lens of his helmet. “See the Gorge, and it’s fucking huge.”

“Think we’ll make it?” Simon shouted back, his voice betraying some of the strain of her weight on him, as well as fear for all their lives.

“We have to,” Max said simply as he steered them down one last, long straightaway. His gloves gripped the yoke more tightly than ever.

“When will we-”

“NOW! HOLD ON!”

Max stamped on the accelerator to gain the last threshold speed, and Nastasia saw the world open up, revealed in a dim gray light that fell from high above them. The end of the tunnel spread wide open directly ahead; a cliff was visible on the far side of the Gorge, absolutely uninterrupted but for one ridiculously small circle-the other side of the tunnel directly ahead and below them, their target. But she was seeing so much more: a world that went up and up and disappeared into infinity and that plunged downward into impenetrable darkness. One that spread its arms into invisibly distant corridors left and right. She gaped at the tremendous space all around her, rushing toward her, during the one brief heartbeat that she still had solid ground beneath her.

Then they were airborne, projected from one side of the massive Gorge to the other in one long, almost graceful leap from the broken edge of the tunnel to its counterpart on the far side.

Max used all his strength to pull the control yoke back toward his body, shifting it to the left at the last moment as they flew, aiming for the tiny target of the tunnel mouth on the far side. G-forces caused Nastasia’s body to multiply its weight five times more as they flew; she heard Simon grunt as the pressure became literally unbearable.

For one fraction of an instant, in the moment after the MC-7 blew out of the tunnel opening like a projectile, it seemed to fly straight and true. But then, just as suddenly, it started tilting upward, lifting their bodies while the cockpit tried to spin over its own wheel, squealing and groaning in the air as it turned.

A millisecond later, the gigantic wheel smashed into the opposite ice wall, missing the opening by no more than two feet. It dug itself into the ice, disintegrating on impact; the magnetic field blinked out of existence and the cockpit flew free, rocketing through the air in an all-new arc.

They tumbled into the tunnel, clearing the lower lip of the opening by mere inches.

The box-shaped cockpit hit the floor of the tunnel in a shower of sparks and debris. Broken pieces of machinery cart-wheeled all around them as the chamber skidded against the ice floor, screaming down the tunnel for two hundred yards, then three hundred, skirling through the frost and ice until finally, inevitably, it began to slow and finally stop.

The cockpit housing, twisted hopelessly out of shape, came to a halt with one final bone-rattling jolt.

Nastasia was absolutely astonished. They were still alive.

Everything had gone black when the MC-7 hit the wall. Now she could feel the heat of a small laceration high on her forehead; she could hear Max breathing heavily, struggling to move.

“I’m stuck,” he said between clenched teeth. “Help me! We need to get out of this thing!”

“Just give me a minute,” Simon said briefly, sounding as if he was in pain.

Thank god he’s alive, Nastasia thought. In that final tumble across the cockpit, she had lost contact with him. She had no sense of where they were, where the doors were, even which way was up.

“I’m pushing on the passenger door with my feet,” Simon told them. “I think it’s stuck.”

She could locate him now, from the sound of his voice. “Here,” she said. “I’ll help.” She twisted around, felt through the darkness until her legs were lying alongside his and found the crumpled panel of the passenger door with her feet. “Both at once,” she said.

“Do it!” Simon yelled. “One…two…three!”

They kicked at the panel together in one strong blow and the door cracked open, just a bit. But it was enough. A second combined kick, and then a third, and they were able to wriggle out of the wrecked vehicle and roll onto the iced surface of the tunnel.

Simon activated the head and shoulder lamps of his exo-suit as he freed himself. It was all the light they needed.

The heat from Nastasia’s wound started throbbing as she pulled herself to her feet. She could feel herself trembling, and the paltry light of the suits showed her Simon was shaking as well-from the cold and shock in equal measure. A moment later, Max rolled out of the crushed cockpit as well, crawled to his feet and snapped on his emergency light source as well. It cast an eerie shadow over the fragments of broken machinery scattered fifty yards along the ice in both directions.

Nastasia saw something glittering against the ice and realized the heat from the wheel housing had melted the ice below it. There was actual water flowing down here, she realized. But as she watched-in a few seconds-it grew gelid, misty, and started to freeze all over again.

Max tapped at one of his shoulder lamps; it was already starting to flicker. “How much time do we have before the batteries die out on these suits?” he asked Simon.

“Eight hours,” Simon answered, looking at the digital readout on the suit’s forearm.

Nastasia looked at her own watch and thought for a moment. She could not help but wonder if Andrew and the rest of the team had found her satchel and noticed the missing items-or guessed that an identical set of items were still in the Spector.

She knew why she had left it there. She hoped that they would not retrieve it before her mission was complete.

Seven hours and twenty-six minutes, she told herself. That was how much time it would take before the cases she brought would explode, simultaneously, disintegrating the Spector and the renegade camp alike with all its inhabitants.

She forced herself not to give in to her growing empathy for these people. This was why she had been sent here. It had been bestowed upon her to carry out this task, and she would never, could never, question the will of the society that was her life. These were the instructions she had been given, etched for mere moments into that block of ice. She had to do as she was ordered, no matter how much she might wish it to be different.

It was called trimethylzone-18. It was a binary explosive; it came in two parts, one solid and one gaseous. Taken individually, they were inert, benign. But when the gas was mixed with the solid-when it was even exposed to it-the explosion that resulted was incredibly destructive.

The weapon had been developed by Nastasia’s masters to break things. The shockwave it generated actually shattered the fundamental bonds that held solid matter together; the molecules of stone, wood, ice and flesh were blasted to powder in an instant, no piece larger than a grain of sand. Even the compressive sound wave it created could kill a man at more than five hundred yards, and the mass required for the devastating effect was quite literally tiny.

The solid element of trimethylzone-18 was mixed with a bit of pigment and put into two protein powder packs. The gaseous element was compressed in a small canister and disguised as a medication inhaler. Then the tiny battery and timer embedded in the base of the inhaler was all the fuse that Nastasia needed: set the time, touch the base just so, and at the appointed moment a tiny charge from the batter would detonate an equally small bit of gunpowder, no bigger than a fingernail, that would crack the gas canister.

It’d mean death. As simple, as pure, and as final as that: death. All Nastasia had to do was put the inhaler in the nutrition pack, set the timer, and close it. And no one would escape the explosion to come, she knew. Not even Simon.

She had started to care about Simon. After all, she was human; she had come to care deeply for these people. But her cause outweighed her compassion. There was no room for hesitation or regret-not now. Mankind’s fate had been written. This was all she knew: it was better for the planet in the long run, and she would do as she had been told. She had to.

Simon noticed that she was in a daze, suspended in her own space for a few moments. He remained quiet, recovering himself. It was Max who broke the silence.

“Come on Nastasia. We have to keep moving or the heat cells will drain the battery in the suit.”

“Wait, Max,” Simon gestured as he approached her, standing inches away from her face. The light from his suit illuminated Nastasia’s face and made her stark blue eyes stand out like an apparition’s. “Do you need to tell me something?” he asked.

For the first time, Nastasia realized that she might not be able to do this. She had started to care about him too much, but she needed to stop her emotions from getting in the way of her mission.

“No,” she replied stolidly.

Max waited for them impatiently.

“All right then,” said Simon quietly, looking straight at her face for a few seconds longer. Then, abruptly, as if released from a trance, he cracked his knees, bent down, and snatched at the gear he had by his feet: his small duffel bag, the climbing tools, and the bizarre weapon that Lucas had given them. He turned from her without another glance and started to walk straight ahead, deeper into the tunnel. She followed a few steps behind. Max brought up the rear.

The temperature was close to twenty degrees below zero-the suits told them so. They could feel the cold against their faces despite the technology’s best efforts. Nastasia wondered what would happen if the batteries ran out.

But they were close. The limited directional capabilities of the suits told them that they would reach Dragger Station in less than a mile.

It’s almost over, she told herself as she watched Simon trudge onwards, a scant few feet ahead of her. Finally, it will be over soon.

* * *

Blackburn tapped his shoulder and said, “I’ll be ready for the transport to the Nest in seven minutes. I need to see what the hell is going on down there for myself.” He hadn’t spoken a word of his intentions to his adjutant, but the man was a professional: he didn’t betray an ounce of surprise. He simply said, “Yes, sir, commander,” and slipped away to make the arrangements.

Things were happening, he knew-just outside of his view, just beyond his reach-and he didn’t like it when things happened. He had seen the long-lens images of the things they had uncovered more than ten thousand feet below the surface. He had read the reports and interviewed the few surviving workers about their experience before they had finally been put down. But he hadn’t seen them first-hand-at least not yet.

He needed to talk with Oliver Fitzpatrick face-to-face. It was time to get the information needed from the stubborn man, one way or another.

Oliver Fitzpatrick had been part of Blackburn’s greater plan. He had summoned the scientist to Antarctica to study the first of the anomalies and then imprisoned him when the situation began to get out of hand. He couldn’t risk having him leave-or talking to anyone. That’s why he was “killed,” to spread the story about his death. Oliver was Vector5’s now-now and forever. That was just the way it had to be.

But Blackburn was running out of time. The Committee wanted answers. The damn artifacts absolutely pulsed with a level of power that no one had ever seen before, and they wanted access to it immediately, not after years of overly cautious study.

As he stepped inside the transport, he checked the magazine of his rifle and placed it in his holster.

He was prepared to do whatever was necessary to end this.

This would be Oliver’s last chance.

* * *

The Black Ops team didn’t have a name; it didn’t have a designation. Its existence, though entirely secret even within the confines of Vector5, was completely denied. It simply didn’t exist, until it was needed by one of the very few, very powerful higher-ups in the organization.

Blackburn was one of those higher-ups. And right now he needed that team to exist.

The team members did not speak to each other as their specially equipped DITV left Dragger Station and pushed its way into a narrow fissure. The canyon was a shortcut: it would take them upward quickly, right to the entrance of the target site where the intruder vessel waited for them.

The intruder vessel was just a secondary consideration now. The real target was former Commander Roland.

The DITV seemed to writhe like a living thing as it climbed, compressing its sophisticated wheels against ice walls as hard as glass. The void below it fell well over one thousand feet; the shaft above it climbed just as high, though it was impossible to tell. The darkness in all directions was midnight black and impenetrable.

It didn’t matter. The Deep Ice Transport-or rather the AI that drove it-knew exactly where they were going.

There had been some kind of commotion at departure-something about those worthless, lazy workers who didn’t clear the departure zone quickly enough. No one on board knew or cared; the work they had been assigned had been finished. Now the high-voltage generator was securely mounted to the vehicle’s underside, poised to produce enough electricity to melt almost any material on contact-including whatever material comprised the body of the intruder vessel. The DIT was also mounted with a more powerful version of the ray gun carried by the soldiers themselves. The bullets of this particular armament were designed to penetrate deep frozen ice on impact, but they would also destroy any shield from vehicles that it came in contact with-the super-powered equivalent of Teflon-coated “cop killer” bullets, scaled up to the size and strength of a rocket-powered grenade.

The diehard soldiers thought about their armament as much as they thought of the workers they had left behind. If they thought about anything at all, they thought about their mission. That was all that mattered: kill Commander Roland and, if possible, destroy the intruder vessel.

Nothing else.

* * *

“Still no response?” Roland asked, trying to keep the shrill annoyance out of his voice.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Then call again. Now!”

He looked out the front windscreen of his Vehicle at the distant, immobile CS-23s attached to the sidewall of the airshaft. The massive ice Spiders were too large to go any farther down the utility tunnel; it was amazing they had managed to get as close to the intruder vessel as they had. Roland’s craft, however, was much smaller and far more maneuverable. It was fully capable of threading that icy needle.

They had literally waited hours for the go-ahead from Central to cross the last few thousand feet of ice and grime to take the target, but nothing had come through. Roland was past worrying about it: he had grown weary of bowing to protocol. It was time to act.

Roland was about to give the order to start down the pitch-black tunnel on foot when the comm officer suddenly straightened up, a finger to his earpiece. “Sir!” he said. “Finally! What is the word?”

The comm officer blinked wide eyes at him and forced out the words he clearly did not want to say. “You are instructed to stand down,” he said. “Pull back. Out of the airshaft. Retreat to Fissure 9.”

“What?” Roland said, purely astonished. “What? Who the hell gave that order?”

This time the comm officer touched a panel on his console and let the technology do the talking. The voice from Command was deep, resonant, and totally inhuman. It was a higher-order AI, the one who worked directly for Blackburn. “This command is a direct order from Central.”

“Who at Central?” Roland demanded. He had known all along that his failure to stop the intruder vessel could prove to be dangerous. Blackburn had no tolerance for such things.

“Sir, I’m picking up data from below Dragger Pass,” said the signals officer.

Roland’s whole body turned toward him. “Profile?”

The answer came instantly. “Sir, it seems to be one of our own vehicles heading up the fissure. Radio silhouette is familiar, sonar pick-up is dead on for a DITV. Other than that, I’ve got no ID.”

Black Ops, he told himself.

“All right,” he said grimly “I think I know what this is. Let’s pull back.” He was no different than the rest of them; he had heard all the stories about Commanders who had been “retired” by nameless, silent Black Ops teams. No one doubted that Blackburn was paranoid enough to do it, even to the veterans who had helped him build up the project from nothing more than a mission.

It didn’t matter. “It is what it is,” he muttered. Vector5’s second most popular motto, right up there with Forever Secret.

The vehicle whirled on its axis and started back toward Fissure 9 at a reasonable clip. The ice beneath the DITV’s wheels, frozen in place thousands of years ago, cracked like shattered glass.

Roland sat in the darkened cockpit and watched the screens around him. There was nothing more to do…but wait.

* * *

Simon, Max, and Nastasia walked for a long time and spoke barely spoke a word. Conversation had been difficult to begin with; soon it became entirely too much trouble. Even listening itself was an effort; they seemed to drift in private, frozen worlds of their own where even the grinding of their boots against the icy ground no longer registered.

They just walked. And walked. And walked.

They took a final, gradual curve to the right and realized that they no longer needed the guttering illumination of their shoulder lamps. The ground beneath their feet sloped up slightly and then, quite simply, ended. It dropped off at an almost perfect ninety degrees, as if a giant’s guillotine had split the earth and pulled out a slice.

They stopped more out of surprise than caution and found themselves standing in the shadows less than fifty feet from an unusual suspension bridge that spanned the Gorge. The bridge was wide enough to carry vehicles and machinery across the vast opening. At the far side of the bridge, rising above its span for more than a mile, plunging below it to an even greater depth, was the elusive vertical fortress built into a wall of ice as smooth as glass.

Draggar Station.

To Simon it looked as if the massive structure was stuck to the wall of ice like a parasite, alien to the environment but blending in perfectly. It cast a faint glow on the surrounding ice, creating an eerie image, a lighthouse in a dark ocean that was not simply below it, but all around it, forever.

Behind the massive facade there were cavities in the ice: expansive living quarters. Immediately behind that four-story structure swelled a spherical cavity the size of a small stadium. Half a hundred small tunnels opened into that half-dome, each leading in a different direction, all of them surrounding three huge vertical shafts that carried vehicles, equipment, and soldiers thousands of feet below to Central Command. This, clearly, was the hub, the point from which a Vector5 soldier or captives could begin the journey outwards to any corner of the continent, or descend to its lowest, most powerful point: Central Command and the dark secrets below.

At last, Simon said to himself. At the crossroads. And he couldn’t deny it: there was a magnetic attraction here, the pull of gravity itself, drawing him toward Dragger Station, drawing him deeper into the mystery…and closer to his father.

Max was the first to hear the distant rumbling. He mistook it for the deep-throated roar of the icy breeze in the Gorge, and ignored it for the moment.

He didn’t know what was coming their way…and the Black Ops, half a mile from that same bridge, still not in sight of the Gorge, had no idea what awaited them either.

THE ENCAMPMENT

Samantha had to keep moving. What little heat the makeshift “campfire” yielded wasn’t nearly enough; more and more of the twenty-below temperature was creeping past the exo-suits; even fresh batteries from the scientist’s dwindling supply didn’t help.

So she paced. She walked from one end of the camp to the other while Hayden and the others huddled over their worktable and solidified their plan to revive the Spector.

She didn’t care. She couldn’t. All she could think about was the inhalers.

Those inhalers. Why did they bother her so? Why had Nastasia dragged two of them halfway around the world, and then left without them?

She had to get back to the Spector. She had to see if Andrew was right, if there were duplicates of these silly little items there.

“That’s it!”

It was Hayden. She turned to him in surprise.

“That’s it!” he shouted again. He was beaming like a child who had discovered something.

Lucas hadn’t been at the table. He stumped over, his fists thrust in the deep pockets of his ice-suit. “What am I missing?” he said.

Hayden ignored him. He was focused on Andrew instead. “Can we rewire the Spector’s boosters to power up the exterior shields?”

Andrew looked shocked. “You mean the propulsion generators? Convert them to put power into the shields? What in the world for?” He thought about it a moment longer and shook his head emphatically. “No, Hayden. Do you know how much heat that would produce? It would…”

And it hit him, so hard Andrew took a step back and plopped down on an ammo box that threatened to collapse under him. “Oh,” he said, as the idea took hold.

“So what do you think?” Hayden said, crossing his arms, waiting for the answer he knew was coming. “Would it work?”

Andrew was nodding again, but it was an entirely different kind of agreement. “Yeah, he said. “Yes, I do believe it would.”

“I knew it!” Hayden crowed. Only then did he turn and cock his head at Lucas, who was standing five feet away, shifting impatiently from foot to foot.

“What’s exactly below the Spector?” Hayden asked.

“Ice, of course,” Lucas replied, sighing with exasperation.

“Oh, come along, Lucas, don’t be an ass. Is there a tunnel, a fissure, a feeder channel, anything crossing under the Spector that might lead us out of this hellhole?”

“I’m…not sure,” Lucas said, thinking about it seriously for the first time. He turned to look at Rolfe who was more familiar with the network of tunnels. “Rolfe? Thoughts?”

“Here, let me help,” Ryan said and called up the best of the three-dimensional digital maps they had loaded into their cobbled-together holo-platform. They huddled around the display and tried to puzzle through the complex web of tunnels and shafts.

Rolfe immediately pointed toward a specific location deep in the midst of the chaos. “Here,” he said, no hesitation in his voice. “Approximately 260 feet below the Spector there is a tractor vein that leads directly into Fissure 9.”

Lucas still didn’t quite understand. “So you want to dig down, through 260 feet of ice that has the density of glass?” He shook his head.

Hayden almost snorted in derision. “Listen man, if we heat the treads and exterior shields using all the electricity the boosters can produce, the Spector could actually melt the ice it’s sitting on, and drop into the tunnel below.”

Lucas stopped shaking his head and thought about it. Hayden was right: there was no rock between them, no natural or manmade barrier. And if the figures they’d shown him about the booster’s output were real, then they really could do what Hayden suggested.

But Andrew wasn’t so sure. “Hayden,” he said, “If we do this, we’ll melt everything. We might even melt interior components, no matter how good the insulation is.”

Hayden scowled at him. “I know that,” he said derisively. “I built the damn thing, didn’t I? And it’s not like we’re going to ride it down. We’ll just wire it up, trigger the meltdown from a distance, and then rendezvous with the Spector when it comes to rest in the new tunnel.”

“Oh, yeah,” Andrew said. “Nothing to it.” He stared blindly at the holo-display a moment longer, calculating. “But you know, much as I hate to admit it, it just might work.”

Even Samantha had moved toward the table, sensing the excitement.

“I’ll need to get into the Spector,” Hayden said. “When I do, I can try to circumvent the original power grid and redirect the booster’s power plant to the exterior body. If I’m right, the exterior metallic alloy will heat up like a burning coal, and we’ll sink right down.”

“How long will the generators last? Without enough power, the Spector could get only halfway there-refreeze inside the shaft.”

“You’re insane,” Lucas said. “Even if you could melt through the ice for that ridiculous distance, you’ll simply find yourself in another tunnel-one that we can’t get to, by the way. With so many cave-ins and re-coring, it’s-”

“Not so,” Rolfe said, looking even more closely at his digital map. “If we cut through the Gorge, we can meet up at this point here, fifty feet below the vessel, then climb through an airshaft here, and…that’s it. A route home.”

Lucas snorted. “Absurd,” he said. “We’d actually have to climb down the side of the Gorge. None of us have ever even tried that before.”

Hayden had taken enough. “All right,” he said, “Do you have a better idea?”

Lucas scowled at him.

“We could squat here in your little camp until the last of your batteries goes bad and we all freeze to death. But…”

“Wait,” Lucas said, holding up a hand. “I said it was a crazy plan, didn’t say it was impossible.”

It took a moment for Hayden to believe what he was hearing, but then he broke into a grin. “So we’ll do it?” he said.

Lucas made a show of shrugging. “It’s better than nothing. After all, if we leave your submersible where it is now, Vector5 will surely get to it. In fact, I’m not sure that they haven’t taken it already.”

Hayden was jolted by the speculation. If the Spector was already compromised, then there was literally no way out of this place. But he pushed that thought away. The Spector would be there, waiting for him. He had to believe it.

He walked toward the corner of the room and started to sift through the leftover weapons and equipment from half a hundred ambushes and raids. “All right then,” he said, “let’s start packing.”

* * *

Less than fifteen minutes later, the team had split up. Hayden, Samantha, Andrew and Ryan had started the long hike back to the Spector. Lucas and two of his men, all of them heavily armed, followed along and took the point. It was a simple and nearly impossible plan: melt an escape route for the Spector, come back to the camp and leave immediately to recapture the vessel.

That might be the plan, Lucas thought as he watched Hayden and his team walking ahead of him, but that’s not what’s going to happen.

DRAGGER PASS

9:27 AM

“We weren’t supposed to make it this far.”

Simon turned his head and looked at Max. The dim light of the Gorge made him slightly visible, but Simon wanted more. He directed the dwindling light of his shoulder lamp so he could see his best friend’s face. “What?”

“Our ‘friend’ Lucas sent us right to the main entrance to Dragger Pass. Something doesn’t smell right. And Simon, we aren’t the only ones here. Lucas would have known that.”

The faint rumbling had grown steadily louder. It wasn’t the wind at all, Max knew now. It was a vehicle-a big vehicle. And it was coming toward them fast.

“It’s a trap,” Max hissed. “Move back. Into the shadows.” The ice beneath their feet was slippery, churned up and refrozen after the passage of dozens of vehicles that had traveled across the bridge. Less than ten seconds later, the massive DITV of the Black Ops team rolled into view on the far side of the bridge, its twelve-foot wheels spinning and grasping. The trio watched wordlessly as the vehicle slalomed to a stop, turned, and rumbled across the bridge. It was barely wide enough to accommodate the huge, heavily armored transport.

“Don’t like this,” Max said. “Don’t like this at all.”

* * *

Drago was the name that the leader of the Black Ops was using this year. He was a menacing, remorseless character, a mercenary over six-foot-five who didn’t give a damn about Vector5 or anyone else outside the mission and his current team-so he didn’t think twice about following Blackburn’s orders to kill Roland for his failures.

He stood behind the pilot in the cockpit, looming over him as they crossed the bridge at Dragger Pass. The only sound they heard was the grumble of the vehicle’s engines and the crunch of the ice under its treads.

They were barely across the bridge when his forward scout called out, “Movement!”

“Pull up!” If the sensors were showing people out there, outside a vehicle and in unauthorized space, he needed to know.

“Full scan,” he said. The cockpit was absolutely quiet as the sensors, active and passive, examining every inch of the tunnels that opened onto the bridge landing.

“Inconclusive,” the forward scout said, sounding frustrated. “Too damn cold for the infrared, and if they stay out of line-of-site, the motion detectors can’t grab ‘em.”

“Hmph,” Drago said. “But you saw them? Saw something?”

“I’d bet my life on it,” the scout said.

You just did, Drago thought.

“We wait, and if this is Roland’s team, they’ve already met us half way.”

* * *

Nastasia was quiet, waiting for Simon’s lead. But it was Max’s voice that cut through the icy air.

“Lucas sent us into an ambush,” he whispered as the terrifying military transport slowed to a sudden stop at the end of the bridge. It was scanning obviously looking for something. For them.

“No lights,” he said, though it was hardly necessary. Still, it was pitch black in the shadows; Nastasia couldn’t even see the hand in front of her face. “Grab my shoulder with one hand and follow me quietly.”

“I can’t see anything,” whispered Nastasia, trying to find Simon’s body in the absolute darkness.

“Just feel what’s below your feet,” Max said. “Take careful steps. We’re backing up here, you and me. Into the tunnel. Farther back.”

She followed him reluctantly, thinking all the while, Where is Simon? I can’t lose him…

They were no more than thirty feet deeper into the cave when the vehicle surged forward and came straight toward them. Max wasted no time. He pulled Nastasia’s body close to him and whispered fiercely, “I need your weapon.” Before she had a second to respond, he grabbed it from the holster that Lucas had provided and snatched her ammo and provisions bag from her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“You’re going to stand right here and wait for that vehicle,” he said as the lights of the menacing transport inched closer. They could be revealed at any instant. “You understand me?”

“But-”

“No questions. You’re alone. You just crashed from a cycle you had just stolen. Do you understand me?”

The vehicle was nearly on top of them. Almost against her will, Nastasia turned to face it, and suddenly Max was gone, faded into the night. She was alone.

Now the whole world was blinding light and the buzz of vibration below her feet, as the huge vehicle rushed toward her. She had never felt such fear as she stood on the frozen floor, gazing at the lights, imagining the weapons she knew were locked on her.

* * *

The pilot of the Black Ops DITV leaned forward in his seat. “Sir,” he said to Drago, “You need to see this.” He clearly couldn’t believe what the sensors were showing him.

“Magnify,” he told the AI unit inside the cockpit. The image zoomed forward with dizzying speed, and he found himself looking at Nastasia standing on the frozen icy floor, panic in her eyes.

“Pop the hatch,” Drago ordered. “We’ve got company.”

* * *

Nastasia’s legs started shaking as the vehicle sped directly toward her. The sound of the massive machine reverberated through her body, and its hulking shape, barely visible behind its blinding lights, was like some huge predator poised on its haunches, ready to pounce.

For an instant she was sure she was going to die, that the vehicle would crush her in its path. She dropped her head, focusing on the floor below her feet, and prayed that her life would not come to an end as a cold draft from the vehicle’s movement hit her face in a wave of freezing air.

The DITV stopped a few yards in front of her, its nose almost hovering above her. After a moment, the hatch at the bottom of the vehicle hissed and made a thick, chunking POP, and in seconds the Black Ops team was upon her, weapons drawn. Their leader-he had to be their leader, was the first to approach.

Nastasia was sure she was looking death in the eye.

* * *

Standing less than a few feet away and slowing his final approach, Drago could see that she was shaking. It made her look weak and confused. She certainly didn’t pose any serious threat to him, he knew instantly. The pilot stayed inside the vehicle, which was the protocol.

He used his heavily gloved hand to pull the mask from her delicate face. Even in the dimness, her piercing blue eyes were quite beautiful.

“What have we got here?” Drago said, lifting her chin toward his face. He was more than a foot taller than she was. He liked the fact that he could see her undisguised features, and all she could see was the blank, matte composite material of his face mask.

“Who are you, and how the fuck did you get here?”

Drago had known instantly that she was not one of the scientists that had escaped. Although there were females among the captives, none of them had disappeared with that group. He had memorized every one of their faces long ago. No, she was new. She was wearing something that was definitely standard issue. It was more like a wetsuit of sorts.

“My cycle exploded as I jumped the tunnel. I-”

“Your cycle?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I…my…” the story that Max had told her to repeat faded from her memory.

“And how did you come to possess this cycle?” he asked, toying with her. Knowing that she was definitely one of the members from the intruder vessel he was looking for.

“We stole it.”

“We stole it?” he mimicked, laughing as he looked back at the rest of his team. They had all dropped their aim now; they seemed almost amused as they relaxed to watch the show. “And who is we?”

Nastasia strained to see him clearly, but the brilliant lights from the vehicle made him and the others little more than silhouettes. Meanwhile, Drago wanted to see her hypnotic blue eyes a little more clearly. He tapped his shoulder to engage communication with the pilot, still inside the Shadow Ops DITV. “Pilot,” he said, “reduce your headlights to twenty percent and point them over at the wall.”

Nothing happened.

“Ligo?” he called the pilot by his assigned name, annoyed. He wasn’t used to having his orders ignored.

Abruptly, without warning, the headlights blinked out completely.

Drago cursed under his breath and touched his shoulder again. “Ligo,” he hissed. “Did I not make myself clear? Lower the headlights and turn them on the wall.”

Still-no response.

Drago turned to tell his lieutenant to fix the-

His two soldiers were lying motionless on the ice.

Drago’s eyes narrowed. “What the-”

Max’s knife entered his neck so swiftly that Drago didn’t even feel it sever his carotid artery. But he heard Nastasia gasp as his steaming blood splattered across her face. “What the fu-” he said and fell.

He was dead before his body hit the ice.

Max bowed as the big body crumpled and pulled his knife free of Drago’s neck with one single, businesslike stroke. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. Then he took her arm, and they dashed to the massive vehicle.

* * *

Nastasia stopped short, astonished all over again, as her feet hit the perforated metal flor that lined the Black Op’s vehicle’s cockpit. Simon was already there standing behind the helmeted pilot, illuminated only by dim blue emergency lights. He had an old-fashioned pistol-not a Vector5 ray gun, but a solid and familiar Glock 32-in his fist. He had the muzzle pressed tight against the back of the driver’s neck. It didn’t flinch as Max walked in with Nastasia close behind him.

“Close the hatch,” Simon told her without looking away from the driver.

“Simon,” she said, “there has to-”

“Close the hatch,” he said again.

She heard something in his voice she had never heard before. A coldness. A hatred. A determination that glinted like steel.

He had changed, she realized, and not in a good way.

Max stepped past her and ripped the helmet off the pilot’s head, revealing a man in his thirties with a sharp chin, a shaved head, and a look as cold as the Arctic winter. His dark brown eyes revealed little fear.

No one knew his real name. Everyone in Vector5 called him Ligo, and that was good enough.

Simon pushed the pistol deeper into the soldier’s neck.

“Turn the fucking vehicle on,” he ordered.

The pilot didn’t move. He knew the drill; he’d been trained for it. He simply sat with hands clearly visible, loose in his lap, and stared blandly at the sophisticated instrument cluster in front of him.

Max wasted no time. With lightning speed, he placed the tip of his own handgun against the man’s clean-shaven cheek. He saw the gun steam slightly at the tip, still hot from firing moments before, and burn a mark in the soldier’s face. He still held his ground.

Simon couldn’t stand it. He shifted the placement of his weapon ever so slightly and fired. The sound was impossibly loud, almost deafening in the tiny space, but he did not blink. He watched the bullet enter the man’s shoulder from the back and blow a ragged bloody hole in the flesh as it exited. The pilot screamed and jerked forward, but he didn’t raise his hands.

“That was to show you I’m serious,” Simon told him. “Now turn on the fucking vehicle or the next bullet goes into your brain.” He repositioned the pistol so it pressed quite firmly against the back of the man’s head, pointing forward and not trembling in the slightest.

The pilot closed his eyes against the pain. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, straining it between his teeth and gathering his will.

“Lazarus-9905 VSO requesting ignition,” he said.

The AI’s bland voice spoke from the console without hesitation: “Copy, 9905. Preparing initial system diagnostics.” The onboard computer was now analyzing the chip embedded in the soldier’s suit to verify authenticity. Two seconds later, the cockpit lights flared to reveal an array of sophisticated instruments and multiple monitors streaming a wide range of sensor-data. Both Simon and Max were startled at the technology; the instrument cluster in front of the pilot was seamless and rivaled that of the Spector, but it was more robust and clearly engineered to withstand heavy military use.

The pilot lifted his head a fraction. “Where to?”

Max looked closely at Simon. Simon didn’t look back as he recited the coordinates he had been given in Corsica-including the last line that Leon had written: -10,022 feet. They had been burned into his memory on that day. He didn’t need to think about it.

But the numbers were the first thing that actually made the pilot flinch. He tried to turn his head, struggled against the pressure of the pistol pressed against his neck.

“The computer will not recognize those coordinates.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” said Simon.

“I mean it won’t respond. No one is allowed to travel there, to that depth, to that place. No one but the commander and a few special teams.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath. The pain from his shoulder was more than excruciating. “Not even us.”

And I know why, Nastasia told herself. She looked at her watch and carefully calculated the remaining time: five hours and seventeen minutes.

“Simon,” Max said clearly puzzled. “What are those numbers? Where did you-”

Simon shoved the pistol against the pilot’s skull. “That’s bullshit,” he grated. “You know where it is. Just…do whatever you have to do. Go to manual, override the AI’s security, whatever it takes. I don’t care. You’re taking us down there.”

“It won’t work,” the pilot said. “It’s not that simple. Look: ‘Lazarus-9905 VSO: proceed to coordinates nine point three point seven, negative four-fifty.’”

“Those are unauthorized coordinates,” the AI said very calmly. “Please revise.”

“You see?”

“Try something else.”

“Lazarus-9905 VSO: proceed to the Nest.”

“What the hell is the ‘Nest?’” Max said. “Simon-”

“9905, those are unauthorized coordinates. Please revise.”

Max thought he heard Nastasia make a sound. He glanced at her and saw her staring at Simon, almost in a trance. She knows something too, he realized. Those coordinates mean something.

“Then take us somewhere near there,” Simon said. “Somewhere that isn’t locked out.”

The pilot swallowed, his throat dry. The pain in his shoulder was obviously affecting him; he was starting to tremble from shock. “I…”

Simon shoved the pistol against his skull again “Do it!” he whispered.

“Lazarus-9905 VSO!” the pilot blurted out. “Proceed to Central Command, north quadrant!”

“Affirmative,” the AI said, sounding almost pleased. “Shall I proceed?”

The pilot sighed deeply. “Proceed,” he mumbled.

In an instant, the huge vehicle rotated 180 degrees and began a smooth and steady retreat across the slippery terrain. In a few moments they would be back at the bridge, back at Dragger Station.

Soon, Simon told himself, and forced the hand that was holding the gun to stay steady and not to tremble. Soon.

ELEVATOR ONE

Blackburn stood in the express elevator and calculated the time it would take him to reach the Nest. Twenty-four minutes, thirty-two seconds, he decided. Then he would put an end to this, once and for all.

The five-man security team that surrounded him did not move or speak. Their faces were invisible behind flat black helmets; the polished obsidian edges glistening in the overheads. Blackburn felt the weight of his body shift upward, almost lifting him off his feet as they plunged down the endless shaft toward the Nest. He suddenly felt aware of the immeasurable tons of ice all around him, pressing in from all sides…and still he felt immensely strong, in control.

It’d been too long since he’d seen Oliver Fitzpatrick face-to-face. It was time to see him again. And he had never actually seen the discovery itself-in person, just photographs, flat-screen images, and extrapolated holographs. The scientists he had debriefed said what they had discovered was very different when experienced in person, but even in the imagery, they looked ominous and powerful. Up close, he was told, machinery malfunctioned and light itself seemed to twist and buckle…

They certainly have changed Oliver, he thought.

“Is Dr. Fitzpatrick prepared?”

“And waiting,” his second said.

“Good. And no further news on the intruders?”

“No, sir.”

“The Black Ops?”

“No, sir.”

He allowed himself a small frown. Silence was not what he wanted.

Twelve minutes and thirty-one seconds more.

He could feel it: an ending, of a sort, was on its way.

He was ready.

SPECTOR VI

“I don’t remember it being this far,” Hayden grumbled as they climbed the slow, steady incline toward the Spector. He felt as if they had been walking for days.

Lucas was close behind him, his breath labored but steady. “The MagCycles are fast,” he said. “You lose your sense of space down here.”

“You’re not kidding,” Andrew said and slipped on the ice for a moment before regaining his footing.

It was cold, so cold the word itself had lost meaning. It reached into each of them with claws as sharp as broken glass.

“There she is,” Andrew said. He lifted a weary arm and pointed, and they all saw it: the magnificent curve and sweep of the Spector, surrounded by the glowing halo of its emergency lights.

“Stay back for a minute,” Lucas said, sounding strangely tense. “We’ll check it out.”

Hayden was more than happy to oblige. He stopped to rest, and his three colleagues stopped with him while Lucas and his two friends stumped across the frozen ground for the last two hundred yards, their bodies little more than silhouettes against the light from their helmets now reflecting on the Spector.

The scientists circled the vehicle, checked the feeder tunnels, and looked into the distance. Everything seemed quiet, undisturbed. It seemed suspicious that the CS23s had simply vanished-abandoned the Spector, disappeared. He knew something was wrong, but they had little time, and Lucas simply didn’t care. He turned to face Hayden and the others, and waved an arm: come on.

Ryan and Andrew didn’t hesitate. They rushed forward, focused on what they needed to do. Hayden and Samantha followed close behind, moving as quickly as they could. Everyone knew they didn’t have much time.

It was all about battery life, Hayden had explained on the trip back to the submersible. When they had shut down the dying Spector, a series of batteries automatically kicked in to keep any of the liquid or temperature-sensitive components from freezing or breaking down. It was just a little power, barely a trickle, but he was gambling it was enough to keep the twenty-below temperatures from killing the Spector forever. But the batteries, even at their lowest setting, wouldn’t last indefinitely. Now the job was to get the amphibious vehicle repaired as quickly as possible and get the central power plant up and running.

Hayden was through the hatch and inside the Spector within minutes. The bridge was exactly as they had left it-half-ruined and chaotic-and now it was dark and bitterly cold as well.

Ryan and Andrew crowded in close behind him and wasted no time; they began pulling off the few maintenance panels that weren’t already detached and hooking battery-powered diagnostic units into the circuitry. The urgency of their movements spoke the same message over and over: no time, no time.

Samantha stood outside near the hatch and looked into the darkness of the utility caves behind them. She wondered what had become of those huge Spider robots, the ones that had been chasing them. Why would they leave? She thought. If they knew we were gone, why didn’t they destroy the Spector?

Hayden turned his escape plan over and over in his head. The Spector was designed for extreme situations just like this. It was built to dig itself out of almost any situation, but he had to admit it: melting through fifty feet of ancient, compressed ice had never been part of the plan.

Suddenly Lucas and his two cohorts were crowding into the bridge, getting in the way.

“You know,” Hayden said, losing what little patience he had, “There’s an economy section in the back for tourists.”

“What?”

“Can you move your guys to the ready room? There’s not a lot of space up here.”

Lucas stared at him for a moment…then broke away with a shrug, and motioned his men to move back into the other cabin. Lucas didn’t follow them. He simply retreated to the far corner of the bridge and stood quietly, clutching his rifle more firmly than ever as he watched Hayden and his team bring the Spector back to life.

Andrew was surprised at how easy it was. He had thought the bullets had done far more damage-the outer shields certainly looked like hell, and the entire structure had lurched slightly to the left where the ice beneath the treads had cracked and fallen a foot or two, but still…they had the boosters back on line in less than five minutes, and the external shields cycling up three minutes after that.

Samantha wanted to start looking for the inhaler the moment she entered the vessel, but she took a moment to resume her old chair at the science station as the consoles started to blink back to life, one after another. She quickly ran through the environmental protocols. “Life support is solid,” she said. “We still have oxygen; the recyclers are green, amazingly enough.”

Hayden himself was at the Ops station. Two of the AIs had been badly fried, but their processing load was easily assumed by the remaining units. Most of the external sensors came back online with full power as well; all they really lost was one of the external cameras for the forward-facing screens. It had been shattered by one of the scientist’s bullets.

Andrew pulled himself out of the maintenance corridor under the bridge. “Treads look five-by-five,” he said. “I don’t think any of the bullets got down there at all.”

Samantha stood up and left the science station, still looking for the inhaler or the med pack. Andrew had insisted Nastasia had put the nebulizer inside the pack, which didn’t make any sense at all. She had already checked every cabinet in the ready room, under the oddly watchful eyes of Lucas’ scientists.

“Nav’s up,” Ryan said from the co-pilot’s seat. Then he checked a second, different indicator. “Another three minutes, and power will be at one hundred.”

Suddenly Hayden pulled himself to his feet, still staring at the Ops console. “Okay!” he said. “I overrode the security and safety protocols, set up instructions to channel the entire power output to the shields. All we have to do is give it the command from this little tab here,” he held up a dedicated transmitter, no larger than a key chain fob, “and she’ll heat up and start melting ice ‘til we tell her to stop.”

Andrew touched one last glowing panel and stood up as well. “Ready,” he said.

Ryan was already on his feet and packing his tools. “Ready here,” he said.

“There you are!” Samantha said.

The little black insulated med pack was wedged in a tiny space by the security console-the one nobody used. She leaned forward, twisted her torso, and curled her fingers around the edge, right as Lucas said, “Good,” and raised his rifle.

There was something in his voice. Hayden turned to him and suddenly stopped moving. Samantha straightened very slowly, black bag in hand.

Hayden was gaping at the rifle. It was aimed squarely at Ryan’s chest. “Lucas,” he said, “Are you out of your mind? What the hell are you thinking?”

One of Lucas’ other men was filling the door to the ready room, blocking escape. The third was standing directly in front of the exit hatch.

“Shut up and get out of the vessel before I blow his brains out,” Lucas said.

“Lucas,” Hayden shouted, “Whatever the hell your problem is, once we’re out-”

“No,” Lucas said, “There’s no we, Hayden. There never was. You’ve been in hell for hours-a day at most. I-my men-we’ve been here for months. For years. I’m not staying a minute longer.”

“But-”

“Shut up! Get out!”

The third man who was not blocking the exit grabbed Samantha by the arm and shoved her toward the hatch. She snatched her arm away as the man pulled the small black case from her hand and pushed her out of the vessel. Ryan followed close behind her.

Still inside the Spector, Andrew wouldn’t cooperate. “Lucas,” he said. “You are fucking crazy. You can’t pilot this thing. You don’t even know how to turn it on. And if you think any one of us is going to help you steal it and-”

Lucas hit him on the side of the head-one sweeping, vicious blow-and Andrew fell unconscious before he hit the floor of the cabin. Then he too was thrown from the vessel like a rag doll, hitting the icy floor right outside the exit hatch. Samantha rushed toward Andrew.

“He’ll die there,” Samantha screamed.

Lucas ignored her scream outside the Spector. Still pointing the gun directly at Hayden, he said, “You’re next. Get the fuck out before I kill you.”

Hayden simply refused, “Without me the Spector won’t go anywhere,” he said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Lucas snapped.

Hayden held up the tiny command unit. “It’s keyed to my thumbprint, Lucas. Only I can trigger the melt.”

Lucas just shook his head. “God damn it, Hayden,” he said, sounding almost sad. He lashed out again, this time with the butt of his rifle, and put Hayden down with a single blow.

The Hatch was still open, and Samantha could sense what was about to happen next. She screamed as Lucas bent over and stripped the glove from Hayden’s right hand.

“Lucas please!” Samantha begged. But it was too late.

Ryan seized her shoulder. “Sam! We’ve got to get them out of here! We’re too close to the Spector!”

Holding Andrew’s unconscious body, she couldn’t look away from what was happening inside the vessel.

Lucas had the command tab in his hand. He was wedging it between Hayden’s limp, unmoving fingers.

“If they trigger the melt from this close, we’ll all die,” Ryan said.

Hayden’s body was thrown out of the vessel as the Spector’s outer hatch closed shut with Raymond and his two men inside. The massive vessel’s treads retracted within its body as the entire submersible lowered itself, now sitting on the icy floor completely watertight. Its surface began to heat up less than five feet from Andrew and Hayden’s body.

Ryan rushed forward and dragged Hayden’s body back as Samantha struggled with Andrew.

The outer shields of the Spector exploded in a bright flash of light. The heat followed an instant later, searing Samantha and Ryan’s face, driving them back.

Now less than twenty feet from the burning Spector, Ryan continued to pull Hayden’s body away from the burning heat. He struggled to shield his face from the inferno. Samantha screamed, “Andrew! No!” She turned back, into the impossible heat, threw herself toward Andrew’s body, and grabbed onto the shoulders of his suit. She dug in and pulled back.

He was so heavy, and the floor of ice was already starting to soften, to melt.

Struggling with the weight of Hayden’s body, Ryan had reached an alcove fifty feet from the Spector-a spot that afforded the protection of a crack in the large ice wall and hid them from the worst of the heat. He had managed to drag Hayden, still unconscious, to the shelter with him. They were as safe as they could possibly be.

But Samantha wouldn’t leave Andrew. She faintly heard Ryan’s voice over the sizzling roar of the burning shields as her face burned from the heat. “Sam! Leave him!”

“No!” The ice under Andrew’s body had already fallen away by at least a foot, leaving him in a deepening pool of steaming water.

Everything was melting.

Samantha braced her feet against the slush and pulled at him as hard as she could.

“Sam, you can’t do it!” Ryan called. “Get out of there!”

No, she thought. Not this time. She hauled at him with all her strength, and he moved six inches closer to her, but no more than that.

The ice beneath her boots gave way. She fell, losing her grip on his suit. She looked up at the Spector, barely ten feet away, and watched in horrified fascination as it started to sink into the tunnel floor. It created an eerie glow in the surrounding pool of water-the pool that, as she watched, grew wider and deeper, swallowing Andrew’s body completely.

“SAM!”

The heat drove her back. She tried to push herself forward again, groped in the water to find Andrew’s shoulder or hand, anything to grab onto, but he was fully underwater now. She had to struggle to keep from sliding forward through the slush, where she knew she would sink into the melted water herself.

Moments later, the Spector disappeared into a vertical pool it had created. Soon after, the melted ice it had left behind with the heat of its passing started to re-freeze.

Sam saw what was going to happen an instant before it did.

“Wait!” she screamed and lunged forward. “Wait!” The brilliant light from the shaft began to fade to a ghostly glow as the Spector fell deeper and deeper. Samantha pushed even deeper into the freezing pool where Andrew had disappeared, searching.

Ice was already forming on its surface, impossibly fast.

She jerked her hands free, struggled to her feet, and kicked out a boot at the skin of ice as it formed. It cracked with the sound of a gunshot, and she threw herself forward, trying to thrust her hands into it again.

She was hysterical. Andrew’s down there, she told herself. I can do this; I can pull him out.

She felt the ice form around her wrists. It was happening so fast.

She felt Ryan’s hands on her shoulders, his arm around her waist. She felt her hands fly free of the confining ice as he pulled her back, hard, and they fell sprawling on the ground.

But that was all she felt. She could think of nothing more.

“Andrew,” she said turning around, crawling onto her knees. “Andrew.”

The ice turned solid as rock as she knelt there weeping.

He was gone.

DRAGGER STATION

The pilot’s flesh wound burned like fire as the DITV made its last turn and paused at the entrance to the Dragger Station Bridge. They were less than five hundred yards from the edge, and Simon was still holding the pistol firmly against the pilot’s neck. He didn’t seem to care that the Vector5 solider was bleeding heavily.

For the first time, Simon was aware that Nastasia was standing close behind him.

The sensor array on the console showed them the image of what lay ahead: the chasm, and then three chambers on the far side. Beyond that was a network of tunnels even more complex and ominous than the labyrinth they had just navigated. In the center of the dome, there appeared to be three vertical shafts-huge elevators that went even lower, deeper into the ice, toward the depth of the icy underworld.

“Where the hell is this leading us?” Max asked in a strangely hushed voice.

The pilot was getting woozy, but he tried to answer anyway. “The tunnels to…Central…you can only get to them through those vertical shafts. Watch…”

The DITV rolled across the bridge very quickly. On the far side, they were abruptly thrown into complete darkness as the shadow of the structure fell across them. The only light that survived was the glow from the digital displays.

The pilot activated the forward headlamps with one shaking finger. The three elevator doors were just a hundred feet ahead of them; each elevator was large enough to accommodate a vessel the size of the DITV.

The indicators above two of the doors read 000. The indicator above the third, the one to the right, read +480…and grew smaller as they watched: +470…+460…

The soldier slouched forward, losing the last of his strength. Max moved quickly in trying to grab the man as he fell, but he was a beat too late. The DITV started rolling slowly forward, toward the door of the elevator that was about to arrive.

“Stop him!” Simon said.

“Too late! Brace yourself!” The DITV moved relentlessly forward; nothing could stop it. In less than twenty feet, they would crash directly into the gargantuan doors.

Simon reached past Max and slapped the pilot, hard as he could. It shocked the man half-awake, if only for an instant.

“Look!” Simon shouted straight into his face. “LOOK!”

The pilot’s eyes widened. He saw the metal doors of the elevator surging toward him.

“NO!” he said. His hands darted out, found the controls, and pulled.

The vehicle skidded to a halt, three feet from the elevator doors.

Still the one elevator descended: +280…+270…

The pilot fell back in his seat, his mouth working as he tried to speak.

“Doesn’t matter,” he gasped. “We’re all dead now.”

“What’s down there?” Simon said. “What’s happening?”

The pilot’s eyes fluttered. He closed his eyes. His head fell to the side as he lost consciousness entirely, slumping over in the chair.

+230…+210…

“Shit,” Max said. He hesitated for an instant, then jumped forward, and ripped the unmoving pilot’s uniform from his body.

Nastasia blanched. “What are you doing?”

With sudden ferocity he grabbed her by the collar of her exo-suit and dragged her to him, putting his mouth close to her ear, speaking in a very fast, nearly-silent whisper.

“The AI hasn’t noticed us coercing him. Which means there’s no voice recognition-she doesn’t pay attention after the first security check. So I have to try this. Help me.”

It was a thirty-second struggle to get the suit off the dying pilot and on to Max. The instant it was in place, he threw himself into the pilot’s seat and scowled at the freight elevator’s indicator:

+120.

He looked frantically around the console, trying to understand the complex array of gadgets. Where was the starter? Where was the fucking weaponry? Whatever was coming down that shaft was not going to be friendly; he had to be ready for it.

+50…

They began to feel the vibration of the massive elevator as it approached. Only then did Max decide what to do.

He put his hands on the control and pulled back, just a little. The DITV obeyed and moved back.

“Lazarus-9905,” he said. “Open central shaft.”

The door to the left of the approaching elevator obediently, swiftly, opened wide.

Simon lifted the rifle that he was holding, well aware that it would be useless to stop any real threat.

+20…+15…

Bright light poured from the elevator door as it cracked open. Max had made sure the DITV’s sensors showed the space inside was empty, so he didn’t hesitate. He moved his wrist forward, and the DITV responded instantly, trundling into the massive elevator. To their surprise, before the treads had engaged the edge of the door, a voice command prompted permission.

“You are clear, 9905, for your coordinates at 2,435 meters. Please confirm depth.”

“Affirmative,” said Max. He had no idea if that was the correct response.

He had guessed right. The doors slid shut and the lights blinked off, plunging them into total darkness yet again.

Their stomachs sank as the descent to Central Command began.

Two seconds later at Dragger Station, the elevator to their right opened wide, and Blackburn emerged.

“Report?” he demanded.

No one said a thing.

“Report!”

* * *

Below him, falling away, Nastasia felt her world closing in.

She didn’t belong here. She knew that. But fate had chosen her, and it was time to do what had to be done.

* * *

Blackburn clenched his teeth as the freight elevator reached the level of Dragger Pass, and continued downward. He had no idea that Simon, Max, and Nastasia were literally a few feet away from him, descending to the Nest in the adjacent shaft at a speed only slightly slower than his own. The padded interior cast an eerie effect from the dim blue lights mounted along its interior edges.

His detachment of soldiers was absolutely silent behind him; he knew they were the only men in the entire Vector5 organization with the clearance-and the courage-to enter the Nest…and he wasn’t sure if he was glad of that or concerned. This was his operation-his goal. He didn’t want to share it, not even with his own men.

The holo-display made the depth reading float in the open air, each numeral as large as the palm of his hand. As he watched, it slowly reached the magic number -2,153 meters, the base level of Central Command-and continued to fall. The calm, slightly amused voice of the AI that controlled the lift said it out loud, “Two thousand, one hundred and fifty-three meters,” it said. “Continuing…”

This final trip was only beginning. They had another one thousand meters to travel.

Blackburn was thinking about the man who was waiting for him at the bottom of the shaft. He knew that Oliver was very ill, perhaps terminally. I wonder how long he’ll live, he asked himself. That is, assuming he decides to cooperate.

The AI’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Two thousand, six hun-”

“Shut up for a second,” Blackburn said. Another voice-a human one, one he recognized-was buzzing in his ear, coming from the earpiece in his helmet. He tapped his shoulder to receive the incoming message.

“Go ahead,” he growled. “I’m listening.” The men around him didn’t flinch; they knew the drill. Blackburn was the chief commander in charge of the Vector5 mission; he was always connected to everything that was happening below and above the ice. It was true, sometimes he confused the men around him when he responded to some unheard comment or question, but that wasn’t important. All they thought about-all they could think about-was the mission. That was all that mattered.

“Sir,” said the voice of his exec, “we’ve identified an anomaly at 842 meters south-southwest of Dragger Pass, four degrees of ascension above the Gorge.”

“What type of anomaly?” Blackburn growled, controlling his temper with some difficulty. This wasn’t what he expected, and it certainly wasn’t what he wanted. I’ve had enough, he told himself. He hated surprises.

“It’s a thermal event, sir. Infrared data indicates a highly condensed source, very localized, and currently descending at ninety degrees from the horizon.”

“What the fuck are you talking about!?” Blackburn shouted, sending a chill through the already cold freight elevator. The number in front of his face read -2,483 meters. The AI voice, prudently, remained silent. “It’s super-hot and moving down a tunnel?”

“No, sir,” his exec said. “Straight down. Through the ice.”

“Shit,” Blackburn muttered. “At that depth, at that temperature, I’m sure the satellites picked it up.”

“Sir, we’ve been monitoring and scrambling the information with the surface droids, but you’re right. I’m afraid this amount of energy might be impossible to hide.”

“What is it?” he demanded. Exposure didn’t matter at the moment. “What the hell is out there?”

“Sir our AIs at central command are suggesting it’s the same submersible that entered Fissure 9. We have also confirmed human activity about one mile from the incident. Acoustic and pressure wave data confirm: a small group moving around and not being quiet about it in one of the maintenance shafts we thought was sealed off.”

I knew it, he told himself. I knew Lucas and those traitors were tapping into the old air shaft system. “Send the fissure drones through the main airshafts,” he commanded. “Send them up to Tunnel 3, and when you find them, gas the fuckers out of their little mouse holes.”

“But…sir,” the exec said in his ear. Blackburn could hear his terror, even in the scratchy little thread of the audio feed.

“But what?” Blackburn snapped. “‘But sir, additional activity in the same area as the thermal event will certainly be noticed by satellites.” It was a deadly accurate parody of his exec officer’s careful, diplomatic tone. “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care. Whatever happened has probably already been reported. We’ll have to deal with that later. But this shit needs to stop NOW!”

“Copy that, sir,” the exec said quickly, obviously eager to end the communication. There was the tiniest of snicks as he broke the connection to follow order.

Blackburn slapped the padded door of the freight elevator in completely frustration. “Can’t this piece of junk move any faster?” he blurted out. But he already knew the answer: nothing moved fast enough to appease his impatience.

None of the men around him spoke. They knew the drill. It was safer to just lay low and not to respond at times like this.

The AI unit had more courage, or perhaps less common sense, than the humans. After Blackburn stopped speaking for thirty seconds, it spoke up:

“Reaching depth of 10,022 feet in 133 meters. Prepare to exit.”

“Shut up,” Blackburn muttered.

* * *

Samantha and Ryan knelt beside Hayden’s motionless body, too drained and overwhelmed to speak. Sam was numb, beyond feeling or thought, as she strained to see the scientist clearly in the failing light. The only source of illumination was the guttering fire from the icy shaft where the Spector had disappeared.

Hayden was breathing heavily; she knew that much. But she couldn’t seem to make herself care. It was just too dark to see, until Ryan turned on the guide lights in his ice suit, and the air was filled with a directionless, blue light that seemed almost acidic, somehow.

The blood draining from Hayden’s ruined hand was black in the odd light.

“God,” Samantha said. Then louder, fuller, “God, NO!” Even the ice around him was saturated with freezing blood.

Years of training surged to the forefront. Her hands reached out almost on their own and tried to explore the wound. She gasped in spite of herself when she saw it clearly: half the skin and part of the flesh had been removed from his right thumb-half-sliced, half-torn away. Lucas wanted his thumbprint, she realized. He thought he might need it in the Spector. He would have taken the whole digit if he’d had the time.

She pushed the horror of it away and got to work, tearing off a section of his ice suit and tying it around his bleeding thumb as tight as she could.

“I have to stop this before he dies,” she told Ryan. “He’s going to go into shock any second, maybe lose his hand, or worse.” Or die, she screamed inside her head. Or DIE.

She pushed it away again, even harder, and reached into a small pouch sewn on into the hip of her own suit. She thanked god she had packed a full med-kit into her clothes before they had left the scientists’ encampment; she was shocked that it became useful so quickly.

The pocket contained a small, foil-sealed pre-moistened cloth infused with ammonia. It was suitable for cleaning, for sterile bandaging…or for what she was about to do.

Sam pulled his mask aside and held the tiny fabric against his nose. Hayden’s body jerked instantly from the intense smell, and his clean, uninjured hand suddenly came up, trying to pull the cloth away-then clutching at his forehead as if to contain a whole new agony.

It took him a long moment to locate the pain. Slowly, slowly he lifted his wounded hand as if it were a dead thing lashed to the end of his wrist. He stared at it with naked horror as a new line of already freezing blood trickled into his palm.

“Oh god,” he said, choking on his own words. “My thumb, my god, my hand!”

“Stay still,” Samantha said, and produced a one-shot syringe from another pocket of her suit. He was weak; it wasn’t hard to hold him down while she injected a strong painkiller at the base of his neck. “It’ll take a few minutes, just be patient.”

As his struggles abated, as his breath slowed, she loosened her grip and looked at Ryan standing above them. There was horror in his eyes.

“How the hell are we going to tell him about Andrew?” he said. Samantha wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. Either way, she knew, he sounded absolutely desolate. How the hell are we going to explain this, she thought.

Samantha stroked the older man’s cheek, tried to bring him back to a semi-conscious state. She knew it was possible; it was why she had chosen to give him that particular medication. “Hayden,” she said gently. “Hayden, can you walk?”

“I think so,” he said, groggy and uncoordinated. He tried to stand and found himself falling again; Sam bent forward to support him. Ryan offered a hand and pulled him up, steadied him.

“C’mon,” Ryan said, sounding uncharacteristically gruff. “You’ve got to move or you’ll freeze.” He glanced at Sam as Hayden swayed in place, fighting to stabilize. “We’ve got to get back to the others.”

Hayden could barely hold his body upright. He had only the vaguest idea of what had happened just minutes before. And they had walked less than ten feet when he pulled up short and turned back, searching the ice, looking for something. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Where’s the Spector? Are you-”

“It’s all right, Hayden,” Sam soothed, trying to keep her voice steady. She knew what he was going to ask next, and she didn’t want to deal with it. “We have to go. Let’s go.”

“Where is Andrew?” Hayden asked weakly, still disoriented. “Is he with them, the ones who, who took the, the…?” He couldn’t seem to find the words, but there was fear and confusion in his eyes.

“No,” Ryan said. “He’s not with the others.”

“No? Then what-what are you saying?” An ounce of the old impatience had leaked back into his tone.

“He’s dead,” Ryan said somberly.

It took a few seconds before the words registered in Hayden’s brain. “What?” he said. “What? What are you saying?” He couldn’t believe his ears. “He’s dead?”

He pushed Ryan’s hand away with a violent sweep of his good arm, then spun around and staggered past Samantha, back toward where the Spector had disappeared. He had taken less than ten steps when his hands went to his head. Samantha and Ryan watched in solemn despair as Hayden fell to the ground.

He touched the icy floor beneath his feet and then pounded the ice with his fist, feeling a shocking pain that seemed all too insignificant. “Why, why?”

Ryan went to him and tried to help him to his feet. “Please, Hayden,” he pleaded. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here. We’ve got to get the others in the encampment and decide what to do next.” He paused for a moment to make sure he wasn’t out of line. “There’s nothing you can do for him now,” he whispered.

Hayden simply shook his head. Then he pulled himself to his feet without help. “I know,” he said gruffly. “I understand.” He turned back one last time to look at the slight depression in the icy floor that had engulfed his life’s work and his student.

“Let’s go,” he said.

* * *

Two miles below Dragger Pass, the eight fissure drones dispatched by Central Command swarmed up the wall of the crevasse, clanking as they armed their canisters of lethal gas and their array of projectile weapons. They moved swiftly up one of the main air shafts toward Tunnel 3. It was a climb of almost four thousand feet, but that was no issue: the drones, each the size of a football, could navigate almost any terrain. They were capable of climbing walls by embedding themselves into the ice. And they were fast, able to achieve the equivalent of twenty miles an hour for extended periods of time.

The drones were controlled by a specialized team at Central Command. They were like tentacles for Vector5, able to reach virtually any obscure location throughout the continent.

Their target was simple and-now that they had located it-painfully obvious. They were coming for the five remaining scientists still left at the encampment, where they had packed their gear believing they were finally about to escape.

* * *

Simon found himself staring at the back of Nastasia’s neck. They were descending at an alarming speed, moving toward a destination he couldn’t even imagine. And still, he was haunted by the symbol he had glimpsed etched into her skin, hidden by the fall of her obsidian hair.

I need to see the insignia again, he told himself.

The AI voice-the same as in the other elevator, though they couldn’t know that-recited the depth to him in a dry, emotionless recitation. Max listened with only half an ear, clenching the ray gun in his left hand and toying with the virtual console in front of him with the other, fingers hovering, almost twitching. He had the awful feeling that they were going to have to get out of the DITV, leave it behind, if they hoped to live through this last adventure. And he knew it was going to happen fast.

Simon forced himself out of his trance, but he couldn’t help looking at Nastasia one more time. He wondered if he should just snatch the thermal mask from her face and pull her hair back so he could see the tattoo again. It would only take a moment-

“We have to be ready to move the minute we hit the bottom,” Max said. “No hesitation.”

Simon was jerked back to the reality of the situation. “Why?” he asked, confused.

“I don’t want to be a sitting duck,” Max said. “I would rather leave the vehicle inside.”

Simon nodded. “I agree. I don’t want to be trapped inside this thing either, not knowing what’s going to be on the other side.”

“Look around for any weapons and possibly one of these special Ops suits,” Max said keeping his focus on the depth gauge that registered how close they were to reaching the base.

Simon didn’t hesitate. He started searching all the storage containers inside the vehicle. Nastasia helped as they opened each possible hatch that had a latch or handle.

“Found one,” Simon said, unfolding it and visually measuring it for size.

“Hurry up,” Max commanded.

Nastasia continued searching the interior of the DITV frantically, looking for weapons or armor, but there was nothing-nothing. Reality set in, and she felt a chill. Any soldier, any guard could take her instantly; her mission could be jeopardized. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

“I’m suited up,” said Simon. “Even the damn boots fit.”

“Come on,” Max said as he shut down the DITV for the last time. They left the vehicle together, exiting the rear hatch to the base of the elevator. There was little room to maneuver around the massive DITV, but out was better than in-it would provide for some cover as soon as the elevator doors opened.

Moments later, the elevator slowed. The AI voice said, “Approaching 10,022 feet,” as the entire shaft started to vibrate. All three could clearly feel the motion on the perforated floor beneath them.

Simon pulled down the mask of the Vector5 Black Ops suit that he’d taken from the dead pilot. Max did the same as the elevator slowed to a halt. “Hatch doors opening, please prepare to exit,” said the AI unit. Simon looked over at the display one more time, remembering the exact coordinates that Leon had written on that piece of paper in Malta, so long ago. Nastasia stood behind them in terror of being discovered.

The massive hatch doors hissed open and blew a draft of freezing air into the elevator chamber. The space beyond the elevator doors was pitch black. Simon’s eyes focused straight through the lenses of the Vector5 mask, peering into the dark tunnel ahead. The voice of the AI module startled them as it spoke: “You have reached your destination at ground zero. Please exit.”

It was time to go. Max gestured with his head and they cautiously stepped out into the blackness. The embedded lights in the Vector5 suits automatically activated, creating an eerie glow that was nearly swallowed in the void; Simon sensed an astringent mineral odor in the dense frozen air.

They had reached the deepest point of the network where the density of the ice was equivalent to glass. Max took the lead; Simon followed. Nastasia took up the rear, a few yards behind.

We are standing in ice that hardened thousands of years ago, Max thought. He could feel all ten thousand feet of compressed ice above them.

Dad, Simon told himself. Dad. If you’re down here, I’m coming for you.

Simon saw Max put a finger to his mouth, motioning them to be careful and absolutely silent. The tunnel had narrowed; it wasn’t smooth and finished like the walls a thousand feet above them, but unfinished and roughly hewn. There were mounds of wire scattered along the ground, snaking along the sides of the tunnel, and small crevices in the tunnel walls themselves.

Simon realized he was squeezing the rifle so hard his knuckles were throbbing. His body was tense, ready to react on a second’s notice. They crept forward, still blind, Simon’s attention fixed on Max’s silhouette, where it moved in and out of sight like a shadow cast by a candle. It was difficult to breathe. The air was thin and filled with a strange mineral odor-an odor that seemed to intensify the farther they moved into the dark cavern.

They had not moved more than a hundred yards before Max held up his left hand, pointing the rifle upward close to his shoulder. Without hesitation, Simon repeated the gesture for Nastasia, telling her to slow behind him. Seconds later, Simon realized why Max had stopped.

The tunnel had started to vibrate ever so slightly.

Max turned instantly to Simon and saw the intensity in his eyes. He made a quick downward motion. The elevator, Simon realized. He motioned Max with his head, indicating a narrow opening in the tunnel, darker than pitch. As Max began to move, he turned back to engage Nastasia.

She was gone.

He froze for an instant; dread shot through him like cold lightning. Something has happened, he told himself. They got her. He turned back to Max, who had already noticed that she was gone.

“Leave her,” said Max.

“But-”

“Leave her Simon,” Max repeated through clenched teeth.

Simon shook his head and grabbed at Max’s shoulder as he tried to slide into the alcove. Max snapped back to him. “I said leave her, Simon. I don’t fucking care.”

The massive elevator doors that were next to their own suddenly chunked and shuddered. Instantly, Max doused the lights on his suit and plunged them into total darkness.

Subtle, shifting sounds escaped from the opening doors, and years of training helped Max analyze the voices and footsteps inside. He brought up five fingers and held them inches away from Simon’s face, then closed his fist and held up one more.

Six, Simon realized instantly.

They both heard footsteps approaching-louder and louder, coming toward them. It sounded like the men who had left the elevator were in a hurry. They shuffled and panted as they approached. Max and Simon stood like stones, pistols in hand, pressing against the icy wall.

Where the fuck did Nastasia go? Simon caught himself thinking. He pushed the thought away and brought himself back as the first of the men passed by less than ten feet away, backs to them, moving even deeper into the darkness. They were dressed in black military gear and moving quickly. Only seconds passed before they disappeared into the tunnel to their left.

Max made a serpentine gesture with his hand. Follow in the shadows, Simon knew. He had seen the gesture before when they played hide and seek as kids.

Simon hesitated, if only for a split second. It was all the indication Max needed. He turned back to Simon and shook his head. Let it go, he was saying. Let it go.

Simon nodded. Oliver was more important than anything else, but Nastasia’s sudden disappearance, before the other elevator even opened was strange. Very strange. He was both concerned for her safety and baffled. But his own safety and that of Max’s was just as important now, and he needed to stay focused.

Max turned away, moving like a ghost, following the men in the shadows of the tunnel. Simon followed, but he couldn’t forget her.

* * *

Nika couldn’t stand the sound of her alias-not anymore. She had hated it from the moment she had chosen to call herself “Nastasia,” on the day she had arranged for the note to be left in Simon’s passport back in Malta.

She didn’t need it any longer. Now she was finally close to realizing her destiny, and Simon had been pivotal for her mission.

She was close-very close.

She was grateful in an odd way. Without the Spector and the assistance of the team, she would have never been able to reach Antarctica, much less to the Nest itself.

And she knew that was where she was; she could smell the minerals.

“Pathetic,” she whispered, only to herself.

There was no way to stop them. She knew she was at the right place. Now it was only a matter of time, and very little of it, before she would change history once more. No one could stop what the universe had destined for mankind-not even Oliver Fitzpatrick.

She looked at her wristwatch: 19:33. She closed her eyes for an instant, remembering the team inside the Spector.

She was not a cold-blooded killer. She cared for those people. But she also knew, in her heart, that it was better for them to die in the explosion than face what was to come.

She slipped into the shadows, like a vampire instinctively guided to its victim.

* * *

“Can’t walk anymore,” Hayden said. His legs were like boiled noodles; he couldn’t take another step.

It didn’t matter. His life’s work had disappeared. His close friend and student was dead.

There was no hope.

“Please, Hayden,” Samantha said for the thousandth time. “We need to reach the encampment before we freeze to death.” Samantha had to pull every ounce of strength she had to push her exhausted body toward the camp. She was mentally and physically drained, but she knew that it was moments like this that tested a human’s will to survive. She remembered the many expeditions she’d been part of in the past; she thought about how many times she had faced death. I have to be their strength, she told herself. Simon needs me.

She trailed fifteen yards behind Ryan, who trudged forward, head slouched, focusing on every step. She could visibly notice the exhaustion and desperation in his walk. He had started to slow his forward steps as the sheer magnitude of their reality consumed him.

“Guys, we’ve got to keep moving,” she said. “We need each other. Simon needs us…” I am their strength now, she told herself again.

“Please,” Hayden begged, barely able to speak. “Tell me how much longer.” He forced the words out through uneven gasps of oxygen.

“Fifteen minutes,” Ryan said, though he knew that felt like eternity to Hayden. As he focused on the icy floor, he remembered how they had escaped to the encampment with the MC-7s, just hours ago.

The tunnel seemed much, much longer on foot.

* * *

Lucas and the rest of the scientists hunched inside the burning Spector as it sank down a shaft of its own making, falling toward the Gorge, melting the surrounding ice. They could not feel the vertical drop. It was too slow-slower, in fact, than Lucas would have liked. At any moment, he knew the hydrogen fuel that heated the vessels exterior could deplete itself. The exterior would cool and they could be stuck permanently in ice forever. I can’t think about that, he reminded himself. He sat impatiently at the virtual command console, but none of the monitor screens were activated-they would show nothing but endless walls of ice. He felt as if he was in a capsule dropping endlessly into the depths of an infinite white ocean. Outside, the ice turned into liquid as the burning Spector cut into the frozen water toward the network of tunnels now barely 250 feet under the submersible.

“How much longer?” Lucas asked.

“Twelve minutes or so,” said Rolfe. He had been sweating like a condemned man since they had entered the Sphere, suddenly struggling with a case of claustrophobia for the first time in his life.

“I know. I’m concerned if the fuel will last as well,” he said to Lucas looking for words of encouragement.

None could be given. With each passing moment, Lucas found himself deeper and deeper in a state of panic. “Twelve fucking minutes is a lifetime in this vessel,” he thought.

“What’s going to happen if we don’t make it?” asked one of the scientists in the co-pilot seat.

“I have no fucking clue,” Lucas responded. He did not want to imagine the alternative.

* * *

Nastasia’s black med-pack sat comfortably on one of the bunk beds. Stuffed inside were the lethal gas and the explosive. It was waiting patiently for the proper springing of the timing mechanism to trigger its activation. The tiny digital clock wrapped in a series of anti-detection materials changed its numeric sequence seconds at a time in reverse order.

17:27, 17:26, 17:25…

* * *

Simon choked at the mineral smell that filled the frozen tunnel. He readjusted the Black Ops mask and tried to breathe past it, ignore it, as he followed close behind Max, pressing tight against the icy wall of the dark tunnel. The dim shadows of the men from the elevator were a hundred yards ahead of them, illuminated only by their own suit lights.

They were moving deeper into the labyrinth.

Once again, Max noticed just how different these tunnels were. Here there were cables twisting along the floors and walls, dangling in lazy arcs from the craggy ceiling. Piles of random machinery, rimmed in ice, lay along the walls like the discarded toys of giant children. Some looked damaged; some simply looked abandoned. What is all this for? he asked himself as he bobbed and turned to stay in the shadows, moving closer and closer to the six men and their leader.

He stopped abruptly and motioned Simon to do the same. One of the men ahead of them had turned around. He was walking back toward them.

Max stood flat against one side of the wall, Simon against the other. Simon’s heart pounded in his chest as he buried himself in shadow.

He was past the point of fear. Nothing mattered but finding his father, and if that meant taking lives, then so be it. It was all about life and death now. Everything under the ice was life and death. And he was sure of one thing above all others: I will not be taken captive, he told himself. I am no one’s captive.

The footsteps grew louder as the point lights on the man’s suit approached them. They could hear his mumbled conversation but couldn’t see him until the man stepped out of the darkness barely ten feet away.

He still hadn’t seen them; they were completely hidden by the darkness. His head was down, gazing blindly at the pulverized ice as he concentrated on the voice that was whispering in his helmet.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he said quietly, as if he did not want to be heard by the others deeper in the tunnel. “How can the NAV-beacon on the SO team be at Dragger Pass when the Griffin is down here at the Nest? No one but Drago has a NAV-beacon,” he continued in a frustrated tone, “he would never leave his team.”

Simon and Max exchanged looks, but didn’t dare move as the man listened more to the voice in his ear.

“Because I saw it, you idiot! I just walked past it!”

The voice interrupted him and he shook his head. “Hold on,” he said and started walking again, even closer to them, retracing his steps to the elevator. “How am I supposed to explain this?” he grunted.

Simon saw Max’s shadow detach itself from the tunnel wall to stay close behind the man. Then things happened very quickly.

Somehow the man detected something as Max moved-a subtle sound, a grinding footstep, a shift in the air. He turned suddenly, just as Max lunged forward and drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s rib cage. In the same instant Max seized the man’s neck and broke it. The soldier’s head spun under Max’s hands, and Simon heard a faint sound, like wet wood snapping. The man collapsed in an instant, dead before he hit the ice, and Max fell with him. His rifle whacked against the ice, producing a sound that was louder and sharper than the falling bodies.

What the hell? Simon thought, but he knew Max too well. He knew what he was capable of. And he knew the worst was yet to come.

One of the men farther down the tunnel shouted to the dead soldier, “Colin! What the hell is going on back there?”

It was as if time stood still. Simon felt every millisecond as if it were tangible. He heard more than one pair of footsteps running toward them. For an instant he turned to them, trying to gauge the distance. Then he turned back, Max and the soldier’s body were gone.

Where the fuck did he go? He thought, panic rising in his throat. What-

A shadow appeared out of the dense blackness.

Simon saw a Vector5 assault suit. He saw the flat black helmet. He started to raise his weapon, ready to fire-when the figure raised a gloved finger to his mouth.

Max, he realized. It’s Max. He was hiding the body where they wouldn’t find it. That’s all.

They stepped back into the shadows just as two more soldiers emerged from the darkness and scrambled past them, moving quickly toward the transport elevator. Their helmets moved left and right, right and left, searching for their missing comrade.

As they passed, Simon made a quick motion with his head. Let’s go farther down the tunnel, he indicated, in the direction the men had just come from.

Max nodded. As the two soldiers melted into the darkness, the two friends moved silently in the other direction in pursuit of the men moving deeper in the tunnel.

* * *

One mile left to the encampment.

Keep going, you can do it, Hayden told himself. One foot in front of the other. Almost there. Just. Keep…

It was too much. Hayden finally, without further strength to push forward, let himself stop. His feet had been dragging, his body swaying for the last half mile. He just couldn’t go any farther.

Thirty yards ahead of him, Samantha and Ryan trudged on, concentrating on the last two thousand yards, determined to make it back. Hayden watched them go, getting smaller and smaller in the distance, but he didn’t call out to them.

I just need to rest, he thought and tucked his injured hand even more deeply into his torn ice suit. I’ll catch up somehow…

Samantha and Ryan pushed on without noticing that their friend was unable to follow any longer.

Hayden looked around for a brief moment and found a little uneven undulation in the wall. He hobbled over and saw it was more like a small alcove. “Perfect,” he said and sat down heavily. He leaned back against the icy wall and tried to get a deep breath through the mask. The lights from his helmet drifted as his head nodded. Just close my eyes for a second, he thought.

Chilled tears leaked from beneath his lids. You bastard, he thought, remembering the cheerful face of Andrew. He had met the boy just eight years ago, in the messy confines of his Oxford robotics lab. And now he was gone. Gone.

“You fucking bastard,” he said. He could feel his tears scalding him under the heated mask.

* * *

Back at the encampment, the scientists had worked for hours, packing rations, extra clothing, equipment and instruments-anything worth salvaging-into the storage bins of the MagCycles. That was done now. All they could do was sit, huddled together over a tiny makeshift heater assembled from back-up batteries and an ancient coil. As they watched, the sad little device sputtered, struggling to draw the last remaining ounce of energy from its source, and finally sent out a tiny spurt of gray smoke and died.

It was already cold-impossibly cold. Now it would get even colder.

There was a sudden call from the edge of the camp. “Hey!”

Ryan’s tired form pushed into the encampment, his head slouched. He didn’t say a word. Samantha’s figure was behind him. Her head was bowed as well, as if she could barely muster enough energy to make it inside the encampment. The scientists struggled to their feet at the sight of Ryan and Samantha and stumbled through the encampment toward them.

“We made it,” Sam said, breathless. “All three…”

It was only then that she realized it: Hayden wasn’t with them. Something was wrong.

Samantha looked around immediately. She blinked. Then she turned around and looked back the way she came.

Hayden was nowhere to be seen.

I didn’t notice, she told herself. I was so tired, I didn’t…

Panic ripped through her immediately. She caught a glimpse of Ryan, who was just as stunned as she was, but before he could say a word, she was scrambling to one of the encampments nearby tents and digging frantically through the debris.

There it is, she thought. She seized the small bag of rations and threw a life-support pack over her shoulder. There was a rack of rifles and ammunition in the corner. She took a weapon and stuffed her pockets with shells before she bolted out of the tent, fully loaded.

Thirty seconds later, without a word to anyone, she was back up the trail-going back to find Hayden.

* * *

The first of the eight drones dispatched to annihilate the scientists in the encampment had nearly reached its goal. It was using the most direct route its internal AI had located: an airshaft adjacent to Tunnel 3, exactly twenty-four inches in diameter. That was barely wide enough for a single human, and a small one at that, but it was more than enough for the compact little killing machine, even at an upward angle of thirty degrees.

The airshaft was one of many abandoned tunnels that had been closed after initial excavation. Some of these larger ones actually led directly down to Central Command itself, more than three thousand feet below.

The end-point of the shaft was sealed with a plug of ice thirty inches thick. It actually caused a small shelf and depression where it emerged-a nice little bench cut into the ice wall.

It was exactly the spot where Hayden’s half-conscious, painful body sat and dozed, the last of his heat draining away.

Samantha ran toward him as if her life depended on it. The ration pack on her back was as heavy as lead. The rifle was digging into her shoulder like a steel band.

“Please, Hayden,” she panted, breathless and exhausted. “I hope you’re all right.”

And the droid finally reached the small cap of ice at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

Almost two hundred feet below Hayden and one mile farther down the tunnel; the Spector burned and pulverized the ice around its white-hot hull. Any second now, Lucas reminded himself, but Rolfe was clearly sweating from fear and anticipation. He secretly wondered if he had miscalculated the shaft below. Even the tiniest change in energy output, angle of descent, ice density…as if to convince himself, he decided to share. “We’re almost there,” he said.

“Just tell me when,” Lucas said, his hand hovering over the virtual control panel, gripping the small controller, ready to thrust the Spector forward upon Rolfe’s command. At least he thought he was ready. He had been able to learn almost nothing before the original crew had betrayed him and driven him away. They were set to break through the ceiling of their escape tunnel at exactly 243 feet. And the various instruments told him the depth was right. They had only a few more feet to go. Twenty feet…ten feet…

The AI was the first to notice. “Recalculating route. Destination arrival requires forward thrust of 225hpps at thirty-five degrees below the horizon,” it said calmly.

“What?” Lucas said, his head snapping up. “What?”

“We’re off-target,” Rolfe said simply. “We’re just a few feet from our target depth of 243 feet below the tunnel, but the tunnel’s not there. It’s down and in front of us.” Rolfe’s fingers blurred as he recalculated. If his calculations were correct, Lucas would need to engage the threads and burn through the ice diagonally to hit the escape tunnel…and he had to start burning that direction in less than three vertical feet. This was their one chance-one chance-to rendezvous with an adjacent tunnel that could take them out of Antarctica forever.

“Can you steer this thing?” he asked Lucas. “You need to apply thrust, move us forward as well as down, or we’re going to miss the tunnel!”

Lucas stared at him for a moment, appalled and terrified. Then he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I can. When? Now?”

Rolfe’s body was visibly shaking. In less than three minutes-theoretically-they could be out of the ice and into the tunnel.

“NOW!” he screamed.

Lucas responded immediately, moving his fingers across a small icon that represented forward motion. The entire group heard the screech of the burning treads below them as the Spector inched forward as it fell, cutting a diagonal patch through the ice, swimming in its own melted water and crawling at the same time.

Moving ahead, toward Tunnel 5 and freedom.

* * *

Simon and Max pushed forward in pursuit of the men less than 150 yards ahead of them. They both noticed a glow developing at the far end of the tunnel as the space around them started to widen. A few moments later, they entered a larger chamber than any they had seen at this level-one that was better constructed and better lit. Max paused in the grayness at the edge of the larger room and pointed silently at the ceiling. Simon understood immediately the lights were going to pose a problem. He saw Max pat the air with his gloved hands. Take it easy. Move nice and slow.

The room seemed to be some kind of a makeshift emergency headquarters. Twelve Vector5 operatives in standard cold-weather gear-not the sleek and sinister black uniforms of the Black Ops team-were arranged around the room, working busily at half a dozen projects of their own. They scarcely noticed the arrival of two more soldiers-at least not at first.

Where did our boys go? Simon wondered. His attention was drawn to a large opening in the far wall-one that seemed to lead to an even larger room, farther ahead. What he could glimpse of the room beyond made it look like a military installation of some kind.

Simon followed five steps behind Max, his heart beating in absolute fear. He knew Max was better at situations like this; he’d spent a lifetime putting himself in danger. And it wasn’t that Simon was afraid of dying; he was past that. His only real fear was not rescuing his father, and if he were killed he would fail. He did not want to fail-he couldn’t.

As they moved toward the larger room, a group of five Vector5 soldiers noticed their arrival. Max immediately understood why they were aware of them at all: the Black Ops gear that they were wearing made them stand out.

The entire cavernous room seemed to grow tense as they traversed the long span of the opening. Then to Simon’s utter shock, Max suddenly turned a sharp right and stalked directly toward the five soldiers who were standing close together, muttering and staring at them. Max moved with an easy arrogance, as if he absolutely belonged there.

Simon followed closely behind and tried to contain the pure adrenaline that filled his body. Can they feel my anxiety? he wondered. He noticed how they had stiffened a bit as Max grew near.

Max was counting the steps to the confrontation. Ten. Five. Three. You can do this, Max, he told himself. He had been sent on many missions in the past, some just as bizarre as this. And he knew how to act like Black Ops-the best of the best, the elite who were always treated well. He would take advantage of that now…

He spoke imperiously, impatiently, even before they came to a stop in front of the five men.

“We’re here for Fitzpatrick,” he snapped. “Direct orders from Central.” He said it without a single stutter or hesitation, as if the entire matter bored him.

The ranking soldier-the one with two chevrons on his tunic-responded with a cold and quiet tone of his own. “You must be with Blackburn’s team,” he said.

Max nodded.

The soldier gestured toward the far wall and the large opening they had spotted earlier.

“Got it,” Max said and turned toward the direction of the opening. Simon turned with him, bringing up the rear, but he had barely taken four steps before the soldier in command called out.

“Hold on a second!” he said.

Fuck, Simon thought. This is it.

Max tightened his grip on the rifle as he carefully turned to address the soldier. “Did you say something?” he said coolly, slightly offended at being disturbed.

The man blinked and paled at Max’s tone. “What…ah, what’s your clearance?” he said.

Zero time, Simon thought.

“We are not at liberty to divulge that,” Max responded, dismissing the man with a casual gesture. He started to turn away again, but the man wouldn’t give up.

“That’s fine,” he said. “But…”

Max stopped and turned. He took three long strides until he was almost nose-to-nose with the commanding officer. “But what?” he said, barely above a whisper.

“…but I’ve been given orders for strict clearance down here,” he said. He lifted his hand to engage the audio device embedded in the shoulder of his tunic. “Just-”

Max was on him, moving as swift as a striking snake. His gloved hand shot out and grabbed the soldier’s hand-held it. Stopped it.

“No one knows about this operation,” Max hissed. “No one is supposed to know. And believe me, soldier, you do not want to be the one that breaks radio silence.” His voice was an evil hiss, filtered through the mask’s audio system.

The soldier glared at him for a long moment, then snatched his hand away from Max’s offensive grip. His eyes slid to the side for an instant, and Simon knew what he was thinking. He was angry and humiliated for being challenged in front of his men.

But he didn’t touch his communications patch again.

Without another word, Max turned toward the opening in the far wall and stalked away. Simon followed with a single backward glance, his hand still gripping his rifle as if his life depended on it.

He could feel the men staring as they reached the entrance. He could see inside more clearly now that the next room seemed to be a sophisticated series of bays designed to house large vehicles. As they both moved farther inside, Simon saw that they were all empty-except for one. The largest platform had a vehicle the size of a bus-a strangely beautiful machine that looked like an insect carved out of steel, ready to attack its prey. It sat on two large ski-like protrusions, each one approximately fourteen feet long. The main cockpit was elevated by a complex set of hydraulic legs. In the dim light, the extreme vehicle looked like a downhill racer, squatting and ready to fly.

Simon couldn’t help but stare in utter fascination. He noticed the writing on the back of the vehicle: Ice Raptor.

They looked at the Raptor from every angle as they passed. Beyond it was a series of smaller tunnels; only one of them was fully lit.

Max turned to walk directly toward it, as if he knew where he was going. Simon followed, his heart pounding.

He could feel it: Oliver was close by.

* * *

Hayden started to feel cold. Not the endless, penetrating cold of the ice, but something more-a cold he thought he would never escape, the coldness of life draining from him.

His lack of movement had forced the damaged suit to shift into its emergency back-up mode. It reduced the suit’s temperature grade by ten degrees, and the decreased temperature was already having an effect.

Hayden felt dizzy, but he didn’t know why. Still seated in the alcove, his back still against the glassy ice-wall, he noticed an odd vibration coming from the ice itself.

He had no idea that a drone was pushing its way toward him from Tunnel 3. Only a few feet of ice still separated them.

Farther down the tunnel, Samantha was running. It was harder than she had ever imagined. Her legs burned with exhaustion, the equipment she carried was heavier than cement. Keep going, she told herself. It was a dull, desperate mantra. Keep going, keep going. Her breathing became heavier and heavier under the thermal mask. She couldn’t take it off; it was the only source of light and heat that she had. Without those tiny lights mounted on the right and left side of her mask, without the air that flowed into her lungs being heated to a breathable temperature, she knew she would surely die in the dark.

But this is too much, she told herself. Too much. The rifle she was carrying felt heavier than she had remembered, especially with the ammo-pack that was magnetically attached to its side.

“Hayden!” she screamed through her mask. She pawed at the controls and turned the external volume up as high as it would go. “HAYDEN!”

She saw nothing. She heard nothing. The tunnel felt longer and more unrelenting than ever, a dark and cold path through an endless dungeon, leading to infinite blackness.

Almost a mile ahead, Hayden thought he heard something-faint sounds, distorted by distance and the ice. A voice? he wondered. Samantha’s voice?

He pressed his hands to his knees and pushed his heavy body to its feet. The faint voice was there-he was sure of it-but he couldn’t pinpoint the direction, or how near she was. Time to pull yourself together, he thought. Time to-

The pain from his thumb shot through his arm like a hot stiletto blade. He gasped in a breath and pushed away from the wall, commanding himself to move, move. He would not accept the fact that he had lost orientation. He knew it was important, vital, to get back to the encampment, back to heaters and food and medicine. But which way was it? How had he gotten there?

He couldn’t remember.

Get moving, he ordered himself. He turned to the left and put one foot in front of the other, and then another, and then another. After what seemed a very long time, the tiny alcove where he had waited disappeared into the frigid darkness.

He had no idea that he was headed away from the camp.

Three quarters of a mile behind him, Samantha stopped for a moment, resting her hands against her knees. She was too tired and breathless to continue running. I’ll walk for a little while-I’m destined to get there sooner or later, she told herself.

The camp was almost exactly two miles behind her when she passed the tiny alcove where Hayden had rested for so long. Had he stayed there, they would have found each other, but he was gone now, farther into the maze of ice.

And worse, Hayden had decided it was time to pick up his pace. He was walking farther from Samantha and farther down the tunnel that would take him back to the chamber where the Spector had melted into the ice.

Less than five minutes after Samantha passed the alcove, when she was barely twenty yards past, the first little drone-still under Central Command’s control-cut through the last thin wall of ice that separated it from the open path. It used an industrial laser guided by its small but very clever AI, dropping a twenty-four-inch square two inches thick into Tunnel 3.

The drone climbed over the cut ice effortlessly. It paused for a moment, assessing its orientation, comparing it to the complex of digital maps it kept in it memory…and then turned right toward the encampment where Ryan and the rest of the scientists waited.

Samantha and Hayden were half a mile away in the opposite direction. The drone’s sensors didn’t even register their presences.

And Hayden was still alone, moving mindlessly, his thoughts driving, going back and forth between memories of Andrew and his own fear and exhaustion.

Samantha was almost a mile behind him, and moving only slightly faster than the injured scientist. She kept wondering how far she had. She could feel panic rising in her, threatening to steal her control. She fought it off for the moment.

Neither Hayden nor Samantha had any idea that they would never see the scientists or their encampment again.

* * *

Almost 250 feet directly below Samantha, the Spector struggled forward, burning the ice as hard and beautiful as glass, melting a path with its steaming, massive body. The tunnel that lay ahead was just three feet in front and eight feet below them.

“Almost there,” said Rolfe.

Lucas could taste the freedom at last. “All we need to do now is to climb two hundred kilometers of Gorge,” he said, more to himself than to his terrified men. “Even if the Spector can’t do it, we can go on foot.”

He felt no remorse for what he had just done. The frozen hell that had kept them captive had changed Lucas. He had not seen daylight in over ten years; his body was weak and his mind was tortured.

His hands slid over the virtual console that controlled the Spector VI. He held his arms so tightly he could feel them shaking. He was ready-ready for freedom from his captives.

He felt the sudden vibration below his feet as the Spector’s nose burned through the last few inches of ice and entered Tunnel 5. They were directly connecting to the gigantic Gorge that would lead them home.

They braced themselves as the Spector dropped nose-down, into a sixty-two degree angle that pointed into the icy void below. It was still burning the ice as it accelerated downhill.

“Stop the heat!” screamed Rolfe, barely keeping himself in his seat.

Lucas had no clue how to stop the outer skin from heating up. He frantically analyzed the console but had forgotten exactly how Andrew had circumvented the entire system to heat the outer skin.

“I can’t!” he said, his hands wavering uncertainly over the controls. “I can’t!” he said.

“Then turn the whole vessel off!” Rolfe screamed.

Lucas realized it was their only chance. He instantly touched the power icon on the console. Seconds later, the vessel’s lights went dark.

The submersible started screeching and sliding against the icy floor, flinging itself toward the Gorge below. As the treads under the Spector started to cool, the vessel eventually slowed down, friction carving into the icy terrain. Finally it stopped, pointing downward at almost a forty-degree angle, stuck in the massive fissure called the Gorge, absolutely motionless. It ticked and steamed there, exhausted from its impossible journey.

Lucas sighed in relief. He could barely contain himself. “Freedom at last!” he shouted.

The others took a deep breath, all together, and shouted in unison, still holding onto their chairs in the pitch-black vessel.

All the while, Nastasia’s inconspicuous nutrition pack, still sitting in the rear cabin, ticked away, the numbers counting down with each passing second.

2:53…2:52…2:51…

* * *

Max and Simon passed the vehicle bays and entered the next space. What they saw shocked them.

Over thirty soldiers, all solidly built, were moving about the vast room, tending urgently to various tasks. The magnificent cavernous space they had walked into looked almost octagonal, adequately lit with a ceiling that extended over fifty feet. Beyond them, large doors led to what seemed to be quadrants, each one in turn leading into other tunnels and spaces. Each area was numbered, but soon Simon noticed that only one was brightly lit. He had spotted some activity inside it, from the corner of his eye far in the distance.

The entire structure reminded Max of a security facility. He had seen this type of arrangement before. It was the perfect design: a central core and cells leading off in multiple directions to house prisoners. Radiation icons and danger symbols surrounded the structure.

A gigantic hole, the size of a small building, was cut right into the center. The cavity seemed to drop even further down, and a massive crane, unlike anything they had ever seen, was situated over it. A platform was suspended from the crane. Hundreds of wires several inches thick dropped into the massive cavity, tentacles connected to large oxygen canisters that sat immediately to the left of where Simon and Max now stood.

It looks like some kind of a lit tunnel; wonder what the hell is down there? Simon thought.

“Simon,” Max said quietly through his teeth. “Come on.”

He climbed a catwalk that led into the strangely lit tunnel. It took a sharp turn just inside the entrance, then a series of steps moved down, even deeper into the complex.

“Max!” Simon whispered out of the side of his mouth. “This isn’t the way-”

He stopped dead at what he saw in front of him. Max had pulled up short just three paces ahead.

They were on the edge of a vertical shaft that appeared to go down forever, and suspended in the middle of it was what seemed like a semi-transparent needle-like object without any visible means of support, its tapered point aiming straight down to the center of the planet, its surface covered with…shapes…or letters…or symbols. Simon couldn’t figure it out. He couldn’t even see it clearly; it hurt his eyes-hurt his mind-to even look at it.

The sound it made was something like a groan, something like a seductive song. The light was impossibly broad-ultraviolet and infrared, blue and black and purple at the same time, throbbing behind his eyes.

This is not human, he said. We did not build this; we couldn’t have.

Max suddenly whirled around and shoved him, square in the chest.

“Go back,” he said brutally, forcing the words out of his mouth. His eyes were huge and haunted. There was blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

When Simon didn’t respond fast enough, he seized him by the shoulders and spun him around, facing away from the massive spike that hung in the air, turning away from the hideous light. “Go back,” he said again and shoved him even harder.

Simon stumbled and moved. He knew that Max was right. He wondered how his friend had even managed to look away at all, to resist the sinister radiation that flowed from that…from that…

They stumbled out of the tunnel entrance, back into the room they had come from. For a moment they stood there, blinking and swaying, trying to remember what it was they had just seen.

“My god,” Max said. “What…?”

For that one moment, they had forgotten where they were. As they stood there, unsteadily recovering, they nearly forgot that they were surrounded by soldiers.

But the soldiers had not forgotten them. Max snapped back to attention as a coterie of Vector5 men approached; he looked off into the distance toward the same opening that Simon had spotted earlier and started moving, stalking straight toward the lit corridor, crossing the thousand-foot space at a swift but businesslike pace, like someone who knew where he was and who he was and was eager to finish an unpleasant job-like a powerful bureaucrat.

Their senses were on high alert; both of them gripped their rifles, ready for a shootout.

As they moved, the coterie of soldiers faded back, distracted by other duties, except for two who kept coming straight for them even as Simon and Max approached the opening.

Max continued to look preoccupied. Simon counted the distance between them and tried not to look out of place. It was the longest thousand feet he had crossed in his life.

Any second now, Max thought. They accelerated their pace; as they approached, the opening revealed itself. It was approximately eight feet high and six feet wide. Perforated floors sat above the ice with cables and focused lighting in the ceiling. They entered.

The corridor was lit adequately and seemed endlessly long. Simon could feel the soldier’s eyes, following them.

Ten feet into the tunnel, off to the left, Max noticed a locking mechanism. I wonder if this is to the exterior door, he thought. Looks like it can be controlled remotely.

He had been trained his entire life to study his surroundings with photographic detail; that training had saved his life many times. This time would be no different.

Twenty steps into the tunnel, the audio enhancement unit in Simon’s headgear twittered to life, picking up a fragment of conversation from somewhere down the corridor. He heard it clearly and without mistake.

It chilled his spine and almost stopped him in his tracks.

“So, Oliver,” said the deep, authoritative voice. “It’s been too long.”

The words were both horrific and hopeful to Simon’s ears. Max heard them as well and turned instantly, realizing that his best friend would not have the patience to calculate their next move alone.

If he acts on impulse, Max thought, he’ll get us killed.

Simon had been holding onto the rifle with both hands. Max turned to him, drew his attention, and held up two fingers close together. Then he separated them into a “V.”

Simon recognized the signal instantly. It was one they had used in their childhood games.

Why split up? he asked himself. Then he looked down the corridor, as Max already had. Thirty feet ahead, the passageway forked off-continuing straight on and offering a ninety-degree turn to the right. Even before they reached the adjacent passage, they could already sense the ambient light that flowed into their path, coming from that next hallway. They slowed down and carefully looked to their right.

Off in the distance, they spotted an open door. They heard the voices coming from inside, and they saw a huge soldier standing at the opening looking straight inside, not noticing them.

They both took a few steps back, reacting to the situation.

Max knew what his next move would be. He looked up at the hanging ceiling embedded in the ice. It carried an intricate web of cables and equipment mounted below and above the ceiling, a dark open grid.

Both men were in sync. Max immediately pressed his rifle into the side of his suit and jumped upward. He grabbed the steel ceiling and pulled himself into the grid like a spider trying to escape. Simon followed, but before he had pulled his entire body through the network of cables, he felt something detach from his suit. He craned his neck and looked down, just in time to see his rifle fall to the floor with a deafening clatter.

Fuck, he cursed silently, clenching his jaw in anger. We’re discovered. It’s over.

For one long moment, both of them looked down through the ceiling grid at the rifle lying directly in the middle of the hallway, clearly visible on the perforated floor. And they both heard a new and impatient voice from further down the hallway.

“What’s going on back there?” one of the men in Blackburn’s team called out.

They heard footsteps; he was coming in their direction. Max knew they needed to move fast. The tight shaft of the ceiling was barely wide enough for one man to crawl through, much less two. And Simon noticed Max’s hand gesture once again, signaling them to split up, to separate.

Simon wasted no time. He crawled through the adjacent hallway ceiling and in less than twenty seconds, three feet below him, he noticed the soldier’s body pass in the opposite direction.

Max had already disappeared deeper into the main hallway ceiling, now trying carefully and quietly to open one of the airshafts. Simon had passed three feet into the side hallway that led to the open door when he heard the voice again.

“What the fuck is this?”

He noticed it, he thought. The man had spotted the rifle.

But I have to keep going.

It was almost as if he felt no fear, no anxiety. He didn’t care. He knew he was less than thirty yards from the door they had spotted.

“What’s up?” said one of the men in the room, shouting back at the man in the hallway.

“You’ve got to take a look at this,” the other voice said.

Seconds later, Simon stiffened as another man passed below him. For a brief moment, he wondered where Max was-if he could see what was happening. But then, just then, the amplified authoritative sound of the man speaking in the room resonated through the hallway and buzzed directly into his ears through his helmet.

“You’ve been more stubborn than anyone we’ve had down here since the beginning of the operation,” the man said. The voice cut through him like a knife.

“Lucky for you, your fucking ‘society’ knows more about what’s going on down here than I do. Otherwise you would have been utterly useless to us a long time ago.”

Holding his body absolutely still, using all his strength, Simon did nothing but listen-more intently, with more concentration than he ever had in his life. He wanted to push himself twenty more yards into the tight shaft, but he didn’t move. He froze. He waited. He listened.

“Look at this!” the man said. “Look at this gun above your head!”

Simon’s body went cold. He had to move. Adrenaline and fear of what would happen next moved his body forward as Blackburn continued.

“Don’t you see it, you pompous son of a bitch? Don’t you know I have no remorse for you, no compassion, not even concern? My men are coming up the shaft with third degree burns and toxic poisoning, as if they were working in a fucking nuclear power plant. Why should I care about you? Now look into the gun! Look! I won’t repeat myself.”

Simon was moving forward-slowly, slowly. Less than two feet, he told himself. Less than two feet before I can see inside. His body trembled from the vicious anger that threatened to take control of him. It was a rage he never thought he possessed. And still, he listened as he inched forward.

“These are your last moments Oliver,” Blackburn said. “This is your last chance. I can leave you to rot in your own hell, or I can put you out of your own fucking misery with a single bullet. Look at me! You have less than ten seconds. Tell me how to turn off these godforsaken devices. Tell me who I need to find, tell me who gave this knowledge to your pathetic society.”

Simon listened both horrified and confused. Twelve more inches.

“Who put them here?” Blackburn said. “What are they for you, you son of a bitch?”

Simon crawled the last few inches. His head turned toward the room, and he saw the ominous figure of the tall man holding a rifle against the head of a person lying in a hospital bed. He watched as the tall man pressed the rifle into the burned flesh of the sick old man’s head, and the old man closed his eyes, ready to accept the bullet that would enter his skull and take his life.

Simon’s world collapsed. His heart sank as if they had put a hundred knives into his chest. Blackburn’s large image moved to the left, pressing the pistol so hard into Oliver’s head that it made a fleshy crater.

At that very instant Simon saw his father. He saw Oliver’s face through the ceiling grates, and he recognized the expression on his face.

He’s thinking of me, Simon thought. He was sure of it: he’s thinking of me.

Simon’s body froze instantly. He felt completely hollow, as if life itself had been stolen from him.

For a split second, emotion swelled and took over every inch of his body. Simon could not move; he didn’t understand why. He desperately wanted to have a weapon, any weapon. He knew if he jumped down now, unarmed, the tall man would kill them both. Nothing would be accomplished.

He froze once more as Blackburn’s voice spoke again.

“Ten seconds before I pull the fucking trigger!” Blackburn said. “Ten seconds and your hell is over.”

He counted like a vicious killer with no regard for human life. “Nine…eight…seven…six…five…”

* * *

Two miles to the north, the Spector stood frozen. Lucas and the other men tried to find their balance in the tilted vessel as it sat in the pitch black, silent and dark, in shutdown mode.

“Let’s go,” Lucas said as he appeared on the bridge, trying to balance his body. “Grab whatever you can; we leave now. I am walking out of this fucking hell on foot if I have to. I won’t sink down farther into the ice.”

“But…” Rolfe interjected.

“But what?” said Lucas “I’m not turning this thing on and sinking again!”

The faces of the men looked ghostly in the light that emanated from Lucas’ helmet. “Let’s go,” he said, repeating himself. There was fear and apprehension in the eyes of the scientists.

“Pack light,” Rolfe said. “Just rations, no weapons. Take whatever you can that can sustain us for a few days,” he said to the other man.

They started scrambling in the dark and gathering as much as they could in the emergency light of the vessel. Lucas went straight for the hatch; he found the manual crank mechanism and worked relentlessly to pry the door open.

They were minutes away from the Gorge and kilometers from their freedom.

The hatch cracked open. The cold outside air blew in instantly, but the chill was different than the tunnels they were used to. There was a draft in the Gorge because of its sheer size and the air that entered was from the top of the ice shelf.

Within moments, the hatch was halfway open into the blackness beyond.

The Spector had spun slightly as it had fallen. The hatch door now faced the thirty-degree pitch in the same direction as the icy Gorge below.

“Give me those,” Lucas said, violently grabbing a few ration packs and quickly throwing them over his shoulder. He was determined to jump. The black void below him represented freedom. Whatever it will take, he thought. The Gorge is just below.

The others huddled close behind him, ready to make the five-foot jump and the slide down toward what they thought would be the Gorge. One of the scientists stood directly behind Rolfe, carrying more than he could, including Nastasia’s med pack. He moved closer behind Rolfe and asked, “Lucas, are you sure the Gorge is just below us?”

Lucas turned back immediately looking past Rolfe through the dark interior of the vessel. “Yes, I’m-what the hell is that?” he asked, noticing the black med pack in the scientist’s hand.

“I don’t know,” the scientist said, shrugging. “They left it behind. I thought maybe instruments? Comm gear? Maybe even money. Figured it might come in handy.”

Lucas almost spat at him. “Give me that,” he demanded. In one swift motion, he lunged at the man and grabbed the bag.

The timer inside the case continued. 1:16…1:15…1:14…

Two seconds later, he was back at the opening. Without another word, he jumped out.

Rolfe was the next man to follow after only a single moment of hesitation. The last scientist followed close behind.

Less than six feet below him, Lucas hit the icy floor. The slippery impact immediately terrified him. He started to slide uncontrollably, even as Rolfe thumped down less than six feet behind.

The ice felt like glass. Lucas couldn’t gain control as he desperately forced himself to gain friction, but it was impossible. He was sliding faster and faster and faster.

His body spun violently. He was now on his stomach; his head was facing downward. Trying desperately to hold his head above the ice, he watched the frozen ground race by, inches from his eyes.

His helmet banged against the glowing ice as he shook violently from the vibration. The light from his helmet caught glimpses of the glass-like shards that scraped his body. “Please god,” he begged. “I don’t want to die like this.” He was still holding on to the bag, though he had no idea why-reflex more than greed at this point.

0:18 seconds…

The world around Lucas sped by at an impossible pace, and the slope increased without warning.

The others twisted and scraped against the ice, losing control of their belongings as the incline grew even steeper. Thirty-eight degrees…forty-two degrees…fifty-eight degrees and still increasing.

I’m dying, Lucas thought. This is dying. One second later he lost contact with the ice and realized it instantly: he was falling. He was in horrifying free-fall, plunging into the blackness below.

He still held onto the bag as his body went into shock. Then he was plummeting to the bottom of the fissure toward the blackness almost five thousand feet below.

Four seconds…

Two seconds…

One…

The black bag exploded.

Lucas’ body and the men that fell with him were pulverized in an instant-so quickly that they didn’t feel a thing.

The gigantic fissure lit up as if it were illuminated by a single massive flame. The explosion expanded outward in all directions.

In less than a second, it moved the Spector a few inches, almost two thousand feet above.

Down below, the generators that sat at the base of Central Command instantly shut down from the static shock. A third of the entire Vector5 network blacked out.

All in a single flash of light.

* * *

Blackburn’s finger was on the trigger. He was still counting down.

“Three,” he said, careful to hold the tip of the rifle barrel directly against Oliver’s skull. “Two…”

Click. Everything shut down. Blackburn was suddenly, inexplicably, standing in the dark.

“What the fuck…?”

Zero time, Simon thought. It’s my only chance.

“Hold tight,” Blackburn said to the man standing at the door-less than three feet directly below Simon. Blackburn sped down the hall cursing.

Simon gauged the distance between himself and his opponent like a fighter in combat. He quickly pressed his body forward by another eight inches, and his legs dropped as he held onto the hanging ceiling.

The man below him looked up for just a brief second-just before Simon’s legs wrapped around his neck. Simon locked his legs around the soldier’s head and twisted his torso hard, instantly separating the man’s skull from his spine. Then he fell on top of the soldier he had just killed.

The floor of the cell was only slightly illuminated by the lights on the soldier’s mask, but it was enough. Simon stood up in the dark room and turned toward the shadow of the man that lay in the bed less than three feet away from him.

Oliver had no strength to fight for his vision.

Simon’s heart started pounding uncontrollably. He heard commotion outside, but it didn’t matter-his whole world was right in front of him.

He moved closer until he was standing above his father’s head, even as Oliver struggled to identify the shadowy figure that hovered over him. Then Simon grabbed his father’s right arm and removed his mask with his left hand, inches away from Oliver’s eyes.

His father quivered in pain as he squinted, trying to identify Simon. I must be dying, Oliver thought as he saw that wonderful, familiar face just inches away. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine that the strong grip on his shoulder was actually Simon’s-his son’s. His son.

Simon searched for the words, lost in a world of emotion. “Father, it’s me,” he said softly.

Just the sound of that unmistakable voice changed the old, broken man. Oliver felt as if he had been injected with a calming serum-a high dose of morphine that instantly took his pain away.

He forced his eyelids open. “It’s impossible,” he whispered. “It can’t be. I’m hallucinating.”

“Dad it’s me. I’m here. It’s me.” Simon told him. Then he felt his father’s body tremble.

“Simon?” he asked, shaking. “Is that you?”

The words cut through Simon as he remembered the voice of his father calling out his name a thousand times as a child. They locked eyes for a brief moment. Oliver wept as his only son held his frail body.

* * *

Nastasia had brought two explosive devices with her to Antarctica. She had assembled one on the Spector and left it there; she assembled and left the other in the scientist’s encampment. And they both had been set to explode at the same, special moment.

But Hayden was over a mile from either one when he pulled himself to a halt, confused and frustrated.

Why haven’t I gotten there already? he asked himself, an equal mixture of annoyance and dread. He looked at the glassy ice and well-traveled permafrost beneath his feet, unaware he was a scant hundred yards from the point where the Spector had sunk into the ice. “Where’s Sam?” he asked the cold, empty air. “Where’s Ryan?” In his disorientation and anger, he had completely forgotten about the communicator strapped to his wrist. Samantha followed relentlessly two miles behind. She was exhausted and confused as she stopped for a moment and contemplated the unthinkable: going back without him.

Where could he be? she asked herself, nearly breaking. There is nowhere to go! With all the strength she had left in her body, she screamed. “Hayden! Hayden, where are you?” Then she remembered it herself, for the first time. “Damn it,” she said, cursing herself for a fool. She put the watch close to her face, touched the edges as she’d been told to.

“Hayden!”

This time, Hayden heard the voice quite clearly, but he had no idea where it was coming from. He stopped instantly and turned back. “Samantha?” he shouted. The pressure from the sound caused excruciating pain in his head. He realized he had not fully recovered.

Samantha heard him-thin but clear, coming from the wrist communicator. He’s alive, she thought. Alive! With newfound energy, she started running back the way she had come. Just around that bend…

She had taken no more than ten steps when the timer set off the spot of gunpowder and broke the inhaler’s canister. In a fraction of a second, the gas hit the powder in the disguised protein bags, and the encampment exploded with a deafening sound that almost blew out her eardrums.

The force of the explosion that followed pushed through the tunnel like a bullet from the barrel of a shotgun. Between one step and the next, Samantha found herself airborne, her body lifted ten feet into the air and thrown against an ice wall over fifteen feet away.

The shock wave threw Hayden to the ground as well, but he was farther away-safer. He was back on his feet, unsteady as before, in mere moments.

There was nothing left of the encampment. Bodies and equipment, food and clothing, the drones in search of the scientist, even the ice itself had been turned to dust and driven deep into the ancient ice.

The scientists were dead. The camp was destroyed. And Ryan…

Samantha pulled herself to her feet, more bruised than before but still alive, still able to move. She looked back in the direction of the explosion and somehow knew where it had come from-what it meant.

Another friend was dead.

Ryan…she thought. And then she screamed out loud, “Ryan!”

THE NEST

11:32 AM

Gunshots and the sound of agony echoed in the dark hallway where Simon stood, but he barely heard it. He held his father’s frail and tortured body, thinking of nothing but this moment. He wanted it to last forever. It felt as if time itself had stopped for him; he was lost in his own world, with no regard for his own life.

The dark interior of the room was lit only by splinters of light reflecting from the dead soldier’s helmet. He felt his father stir feebly in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, struggling to form the words.

“Please, Father,” Simon whispered. “There is nothing you need to be sorry for.” He tightened his grip around Oliver’s narrow, shaking shoulders, filled with longing and remorse.

“No,” his father said. “There is much to be sorry for, my son. There is too much I need to explain.” Oliver’s voice was thin as paper.

“We’ve got to get out of this hell first,” Simon insisted. “I don’t care what it takes, I will take you back home, back to the surface. Then you can explain anything you want to me.”

“I can’t move, Simon.”

“Why?” Simon was confused. His father’s body was thin to the point of emaciation, but nothing was broken. There were no obvious signs of injury, just tremendous weakness.

“I’m paralyzed,” his father rasped. “Too much radioactive exposure.”

Simon’s heart sank. “Radioactivity? From what?”

Oliver paused for a moment, gathering what little breath he could find. “I’m sorry, Simon,” he said again quietly. Then he coughed shallowly and swallowed hard before he continued. “I haven’t been honest with you all my life.”

Simon pulled back, locking eyes with his father. “But-”

“You don’t have much time. You need to listen to me carefully.” His hand stirred, but he couldn’t lift it to communicate the true importance of every whispered word. “Simon,” he grated, “first you need to get to the surface; if you have gotten that far you will be rescued.” He cleared his throat and struggled for the strength, just to express himself with a few more words. “Once you are rescued you need to hurry-you need to find-”

The sound of gunshots was just outside-far too close-and it startled both men. Simon slipped into the doorway just in time to see soldiers running toward them; the sound of their footsteps echoed through the hallway, growing louder and louder.

I have no weapons, Simon thought. Then he remembered the soldier lying on the ground. He turned the man over with a quick snap and found the holster strapped to the dead man’s side.

Simon started to feel the vibration of the men running toward him. They were just outside the room. Several men, he told himself.

He gripped the gun in the soldier’s holster and pulled it free with all his strength. He had no time to detach the buckle; the strap on the holster ripped from the force and suddenly Simon was holding the gun in his shaking hand.

Three men, he realized. They were only seconds from Oliver’s cell. Have to think fast.

He slammed the door shut, barely missing the soldier’s head where it lay twisted on the floor. That’s only going to delay them by a few seconds. Where the hell is Max?

Oliver stirred, struggling to move, to regain the feeling in his limbs. He wanted to help-Simon could see that-but the effort was futile. Simon bent to push the soldier’s lifeless body closer to the cell door, leaning it like a doorstop against the aluminum in a vain attempt to delay the soldiers, if only for an instant longer.

The soldiers were right outside the door. He was trapped, trapped like a-

The ceiling, he thought in a sudden, jarring inspiration. Without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped up, high as he could, and grabbed the metal bars over his head, trying to push his body through.

The soldiers were pounding on the door, and the sound of it sent a chill through Simon. The thin walls of the cell’s modular structure trembled and bowed under their blows.

Oliver watched his son pull himself into hiding with a deep sense of desperation. I have so little time, he thought, too weak to speak. I won’t live long enough to tell him…tell him everything…

The power outage had provided the precious few seconds that Simon needed. Once shut, and with the electric motors disconnected, the door could not be opened from the outside, and as the guards shouted and cursed, he used every ounce of his strength to pull himself high up into to the lattice work, holding himself tight against the ceiling itself. He spotted pinpoints of light reflected from the soldiers’ helmets into the darkness of the grid work, over their heads and directly on the other side of the wall. He only had to move slowly, silently to the right and over the wall.

Eight more inches and he was above them. He looked straight down and watched the three soldiers as they pounded relentlessly at the door to the cell.

He heard the chatter of automatic gunfire off in the distance, too many shots to count. Fifty, a hundred-he simply couldn’t tell. Something is happening to Max, he thought, and suddenly he was overcome by an unfamiliar strength, outraged by the torture of his father, driven by the will to survive.

He held the gun in front of him as tightly as he could, both arms extended, pointing straight down. He gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger, and the sound almost shattered his eardrum.

One of the soldiers flew away from the others and slammed against the wall opposite the door. The shot entered through the man’s collarbone and exited through his stomach; blood splattered on all three of them from the force of the exploding bullet.

For a few brief seconds, panic rose inside him, filled his mind. It was almost a state of delirium. Too fast, he thought. There was no time to ponder what he had done. And it had been so easy, so-

No, he told himself. It’s too horrible to think about. But something had changed in him-changed who he was. He didn’t feel like a calm and comfortable scientist from Oxford. He didn’t feel angry or afraid.

He felt no remorse.

The two other soldiers had no clue what had struck their companion. Simon didn’t waste time; he didn’t hesitate. He fired again, and the second bullet hit the next soldier the instant Simon pulled the trigger. The helmeted man fell instantly to his knees as the third soldier, panicking, started firing frantically in all directions. The automatic rifle exploded in a barrage of bullets that lit up the hallway and filled it with a deafening sound. Wild shots hit all four walls, pounded into the floor-and pierced the ceiling.

Simon pulled back desperately, as fast as he could. He felt an ice-cold shock in his right shoulder as one of the bullets cut through his deltoid, and pain turned from ice to fire in a heartbeat. He bit off a groan, pushed himself back to the right, away from the gunfire. In mere seconds his arm failed him, and he lost his grip, falling heavily, slamming to the floor of the cell hard enough to knock the last of the air out of him.

The sound of gunfire outside the room intensified as the frenzied soldier shot aimlessly, fearing for his life. Several of the bullets penetrated the door and the wall around it, cutting through the room, barely missing Oliver and Simon.

And then it stopped. Suddenly. Completely. Silence assaulted them, somehow more solid and more terrifying than the gunfire had been.

Simon, still on the ground, gripped his throbbing shoulder and felt the blood well up between his fingers. He looked up at his father and saw the horror on the old man’s face.

His son was right in front of him, lying on the floor, obviously in pain, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Simon,” he whispered, deathly afraid that whoever was outside could hear him.

“I’m all right,” Simon said under his breath, struggling to fight the pain. He forced himself to stand, still half-blinded by pain, and tried to make a casual, comforting gesture to Oliver, using only his left hand. I’m fine, he wanted to tell him. Don’t worry. But he knew it was useless.

He stood there for a moment feeling his arm shake, trying to control the adrenaline that surged through his body. Neither man spoke. There was a moment of silence that stretched on endlessly, though he knew it could have been no more than a few seconds.

“Simon,” Oliver said, weak but clear. “You need to get out of here. You are in grave danger and there is no time. Leave me. Esca-”

Simon cut him off with an angry, awkward, one-armed gesture. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t risk my life, I didn’t come halfway around the world just to leave you in this hell.”

“You must,” Oliver said.

“What? Why?”

“I’m in no condition to leave. I will not make it.”

“I don’t care! You’re coming with me.”

Amazingly, Oliver’s tone grew stronger, more certain. “Listen to me, Simon,” he said. Simon had heard that tone many times before as a child, but it didn’t have the same effect on him now. He was a man-a desperate, weary man, a man in pain-and the power of his father’s commanding voice did not sway him. He watched Oliver’s shadowy form, a shadow against a shadow, visible only from the meek light that reflected through the ceiling.

“There are many, many things I never shared with you, Simon,” he said, his voice trembling and weak. “They did not kidnap me from the surface. I decided to come here.”

Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You knew all along?” Simon’s stomach tightened as he locked eyes with his father, and in the silence that grew between them he felt a new and awful separation. A great void opened, black and full of secrets, and it did not dissipate even when his father finally began to speak again.

“There is too much to tell you and not enough time, Simon. The fate of mankind now rests on your shoulders. You must escape this continent immediately and do as I say.”

Simon opened his eyes instantly. He could not believe what his father was telling him. This is not real.

“The fate of mankind?” he repeated. “What the hell are you talking about father? Your medication-”

“Stop,” Oliver cut him off. “I am perfectly coherent, Simon. I must be. They have made sure of that.”

“‘They?’”

“Vector5.”

Simon shook his head stubbornly. “Father, none of this can be happening.”

The old man almost smiled. “Believe me, Simon, it’s more real than you can imagine. This continent is being robbed of its resources.”

Quickly, grimly, Oliver outlined the massive, multi-billion-dollar theft that Vector5 had been committing for years-the same staggering story that Lucas had relayed to him earlier. Simon stood stock still, listening to every word that his father spoke almost against his will.

“But all of that-all that conspiracy, all that money and power-that is not why I am here.”

“I don’t understand,” Simon told him, shaking his head wearily. “I don’t.”

“There is something far greater that is down here. I did not have the will or the strength to tell you before, even when you were old enough.”

Simon listened without a word, as if the world had stopped to give them this moment-a moment they had never shared before. Oliver’s head dropped. His tears-the last tears his body had the strength to produce-slid down his face.

“The children…history…mankind’s love and struggle to live…our effort to make sense of our place in the universe…all of this was in our hands, Simon.”

“Whose hands? Father what are you saying?” He does not sound like my father, Simon thought. I have never met this man.

“Simon, all I want you to know is that I am sorry. I regret every moment. I should have done something…or at least tried.” Oliver said.

Simon stood in silence feeling his father’s compassion in a way he had never imagined existed.

The next words changed Simon forever. They changed everything he had imagined and known since childhood, everything he believed in and learned throughout his life.

“We are in quarantine, my son,” Oliver said closing his eyes, searching for a way to explain what he had known all along and had kept secret his entire life.

“Quarantine?” Simon did not understand.

Oliver’s head remained bowed, his eyes closed. Here, finally, he had broken the secret of the society-told the secret he had sworn to uphold all his life, a secret that lasted since a time before the Sumerians. It was a knowledge that mankind had no right to share, no right to know.

“We are captives on our own planet, Simon.”

“Captives? I-”

Oliver lifted his hand to stop Simon but did not open his eyes.

“Below where you are standing, thousands of devices from another time are embedded into the bedrock, waiting to melt the ice and create the next ice age. They are about to activate once more to create global catastrophe. To send us back into the Dark Ages.”

“Father, who is doing this? Who-”

“Extraterrestrial intelligence, my son. The same intelligence that helped create the pyramids, the ancient roads, all the many of the mysteries you and I never understood. The same intelligence that genetically altered us as an experiment. They held us captive. They watched and studied us for thousands of years, and decided that we were not capable of interstellar travel. We were not evolved. There were problems with the genetic code. Diseases started to arise, systemic failures of incompatibility. They realized that we-this experimental race-could not be allowed to take greed, war, suffering, and genetic mutation to other planets, not under any circumstances.

“We called them angels or gods, Simon. We wrote books about them. Entire religions were formed around them.”

Simon’s mouth had dropped as Oliver continued.

“They planted devices below the ice shelf and in other locations throughout the globe as a method of protection. They are control mechanisms. They ensure that we will not evolve beyond what we were capable of.”

Tears continued to slide down Oliver’s face as he realized the enormity of the moment. Then he said quietly, “I’m sorry, Simon.”

“But…” Simon’s voice trailed off. He simply couldn’t put the words together. He could not believe what he was hearing. His stomach sank; he felt hollow and worthless for the first time in his life…but somehow, something in him fought the will to believe.

“This is outrageous,” he said, and he was surprised at the sound of anger in his own voice. “This is impossible.” My father must be out of his mind, he told himself, standing stiff as a block of ice himself, staring defiantly at Oliver.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I can’t.”

“Whether you choose to believe me or not, what I am sharing with you is the absolute truth. You have little time to argue, and I have little time to convince you. You must escape and tell the world before it is too late. As long as you can get to the surface, you will stop all this.”

“But how do you-”

“How I know is not important right now.” Oliver said. It’s better if he does not know, he said only to himself.

“I need to know!” Simon demanded. “I need to know why, how you kept this from me, how you know. Who are you, Father?”

“There is no time to explain,” Oliver said, waving him away. “You need to escape now. Leave everything. There is a transport vehicle for an emergency escape situated right beyond the Great Room. It’s an Ice Raptor. It will shoot you straight through the continent and ten thousand feet toward the surface. Use your own judgment once you’ve escaped, decide how to reveal the truth, how to use it as a tool-and a weapon. But be careful, Simon. Please.”

Then Oliver reached out, ready to take his son’s hand, but Simon did not offer it. He looked crestfallen, broken, as he pulled his hand back. I deserve it, he told himself. I swore to protect a secret I should never have kept. The secret is not my life. My son is my real reason to live.

“Please forgive me, Simon. That is all I ask.”

Simon clenched his teeth. He felt no more pain from his shoulder. It simply didn’t matter now. What he had heard now changed everything. If it were true, it would change who he was and why he lived. He did not want to believe it.

For a brief moment he felt pain for mankind. His father had betrayed him-betrayed them all.

He stood for a long moment before Oliver spoke once more.

“You must escape immediately, and you must find…”

With a sudden burst, the cell door blasted open and careened across the room, crashing into the far wall with tremendous force. A shadowy figure emerged in the dark and moved into the room. Simon had reacted instantly: he pointed his gun straight at the stranger.

“Simon,” Max said, his voice cutting through the darkness. “I need you.”

“Max!” Oliver said. He was glad to see that his son’s best friend was next to him.

Without a word, Max turned toward Simon and grabbed his shoulder. “It’s zero time,” he said. “We’ve got to fight or die in this hellhole. Come with me; I need your help to take out the remaining eight soldiers before reinforcements arrive.”

With little more than a backwards glance, Max disappeared through the door, stepping over the bodies of the soldiers that were slumped on the hallway floor like rag-dolls.

Simon looked back for a brief moment as his father.

“I won’t leave you. I will come back for you.”

Oliver could not speak another word. Simon was already out running behind Max and toward the adjacent hall.

* * *

Blackburn and the eight remaining soldiers carefully made their way toward Oliver’s cell from the opposite direction. They were looking for Simon and Max. They were ready to kill, and they were headed straight toward them.

“Come out from wherever you are!” he called into the frigid gloom. “I knew you would come for your father. I can shut the elevators down and freeze all of you to death.”

He looked ahead, carefully walking behind the soldiers. He watched the lights reflecting on the interior from the source light mounted on the solders’ rifles. “Whoever is down here is going to pay for what they have done,” he said grimly.

Blackburn touched the comm device at his shoulder, careful not to raise his voice. “Send reinforcements and explosives to the Nest,” he snapped out. “NOW!”

The voice on the other end responded nervously. “Sir? If I may? The elevator hatch is completely shut down from the power outage.”

Blackburn knew that, but it was the last thing he wanted to hear.

For a second, he remembered the Raptor that was parked not so far away, fueled and prepped for him and his escape. I can get away any time, he remembered. If I have to, he reassured himself. Then he responded through clenched teeth.

“Get the fucking system back up before I get up there. For your own sake.”

He had said all that he needed to. He tapped his shoulder and disconnected from Central Command before the officer had a chance to acknowledge his wish.

* * *

Max knew that minutes-minutes-were all that separated life and death. He had a plan but needed to lure the enemy close to where the crane sat at the center of the large dome. That was the key.

He carefully made the bend around the first corridor. Oliver’s cell was almost two hundred feet behind him. He moved into the main hallway that led directly toward the octagonal room almost one hundred yards ahead of him.

Simon followed Max very carefully, clutching the pistol in his left hand. It was pitch black in the corridor, except for localized lights mounted on the dead soldiers that Max had left behind.

Simon was gripped with apprehension. He had no idea where they were headed. His mind drifted for a moment as he thought about Oliver’s words. It’s not possible. This whole thing is a dream, he told himself.

Twenty-five feet ahead of him, Max motioned Simon to slow down and stop. They put their backs against the wall of the main hallway and looked straight ahead. Less than three hundred feet in the distance, the silhouette of a massive crane loomed, dimly illuminated by an eerie glow from below.

Simon was terrified. He didn’t know what to expect as his body stuck against the cold wall. He was feeling the burning pain in his shoulder once more, felt the friction of the rough, cold wall against his back and the freezing steel of the rifle in his hand, as they inched forward, cautious not to expose themselves but ready to fight.

Max froze instantly, startled. He motioned back to Simon: stop moving.

It was too late.

A Vector5 soldier ahead of his squadron moved toward them in the pitch black, appearing out of nowhere, lunging forward to attack. Max reacted instantly as Simon watched twenty feet behind. He grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it behind him, turning the man 180 degrees, and choked him-briefly, brutally-with his right arm.

Simon moved forward, trying to assist, but he pulled back as the soldier’s handgun fired into the hallway. Max struggled with the man as the soldier shot another bullet straight into the ceiling above them. The small corridor that led to Oliver’s cell was just fifteen feet behind them.

Automatic gunfire exploded. Out of nowhere, bullets cut through the air in an unrelenting barrage, whizzing and shrieking past them.

Simon stuck to the wall, praying for his life. Max turned the soldier toward the direction of the oncoming fire, using the man as a human shield.

The soldier took several shots saving Max’s life. He could hear the bullets slicing the cold air as they flew by. Max felt the force from some of the bullets entering the man’s body as it jerked with every additional round.

Simon pulled back as fast as he could, throwing himself back into the small corridor, avoiding the fusillade.

Max’s task was not so easy. He stood directly in the line of fire, knowing that if he let go of the dead soldier, he would have no chance. The man’s body was excruciatingly heavy for Max, but he did not falter; he grabbed the man around his waist and tucked his head behind the soldier’s neck, walking backwards, inching toward the small corridor.

Something penetrated Max’s forearm. I’m shot, he knew instantly.

The bullet had cut straight through the man’s body and into Max’s arm, but he held on. Just a few more feet, he told himself.

Simon watched from the little corridor, horrified, praying his best friend would not die. I have to do something! he thought instantly.

Max threw his body into the little corridor, diving toward Simon as he let the soldier fall to the floor. That very instant, the image flashed through Simon’s head. The oxygen canisters! It’s our only chance. Like lightning, he moved onto one of the Vector5 soldiers lying dead on the ground and grabbed his rifle, instantly locating the laser-guided mechanism.

Wordlessly, without hesitation, Simon threw his body into the main hallway. He skidded flat on the ground, the pain from his shoulder so intense he almost fainted.

“Fuck this!” he growled. “I’m not ready to die.”

He inched forward on his arms, fighting the pain while he tried to stay as low as possible, still using the body of the dead soldier that lay inches away from his face to absorb the bullets that still flew toward them. He scraped his chin against the floor, praying that his skull would not take a bullet, inching forward like an animal crawling. He fought the pain and positioned his rifle barely above the man’s chest, aiming straight through the hallway into the Great Room.

The bullets kept coming.

It’s now or never, he told himself.

He pointed the gun straight toward the source of the assault, focusing the laser-guide right below the massive crane, centering on the oxygen canisters.

He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger-once, twice, over and over.

* * *

Blackburn stood opposite the canisters, almost five hundred feet away on the far side of Simon and Max. He looked at the seven soldiers positioned right below the crane-the last of his men, his final defense. They were shooting straight into the hallway in an endless rampage, straight toward the only man they could see-a shadow behind a corpse, aiming a single weapon straight toward them-

Less than a second later, the first of Simon’s bullets penetrated an oxygen canister standing directly behind the seven men. It exploded on impact. The explosion detonated the next canister, and that in turn made the next one explode-over and over, in a cloud of fire and debris that instantly filled every crevice of the octagonal room.

The seven soldiers that surrounded the canisters near the massive crane, immediately disintegrated. The force threw Blackburn himself backwards almost ten feet.

The massive crane that sat above the opening started to collapse into the massive hole. In a fraction of a second the explosion expanded-into the hallway where Simon was waiting, the force of it throwing his head back with a neck-popping jerk. The dead soldier in front of him shielded most of the impact, and suddenly there was absolute silence, a soundless vacuum.

Then, slowly, the crane that was falling into the icy opening started screeching. It sounded like an old train squeezing its mangled structure against the icy walls as it slid down toward the abyss below. The explosion had blown out the emergency lights above octagonal room. The dim light that omitted from the hole beneath the crane illuminated the edges of the mangled structure as it started falling into the opening.

Simon took a deep breath and hesitated for a moment, almost wishing that he could just lie there for two seconds longer. He pulled his body into the small corridor next to his best friend.

Both men were wounded. Max was at a loss for words. Simon had saved their lives.

“Max, we’ve got no time,” Simon told him. “Let’s get out of here.”

They forced their injured bodies up into standing positions. Oliver’s cell was two hundred feet away, and without a word they pushed themselves forward toward the room.

Less than twenty seconds later, Max turned toward the left and into Oliver’s cell. Simon followed close behind. It took them less than three seconds to realize what had happened in the dark room.

Simon noticed instantly that something was wrong. He looked closer at his father’s silhouette; it took him a moment to identify the odd shape that seemed to be growing from his chest.

It was a dagger, buried to the hilt. And less than six feet away, Nastasia stood at the foot of the bed, half buried in shadow.

Simon lunged forward toward his father.

Simultaneously Max shouted, “What the fuck?” and pulled up his rifle. He stalked across the room toward her motionless figure, the gun shaking against his shoulder as he held the muzzle less than five inches from her head.

She sank to her knees without a word.

“Father!” Simon screamed. It felt as if someone had taken his own life. “Father! Father!”

And Oliver moved-just a fraction, ever so slightly, but he moved.

Relief flooded through him. “He’s still alive!” Simon shouted. “Max! Help me!”

Max was frozen in disbelief fighting the urge to put a bullet in the woman’s head with all of his strength. I should have known, he told himself.

Nastasia did not move. She sat stone cold as if in a trance, her head tilted down and her hands in her lap. She looked like a woman who had been possessed by a great evil, who now prayed silently, desperately for atonement.

Simon felt cold. He felt like throwing up. He shook with anger and shock simultaneously. It was impossible; it was horrific. He could not fathom what he was seeing.

“Why?” he screamed. “WHY?!” He went for Max’s rifle, ready to take her life. He felt dread and hatred like he never knew existed.

And his father stopped him.

“No, Simon,” Oliver said. He was so weak he could barely form the words. He coughed violently; it was almost too dark to see the blood gushing from his mouth.

Simon stopped himself. He turned back, knelt at his father’s side and reached for the dagger.

Max stopped him.

“Leave it,” he said. “He’ll bleed less.”

An uncontrollable emotion took hold of Simon as he looked back at Nastasia again.

“Why?” he begged for an answer.

“She had no choice,” Oliver told him. “It was destined.”

“Simon, Nika belongs to a secret society of which I have been a member of my entire life. This was the reason that I disappeared when you were a child. I came here for a reason: to ensure that nothing would stop the devices from melting the ice cap. To ensure that the angels who created us could complete their mission. But I’ve since realized how foolish I’ve been, Simon. Somebody had to stop this, and I realized you were the only one that I could trust. I betrayed the society when I contacted you. I broke the code, and she was instructed to take my life,” Oliver said. It was getting harder and harder for him to speak.

Simon turned back to his father. The dying man’s voice was barely a whisper. “You must find him,” he said.

“Who? Father, speak to me, who?” Simon begged.

“You must find Leon.” With every ounce of energy he had left, he continued. “Leon has the key. He is the only one that can guide you to the location of the ancient tablets that will describe how you can turn off the devices that line the bottom of the ice.”

Nastasia’s eyes shut in utter shock that Oliver had given away the greatest secret ever kept.

“But…” Simon was speechless.

Oliver clutched his son’s arm. With the strength of a child, he shook as he pulled his son close. He coughed once more, forcing himself to stop as he spoke his last words.

“You must escape. The Raptor can only take one passenger. You must get to the surface immediately, and get to Europe as quickly as you can. Find L…”

Simon’s eyes closed in pain. He barely made out Oliver’s last words. “Forg…v…m…”

Oliver died a few seconds later, and Simon screamed.

The sound of his anguish penetrated the hallway and traveled a thousand feet across to Blackburn’s ears.

Blackburn was barely conscious. The explosion had nearly taken him.

I have to get to the Raptor, he told himself. It’s all that’s left.

Back in the cell, the two best friends locked eyes. Max’s rifle was still pointed at Nastasia’s head.

“Get out of here!” said Max.

“I’m not leaving you. Kill the bitch and let’s go,” said Simon.

“You heard Oliver. There’s only room for one. You heard your father’s words. It’s on your shoulders Simon.”

Simon repeated his father’s words in his head: You must escape. Leave everything. But he couldn’t move-he couldn’t make himself. He stood silent and frozen.

“Go,” Max said with new urgency. “I’ll deal with her.”

Simon shook his head. He did not want to.

“Go, I said!” Max repeated. “I’ll find the others and we will get out of this hell! You’ve got to get to the surface!”

Simon clenched his teeth and realized in that brief moment that if Oliver’s words were true, he had no choice. He had lost his father but did not want to lose his best friend.

“It is our only chance,” said Max still shaking from anger. “UNED will spot you instantly, and they will rescue the rest of us and put an end to this godforsaken operation. GO!”

He did not have the strength to look at Max. For a second, his eyes locked on the space between them on the floor. Then he turned and disappeared.

* * *

Simon felt his breath thundering in his chest as he ran forward toward the Raptor. It was black as death. He had lost too much blood. With each step, he moved farther from his best friend, his dead father, and the woman who had killed him.

But he knew he had to fulfill his father’s final wish. Even if he didn’t believe or understand it.

The dark hallways disappeared behind him as he finally passed the octagonal room. The whole journey felt like a dream.

He was alone in the world. Now he knew his father was dead. His mind wandered as he moved, asking himself with each stride if he should stop and turn back, simply accept death as it approached. But something pushed him forward-something greater than himself.

“I forgive you, Father,” he said between gasps.

In front of him, the Great Room narrowed into the escape hatch. He could remember that even through the dimly lit environment. Then suddenly, the sound that he heard reverberated through his body.

He felt as if he was running toward the thrusters of a jet airplane. The room ahead of him exploded in a flash of blue light, nearly blinding him. Instantly, he realized what was happening.

The Raptor! he told himself as he stumbled forward. Someone’s in the Raptor.

The form of the awesome ice vehicle appeared in front of him. It almost looked alive, like some mythical, mechanical beast waiting to explode through its massive hatch-a hatch that was rolling open, even as he approached.

The ground rumbled below his feet as the force of the thrusters vibrated the entire room. He had to move quickly, he knew it was his only chance.

Fifteen…ten…five feet. And suddenly, he was under the vehicle frantically trying to locate a way to climb up. The violent roar of the thrusters shook his body unlike anything he had ever felt. Suddenly the front lights turned on, illuminating almost one thousand feet ahead of the vehicle. Simon caught a quick glimpse of the special tunnel. It looked like a luge, illuminated all around from the bright lights of the Ice Raptor.

Less than two seconds later, he located the step mechanism and pulled his body up toward the cockpit. It had not closed yet.

But inside the cockpit, Blackburn was about to connect his last latch on the safety belts. He looked away, down toward the console at exactly the wrong moment-

Simon hit him. Hard. His fist broke the man’s specialized helmet and dislodged a piece of it, driving it into Blackburn’s jaw.

Simon was on him before Blackburn could even scream, filled to bursting with vengeance, unimpeded by remorse. He pulled Blackburn’s massive frame out of the Raptor as if he was possessed by strength far greater than his body could generate, and both men fell to the floor almost eight feet below.

Blackburn grunted as he hit the ice and groped for his pistol, but Simon was on him too quickly, too strongly. He struck out and slammed his fist onto the left side of Simon’s face, cutting his mouth open from the inside, sliced raw by his teeth.

Simon had felt that familiar pain before many times. It didn’t matter one bit. He immediately struck back, jamming his elbow against Blackburn’s throat like an ultimate fighter, focused on killing his opponent.

He didn’t care. He had no reason not to take this man’s life. Nothing would stop him from his father’s last request.

He was too angry, too focused. He didn’t notice that Blackburn had his hand on his pistol again-and the instant he had his hand on it, he lashed out and struck Simon on the temple with a resounding crack, throwing him to the floor.

Simon fell, nearly unconscious. Blackburn stood up like a dark aberration, towering above Simon’s head.

* * *

Nika focused her eyes on the perforated floor. Her head had not lifted since Simon had left the room. Filled with sadness, she waited for the bullet from Max’s gun to take her life.

He clenched the pistol so tightly in his right hand that it shook the barrel less than an inch from Nika’s neck. He couldn’t focus his anger to formulate what he was about to say.

“Why?” He asked.

She did not speak.

“Is it true what Oliver said?” he asked her, pressing firmly against the trigger with his index finger.

She nodded.

He fought the will to just shoot her. It was too easy. Too painless. How could she have done this, he thought to himself.

Then suddenly she spoke. “Max, Oliver was right. I had no choice. But I am prepared to die, so pull the trigger.”

Clenching his teeth, he asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

It was getting harder and harder to fight the urge to not take her life. “You mean to tell me you didn’t have a choice but to take someone’s life?”

“I can find Leon, Max. I know where he is. Simon will never find him. He belongs to my society.”

“What society? What the fuck is going on?” Max said, wondering if she was trying to manipulate him again.

Then Nika began to explain. She told him everything. She explained how she knew Oliver, how she had known Simon all her life, but had only watched him from a distance. She was never allowed to meet him. She explained the reason why Oliver had to come to Antarctica, and why he had betrayed his own society. She spoke about the extraterrestrial devices less than a few hundred feet below them. She only looked up once, and noticed Max had just sat down and eased up on the pistol. His expression was of complete disbelief and shock at what had just been revealed to him.

“So what will happen now?” He asked in a somber tone.

“I can find him, Max. I know where Leon will hide. If you let me live, I promise I will find him.”

He sat speechless for a long moment staring at Oliver’s dead body.

He had a choice to make, and he had to make it now. What if she finds and kills Simon? What if all of this is a lie, he asked himself. He had to trust his gut, as he always did, and it told him that it made sense as ridiculous as all of it sounded.

“Go. Get the fuck out of my sight before I change my mind.”

Nika didn’t hesitate. She pulled herself up quickly, whispering, “Thank you.”

Max’s eyes did not move. “I’ll find you. Trust me. If you find a way to escape this hell, you need to deliver on your promise. If you don’t, I will still find you. But for now-now you’re on your own,” he said.

She glanced at him for a split second and then disappeared into the hallway that led toward the direction that Simon had just escaped. Max continued staring at the only father he knew. What Nika had told him resonated through his mind. What the hell will we do now? he thought to himself. I know if Simon reaches the surface, we will leave this hell. Just get up there you bastard.

* * *

Simon’s vision was fading. He had lost too much blood. With his face stuck to the icy floor, he barely saw the figure of Blackburn standing over him. He heard the words as if they emerged from a shadow-cold, unfeeling.

“You pathetic son of a bitch,” Blackburn said. “You thought this was about your father. You have no fucking clue how big this is. You have no idea what you have done, and now you are going to pay for it.”

Simon kept his eyes open, barely long enough to recognize the figure that stood behind Blackburn in the distance.

Blackburn’s finger curled around the pistol’s trigger-

— and two bullets hit him from behind. He still stood erect, still alive, for one long impossible moment, then fell like a statue on top of Simon. His hand convulsed as he fell and the pistol fired. The bullet slashed through the air less than three inches from Simon’s head.

Even though he was nearly unconscious himself, Simon recognized the figure that had killed Blackburn. He felt shock, confusion, awe, as he peered through the pain at Nika, standing a hundred feet away.

I’m next, he thought.

He had no more strength to fight. But somehow he managed to pull himself to his feet and confront her, face her, look straight at her as she turned to him.

He was ready to take the bullet.

She did not flinch. She held her aim for a long, long moment, and then lowered her rifle and waited for Simon to enter the Raptor.

He stared at her. He thought his life would be taken. But apparently in that moment, Nika had decided not to kill him.

He climbed the stairs more slowly than ever and entered the cockpit. As he passed through the hatch, he looked back once more at Nika’s cold blue eyes. They locked with his, one last time.

He pulled his body into the menacing machine and started to buckle himself in. As the last latch on the safety belts engaged, the cockpit hatch began to hiss, automatically pressurizing the cockpit. His seat automatically reclined, putting him into a lying position with his legs forward.

He felt as if he would lose consciousness at any moment. Then the voice command module in the Raptor spoke.

“Diagnostics complete. Ready for detachment. Course set for zero altitude.”

“-153…-79…+347…Confirm coordinates, confirm ignition.”

All Simon had to do was speak the words. He took a deep breath and forced the words out.

“Coordinates confirmed,” he rasped. “Ignition confirmed.”

Eight audible beeps later, the Raptor exploded forward, thrusting its massive form into the cavernous tunnel ahead. It shook the surrounding ice like a fighter jet.

The G-force almost knocked Simon out in the first five seconds. All he could feel were the vibrations in the interior of the cockpit as the force pressed him against his seat like a falling stone wall.

* * *

Four hundred eighty feet behind, Blackburn barely opened his eyes. He felt the pain in his back where the bullet had struck, but the bulletproof clothing he wore had saved his life. Again, he thought grimly. And probably not for the last time.

He did not have the strength to move, but it didn’t matter. He had already lost the Raptor, he knew that. He would have to wait for an evac team in any event, assuming one could get there.

We’ll get him on the outside, he told himself. We’ll get him.

And only then did he hear the woman’s voice-deep, accented, cutting through the fading vibration of the disappearing Raptor. He saw no one, but he heard.

“Goodbye, my brother.”

Then she disappeared-toward the elevator shaft.

* * *

The Raptor blew through the smooth-sided coring tunnel at 135 miles per hour. It started accelerating upward as the pitch increased to more than forty degrees, curving upward toward the top of the ice continent.

Simon’s eyesight began to fade. He felt consciousness slipping away as he moved at breakneck speed.

* * *

One thousand feet above where Simon was now traveling, Hayden felt a sudden vibration below his feet as he struggled to help Samantha.

“Come on Sam,” he pleaded, hauling at her one more time. “We’ve got to keep moving before we freeze to death.”

Samantha had no more strength; the blast had nearly killed her, but she was not ready to die.

She forced herself up and barely recognized Hayden. Much to her own surprise, she was glad to be alive.

He held her for a moment as the recent memory of Ryan’s death took hold of her emotions. Holding her tightly in his arms, Hayden said, “We’ve got to keep moving before we freeze Samantha. With the Spector destroyed, I have to find a way to get us out of here.” He looked at the communication device strapped on his wrist, and realized Max was trying to find them. The message read:

Stay where you are. Coming toward you.

Hayden was glad that Max was alive. He spoke softly into the device. “We’ll wait for you at the encampment.”

We are going to make it out alive.

* * *

Max sat watching Oliver in the dark room. The man had been a father to him. Now he wondered why it had come to this.

What Nika had shared with him had changed everything. He looked at Oliver and knew at that moment that there was a greater purpose. That’s why he had let her go.

Then he read the incoming message from Hayden and realized he needed to get to him quickly. Grateful for the sound of his own voice in the frozen silence, he said, “I need to find Samantha and the others, and we’ll soon escape this hell.”

He thought of his best friend, rocketing away from him, miles above.

Just get to the surface Simon. Just get there!!..

* * *

At almost one thousand feet below the surface of the ice continent, Simon started hallucinating. The force of the Raptor was too much for his wounded body. He could barely remember what had happened. He had started to feel calm. All he wanted to do was sleep.

Moments later, the Raptor started to slow, just as it was programmed to do at this elevation. It broke through a thin hatch covered with ice that concealed the opening of the tunnel and emerged onto the surface of the icy continent.

It was black as night everywhere: no stars, no moon. The only thing Simon felt was the sudden pressure as the vehicle came to a complete stop.

The unmarked black rescue helicopters that were programmed to dispatch upon the Raptor’s detachment thrummed over the horizon and descended to pick up their cargo. Everything had been planned; the crew in the chopper expected that the leader of Vector5 waited for them in the vehicle.

Simon felt the noise and vibration of the choppers as blue lights shone into the cockpit. His vision was almost completely blurred. The next thing he heard was his cockpit door decompressing, and his body was detached from the harness, pulled free. He felt multiple hands and voices. It all felt like a blur.

His father’s words still echoed in his mind: Find Leon.

The frigid air cutting through the Antarctic plateau felt welcome against his skin and helped him stay awake for a few minutes longer. He felt his body being strapped down. A gurney, he thought. I’m on a gurney.

He heard the voices and started seeing lights. “Move it. Move it. Let’s go. We’re out of here.” A few immeasurable moments later, Simon felt warmth all around him, as if he was inside a room. Then he heard what seemed to be the blades of a chopper.

“Life support! I need life support,” he heard a voice say.

“Wind’s picking up,” said another voice-a woman’s.

“Disengage, disengage.”

He noticed what seemed to be multiple forms around him and what seemed to be random holo-displays inside some sort of vehicle. It’s a chopper, he noticed, dizzy from the loss of blood. Then he felt the subtle vibration on his wrist. He knew that Max and Hayden had found each other. A momentary sense of calm took hold of him as his body began to lose all feeling.

If you can only get to the surface, you will be fine. He remembered Oliver’s words. He felt calm. He knew that even though he was the only one to escape, Max and the others would soon be rescued. He knew that the operation would be blown and the world would go to the rescue of the captives. What he had done would stop the great atrocities toward the world and the human beings that were being held captive. He realized that the purpose of his mission was greater than himself, greater than the need to find his father-it was about world and humanity.

He thought about the secrets Oliver had told him, but he didn’t care, it didn’t matter. They were too great for anyone to fathom. His friends were all that mattered, and they’re alive.

His eyes were fading as he felt an inner peace. The last thing he remembered was the chance he had been given, to hold his father for one last time.

Content

Armen Gharabegian
Protocol 7

PROLOGUE:

STATION 3-27

PART ONE:

OXFORD, ENGLAND

THE ROOM WITH NO WINDOWS

OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

WASHINGTON, DC

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

A ROOM

OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

THE REPUBLIC OF MALTA

OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

ENGLAND

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

NORTH OXFORD, ENGLAND

OXFORD, ENGLAND

NORTH OXFORD

PART TWO:

THE ISLAND OF CORSICA

UNDISCLOSED ISLAND

SANTIAGO, CHILE

VALPARAISO, CHILE

PUERTO WILLIAMS, CHILE

THE SOUTHERN SEA

ANTARCTICA

THE SOUTHERN SEA

ANTARCTICA

THE SOUTHERN SEA

VECTOR5 COMMAND POST

FISSURE 9

CENTRAL COMMAND STATION

FISSURE 9

TUNNEL 3

SPECTOR VI

SUBMARINE DOCK

THE ALCOVE

DOME AT FISSURE 9

CENTRAL COMMAND

TUNNEL 3

THE PASSAGE

TUNNEL 3

CENTRAL COMMAND

THE NEST

THE ENCAMPMENT

OPERATIONS BAY 32

THE ENCAMPMENT

THE NETWORK

THE ENCAMPMENT

DRAGGER PASS

ELEVATOR ONE

SPECTOR VI

DRAGGER STATION

THE NEST