Trembling, he holds himself above me, trails his hand down my body until his fingers find my wetness. He groans and lowers his head, hiding his face in the furs.
‘Look at me,’ I whisper and he does. His pupils have swallowed the warm brown of his irises. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is wild.
I reach up to smooth the worry lines between his eyebrows. ‘What do you want?’ I ask. ‘Tell me.’
His gaze travels from my lips to my eyes as his hip moves a fraction, increasing the pressure. I can feel him. So close and yet, not close enough. His heart is thrumming against mine. Every fibre of me screams, ‘Come to me!’
Sighing, I arch my back and tilt my hips up to meet his, and that is when he falls. He sinks into me and I embrace him, hold onto him so tight, I can’t tell where my end is and he begins.
We move like the sea, slow and steady, picking up force, and crashing together. Falling still. Beginning anew.
Since the sharp outlines of Spitsbergen appeared at the horizon, I’ve kept myself ready for ambush. The pistol strapped to my leg is sealed with a new membrane. My rifle is wrapped in strips of white linen, waterproofed with a new membrane, and never leaves the grip of my right hand. Any part of me that’s not covered in white fur, is cloaked with shreds of white cloth. The sled is white, the remaining four dogs are white, light grey, and cream-coloured. We’re hard to spot.
The transition from sea ice to the snow-covered beach of Edgeøya is almost unnoticeable. We come to a halt and I signal to Katvar to stay low while I scan the island. My scope shows me nothing but virgin white wherever I look. I take my time, but can’t find footprints of anything larger than a fox.
We transverse Edgeøya with ears pricked and eyes sharp. Katvar does a good job keeping the dogs quiet, he huffs and clicks, and the animals seem to sense his urgency. He shot an arctic fox earlier this morning and barely had time to wipe the blood off the arrow before the starving dogs demanded their share. The small animal was eaten all too quickly.
We cross Storfjorden and cover another forty kilometres inland before stopping for the night. We dig a snow cave, the dogs curl up in their snow holes, and soon we’ve all disappeared from the face of Svalbard.
Katvar has been waiting for me to speak since we prepared dinner. But I’m silent. I don’t know how to tell him that I’ll go alone from now on, that I’m not the heroine he thinks I am, that I’m not even brave enough to watch him die at the hands of Erik or one of his men.
So I sneak under his furs and into his embrace, quietly making love to him until we both tire and he falls asleep. When his breathing grows slow and regular, I start counting to one hundred. At one hundred and one, I dress and leave.
Green and purple streak across the night sky and dimly reflect off the snow. I could sit here and watch the spectacle for hours, waiting for Katvar to wake from his slumber so I can see the northern lights shine in his dark eyes once more.
It’s hard to take the first step. The second is a little lighter. Sneaking past the dogs isn’t hard at all — they are wary of me and try to be invisible when they spot me. I’m the one who pulls the knife through their throats. Not anymore. I’m glad these four are still around. I don’t want Katvar to die alone.
Maybe he can even make it back. There’s time to chop a lot of ice holes and catch a lot of fish when you don’t have to hurry to the BSA’s satellite control centre. With only four dogs and one man to feed, it might just be possible for him to survive.
Twenty paces from our camp, I strap on my skis, pull my shawl over my face and set off.
The ascent is gentle, a mere two hundred metres in ten kilometres; my legs barely notice it. The disadvantageous view puts me on edge. I’m much more visible down here than anyone hiding at Longyearbyen observatory.
The more than sixty antennas point at the sky — some of them white spheres looking as if someone has pulled a prank and rolled humongous snowballs onto an plain, others straight and black like dry willow twigs. What once was Norway’s control centre for the European Defence and Aerospace Agency, is now the BSA’s only means to download and upload data to Earth’s satellite network. No one but Erik, Jeremiah, Silas, and I know about its existence and half of these people are now dead.
There’s just one problem: getting in is impossible. Or would be impossible if it weren’t for the secret tunnel that stretches between the Svalbard Global Seed Vault and the control centre’s main server room.
The entrance is a dark concrete block tucked safely against the hillside. Red graffiti sprawls over its smooth walls, telling survivors of the World Wars that all food is already gone, that they don’t need to bother trying to get in.
When my fingers touch the concrete, memories begin to flood my vision. I push them aside and inspect the high-security entrance and the small duct that leads to the ventilation unit.
The vault was designed to withstand all kinds of disasters, including floods caused by climate disruption, fires, explosions and even nuclear holocausts. But the architects and engineers hadn’t considered the inventiveness of desperately starved people. To them, the Global Seed Vault was just another root cellar. It didn’t take them long to get inside the vault and gobble down the most diverse and expensive porridge in human history.
Now, everything looks precisely as it did when I last saw it. I’m still surprised Erik let me out of this place alive. When he took over the island, he got the Vault’s security entrance reinstalled, and shot the men who built it the moment they’d finished the job. I call that some serious trust issues. And yet, he made me his student, he let me out alive and brought me to his headquarters. I never learned why; now this bugs me more than ever. When I think about him, his aloof, cajoling, and restrained character, the dishonesty and maliciousness overlaid with extreme attentiveness — I never really knew who was sitting across from me. I never knew what he wanted from me or what his goals were. And I still don’t.
When I walk up to the heavy steel door, uncap the scanner, and place my right eye over it, I realise that I might be stepping right into Erik’s trap.
A pinprick of blue light runs over my retina. A green light blinks. There’s a bleep, a hiss, and the door cracks open. Did Jeremiah do a good job or did Erik allow me in? Are both options possible?
I exhale and take my first step into the dark corridor. Terror creeps in. My senses snap wide open. It’s as if I’ve been thrown into the Vault and back in time. Two years. So much has happened.
And kill every woman who has slept with a man, but save for yourselves every girl who has never slept with a man.
Numbers 31:17,18
I open my eyes. There’s nothing but black. It’s not cold, but painful, somehow. Drowsy, too. I swallow but my throat is too sticky. No saliva. My abdomen cramps. I roll up in a ball.
‘Both your implants have been removed.’ A raspy, quiet voice. It sounds familiar. Close by. ‘I was surprised to learn that you are still intact. I’m glad my sixteen year old-daughter is a virgin. You’ve kept yourself for your husband. You’ll make a good wife.’
Erik.
I shiver. My mouth is strangely empty, the toxic pearl is gone. I try to find the hole in my tongue where the steel stud used to be, but there’s nothing.
‘A GPS tracker was attached to your contraceptive implant. You probably didn’t know that. The Sequencers’ espionage unit will believe you drowned in the Atlantic. Your pearl was…cute. Did you plan to kill me with that?’
Reluctantly, I try my voice. ‘Where am I?’
‘United States of America. A very nice place. The land of my dreams.’
‘I thought everything here was dead?’ I croak.
‘Precisely.’
It’s stupefyingly dark. I can’t even see my hand touching my face. I wonder if I’m blind, but I don’t dare ask if he did something to my eyes. A “yes” would send me into a frenzy.
I need distraction. Shifting on my mattress, I try to remember what Kat and Runner told me about North Americ
a. How much time has passed since the battle in Taiwan? One day? One hour? One week? I can’t remember how far North America is from Taiwan, but it’s not around the corner, I’m pretty sure. Did we travel for days? I can’t remember. Not one image, sound, or scent flickers into consciousness.
I touch my belly. The ache feels like bad menstrual cramps. When did I have my last menses? I can’t remember that, either. Erik said he had my implant removed. The pain is probably from the surgery. Reflexively, my hand slides between my legs. Through my pants at least, it feels normal. But I’m with the BSA — men who are known for raping, torturing, and killing women as though…as if… I don’t even have a comparison.
‘You say very little.’
‘You killed my friends.’
‘That again? Think of something else to say, or I might think you are retarded.’
I think of Runner. I’m not even sure whether he’s still in Taiwan, succumbing to radiation, or if he’s dead already. Violent trembling travels up my limbs. I tell myself that he might have made it, called for an airlift, and got out of there before the fallout hit.
I hope.
I need a distraction.
‘You want to hack the US military satellite system?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he answers.
‘What about the radiation?’
‘We are in a bunker. The walls are two metres thick steel-reinforced concrete slabs with lead inlays. The air is recycled, the doors are locked. We have water and provisions for six months.’
‘Who is we?’
‘You and I, Mickaela. Less distraction.’
‘Distraction from what?’
‘You can’t be that naive. My men can smell you. To them, you are as worthless as a dog. But they are useful to teach you…things. In the ensuing months you’ll learn about tactics, warfare, human nature, politics. You’ll learn how to control satellites, the Sequencers’ command structure and their espionage unit, and how they differ from the BSA. You’ll learn to obey my commands at once and without question, and you’ll learn to show respect. Should you attempt to escape, to establish contact with anyone without my permission, to injure or kill anyone without my permission, my protection ends at once. Here, it simply means you’ll be sent outside. Back at headquarters it means you’ll be my men’s bitch for whatever duration they choose. Is that clear?’
‘Clear,’ I croak. ‘Why? What for?’
‘So you learn.’
‘So you can shape me to your liking — as you said in Taiwan. That’s no answer. Is it because I carry half your genes?’ A rustling tells me he rises to his feet.
‘Yes,’ he answers. ‘And no.’
A metallic click makes me flinch. Electric light flares and blinds me. Squinting, I try to orient myself in the room. Erik is standing at the door, holding it ajar.
‘What then? What else?’ I ask.
‘You will figure it out.’
———
‘We’ve seen the natural conclusion of capitalism — or, if you will, human nature. If we were to create a society for which the greatest value is freedom for the individual, you would, without exception, find it ends in total annihilation of the species.’
I know he’s mad. And still, his speeches surprise me every time. He begins to draw small circles on the bare concrete wall of my cell. I compress my fists and clench my jaw so as not to ask if he’s drawing all the marbles he’s lost.
‘I’ll give you an example. Let’s say we have several clans, each of which values freedom of the individual the most and then a few other things. For example, respect, love, blah blah blah. Now each of these clans is specialised in something. This here…’ he points at the first marble, ‘…is a warrior clan. This here…’ marble number two, ‘…farming. Then there are the excellent hunters, the weavers, carpenters, and so on. They all believe in freedom. But they also need to survive. The hunters need to clothe themselves, the warriors need to eat. So they trade.’
I stifle a yawn. He catches my expression, the boredom I’ve failed to hide.
‘Enjoy your freedom as long as it lasts, Mickaela. Once we are at headquarters, you’ll experience every dirty detail of human nature.’
‘I’m not free,’ I point out. ‘And I know what humans are capable of. I know what you are capable of.’
The grin that cuts across his face reminds me of the demons of my nightmares.
‘So they trade,’ he says softly. ‘Money is invented, because a stag is worth more than an iron pan during times of starvation, and worth less during times of plenty.’
And on he prattles. I try to pretend I’m listening, try to make my gaze not stray from the diagrams he’s drawing.
After what feels like an eternity, he snaps his fingers and declares, ‘And in the blink of an eye, politics, propaganda, espionage, and warfare are invented.’
‘Funny society you are creating there. Full of assholes,’ I mutter.
His eyebrows rise, he looks at me as if I’m a small child. ‘All humans — in fact all mammals and even birds’ societies — consist of individuals exhibiting various degrees of altruism and egoism. The ratio of these two and the degree of self-reflection in each species determines which characteristics predominate,’ he answers.
‘So now you want to eradicate not only all humans, but all mammals and birds? Makes sense,’ I retort.
‘The seed is planted.’ His gaze is expectant but calm.
Puzzled, I shrug. ‘So?’
‘I do agree that my example is simplistic, but should you prove to remain immune to my teachings, I will find other uses for you.’ He claps his hands, rises to his feet, and pulls a SatPad from his pocket. ‘You have access to part of my library. Here is a list of books you will read in the ensuing three weeks. We’ll regularly discuss what you’ve learned. I hope you are a quick reader. If not, skip sleep.’
The SatPad lands on my mattress with a plop. After Erik leaves my cell, I tap at the screen and it springs to life. There’s a list of titles and their authors.
On Revolution, Hannah Arendt
Guerrilla Warfare, Ernesto Guevara
Strategy, Sir Basil Henry Liddell Hart
Mein Kampf, Volume 1 and 2, Adolf Hitler
The Prince, Niccolo Machiavelli
The Art of War, Sun Tzu
War of the Flea: The Classic Study of Guerrilla Warfare, Robert Taber
On Guerrilla Warfare, Mao Tse-Tung
On War, Carl von Clausewitz
Chimpanzee Politics, Frans de Waal
The Holy Bible
The Holy Qur’an
The Holy Thora
When I click on a title, a file opens. There’s a back and a forward button, lots of text, and that’s it. No communication window, no login, no nothing. Just a little box that says “Type search term.”
———
Erik showed me how I can leave the compound, all the escape routes, access codes. He even scanned my retina so I can get past the main gate. ‘Knowledge is power,’ he added with a cold grin.
Yeah. Sure. Especially if the knowledge doesn’t help you at all. Outside is where radiation fries your DNA. I’d rather die a quick death.
Which brings me to the two plans I’m brewing up. Plan one: kill Erik. Plan two: escape. There might be room for a combination of the two.
Killing Erik won’t be simple. He locks me up every night. I’ve tried to get out of the cell but there’s no way I can dig myself out of a concrete box with only my fingernails.
During the day, he rarely turns his back on me, and shackles me to my chair in the control room whenever he’s busy somewhere else. Shackles can be picked, I got that far. As for weapons, I could use chairs and boxes to bash in his head, but I doubt he is that slow. He moves like a large cat, smooth and agile. I’m absolutely certain that he can jump like one, too. So, reaching for the knife or the pistol he keeps strapped to his thighs won’t work either. But since he requires my services as a maid (apparently, he can’t cook, clean his room,
make his bed, wash his clothes, or do any other lowly “women’s work” by himself, the poor thing) — I might be able to slip poison into his lunch.
Following his credo “knowledge is power” I read a ton about all kinds of stuff, for example, the chemicals stored in one of the many small rooms here.
There’s also an enormous (as in: ENORMOUS) refrigerated space with shelves upon shelves of seeds, all labelled. Most of the bags are ripped open, contents spilled. But some contain quite interesting things. One of the seeds is my favourite: Strychnos nux-vomica. Oh yes, dad, you’ll puke out your guts. I’ll make sure of that.
Grinding the button-like seeds into powder won’t be a problem. Getting them into his food should be easy, too. But here’s the deal: if I want to survive, I have to get out of here.
Erik brought me here, so there must be a means of transportation back to Europe. He’s far from being the naive, trusting kind, so I strongly doubt he’s allowing his life to depend on one of his men getting him out of this radioactive wasteland.
As I have no way of measuring the amount of radioactivity out there — I couldn’t find a Geiger counter, an instrument used before the Great Pandemics to figure out how quickly you’ll be fried — I have to make my own measuring device. And that’s why I have my hands on a jar of potassium dichromate. I open it and peek in — it’s half full, more than I’ll need.
Quickly, I put it back on the shelf, slip out of the storage room, and get back to my seat. My shackles are in place when Erik returns.
‘Taiwan again?’ he asks. I imagine him wearing a sneer every time he sees me scanning the island for Runner.
‘Wouldn’t you search for men left behind in battle?’ I ask.
‘I don’t ever waste time.’
Ice: The Climate Fiction Saga Page 18