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 your personal belongings and prepare to leave immediately. This is an official mandate by the United Nations; noncompliance is punishable 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