Siberius (47 page)

              In Bannister’s mind, a shakeup in the Earth’s climate was a good thing. He believed in the power of man, and was continuously awestruck by man’s accomplishments. Terraforming the planet to better suit the needs of man was not only inevitable, but necessary. To him, there was no difference between building a city and warming up the planet. Both reconfigured the environment. It was simply a matter of scale.

             
Bannister checked the coordinates on the global positioning computer. He was 30 miles south-southeast of the base and skirting the western edge of the Central Siberian Plateau. Against all advice from the Russian base leader, Bannister decided to venture out and begin surveying what had been designated as “Dixieland.” In reality, Dixieland was Grid 34, a four mile square region 500 miles north of the Arctic Circle and the furthest east of the sections designated for surveying. Ordinarily, he would have been part of a team of three: a driver, a geologist, and a seismologist. But half the base camp had come down with the flu, including all of the contracted seismologists and the six Russian drivers, and the posibility of a longer stay in Siberia simply because those stricken couldn’t work and vomit at the same time did not sit well with him. Bannister had argued that not only could he be his own driver, but that he could complete all of the preliminary geological field work for the Dixieland grid on his own. As a geologist, he didn’t need help from the others, and the seismological data could be analyzed back at the base camp when the seismology team got over their ailments. United Petroleum and their Russian partners forced the base leader to accept Bannister’s plea to begin work, a tactic Bannister assumed the company instituted so that it could save on some of the thousands of dollars in overtime it would have to pay because of the crew’s illness.

             
Bannister steered the Snowcat eastward through the sleety curtain. Visibility was only a few hundred feet at best. A mile to the north were the northern shores of Siberia and the Arctic ocean, though the sleet and ice that currently pounded the land obscured the view.

The view.

For Bannister, the only view he appreciated was the view outside his balcony back in Tucson. He tried to focus on that view, to remember what 90 degrees and desert sunshine felt like. He needed to do that because he was growing apprehensive. It had been two hours since he left Ivory One, the project’s base camp, and the isolation of the Central Plateau was getting to him. Thirty miles seemed like a walk in the park when he set out. Thirty miles was the distance from his condominium in Tucson to his ex-wife’s house in Oracle. He drove there once a week to see his daughter and to deliver a child support check. Thirty miles. No problem.

             
He was realizing, though, that 30 miles in Arizona was not the same as 30 miles in Siberia. In Arizona, there was civilization: highways, gas stations, 7-11 stores and Taco Bells. In Siberia, there was the tundra, sleet, gray clouds and the occassional willow shrub.

             
He flipped on the Snowcat’s headlights and felt a momentary sense of relief. Above the Arctic Circle in July, the sun never fully set. It was 3 a.m., but the sun was still skimming the horizon line, though Bannister couldn’t see it through the storm clouds. Steering toward the Dixieland grid, Bannister’s uneasiness remained constant as the tractor-like vehicle rocked back and forth across the plateau.

That uneasiness spiked as the headlights of the Snowcat caught something through the sleet directly ahead. It was long and dark and initially, Bannister thought it might be a cluster of oddly-colored lichens or even a narrow fissure in the earth. But as he drew closer, he began to make out details, and he realized that it was most definetly not lichens or a fissure.

              “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said to no one. The Snowcat came to a stop, and against his better judgement, Alex Bannister climbed out of the warm cab and into a July ice storm. Pulling his parka hood over his head, he tread slowly toward the great shape. By all estimates it was huge, bigger even than the Snowcat. Perhaps 20 feet long, he estimated. Distinguishing features that he made out as he approached in the Snowcat became even more detailed as he trudged forward through the snow.

Jesus Christ.
He stopped and stared in disbelief. Before him and lying on its side was the body of a whale. As he gazed at its belly, flukes and pectoral flippers, Bannister couldn’t quite tell what the specific species was, but he did recognize it as a baleen whale. This type of whale had brush-like structures in its mouth instead of teeth, and long ridges stretching the length of its throat. Bannister thought it might be a baby, for it had the smooth, unblemished skin of a newborn.

Turning to the north, Bannister strained to see if there was an inlet leading from the seashore a mile away. He reasoned that the whale must have beached itself, for there were no harpoon marks on its body, at least not from his angle. How else could a whale get a mile inland? Stepping around the tail, Bannister made his way to the other side of the carcass, and immediately found something he did not expect. The whale’s head, between the tip of its snout and its blowhole, bore a massive, bloody wound.

Or more specifically, a bite.

The mangled flesh flowed red, even through the pounding sleet, and Bannister realized that he was staring at a fresh kill. He drew closer and pressing his hand against the carcass, felt that it was still warm. The whale was not only freshly killed, but it had in fact been
just
killed. Grabbed by something not only strong enough to pull it from the sea, but to drag it a mile inland, too.

             
Feeling suddenly vulnerable outside the heated cab, Bannister quickly spun around and jogged back to the Snowcat. His heart beat like crazy, and the urge to get out of there was overwhelming. He grasped the door handle and pulled, and it was then that the sound hit his ears. At first, he thought it was similar to the noise made by the heavy steel cargo hold doors on the
Minsk
, the ship which supplied the base camp he now wished he had never left. But then, it became clear to Bannister that it wasn’t grinding, rusted steel he was hearing.

             
It was the roar of an animal.

             
He didn’t hesitate as he jumped into the cab and locked the door. Grabbing the radio handset, Bannister began his transmission. “Ivory One, this is Bannister, do you-“

             
The roar came again, but this time, it wasn’t an animal. It was the sound of tearing metal, and Alex Bannister looked up to see the roof of the Snowcat being pulled away. All at once, he screamed as a mouth with impossibly huge fanges gaped open above him, then shut around his head and shoulders. Alex Bannister was pulled from the Snowcat, his screams barely audible through the closed mouth of the alpha male.

The End