The Arctic Incident

“Uh-oh,” breathed Mulch.

In a matter of moments, things had gone from rosy to extremely dangerous. Once the security circuit was broken, a side door slid open, admitting two very large German shepherds. The ultimate canine watchdogs. They were followed by their handler, a huge man covered in protective clothing. It appeared as though he was dressed in doormats. Obviously, the dogs were unstable.

“Nice doggies,” said Mulch, slowly unbuttoning his back flap.





Chute E37


Holly nudged the flight controls, inching the shuttle closer to the chute wall.

“That’s as near as we get,” she said into her helmet mike. “Any closer and the thermals could flip us against the rock face.”

“Thermals?” growled Root. “You never said anything about thermals before I climbed out here.”

The commander was spread-eagled on the port wing, a concussor egg jammed down each boot.

“Sorry, Commander, someone has to fly this bird.”

Root muttered under his breath, dragging himself closer to the wingtip. While the turbulence was nowhere as severe as it would have been on a moving aircraft, the buffeting thermals were quite enough to shake the commander like dice in a cup. All that kept him going was the thought of his fingers tightening around Mulch Diggums’s throat.

“Just a few feet,” he gasped into the mike. At least they had communications, the shuttle had its own local intercom. “A few more feet and I can make it.”

“No go, Commander. That’s your lot.”

Root risked a peek into the abyss. The chute stretched on forever, winding down to the orange magma glow at the earth’s core. This was madness. Crazy. There must be another way. At this point the commander would even be willing to risk an aboveground flight.

Then Julius Root had a vision. It could have been the sulphur fumes, stress, or even lack of food. But the commander could have sworn Mulch Diggums’s features appeared before him, etched into the rock face. The face was sucking on a cigar and smirking.

His determination returned in a surge. Bested by a criminal. Not likely.

Root clambered to his feet, drying sweaty palms on his jumpsuit. The thermals plucked at his limbs like mischievous ghosts.

“Ready to put some distance between us and this soon-to-be hole?” he shouted into the mike.

“Bet on it, Commander,” responded Holly. “Soon as we have you back in the hold, we’re out of here.”

“Okay. Stand by.”

Root fired the piton dart from his belt. The titanium head sank easily into the rock. The commander knew that tiny charges inside the dart would blow out two flanges, securing it inside the face. Five yards. Not a great distance to swing on a piton cord. But it wasn’t the swing really. It was the bone-crushing drop, and the lack of handholds on the chute wall.

Come on, Julius, sniggered Root’s Mulch rock mirage. Let’s see what you look like splattered against a wall.

“You shut your mouth, convict,” roared the commander. And he jumped, swinging into the void.

The rock face rushed out to meet him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Root ground his back teeth against the pain. He hoped nothing was broken, because after the Russian trip, he didn’t even have enough magic left to make a daisy bloom, never mind heal a fractured rib.

The shuttle’s forward lights picked out the laser burns where the LEP tunnel dwarfs had sealed the supply chute. That weld line would be the weak spot. Root slotted the concussor eggs along two indents.

“I’m coming for you, Diggums,” he muttered, crushing the capsule detonators embedded in each one.

Thirty seconds now. Root cut the piton loose, aiming a second dart at the shuttle wing. An easy shot—he made this kind of thing in his sleep in the sim-range. Unfortunately, the simulations didn’t have thermals fouling things up at the last moment.

Just as the commander loosed his dart, the edge of a particularly strong whirlpool of gas caught the shuttle’s rear, spinning it forty degrees counterclockwise. The dart missed by a yard. It spun into the abyss, trailing the commander’s lifeline behind it. Root had two options. He could rewind the cord using his belt winch, or he could jettison the piton and try again with his spare. Julius unhooked the cord; it would be faster to try again. A good plan, had he not already used his spare to get them out from under the ice. The commander remembered this half a second after he’d cut loose his only piton.

“D’Arvit!” he swore, patting his belt for a dart that he knew would not be there.

“Trouble, Commander?” asked Holly, her voice strained from wrestling with the controls.

“No pitons left, and the charges are set.”

There followed a brief silence. Very brief. No time for lengthy consultations. Root glanced at his moonomenter. Twenty-five seconds and counting.

When Holly’s voice came over the headset, it was not bursting with enthusiasm or confidence.