Winter World

by A. G. Riddle

  The inside of the house is an icy tomb. The Marines and I are wearing helmet lights that cut white beams through the darkness. Glimmering white crystals cover the furniture and chandelier, as if the home has been flash-frozen. It would be beautiful if the cold weren’t so deadly.

  “Stay here,” I call out to the Marines.

  I make my way to the kitchen and open a creaking door that leads down to the cellar. I shine my helmet light over the staircase, looking for any booby traps. If he were going to attack, now would be the time.

  “Oscar?” I call into the darkness.

  No reply.

  Is he gone? Did the Long Winter claim him?

  I take another step. The narrow wooden staircase groans under my weight.

  I continue down the stairs to the concrete floor. Even wearing the parka, I’m freezing. I won’t last long down here.

  “Oscar? Can you hear me?”

  I wait.

  “It’s okay. It’s James. If you can hear me, come out. We have to leave.”

  I hear rustling in the corner. I turn, shine my light there, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see him. He’s okay. Unharmed. His skin is silky smooth, his hair short and brown, worn in the same fashion as mine, though he looks twenty years younger than I do, like a young man just beginning college.

  “Sir,” he says softly. “I didn’t know what to do. You told me to stay here until you came for me.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “I saw on the news that you were going into space.”

  “I did.”

  “And you returned. Safely. I was worried.”

  “There’s no reason to worry, Oscar. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

  Back in Tunisia, in Camp Seven, Fowler assigns me to my own habitat. It’s a solar-powered, two-bedroom white dome with a small kitchen, living space, and even an office nook. Space is at a premium here in the camp, and the residence is a luxury. I declined it at first, but Fowler insisted, saying that Emma would need live-in care even after she got out of the hospital. That comment got me thinking about where she would go after the hospital. I sort of assumed she would want to stay with her sister. I can’t help but feel a little hopeful that she will in fact come back here.

  An hour after I return to my habitat, Fowler knocks on the door. He lives two habitats down, and we’ve been meeting here and working together at night (we have offices next to each other at the new NASA headquarters, but he and I always bring work home). At the sight of Oscar, he stares, then gives me a curious look. I wonder if he’s figured it out.

  “I’ll make arrangements to find you a three-bedroom habitat.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He squints at me and finally nods. “All the same, I’ll get you the larger habitat.”

  I think he knows.

  The next morning, just before I head out for work, there’s a knock at the door. I open it to find Pedro Alvarez standing there, wearing a thick coat and cap, shivering in the wind.

  “Pedro.”

  “Hi, Doc.”

  “Come in. Please.”

  He shakes the snow off of his coat and glances around the habitat. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Not at all. I was about to head to work, but I have a few minutes. It’s great to see you.”

  “Likewise, Doc. There was a rumor going around about some brilliant scientist living in the camp. Guy who’s going to save us all. So, you know, I figured that was you, and I took a chance on searching the AtlanticNet. Found you in the directory.”

  “I’m glad you did. What happened after you left Edgefield?”

  Pedro shrugs. “They gave me a spot here in Camp Seven. Probably figured that would keep me from suing or giving a TV interview or something. Been here building habitats and working in the warehouses ever since.” He looks me in the eye and smiles. “I just stopped by to say thanks—for what you did for me at Edgefield. You saved my life. Probably saved my whole family, Doc.”

  “You would’ve done the same for me, Pedro.”

  When Pedro’s gone, I can’t help feeling a little bit of pride. Since the encounter with Beta, I’ve struggled to stay positive. We’re facing impossible odds. A massive enemy, ruthless, relentless. It’s a lot like that riot in Edgefield. But Pedro and I got out of there. I helped save him. And seeing him fans the flames of hope inside me. Even long odds and massive enemies can be beaten.

  Fowler and I have come to several conclusions in the past few days. First, that we will share what we know with the Caspian Treaty nations and the Pac Alliance. The three superpowers are in agreement that a joint effort must be made to oppose the artifacts. Our conundrum is very simple: what to do. We know we’re at war. But with what? And how do we fight it?

  Fowler and I have reviewed the data, trying to get our heads around what we know. We’re preparing a proposal, and soon we’ll visit the other superpowers and ask for help.

  But first there’s something I have to know. I’ve asked Fowler before, but he wouldn’t tell me.

  “I want to see the timeline. With the climate data.”

  “That won’t tell us anything we don’t know,” he says quietly.

  “It will. I need to know if I caused this—if my actions up there accelerated the Long Winter. It won’t affect me. I promise.”

  He exhales heavily and types on his laptop.

  I scan the data. I was right. The day we attacked the artifact, the climate on Earth changed dramatically—temperatures around the world plummeted. We did this. I did this. I caused the Long Winter to get worse. My actions out there did this. I’m responsible for the death of millions. Maybe billions.

  I have to fix this. I might be the only one who can. And I’ll never be the same if I can’t.

  Chapter 37

  Emma

  I’m getting stronger. Slowly. Every day it’s a little easier to breathe, a little easier to stand. And I can walk for longer. They say it will take years for me to regain my full strength. I may have to use a walker for the rest of my life.

  It’s an adjustment. It’s humbling. But I feel so lucky to be alive and to be here and to have my family and James so close.

  Every day, I ask him what he’s working on. He’s coy. I know he’s meeting with Fowler and that they’re planning a new mission. I want to be on it desperately, but my health prevents that.

  “Has there been any communication from the Midway fleet?” I ask.

  “Nothing yet.”

  Two of the larger drones in the fleet have small rail launchers capable of sending mini comm bricks directly to Earth. So why have we received no communications? Have the drones truly found nothing? Or were they destroyed as well?

  “Any word from the Pax?” I dread the answer.

  “No,” he says softly.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “We’re not sure. Fowler and I have talked about launching more probes. But we’re pretty short on resources, and I think we need to wait until we know more.”

  “Such as a target.”

  “A target would be nice. Midway might give us that.”

  “What’s the alternate plan?”

  “As of right now, we don’t have one.”

  Days turn to weeks. My progress plateaus. The doctors and physical therapists continue encouraging me, but recovering muscle mass is hard, and recovering bone density is even harder.

  I try not to think about the crew of the Pax, but it’s impossible. James and I talk about them, speculate about what they’re doing right now—if they’re alive. It seems like with each passing week, we both think about them less and talk about them less. They’re like a ship sailing into the sunset, growing farther away and out of sight, not suddenly, or noticeably, but gradually, the transition subtle and easy to miss until its gone.

  For the most part, I’m going stir-crazy in this hospital room. There isn’t exactly TV anymore, and I’ve watched everything stored on the AtlanticNet (the government-controlled
local internet, which is highly censored and generally limited).

  I need to get out.

  I need to work.

  I need to feel like I’m contributing again.

  I’ve had this conversation with James. Several times now. It always goes the same way: he says my recovery is the most important thing to him and that the best way to help him is to get better. As if I can press the “get better button” all day and everything will be fine. What if getting better requires that I work? I’ve asked. That always prompts a circular argument that ends in a standoff. Who knew that two people caring about each other could be so problematic?

  James usually works with Fowler in the morning and comes to visit me for lunch. Today there’s someone with him. A young man in his early twenties with milky white skin and dazzling blue eyes. He reminds me a lot of James, even in his mannerisms—the placid expression, the carefully measured words. And he has the same kindness in his eyes.

  He nods slowly when I make eye contact with him.

  “Emma,” says James, “this is Oscar.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  Ma’am. Do I look that old? Maybe it’s because I’m laid up in this hospital bed like an old maid, weak and feeble. I have got to get out of here.

  Oscar looks anything but weak and feeble. He’s young and strong and quietly intense. There’s a serenity about him that’s strange and somehow magnetic.

  “He’s the person I mentioned a few weeks ago,” James says. “The person I had to leave to get.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  And I wonder: What is Oscar to James? His son? That’s my first instinct. It implies James has a wife. Or had a wife. Or at a very minimum, a lover once. And maybe still. It would have been when he was very young, if I’ve guessed Oscar’s age correctly. I can’t resist the mystery.

  “Is he your…”

  I just let the sentence hang there, unfinished. It freezes both James and Oscar like the Long Winter gripping our planet.

  “He’s my…” James begins, but falls silent.

  “Assistant,” Oscar adds cheerfully. His voice is mild, almost whimsical. It matches his boyish face, and even seems a little younger than he looks.

  “Yes,” James says slowly. “Oscar helps with my research.”

  “Well, as someone who has also been a research assistant to James, let me just say, you have your work cut out for you—keeping up with him.”

  Oscar merely turns his gaze to James, who says, “You’re my partner, Emma. Not my assistant.”

  “Okay, partner, I’m ready to get out of here.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  “A great reason to stop talking about it.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grip the walking cane, and stand, legs trembling. “I’m leaving. I don’t need your permission. I could, however, use your help.”

  He smiles and shakes his head ruefully. “You are a real piece of work, you know that?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a begrudging, ‘Oh, all right.’”

  “I’ll take it.”

  It’s slow going outside the hospital. Every step is an act of will. Raising and planting my legs is like slogging through a mud pit. That’s what Earth gravity feels like to me now: sticky and weighty and inescapable.

  The ground is sandy with scattered snow flurries. It’s a mix of brown and white that I can’t help but think is beautiful. Through my hospital window, I’ve watched it snow almost every day, but the sun melts it away. I wonder when it will start sticking, when ice will take hold here and try to bury us.

  My dream has always been to establish a new colony on a new world. Camp Seven is a lot like that. This world, this Earth, is almost alien, with all-new characteristics. But I’m too sick to participate. That pains me. I desperately want to find a way to contribute. It’s in my nature, and it makes me happy.

  It’s chilly out, but it’s not Siberia frigid, more like New York City in winter. A cold wind cuts through me, and James pulls me close, his arm around my parka as I balance on the walking cane.

  The roads aren’t paved, just hard-packed sand. Most of the buildings are domes of white material with black solar cells on top, almost like a colony of emperor penguins lying in the desert, sunning themselves as the snow flurries fall and blow around them. In the center of the camp there’s a cluster of more permanent buildings made from modular, hard plastic walls: the hospital, the CENTCOM military headquarters, the government administration building, and a large structure named Olympus that houses NASA, NOAA, and what’s left of several scientific organizations.

  There are also massive factories dotting the perimeter of the camp and even larger warehouses and greenhouses farther out. The warehouses are full of food which will last for a while and the greenhouses will pick up some of the slack when those stores run out. But they won’t produce enough to feed the entire camp. If solar output doesn’t normalize soon, our fate will be to slowly starve.

  Most of the factories process the crops from the greenhouses and churn out the items the camp needs. One of the factories is focused on building the next fleet of ships that will launch to space. That mission hasn’t been planned yet, but the construction on the ships has already begun. There’s a sense here of time running out, of wanting to be prepared when—or if—we go back out there.

  Military vehicles zip by us, scattering snow by the side of the road, along with electric cars no bigger than golf carts. It’s quaint in a strange kind of way, like a post-apocalyptic frontier town.

  James’s habitat is two blocks from the hospital. He asks if he can go get an electric car to ferry me there, but I decline. I want to walk—to prove to him that I can, but more than that, to feel the sun on my face. It’s a dull, hazy version of the star I remember, but it’s the only sun we have, and it’s what we’re fighting for.

  I have to stop to catch my breath twice, and another time to let the throbbing in my hips subside. I lean on the cane and wait for it to pass. A part of me thinks this embarrasses James, but I know him better than that. He walks beside me, his hand gripping my bicep, Oscar on the other side ready to grab me if my legs fail.

  I’m panting by the time I reach the white dome. There’s a small anteroom that keeps the heat in and blasts us with warm air as we enter.

  The interior of the dome surprises me. It’s fresh and new and surprisingly well decorated, like a high-end condo. There are even imitation hardwood floors that click like plastic as I walk across them. The space is open concept, with a well-sized living area and an adjoining kitchen with a dining table in the middle and no island. Radiant heaters glow on three walls, and I can feel the warmth as I pass by one. The living area is dotted with thick area rugs and furnished with a couch and two club chairs. There are no windows but several large, thin video screens display the view outside. They’re high resolution, the images good enough to trick anyone just glancing at them.

  There are five open doorways. Three lead to bedrooms, one to a full bathroom, and another to what looks like a small office nook that’s covered in papers.

  I like it. Very much. It instantly feels like home, a place where I could be happy. A place where James and I could be happy.

  James leads me over to the couch, and I plop down, happy to get the weight off my weary bones.

  “Fowler arranged the accommodations. Made me take a three-bedroom.”

  “It’s perfect. I love it.”

  “There’s more.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Your sister and her family live in one of the barracks close by. I’ve spoken with Fowler. He can get them moved to a habitat similar to this one. You could live with them if you want.”

  He’s pushing me out. He doesn’t want me here. Why? Because I’d get in the way? I’m not exactly self-sufficient right now. I would definitely slow him down. But I want to be here. I want to help him.

  “If that’s what you want,” I say qu
ietly.

  He hesitates. “I sort of thought… it’s what you would want.”

  “It’s not.”

  “What do you want?”

  I swallow hard. “I want to stay here. I want to help you. I want to finish what we started out there on the Pax.”

  My bedroom has an en suite bathroom, and I’m thankful for that. For the privacy. I missed that in the hospital.

  The next morning, I’m washing my face when I hear the habitat’s outer door open. A gust of cold air flows in and keeps coming. I hear the sounds of banging like the house is being turned upside down. I walk out of my bedroom, towel in hand, and gawk.

  The dining table and living room furniture have been pushed to the walls, and most of the floor space is now covered with exercise equipment. James has turned this place into a physical therapy facility.

  For one.

  He’s beaming at me, holding his hand out toward the equipment like a car salesman on a showroom floor motioning to the latest model.

  “James, we don’t have room for all this.”

  “Sure we do,” he says cheerfully as he plugs in a recumbent bike.

  I know when it’s no use arguing with him. This is one of those occasions.

  When he leaves for the day to meet up with Fowler, Oscar stays, which surprises me.

  “You’re not helping with the mission planning?” I ask him.

  “I have been. James wanted me to stay and help you. Just in case you need anything.”

  “I really am fine on my own.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. However, I’ve been studying various physical therapy techniques and am quite ready to help. Shall we begin?”

  Oscar proves to be quite adept at physical therapy. He’s significantly stronger than I would have suspected from his small frame. He’s encouraging when he needs to be, stern at times, which surprises me, and always there when I need help. He seems to never tire, or perhaps it’s simply because I’m always so winded. I don’t know what normal is anymore.