The armored vehicles' powerful lights blinded us, and the shadowy figures descending from them seemed to emerge from the darkness of 73P itself. We were trapped on the exposed platform of the communications mast, with the icy wind whipping us and the indifferent vastness of space as our only witness. The climax of the story I used to write was now unfolding around me, and I was the cornered protagonist.
The man I'd seen with Dr. Hanson in the cafeteria, the one with the coldly authoritative gaze and the specialized security uniform, stepped forward. There was no mistaking who was in charge. Behind him, the guards, tough and efficient, fanned out to surround us, their guns pointed unwaveringly. The hope of escape vanished like vapor in the freezing air. We were captured.
"An interesting nighttime stroll, gentlemen," the man said in a calm voice that, paradoxically, sounded more threatening than a shout. His face showed no emotion, only cold determination. "Especially in a restricted area and with unauthorized equipment."
Kael and I remained motionless. There was no room for resistance, nowhere to run. The platform was a trap, and we had fallen into it. Kael, at my side, maintained an expression of tense calm, his eyes fixed on the security leader. My own heart pounded wildly in my chest, an orchestra of panic and adrenaline.
"The briefcase," the leader continued, his gaze briefly resting on Kael's empty hands, then on mine. "And the attempted transmission. These are not activities we approve of at Aqua-Sol."
Several guards approached, their movements fluid and coordinated. They searched us quickly, their expert hands searching for weapons or hidden devices. They took my main datapad, but the memory chip with the stolen data and Dick's small transmitter device were well hidden in a secret compartment in my thermal suit, something my writer's alibi didn't justify, but paranoia did. I prayed they wouldn't find it. Kael was searched as well, but I didn't see anything of importance taken from him.
"We know who you are, Mr. Cole," the security leader said, his gray eyes fixed on mine. "The visiting writer. You've shown unusual curiosity since your arrival."
"Curiosity is a writer's driving force," I replied, trying to sound as calm as possible, although my voice trembled slightly from the cold or fear. "And 73P is a fascinating place, full of stories."
A trace of impatience crossed his face. "We're not interested in your stories, Mr. Cole. We're interested in the briefcase. And what you were trying to send." He looked at Kael. "And you? We knew you were here, lurking. But we didn't expect you to join up with a... novelist."
Kael didn't respond immediately. He remained silent, his gaze challenging.
"It doesn't matter," the security leader said, turning his attention back to me. "We intercepted the transmission. We analyzed it. We know they had sensitive technical data. Stolen data."
A chill ran down my spine. Intercepted? Did that mean the transmission hadn't reached its destination? That all our effort, our race through the conduits, the risk on the platform, had been in vain? Despair threatened to engulf me.
"That data isn't confidential," I said, finding an unexpected reservoir of courage (or perhaps just stubbornness). "It's evidence of a danger. The Chimeric Compound is unstable. It's a corrosive agent. It's putting the base and the people who work here at risk."
The security leader looked at me with an expression that was almost amused, a cold and cruel mockery. "The Chimeric Compound is an invaluable resource, Mr. Cole. A resource that will ensure the prosperity of Aqua-Sol and our investors. The 'risks' are exaggerations by a few... alarmists. Or by saboteurs intent on harming our interests."
"Dr. Hanson isn't an alarmist," I countered, instinctively defending her. "Her reports in the briefcase prove it. She discovered the truth about the instability."
"Dr. Hanson is a valuable employee who has been... misinformed by outside sources. Or pressured," the leader said, his voice becoming harsher. "And those 'reports' in the briefcase are classified information that must not leave this premises."
He stepped closer to me, his face inches from mine. His eyes were cold and hard as 73P ice. "Now, tell me, Mr. Cole. Who were you trying to send that data to? Who sent it to you?"
This was the hard part. I couldn't reveal Dick. I couldn't reveal anything that would endanger those who might be waiting for the information, if it had indeed arrived. I looked at the security leader, then at Kael, then at the guards surrounding us. I was trapped, my writer's wit seemingly useless in the face of this relentless force.
"No one sent me," I said, clinging to a simplified version of the truth. "I'm a writer looking for a story. And I found one about a dangerous secret that someone wants to keep buried under tons of ice."
The security leader gave a short, dry, humorless laugh. "A story that will cost you dearly, Mr. Cole. A story that will die with you here at 73P."
The implication was clear. They knew enough. They had us. And they had no intention of letting the truth out. The chill of the moon seemed to cut deeper than ever, a harbinger of things to come. We were in the hands of the secret keepers, and the climax of my adventure on 73P was quickly turning into a desperate fight for survival in the icy darkness of a base controlled by those who valued money and power over life itself. The fate of the Chimeric Compound and the truth surrounding it hung in the balance, and our role in that story seemed to be coming to an abrupt and perilous end.
.
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