Blurb

Symbiote took readers to Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, across ten days of terror, as the crew fought to contain a mysterious and evolving biological threat. In Book Two of the Ice Plague Wars series, Sentient, the survivors of the South Pole massacre will find that getting off the Antarctic continent may cost them their lives…

Sunrise has come to the ice continent. At the coastal McMurdo Station (77 deg S latitude), that means Winfly: an annual series of flights to lay the groundwork for the 1,500 summer visitors that will soon call “Mac” home. But among the Winfly crew are the architects of HAVE VIKING, the classified CIA program that unleashed a rapidly-mutating microbial threat onto a Chinese Antarctic station.

They are determined to discover what happened with their experiment, and harvest samples of the mutated microbes to turn into a biological weapon.

Their plan goes haywire when the microbe-symbiote Ben Jacobs shows up after an impossible walk from South Pole. When Ben is reunited with an asymptomatic carrier of the symbiotic microbes, all hell breaks loose at McMurdo. The microbes have their origins in the icy waters of Antarctic lakes, and the sea ice surrounding the station becomes a fertile breeding ground for a new and more dangerous infestation.

Rajan Chariya and the other South Pole survivors will have to join forces with the CIA to fight the onslaught of infected “sea sentients” roving the snowy streets of McMurdo.

But as they dig in to make their new stand… when do they stop being useful to the CIA, and start being targets who know too much?

Worse, there may be more than one asymptomatic carrier…

About the Author

Mikey (Michael Nayak) was born in Los Angeles and now lives in Washington D.C.; he has worked as a planetary scientist, pilot and skydiving instructor, and most recently as a Program Manager with the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA). He is a US Air Force Test Pilot School graduate, former NASA Space Shuttle engineer, and a former Principal Investigator with the US Antarctic Program. He has deployed to both McMurdo and South Pole Stations. Sentient is his second novel.

Excerpt

August 31, 2028. 77° South, 166° East.

McMurdo (“Mac”) Station, Antarctica. 

To older veterans of McMurdo Station, the Southern Exposure bar means debauchery, obscenities, late nights (even during the Antarctic winter when it was dark for four straight months), and in general, an environment more like a raunchy college dive than an Antarctic research Station. But on this last day of August, Southern Exposure houses fewer than 20 of the 191 winter-over crewmembers. The acoustics of the large room muffle the dull music into little more than thudded bass notes. There’s only one bartender from the Facilities group on duty, and she is playing solitaire at the far edge of the bar.

            Against an arcade machine that looks old enough to have children of its own, two people sit at a weather-warped table by themselves. Between them sits a rare prize in Antarctica: a twenty-year Macallan single malt Scotch whisky.

            “See this?” Winston Pele grunts as he gestures around the empty bar. “This is what rationing gets you.”

            “You say that like this place being empty is a bad thing.” Marshal Anne Pabon reaches for her glass, swirls the dark liquid around. “Last winter, I had to ban nine people from this bar in one season. Nine. That’s not even counting Gallagher’s.”

Winston grunts at the mention of McMurdo’s other and smaller bar. “People are gonna do what people are gonna do,” he replies. “I just worry about them doing it where we can’t tell ‘em to knock it off.”

Winston Pele has been the Station Manager for McMurdo—known to its inhabitants as Mac or Mactown—for five winters running. He’s somewhere between Mayor, Sheriff and Antarctic legend. He’s a wide man, with a bulldog-like face and sloping forehead framed with flecks of curly white hair. He sports a long, carefully-groomed white handlebar mustache and low-slung cowboy hat.

Marshal Anne, on the other hand, is the actual arm of the law. She’s Winston’s deputy manager, but she’s also an officer with the US Marshals, badged as responsible for law enforcement at all US stations and field camps in Antarctica. In the summer that can mean almost twenty different locations around the continent.

Anne and Winston are very different personalities. When he talks it’s in a low gravelly tone, almost never with eye contact; the canonical man of few words. Anne talks fast and loudly, her face jumping into a variety of expressions. But when she goes quiet, and her pixie-like face falls still, her beauty sharpens into something unsettling, a live sparking wire held in high tension, and people know it’s time to do whatever comes out of her mouth next.

They’ve worked together for three of the last five years, and have grown into a quiet companionship. Both are effective, divorced, in their fifties, and at the bottom of the world to get the hell away from everyone else.

Marshal Anne raises her glass. “It’s been a good winter season.”

“And now it’s time for it to all get fucked for the summer.” Winston sighs as he clinks his glass to hers. “I hate Winfly.”

Winfly is the start of Operation Deep Freeze: an early cluster of logistics flights just a few days after the first sunrise cleaves the four months of darkness at Mac. The pre-operation brings the cargo and workforce needed to prepare Mac’s facilities for the heavy traffic of the Antarctic summer. The Station is a cluster of logistics and scientific buildings huddled together on Ross Island, on the eastern tip of the Antarctic peninsula, overlooking large ice floes that haven’t parted to show the ocean underneath in months.

“Mac’s population is about to double in number. My head always feels like it’s going to pop off with that many new people at once.”

“And in January, when we’re at thirteen hundred, or even more?” Winston dampens his mustache with his tongue, then runs his palms across it. “The only faces I’ll learn are the damn troublemakers. It makes me cranky.”

“So, um. That’s why I wanted to talk to you before the first Winfly lands tomorrow.”

Marshal Anne looks around, discreetly. Southern Exposure isn’t private, but most people are out of their alcohol ration by the last day of the month, and it’s late enough into the winter that the cliques are firmly formed. There are no more social butterflies. They will be left alone unless they go out of their way to be otherwise.

She looks back at Winston and her face has changed. “South Pole,” she says.

“What about it?”

“I’ve been catching some uneasiness from the NSF folks in Denver. It’s almost like they don’t believe their own story.”

“Which one of their stories? That a whole station just decides to stop answering the internet because of a freak storm, or that they all got some new strain of COVID?” Winston says dryly.

Marshal Anne rolls her glass between her callused palms. “And now there’s more. That Winfly flight tomorrow will have a special team on it. Waived customs inspections on their gear, and manifested with top priority.”

Winston straightens. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m supposed to give you a heads up about it. But I got a call directly from Rob McHenry.”

“Who’s that?”

“His official title is the Associate Director for Operations, but don’t let that bland title turn your head one bit.” Marshal Anne’s lips twist. “He’s the ops boss for the entire US Marshals Service. McHenry is top of the chain for Witness Protection, Intelligence Operations, Dignitary Protection – Winny, I’ve been a Marshal for twenty-two years and I’ve heard of him the way you might hear about the Mayor if you shine shoes outside City Hall. And yet, yesterday, when I called in for a regular tag up with my Division Chief, he was on the line.”

“McHenry was there?”

“To talk to me. To talk at me, I should say.”

Winston rubs his mustache, listening.

“That special team,” she says slowly, “are the only ones who will be heading to Pole.”

Winston snaps forward. “Wait, what? We’ve been working a response plan ever since—”

“I know. I know, Winny. But believe me when I say that Rob fucking McHenry doesn’t come down from the ivory tower to give suggestions.”

“So come tomorrow, we get a bunch of trigger-happy badges swarming off the very first plane.” Winston shakes his head like he wants to spit into his glass, and readjusts his Stetson hat. “Just another reason to hate Winfly.”

Both of them sip their drinks in silence for several long moments. The good thing about wintering over—and therefore the bad thing about the abrupt transition that Winfly brings—is the time and space to be alone with your thoughts.

Winston makes a noise through his teeth. “Some shit must have really hit the fan down there at Pole.”

Anne nods. “June 25. That’s the last time anyone heard from them. Two months is a long time to be offline in one of the harshest places on Earth.” She takes a quick gulp of her drink, then says it aloud: “What if they’re all dead?”

Winston looks like he’s weighing something, then clears his throat. “I talked to Barnaby about this freak solar storm that supposedly caused SATCOM degradation at Pole.”

This surprises her; he’d hardly mentioned that he’d been thinking about South Pole Station. Anne, on the other hand, has thought about little else. She squints at him.

“And?”

Winston shrugs, an answer and not an answer. “He couldn’t figure how such a storm could disrupt Pole but not us. Because our internet has been working just fine.”

“Why are you telling me this? You’re not a conspiracy guy.”

“I’m just saying be careful, Anne. That’s all.”

—

September 1, 2028. Winfly Day 1.

At just after 9:30 in the morning, the sun sluggishly rises and squats fat and red on the horizon, where it stays until it dips away less than six hours later. The day is bitter cold, with a high of negative 18 degrees Fahrenheit.  

            Mac has three snowy airfields, but this early in the season, all traffic flows through Williams Field. Known colloquially as Willy, it is underpinned by ten-foot-thick blue ice, meant primarily for ski-equipped aircraft like the LC-130s and Baslers. It is seven miles away from the main Ross Island stations of McMurdo and Scott.

            Half a mile from Willy, a small line of weathered cargo-container based support structures dot the horizon. One container is the air traffic control tower; another is the Transponder Landing System, TLS, to throw precision guidance up to the incoming airplane. The shanty town hosts the crew that maintains the runways, fuel lines to pipe Jet-A gas over from Mac’s depots, a weather station, and isolated scientific experiments. There is a small cafeteria with military-style MRE food, and an eight-bed dormitory. Winston has, in the past, used the remote billeting at Willy as a threat to help ensure good behavior at Mactown.

            The sun is up, but the light spilling over the horizon is soggy, not enough to punch through the ice fog hugging the ground. Winston and Marshal Anne stay in the warm confines of their SnoCat as an orange-tailed LC-130 dips its wing and makes an approach from the east. The first Winfly plane to land will mark the start of the next ice season.

            It’s impressive to watch the LC-130 land. From far away, its large skis make it seem almost toy-like. But when it’s right overhead, it’s like suddenly being engulfed in the shadow of a moving mountain. The LC-130 can carry almost 15,000 pounds of cargo over a nine-hour one-way trek from New Zealand. It touches down, and kicks up a plume of snow that’s almost two miles long by the time it comes to a stop. The propellers keep spinning, their flat drone carrying through the quiet air. It’s too cold to let the engines stop. The Mactown fuelies will pump its tanks full, crews will unload the Winfly cargo and first passengers of the new season, and before the precipitous cold of nightfall, the aircraft will be airborne again, headed back to New Zealand.

            It’s even colder, and still dark twenty-four hours a day, down at South Pole.

            Winston and Marshal Anne clump through the cold air to the small cargo container, elevated on stumpy stilts, that serves as the terminal building. Winston notices Anne unbutton her Antarctic-issue jacket, despite the cold. To free up her gun holster and better display the badge beside it.

She is, after all, the only cop on this continent.

            They wait on the steps, faces slowly turning numb. The first man to come over from the LC-130 is swallowed by a red Canada Goose jacket just like theirs. Issued to every traveler to the ice, with fifteen pounds of insulation within, the jackets are lovingly referred to as Big Reds. The man walks up, rubbing his hands together, then catches sight of Anne’s gun and badge.

“You must be the Marshal!” he shouts, above the noise of the propellers. His breath clusters in a thick cloud by his face.

“I am,” Anne says.

He grins, a different kind of friendly sparking in his eyes. “Real pretty to be a Marshal.”

“Bullet hurts the same whether a pretty girl shoots it or not, pal.”

Something flickers in his eyes, like he realizes he’s made a faux pas. Winston steps forward. “What’s your name?”

“Jon. Uh, Dr. Kim.”

“Come on inside, Dr. Kim. Let’s get warm while we wait for the others.”

Inside, Winston experiences a tickle of déjà vu while looking at Kim stomp the snow off his Antarctic-issue bunny white boots. “Hey, I know you, don’t I?”

“Yeah? I deployed out of here for two field seasons at Lake Byrd.” The man’s face is leaking as the snot caked around his lower face starts to thaw. “I, uh, used to be a Harvard professor. I think you were the deputy manager then.”

“Now I remember. You were with the glacial drills. What brings you back?”

Dr. Kim busies himself with a tissue. “Uh, consulting.”

“Consulting, huh?” Winston keeps his friendly smile on. “Consulting on what?”

“Oh, just to figure out what this pandemic at Pole might be. I brought a few students along for the ride too.”

Winston decides not to probe that too much. Not yet. “Well, there’s coffee in that corner. Can’t say much for it except that it’s hot.”

Dr. Kim is just taking his first sip when the door splits open again, and this time four people enter with Marshal Anne. One woman, three men. They are all tall, muscular, dressed in black except for their Big Red. Two of them have long duffel bags that drop to the floor with loud metallic clanks.

Kim waves, saying something, but Winston is already thinking: Grad students my ass.

Marshal Anne catches his eye. “Boss, we’ve got four more hombres out by the plane unloading gear, but apparently they don’t talk much. These other four are the ringleaders.”

The tallest of the group steps forward. He pulls his beanie off to reveal a finely shaven head, flushed cheeks and piercing blue eyes. “You the Station Manager?”

“That’s me,” Winston says. “Fifth year running this little beach oasis called McMurdo Station by no one who lives here. We call it Mac, and people call me either Winston or Boss.”

“My name is Dr. Mason,” the man says. “Tall ugly-looking dude at the end is Doc Kaushik, our medic. Next to him, looking like he swallowed something poisonous but won’t spit it out, that’s Sal, our operations lead. You already met Dr. Kim. And finally, this is Colson. She’s whom you actually want to talk to.”

Colson is the shortest of the four, but she exudes toughness, with a rawboned face and eyes of singular intensity. Based on the white flecks in her neatly scooped-back hair, she’s also the oldest of the group. Winston shakes her hand. Colson is wearing a gun openly on her hip, and a badge. Winston doesn’t know enough about cop badges, but it’s not a Marshal’s badge like Anne’s.

Colson’s voice is short, feminine, clipped. “I don’t want any mistakes, so having you and Marshal Anne here helps us get the ROE straight right at the opening move. You know what I mean when I say ROE?”

“Rules of engagement,” Winston says. “I used to be a Marine.”

“Oo-rah, Winston. I’m former Navy myself. You operate any?”

“Two tours during the early days in Iraq were enough for me.”

“I can accept that. Just like any desert you and I have been to for Uncle Sam, Winston, I have a job to do here, and I plan to get it done quickly and efficiently.” Colson’s gaze flits between Winston and Marshal Anne. “Here’s my ROE. My team and I will be taking operational control of anything at McMurdo—excuse me, Mac—that has to do with the South Pole. Comms, flight manifests, equipment, anything. That also means we won’t need help. No status updates, no info sharing, no questions. I don’t mean to offend, but I don’t want any misunderstandings either.”

In the back of the small metal room, Dr. Kim looks embarrassed, as if he’d expected her to lean into the paper-thin cover story a little more.

“Now I can see how that might be a tough little pill to swallow,” Colson says. “We’re making no moves for the next 24 hours except figuring out which way is chow, so you’ve got that long to call up your overlords at NSF and verify that I have the authority I’ve just said I have.” She turns to Anne. “Marshal, I presume you and I understand each other?”

“We do,” Marshal Anne says. She’s slipped into the same clipped speak that Colson uses.

“Excellent. Let’s you and I have a few more words about what’s next, yeah?”

Dr. Mason watches the Marshal and Colson leave, then turns back to Winston.

“She’s a bit of a blunt instrument,” Mason says. He’s not apologizing, simply acknowledging a fact.

“Former Navy, makes sense, I guess. It’s Mason, right?”

“That’s right.”

“That a first or a last, or all you folks have only one name?”

A flicker of a dimple surfaces in the man’s cheek. “Just Mason is fine for now, Winston. Now we’ve got a Basler aircraft that’s enroute with more of our gear. Talk to me about who needs to know that aircraft is coming.”