Summer was gone.
“I wish Sheryl could’ve seen this,” Biddi said clearly into the silence. A flush ran through Cass, followed by a wash of nausea. Someone gasped; someone else made a noise between a sigh and a cough. They stood in an uncomfortable semicircle.
“I do, too, Biddi. Why don’t we take a moment of silence for her right now,” Dave said in his big, booming voice and the group, as one, bowed their heads. The only sound was the soughing of the soft breeze on the plain.
After a moment, Dave raised his head and turned to the crowd. “Thanks, everyone. I think she would’ve liked that.” He shook himself like a bear. “All right, no moping. Off to the galley for cake and then we’ll do something fun, like watch someone get eaten by a monster from outer space.”
Shaky laughter rippled through the group, but it was enough to pull everyone out of their downward slide. Crew members peeled off in twos and threes to head inside, led by Dave’s shambling form.
Biddi laced her arm in Cass’s and tugged her along to follow the others. “So you got to see it take off, at least. Glad you could make it, love.”
“I am, too,” Cass said, surprising herself. A small lump of anxiety made her stomach sour at the idea of hanging out with forty people, and she thought longingly of the Alpine and all the great work she could do on it, but . . . the snowmobile wasn’t moving anytime soon. It would be there tomorrow and the next day. The last day of summer, by definition, wouldn’t.
Their cohort made its way down to the galley, which was already buzzing. Buckets filled with Antarctic ice and bottles of cheap champagne decorated each table. People grabbed plastic cups and chatted noisily. Tinny seventies disco spilled out of a small speaker in the corner. Ceiling- and wall-mounted monitors, normally filled with endlessly scrolling weather and work reports, now looped graphical displays of exploding fireworks.
“Is it cake time, Petey?” Biddi called to Pete Ozment as they stood in the doorway watching the party.
“You betcha,” he said, slipping behind the counter and toward the kitchen door. “Grab a seat. I’ll be back out in a second. You’re not going to believe what’s coming your way!”
Cass scanned the crowd, looking for a friendly knot of people they could break into. For an event like the last day, the normal staffer versus scientist barriers melted away, but people still tended to flock to the group they knew the best, so the nerds in the astro crowd clung to each other while the fuelies—still reeking from off-loading fuel into Shackleton’s storage tanks—were bunched up in a corner, sipping from dirty coffee mugs and watching the others.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Biddi said, reaching out and snagging Jun Takahashi by a bird-thin arm as he shuffled toward the corner to join the astro group, no doubt the only people he knew on base. “You’ve got two beautiful women right here, ready to drink bubbly and indulge in an epic sugar rush, and you’re going to run off to a gaggle of beakers? I don’t think so.”
Cass grinned as someone else had become the target of Biddi’s social bullying. Jun, looking like he’d just swallowed an iceberg, allowed himself to be led by the hand to a table in the middle of the room where the action, such as it was, was thickest. Waving to get everyone’s attention—among others, Dave was already there, deep in conversation with Dr. Ayres, while Colin was nodding as he listened to something Carla was saying to him—Biddi led them all into shouting a greeting to Jun. Cass laughed as everyone at the table roared, “ Hi, Jun! ” The little astrophysicist looked ready to crawl inside himself and disappear. Then it was her turn and she could feel herself flush beet red as the table turned in her direction and bellowed, “ Hi, Cass! ”
Before she could die of embarrassment, Pete rolled a cart from the kitchen that held a sheet cake the size of a door. The partiers gathered around, oohing and aahing at the monstrous dessert, a masterpiece of creativity and limited resources. The icing was white, of course, with blue and gray highlights and shadows. Penguins and chirpy killer whales patrolled the outer rim, while in the center was a passable likeness of the old South Pole base, the geodesic dome that had been torn down to make way for the current station. Across the top, written in rainbow sprinkles, was the line “DOMED TO FAILURE . . .” A wave of laughter rolled through the crowd, replaced by a shriek as the first bottle of champagne was opened with a startling pop! and then everyone rushed for the remaining bottles as Pete started cutting the cake. Someone turned up the disco until it was louder than the Hercules had been.
Biddi pushed a plastic cup into Cass’s hand. “You’re on your own, love. I’m off to talk to Mr. Boychuck about his hose.”
“Biddi, my God.”
Her friend put a hand to her chest in feigned shock. “He’s a fuelie, Cass. I’m just interested in his job, is all. Though if he wants to show me any of his equipment , I can’t say I’ll stop him.” She winked and sashayed toward the seat next to Dave.
Cass found herself suddenly alone with Jun, who cradled his cup of champagne in the palm of his hand like it was a Fabergé egg. She turned to look at him, thinking that the little astrophysicist couldn’t be more of a stereotype. With the top of his head barely coming up as high as her chin, she had to look down to speak to him, which meant she got a bird’s-eye view. He was thin to the point of transparency, with a white polo shirt tucked into creased, unbelted department store jeans that, as small as they were, were still too big to keep his waist from swimming in them. The ensemble ended in a pair of tatty Keds sneakers, worn by elementary school kids everywhere.
“This is fun,” she said, thinking to start out simple.
Jun smiled and nodded, said nothing, and the conversation landed with a thump. When nothing else was forthcoming, she pivoted back to look out at the galley.
The sounds of the party swelled around them, but never strongly enough to pull them in, and they stood shoulder to shoulder in silence for more than a minute. Cass groped furiously for a topic, but the harder she tried, the blanker her mind became.
She finally cleared her throat and tried again. “I know you’re with the astrophysics department, but I’m not familiar with what you actually do here, Jun.”
“Observational cosmology,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose with the knuckle of his thumb. His voice was soft and difficult to hear over the party noise.
“That’s great.” Cass smiled. “What is that?”
“I measure the cosmic background radiation,” he said. When he saw that didn’t help, he said, “The Big Bang.”
“Oh.” She took a slug from her cup and grimaced. The champagne was dry to the point of sour. “Which lab do you work in?”
“COBRA,” he said.
“The microwave telescope?”
“Yes.”
Cass finally nodded in understanding—not about his work, but at least she knew where he was going to spend his days. COBRA, the Cosmic Background Radiation Array, was one of the few outlying buildings that would be staffed throughout the winter. The astronomers who worked at COBRA slept and ate at the Shackleton station, but would spend most of their time alone in the blocky, two-story lab. COBRA was just a hundred meters away from the main base, but in a dark Antarctic winter, it would seem like another planet.
She gave a little shudder. Personal time was important, but there was no way she could spend the lion’s share of the winter stuck in an otherwise empty building, staring at a computer monitor.
“There is only darkness in the winter,” Jun said. “No light means less solar radiation to interfere with the readings.”
“I guess that’s why the lab is in the Dark Sector,” she said, more as a joke than anything.
Jun smiled. “Yes! That is exactly why.”
Mistaking her quip as a wish to know more, Jun embarked on a complicated explanation of the age of the universe in terms so ridiculously large and abstract that the whole thing had the whiff of a joke, then went on to describe those terms with words that sounded as if they’d been plucked from a Dr. Seuss story. C
ass didn’t consider herself an intellectual lightweight, but her brain tended toward the concrete and real, not the theoretical, and, despite Jun’s enthusiasm, she found her attention floating away. Her eyes roamed over the crowd.
Pete, tired of cutting the cake into dozens of pieces, had given up and now people were simply grabbing plastic forks and shoveling chunks of cake into their mouths straight from the pan. Biddi already had her arm woven through Dave’s and he looked down at her with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing expression. Cheeks were rosy and easily half the noise in the room came from laughter, although it had a shrill note, as if, upon finding something to laugh about, people wanted to make sure their response was noted and they were having fun . It flavored the celebration with a taste of desperation.
Cass felt a light touch on her arm and turned to Jun. His face was serious. “I’m very sorry.”
“About what, Jun?”
“About Dr. Larkin. You were in the party that found her?”
She felt as though she’d been kneed in the stomach. “I . . . I was, yes. It was sad.”
“Does anyone know what happened?”
“I don’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Hanratty at the far end of the galley. “Actually, there’s someone who might. Will you excuse me for a second?”
“Sorry?” Jun asked uncertainly, but Cass had already stepped away, setting a course for the far side of the long room. With his austere expression and skeletal features, Hanratty always stood out, but he was even easier to spot now, as his was the only unsmiling face in the crowd. Maybe a staff party wasn’t the best time to corner the base manager about some unfortunate and uncomfortable events, but he could hardly claim he was too busy to talk. No one was doing any work now, nor would they for the next twenty-four hours.
Cass waded through two dozen people, many of whom smiled and said hello for the first time, showing that the champagne or euphoria of the last day of summer—or both—had gone to work. When she was halfway across the galley, Hanratty seemed to sense her approach and his head rotated in her direction like a gun turret. Without acknowledging her gaze, he turned in place and headed for the exit.
Asshole . Cass got ready to chase the man down, when a hand reached out and gently grabbed her arm. She spun around.
It was Gerald Keene, standing close. He held a cup topped off with champagne. “Leaving so soon, Cass? The party just started.”
“Sorry, Dr. Keene, I really have to go—”
“Nonsense, Cass. They haven’t even fired up the movies yet.” Keene clucked his disapproval. “It’s important to take part in the on-base events, you know. Social interaction is key to long-term psychological health. There won’t be another party like this one until midwinter.”
“Yes, I know,” Cass said, trying to pull her arm away, but his grip tightened.
He leaned in, his breath yeasty and his eyes shining. Cake crumbs decorated his beard. “Be my Valentine?”
She stared at him. “What?”
“A joke, Cass, merely a joke. Tomorrow isn’t just the start of a new season, it’s Valentine’s Day, remember?” He tsked. “You have to learn to loosen up a little. It’s been a trying last couple of days, I know, but winter at the South Pole is a long time to be friendless and alone.”
A knot of disgust formed in her gut, a mélange of anger at Hanratty, her distaste for the circus atmosphere, and Keene’s repulsive demand for levity. Cass backpedaled away from the psychologist and the rest of the party, shoving and pushing her way out of the galley. Plans for confronting Hanratty were forgotten. All she wanted was to get to her room or the garage, lock the door, and forget about Keene, Hanratty, and everything else.
As she reached the door, she heard Biddi shout her name and she turned. Her friend waved at her to wait or not to go, she wasn’t sure which. Behind her, watching, smiling, then lifting his cup in a mock toast, was Keene.
PART II
MARCH
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I haven’t seen you lately. Have you been spending more time down here in the tunnels?”
He nodded.
“It’s quiet down here.”
Another nod.
“Tell me more about your sister.”
“Why?”
“She sounds like an important part of your life.”
He scowled. “Everyone asks about her.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He was silent. “What do you want to know?”
“What did she look like?”
Leroy’s breath puffed into tiny clouds. “She was pretty, I suppose. Long hair. Brown eyes. Tall.”
“Brown eyes? Not blue, like yours?”
“Brown,” he said firmly.
“Was she older or younger?”
“Older.”
“And your mother was . . . not present?”
Leroy shook his head and tugged the flaps on his trooper’s hat down. His balaclava covered most of his face. “She left my dad when I was a kid.”
“Was your mother also your sister’s mother?”
A long pause. “No.”
“Your father had a girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why your mother left?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“And your father didn’t remarry?”
“No.”
“So, neither you nor your sister grew up with a mother?”
He shook his head. A shudder rippled through his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Leroy. That must have been very hard to understand as a young boy.”
Leroy nodded.
“You only found peace when you ran into the fields. And listened to the wind.”
He started to speak, coughed, tried again. “Yes.”
“When you listened to the wind, did it say things to you?”
Leroy made a sound, then said, “Yes.”
“Did you understand what it said?”
“Yes.”
“The wind blamed you, didn’t it? It told you that you were the reason your mother left. That you were the reason your father was all alone.”
He said nothing.
“What else did it tell you, Leroy? That maybe your sister was as much to blame as you were? That she reminded your mother of your father’s infidelity? That maybe she deserved punishing for hurting your mother, your father, you?”
Leroy leaned against the icy wall.
“Do you sometimes see other women, other girls, who remind you of your sister?”
Leroy shook his head again, but made no answer. His upper body quivered as though pulled by a million tiny strings.
“Ah, well, we’ll leave that for now.” A pause. “It must be difficult. Lying in your bunk at night, the wind constantly talking to you. Is it hard, Leroy?”
“Yes.” He twitched.
“Is that why you come down here, Leroy? To get away from the wind? To stop it from talking to you?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Did you know these tunnels are just the beginning? They keep going far, far under the station. Almost no one ever goes there. You should explore them sometime. Perhaps you could find your own little getaway. Away from the wind.”
Leroy’s shoulders stopped quaking. “Below the base?”
“Yes. You’ll have to be careful. If anyone hears you’ve started spending time down there, they’ll stop you. But if you don’t tell anyone and only go down there when you need to, you can do it. You can start to create your own space, away from the others. Away from the wind.”
Leroy stared for a moment longer, then nodded and shuffled away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cass ran her mittened hand along the ice wall as she moved down the tunnel, wrinkling her nose as she went.
In the supernaturally cold air below Shackleton, smells didn’t actually travel far, but master pressure gauges and the computer monitoring system had suggested something was wrong with t
he station’s sewer pipes, and it was pretty easy to fool herself into thinking she smelled the accumulated sewage of hundreds of people over decades of use. Or maybe she was being hypersensitive; a busted shitter was a five-alarm mechanical emergency for a small group stuck together for nine months and it was her job to fix it. Or else.
Finding the problem was the challenge. In the early days of Shackleton, leaving sewage at the site where it had been deposited was a distasteful, if necessary, reality. When simple survival was in doubt, no one bothered to haul out months of accumulated excrement. Even as technology improved and year-round residence at the South Pole was established, it was still considered impractical to remove waste, despite the environmental impact.
Hence, the invention of the sewer bulb, which was a fancy word for shit hole. Two dozen of them had been plumbed when the new station had been built but, like anything else involving fluid mechanics and pipes at the bottom of the world, the delivery system sometimes failed.
Unfortunately, the only way to discover whether the problem was a split line or a busted conduit or a malfunctioning pump was to descend the Beer Can, take a right past the intersection at the service arches, walk the length of the main utilities tunnel past the shrines and stub-up ladders, and maybe even haul your butt down to the old ice tunnels, the ones that went to the original parts of the base, using nothing but your eyes and nose to find the problem.
Dwight, the departing engineer who had trained her, had warned Cass that, with jobs like this, you had to make a choice right off the bat: drag a banana sled full of tools with you, prepared for anything, or walk to the problem empty-handed to perform a diagnosis, then return with only the tools you needed. If the leak was right around the corner, the first choice paid off. If not, you were in for a serious workout.
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