Armen Gharabegian
Protocol 7
PROLOGUE:
STATION 3-27
Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica
“That’s insane.”
The violent blizzard was menacing-the most powerful storm Robert Donnelley had experienced in two years stationed in Antarctica. He could hear it screaming outside Station 3-27 as the murderous wind scraped a swarm of ice particles from the surface of the Ross Ice Shelf; less than twenty-two seconds later, the same ice particles pounded the walls of the modular scientific outpost, half-buried in the desolate terrain. According to Donnelley’s readouts, the wind speed exceeded 122 miles per hour.
Inside the tiny domed facility, Donnelley’s hand shook as his fingers tightened on the syringe he was about to plunge into his thigh. Ignore the shaking, he ordered himself as he took a breath and let the needle penetrate his flesh. He tried instead to focus on the label that read “INSULIN…EXP 11/2038.” He knew that this was the last of the med packs, and he knew it didn’t matter anymore. He would have all the insulin he needed soon enough. A two-year supply, he thought. All gone now.
Donnelley pressed the release mechanism on the syringe, and the chemical entered his bloodstream. He sighed as he pulled the syringe free and leaned back in his chair; he looked at the nearly transparent holographic screen perched precariously on a shipping cubicle and watched a dark-skinned man with a wide nose and a grim expression address a huge, colorfully dressed assembly.
“…and for these reasons, the United Nations Special Committee on Antarctica has voted in the majority to extend the terms of the Madrid Protocol for an additional twelve years, through December 31, 2051.”
“That’s what I mean,” his partner said. “Insane.”
The man on the holo-display continued. Donnelley knew it was Mohad Anan, the Secretary General of the UN. Everyone knew that, even in the remote outskirts of Antarctica. “During this extended interdiction,” Anan said, “as in the past, no nation, corporation, or non-governmental entity of any kind shall establish any installation or habitation of any kind; no exploratory or military action will be tolerated, and no development or exploitation of natural resources will be undertaken within the disputed territory as defined in Section I of the Protocol, understood to include the entire continent of Antarctica and the whole of its coastal waters.”
“Jesus.”
The roar of the Assembly broke over Anan, and the world leader pounded his gavel for quiet. Donnelley’s research partner, Brad Parkinson, sandy-haired and sharp-chinned, shook his head in disgust. “Jesus,” he said again. “What are they thinking?”
“They’re thinking if they end the Protocol and let every country on Earth come swarming in here to fight over the natural resources, it’ll cause World War Three,” Donnelley said, sounding weary. “And Four, and possibly Five.”
“That’s bullshit,” Brad said. “I think they’re just choking it off to try and keep the Chinese from taking it all. What do you think?”
“I think…” he glanced at the screen again. Anan was plowing ahead, despite the roar of the crowd and the howl of the wind outside. “Further,” he said, “as stated in Protocol 7 of the Antarctic Treaty, all established facilities now in operation in the disputed territory are to be immediately decommissioned, and all personnel are to be withdrawn to their home countries or declared neutral territory no later than March 31 of this year, 2039. The United Nations Enforcement Division will 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 yourpersonal belongings and prepare to leave immediately. This isan official mandate by the United Nations; noncompliance ispunishable 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.