the first line ends with “to the land of cold sand”.’
Nina looked over the words with her. ‘They left it in case their people ever returned - a reminder of who they were and where they came from. It’s their whole history.’
Sophia read on. ‘More mention of beasts, as well - the word appears quite a lot. They certainly seem to have had trouble with their animals.’
‘Soph,’ said Chase from behind them. ‘That word you didn’t recognise, you think it’s a name, yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it’s here as well.’
Nina and Sophia turned to see him holding his torch over the icy gramophone. Next to it were two of the clay cylinders. ‘So it is,’ said Sophia, looking more closely at the one Chase had indicated. ‘The other characters say . . . I think it’s “the path from”.’
‘So that’s the title of the recording?’ Nina said. ‘The path from . . . from whatever they called their homeland. If we could translate that as well as the whole inscription . . .’ She peered at the second cylinder. ‘What does that one say? Is that “prophet”?’
Sophia confirmed it. ‘I can’t read the other characters.’ She pulled it free of the ice.
‘What does it say?’ Chase asked as she turned the cylinder in her hands.
She looked puzzled. ‘I think it’s “the song of the prophet”.’
Nina examined it. ‘That’s the word for “song”? Because it’s also what was painted on those bowls in the ice.’ She turned to the gramophone, putting her hands on the wheel. Ice ground and crunched - then cracked, the wheel rotating more or less freely. ‘These things were left here for a reason. I think we need to play them.’
By the time Trulli reached the tilt-rotor, the new arrivals were landing and collapsing their parachutes with well-practised skill. The Hercules in military livery had borne United States Air Force markings - but the men who emerged from it were not in American uniforms. The vehicles landing on pallets with them were not exactly standard US issue either: they looked like small hovercraft, glossy beetle-black bodywork bearing what appeared to be stubby, squared-off wings.
Five hovercraft in all, and about twenty men.
He looked for the other expedition members. Rachel had initially hesitated before following him to the BA609, and was still clomping across the ice. Baker dutifully remained at the winch. Bandra, though, was moving to meet the paratroopers. ‘Oh, you stupid bastard,’ he moaned, before giving the walkie-talkie to Larsson. ‘I need you to hook that up to the radio - and get this thing started!’
Chase delved into his pack to produce a flare, igniting it and holding the two cylinders beside the sizzling red flame to melt the ice off them. In the small room the light was dazzling and the sulphurous burning smell almost overpowering, but it quickly did the job. Once the cylinders were clear, he used the same trick to remove the ice crusted over the needle and speaker cone before tossing the flare into the passage outside.
Nina turned the wheel again. ‘We’ll have to work it by hand. Hope we can get it to the right speed.’
‘The one you improvised wasn’t turning that fast,’ said Sophia, drying the cylinders and handing them to her.
Nina mounted the first cylinder, the one labelled ‘song of the prophet’, on the spindle, positioning the needle against the cylinder’s groove. ‘Okay. Here goes.’
She turned the wheel, spinning it at what she thought was roughly the right speed. An unpleasant scraping noise came from the copper cone. Chase winced. ‘Sounds like the greatest hits of Fingernails and Blackboard.’
‘Hold on.’ She adjusted the needle and spun the wheel again. This time, she got a result. A slurred, uneven voice came from the cone.
‘That must be the title,’ Sophia told her. ‘But you need to go faster.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Nina spun the wheel more quickly, waiting for the next words to emerge.
They didn’t. What came from the speaker was a
‘“Song of the prophet”? You weren’t kidding,’ said Chase.
Nina kept the wheel turning. The music was a long, sustained note, distorted by the inevitable variations in speed of the turntable, but she imagined that, played as it had been intended, the singer would have maintained perfect pitch. The note rose an octave, then dropped two before rising again. Then it stopped. The whole was beautiful, yet somehow unsettling. ‘What was
‘A ritual chant, maybe,’ Sophia suggested.
‘Of their prophet. Maybe even
Back straight, head held high to show a confidence that was rapidly draining, Dr Bandra strode towards the parachutists. Both aircraft, having disgorged their cargo, were heading away towards the coast. Most of the newly arrived soldiers were engaged in removing the hovercraft from their pallets, but there was a group of five men who appeared to be in charge, standing apart from the others.
He slowed as he approached the apparent officers. All but one had rifles slung over their shoulders as well as holstered pistols. Increasingly nervous, he stopped before the group. ‘Good afternoon,’ he began, the words catching in his throat. He cleared it and continued more authoritatively, ‘I’m Dr Rohit Bandra of the United Nations Antarctic Research Agency, in charge of this expedition. I’ve been given no advance notice of any other activities - can you tell me what you’re doing here?’
To his anger, they didn’t even acknowledge him, most of them looking away as another soldier ran over to give a report. Only a white-haired man seemed to have any interest in his presence - and Bandra was already wishing that he didn’t, finding his unblinking gaze increasingly unnerving.
‘Look,’ he said, trying to catch the attention of the others, ‘I have authority here, as granted to me by the United Nations. So I insist that you tell me what’s going on. After all, ha, I’m sure you remember that the Antarctic Treaty prohibits military operations.’
The white-haired man’s stare didn’t waver. ‘We’re not military,’ he told Bandra . . . as he drew his pistol and shot him in the head.
The shot cracked across the plain, audible even over the rising noise of the tilt-rotor’s engines. ‘Shit!’ Trulli yelled, throwing the cabin door open. ‘Davo! Come on! Run!’
Baker stared as Bandra fell backwards, a slash of red spouting across the pristine white. It took a few seconds before his fight-or-flight instinct cut through his shock - by which time other soldiers were reacting to the unexpected gunfire, unslinging their rifles.
He started to run, weighed down by his heavy clothing. The soldiers were some two hundred metres from him - but the plane was almost as distant in the other direction. Rifle fire crackled across the gap.
‘David!’ cried Rachel. Trulli watched, appalled, as little geysers of ice spat up around the running man, a ragged pattern of bullet impacts.
The pattern rapidly tightened.
Baker stumbled. For a moment Trulli thought he had just lost his footing - then a puff of crimson spray burst through his padded coat. And another, blood gushing out as he crashed on to the ice, flailing to a stop at the head of a smeared trail of gore.
Rachel screamed. ‘Take off !’ yelled Trulli. ‘Go, go, go!’ The soldiers were already switching targets, directing their weapons at the tilt-rotor. Larsson pushed the throttle to full power.
A shot hit the tilt-rotor’s side. Rachel shrieked again. ‘Get down!’ Trulli told her, ducking in his seat. Another bullet struck somewhere behind him. His view of the soldiers was obscured by a whirlwind of ice crystals as the Bell finally fought free of the ground. Larsson immediately tilted the stick sideways to slide the aircraft away from the soldiers, turning as he gained height.
More gunfire, this time a rattling burst on automatic. Trulli looked back. One of the hovercraft was slithering across the ice on a roostertail of snow and ice. Two Covenant soldiers were aboard, one driving, the other in the front seat with a rifle, flame spitting from its muzzle as he fired again—
More bullets hit home, ripping into the aluminium fuselage and penetrating the cabin. Larsson yelped as one
