Frozen Solid: A Novel

by James Tabor

  “She was an easy person to like.” His eyes filled with tears.

  “I can’t think of a better epitaph.” She managed to keep tears out of her own eyes. “I was told Emily died of a drug overdose. I find that hard to believe.”

  He glanced at the door, licked his lips, caught her gaze and held it. Hallie knew he was taking her measure. She had long ago come to trust what her gut said about people, and it was telling her that this man was exhausted, overworked, pained by grief, burned out maybe—but trustworthy. In his eyes, she thought something changed, a softening and relaxing, that might suggest that he found her to be, also.

  “I do not think Emily died of a drug overdose either.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I believe that somebody killed her.”

  21

  HALLIE’S BREATH CAUGHT.

  Fida, seeing her reaction, held up both hands. “Wait. I know how I look. How I sound. And I am very tired. You may think I am not completely normal. But I—”

  “Stop. I agree with you.”

  He blinked, gaped. “You do? Why?”

  “You said it first. So you tell me. Then I’ll tell you what I know.”

  He nodded. “Two things. I do not think Emily used drugs. And it could have been because of Vishnu.”

  That stopped her. “The Hindu god of creation?”

  “Those of my faith call him ‘the great preserver.’ ”

  “I’m not following you.”

  He took a deep breath, let it out. “The extremophile Emily found in the cryopeg is a superhalophile.”

  “Survives in sodium concentrations that would kill anything else. What kind of salt are we talking about?”

  “Thirty-six percent, salt to water, by volume.”

  She found that hard to believe. “Even Salinibacter ruber doesn’t live in anything over twenty-five.”

  “You are right. And you know of course that Rube is the most extreme halophile ever discovered.”

  “Yes.” She was thinking about the implications of diving in such water. One thing at a time. “What exactly is Vishnu?”

  “It has existed down in that freezing, absolute darkness for eons.”

  “What could it metabolize?”

  “Carbon dioxide.”

  That was not unheard of. “When he was at Stanford, James Liao put genes from four other bacteria into cyanobacteria. The new organism consumed carbon dioxide.”

  “This is different.”

  “How?”

  “Their consumption was microscopic.”

  “And Vishnu?”

  “Vishnu may consume more CO2 by orders of magnitude than anything known to science.”

  It took Hallie a moment to consider the implications of that. Carbon dioxide was soluble in water. Oceans, in fact, were the planet’s great “carbon sinks,” absorbing up to half of all carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. She knew that at some future date—sooner rather than later, the way things were going—the oceans would reach supersaturation with CO2. When that happened, earth would start the long, hot slide toward a dead Martian end.

  “Do you know the concentration of CO2 in ocean water?” Fida asked.

  “Depends on whose research you’re reading. But about ninety parts per million, give or take.”

  “Care to guess what the concentration is in the cryopeg?”

  “Tell me.”

  “About ten parts per million.”

  “Wait. That’s ocean water in there, right? Because the whole continent is just frozen ocean miles thick.”

  “Yes.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Do you know how old that ice down there might be?”

  “No idea.”

  “It formed during the Eocene. Paleobiologists worked with pollen in the ice cores to confirm that.”

  “Fifty million years back, then?”

  “Close enough. Do you know what the atmospheric CO2 concentrations were then?”

  “High.”

  “Very high. Palm trees grew in Wyoming. Crocodiles swam in Hudson Bay. You have to have a Florida climate for that. There was no polar ice. No ice anywhere, for that matter. The CO2 levels were more than thirteen hundred parts per million.”

  “Today they’re what, about three hundred and eighty ppm?” Hallie said.

  “That is right. So you see what this means.”

  She was beginning to. “What’s the CO2 concentration in the cryopeg’s deep ice?”

  He grinned for the first time since they’d met. “About thirteen hundred ppm.”

  “And you say the water is just ten ppm?”

  “Yes. We tested and retested because we couldn’t believe it at first. But that’s it.”

  “I give up. Enlighten me.”

  “It’s Vishnu.”

  “The halophile?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s metabolizing carbon dioxide from the water? At that volume?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God. It must be huge.”

  “Emily said it reminded her of a coral reef system. Stretched far beyond the reach of her lights. It could go for hundreds of feet.”

  It took a moment for Hallie’s thoughts to reorder themselves. “Do you realize the implications here?”

  “Wait. It gets better.”

  “How could it?”

  “Because there is more. The sample we worked with not only metabolized carbon dioxide; it produced a combustible by-product unlike petroleum distillates at the molecular level.”

  “Different how?”

  “The by-product, when burned, gave off emissions seventy-five percent lower than petroleum fuels.”

  “This could stop climate change. If it burns clean at practical volumes.”

  “So you understand. Yes. It could slow global warming and supplant petroleum fuels at the same time. Of course, we are far, far away from that kind of application. At least the possibility exists, however remote.”

  “Vishnu was a good name for it.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You looked happy a few moments ago. Not now. I’d think you would be bouncing off the ceiling.”

  “I think it might have killed Emily.”

  She was stunned. “You mean the extremophile itself?”

  “No. We employed the strictest biosafety protocols, and we worked together. If Vishnu had killed her, I would not be here, either.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “Someone who feared Vishnu.”

  “Who wouldn’t welcome a discovery like this?” But even before Hallie finished the question, she knew the answer, so obvious that she felt stupid for asking.

  “The richest people on earth are those who produce petroleum fuels. The second richest are those who sell them.”

  Her first thought: He is disturbed. Paranoid. “Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying. Somebody from the petroleum industry killed Emily.”

  “What is fundamental to the scientific method? Process of elimination. By that, I cannot discover another reasonable explanation.”

  Too bizarre, she thought. “Are any of the scientists down here connected to Big Oil?”

  “None that I’m aware of. But someone else is.”

  “Who?”

  “The station manager works for NASI. Which is owned by GENERCO. Do you know it?”

  “Global Energy Corporation. They had that huge North Sea oil spill last year.”

  “Petroleum interests all over the world. And if ever there was a man who followed orders, it is Graeter.”

  “I don’t know, Fida. It seems a stretch.”

  “Does it? He is unstable, to begin with. And taking one life to preserve billions—maybe trillions—in profits? I think they would do that like squashing a roach.”

  A part of her kept thinking, No, too outlandish, a crazy conspiracy thing. But then she started remembering. A corporation had engineered her dismis
sal, in disgrace, from BARDA on trumped-up charges several years earlier. A corporate mole had killed three people, and almost killed her, on the Mexican cave expedition. And Bowman had told her things.

  The more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that Fida’s suggestion was not impossible. One life for billions in profits. Maybe trillions. Wasn’t even really improbable. Sad, but true. The way things were. It was what it was. Business as usual. All those palliatives used to make the truth less ugly. And tolerating it less execrable. So now there was only the obvious next question:

  “You realize the implications?”

  “Of course. I might be next.”

  “Who else knows about Vishnu?”

  “We told only Agnes Merritt, as we were required to. But she gives Graeter regular reports on research projects, so he would know as well.”

  “Anybody else?”

  He shrugged. “Most research projects here are restricted-access. This one surely is. Reports to Merritt are supposed to remain confidential. But … who can know for sure?”

  “I’m worried that she might be in danger, too.”

  “And now she is not the only one.”

  “Who else?”

  “You.”

  “Oh. Right.” She hadn’t thought about that.

  “So now you see why I did not want to talk in the galley.”

  “Yes.” All through their conversation, her feeling about Fida had been growing. Now she looked directly at him. “I don’t think Emily was killed.”

  “What? But you just said—”

  “I know she was.”

  “How could you?”

  “I saw it happen.”

  As she described the video, he broke down and wept, repeating something over and over again in Urdu. A prayer, she thought. He found a crumpled paper towel, blew his nose, wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am not very strong-feeling these days.”

  “You should have seen me after I watched that video.”

  “And you could not tell who the killer was?”

  “No. Only that it was a man.”

  “But why?” he asked. “Why would anybody want to do that to her? I mean, even if someone wanted to kill her … why that way?”

  “No normal person could do something like that.”

  “So it could have been Graeter.”

  Could it? Graeter was a stickler for rules, certainly, and irascible. But a psychopath? From what she had read, psychopaths who killed were more often charming, able to deflect suspicion for decades, in some cases. That was hardly Graeter. But again: make no assumptions.

  “What do you know about triage?” she asked.

  “I believe it is used in war and disasters to prioritize victim treatment.”

  “Can you think of any way triage could be related to the station?”

  “No,” he said, without hesitation.

  “I found something else in Emily’s room. A video diary.” She recounted Emily’s narrative about somebody named Ambie and triage.

  “This Ambie person said triage was coming soon? To this station?”

  “Remember that this was all coming from Emily, and you know what shape she was in then. But I do think that’s what she meant.”

  “A disaster is always possible here,” he said thoughtfully. “But it sounds like he might have known one was coming. Could that be why he was so afraid?”

  “This is going to sound bizarre, but …”

  “I think we are already beyond bizarre.”

  “Suppose there’s secret research here. Something called ‘triage.’ If this man Ambie got drunk and blew the cover, he might have good reason to be afraid.”

  “It is possible. Even with research, one has time on the hands down here. So I read some of the history of NSF. It was conceived by Franklin Roosevelt, and national defense was a big part of its reason to be in those early days. Have you talked to anybody else about this?”

  “No.”

  “Wise. The killer might still be here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Any man in the station.”

  “With a head and two arms,” Hallie said.

  “When did you decide it wasn’t me?”

  “When you said Emily had been killed. The murderer wouldn’t have done that,” she said.

  “I am glad you trusted me.”

  “Me, too, Fida. This thing was getting heavy.”

  Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then Hallie asked, “Can you tell me about the night she died? I know it’s painful, but it could be important.”

  “Yes. We finished in the lab at five and went back to our rooms. Emily said she was going to Thing Night, though.”

  “What exactly is Thing Night?”

  “You know that old horror movie The Thing? Where they find a creature from outer space frozen in the ice?”

  “Sure.”

  “It became a tradition to watch the movie. Then to watch the movie and drink and get high. And then, over time, to have a great party called Thing Night at the end of every month.”

  “A blowout to let off steam.”

  “It’s like Halloween and New Year’s Eve and Mardi Gras all wrapped together. People dress up. There’s a band. Free liquor and beer.”

  “And drugs?” she asked.

  “Of course drugs. Everybody has them. They grow pot in the greenhouse, even. It is great pot, by the way.” He blinked, coughed. “Or so I am told.”

  “Did you go to Thing Night?”

  “For a little while. My religion forbids alcohol. The band was good, though too loud to bear for long.”

  “Did you talk to Emily?”

  “No. But I saw her dancing with someone.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “The Frankenstein monster. An excellent costume.”

  “That’s him. Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “There must have been twenty Frankensteins. Very popular with Polies.”

  “Did you see them leave together?”

  “No.”

  “Was Blaine at the party?”

  “I did not see him. But—” He shrugged. “The costumes.”

  “So he could have been a Frankenstein.”

  “Do you think he killed her?” Fida asked.

  “No. She wouldn’t have gone to her room with him.” She thought for a few moments. “I’m going to call Washington.”

  “Maybe.” They looked at the satellite schedule on his computer. “Comms down. Maybe later. Always maybe.”

  “There’s no other way to communicate?”

  “Just email, sat phone, and VOIP. All satellite-dependent.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Are you planning to use the station sat phone?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You have to go through Graeter. Calls are probably recorded. And monitored.”

  Hallie sat back in her chair, feeling squeezed again, the walls seeming to shift, pushed in by an avalanche of darkness.

  She stood up suddenly.

  “What is wrong?” Fida asked.

  She breathed deeply, put a hand on the bunk. “I started to get a bad feeling.”

  “Like you were drowning?”

  “More like buried alive.”

  He did not seem surprised. “Yes. It happens.”

  “Do you get used to it?”

  “No,” he said.

  Hallie’s watch beeped. “Damn. I’m supposed to dive soon. Where can I find you later?”

  “Do a page.”

  “Don’t you have a cellphone?”

  “I do not carry it,” he said, retrieving hers from the toolbox.

  “How about here?”

  “I would not be here if you were not, also. I do not think it is safe.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “I walk, try to stay visible. Sometimes I go to Old Pole. It is too cold to remain there long, but it’s the only place I feel safe now.”

  “I thought it was off-limits to all perso
nnel.”

  “Exactly,” Fida said.

  22

  “WELCOME TO OUR HUMBLE DIVE SHED,” SAID AGNES MERRITT.

  She and Hallie had ridden there on one snowmo, Guillotte on another.

  “Its official name,” Merritt continued, “is the Amundsen-Scott Research Station Dive Operations Center, but that’s a bit fancy for an Army-surplus Quonset hut with a plywood floor.” She glanced from Hallie to Guillotte. “I heard about Bacon’s Cat going through.”

  “Word travels fast,” Hallie said. “It’s warm in here. Well, warmer.”

  “Seventy below freezes up the dive gear,” Guillotte said. “So we keep it about zero. Balmy, yes?”

  Several Draggers were working on compressors and other machinery. No one stopped for the new arrivals. Racks of double- and singletank scuba rigs lined one long wall. A workbench ran the length of one short wall. Along the other short wall stood five-foot-tall cylinders of air, pure oxygen, and helium for blending Trimix and Nitrox breathing gas mixes. Two blue argon cylinders provided insulating gas for use with dry suits.

  Sharing her secret with Fida had been a tremendous relief for Hallie, but she was still walking around with the knowledge that a murderer might be roaming the station. Any person in this shed, other than Merritt, could have done it.

  Once, deep in a cave, her main headlamp had failed. Then, both backup lights. It was the first and only time that had happened to her. She never forgot what it felt like to suddenly lose all light, to know that twenty steps in any direction could send her over the lip of a pit or into a sump. It was paralyzing knowledge, and the feeling now was almost as powerful. In the cave, she had simply sat down and waited for another member of the expedition to come along with light. Here, that wasn’t going to happen.

  Regardless, the dive had to go forward. If she had not had the conversation with Fida and learned what Vishnu could mean, she might have called it off. But not now.

  “We will go over to my, ah, office and talk through the dive plan.” Guillotte pointed to a four-by-eight sheet of plywood on four saw-horses. Hallie was following him when she saw a burly man stumble and, to keep from falling, grab a rack of scuba tanks.

  “Hey,” she yelled. “Don’t do that!”

  The rack was already starting to fall. Hallie was closest, about eight feet away, and she reached it just before the whole assemblage, tanks and rack, tipped. She shoved it back upright and stood for a second, collecting herself. If an impact broke the valve head off a full scuba tank, the escaping gas, pressurized at thirty-two hundred pounds per square inch, would propel it like a lethal and unguided missile. Hallie had seen one, dropped by a careless customer in a dive shop, break clean through an outside wall and smash in the side of a parked car beyond. What it would do to human bodies in an enclosed space she preferred not to imagine.