Beyond the Ice Limit

56

GREG MASTERSON FELT like he was losing control of the mess hall. Someone had brought out a couple of bottles of scotch, from God knew where, and they were being passed around. Voices were raised, people were talking over each other, and nothing was being accomplished aside from useless venting.

This was really pissing him off. In frustration, he climbed up on one of the cafeteria tables. “Hey! Listen up!”

The roar of discontent went on.

“Goddamn it, listen to me!” He stomped loudly on the table. “Shut the hell up!”

That worked. The room quieted down.

“We need a plan. And I’ve got one.” Masterson let the anticipation build. There were about twenty people there—crew, mostly, with a few members of the scientific staff. That should be enough. And they looked motivated—very motivated. “Are you ready to listen?” He deliberately pitched his voice low, soft, and this worked even better, as the room finally fell silent.

“Someone shut and lock the door.”

It was done.

“Okay,” Masterson said. “I think we all know the mission has failed.”

A strong murmur of agreement.

“The ship is crawling with those damned alien worms. And they’re multiplying. Rumor has it they’re in the ductwork. They’re in the engine room. They’re everywhere.”

He paused.

“We need to get the hell off this ship. As soon as possible.”

A chorus of agreement. Masterson could feel the energy in the room. People were really listening and now they were coming together. He saw a whiskey bottle pass from hand to hand.

“Hey! Put the bottle down, for Chrissakes. We need to keep our wits about us. It’s bad enough that we’re all amped up on speed.”

It was sheepishly put down.

“God knows how many of our crewmates have been infected. And remember: there’s no way to tell. No way to tell. Not until it’s too late.”

Agreement all around.

“Okay. The closest mainland port is Ushuaia, in Argentina. It’s seven hundred nautical miles northwest of here. If we start now, at full speed, we’ll get there in fifty-eight hours.”

A chorus of agreement.

“Up there in mission control, they’re going on as if nothing had changed. They still think they can kill that monster. They’re delusional.”

“Or maybe they’re infected!” someone cried.

“That’s also a possibility,” Masterson agreed. “As I said, there’s no way to know. All I do know is, in fifty-eight hours, we could be off this ship and safe in Ushuaia.”

This observation was greeted with a roar of approval.

“What do we do, then? Simple. We take over.” He looked around fiercely. “In this room, we have the expertise needed—engineering, navigational, operational. And we have the manpower. We can do this.”

Another dramatic pause. “We can do this!” echoed through the restive crowd. He also heard the word mutiny sprinkled here and there.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Mutiny. But a necessary mutiny. A mutiny to save not only our own lives—but the lives of every other uninfected person on board.”

This suggestion silenced the room. You could hear a pin drop.

“Are you with me?” Masterson asked quietly.

A low murmur of agreement gathered steam.

“It’s now or never. Stand up if you’re with me.”

One stood up, another, and then another, and within a moment they all rose with a loud scraping of chairs and a swell of voices.

“Is there anyone who disagrees?”

No one did. And this only served to reinforce Masterson’s belief that they needed to carry off this mutiny as soon as possible.

Right now, in fact.