Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

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.”

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.

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.