Carbon Run (Tales From A Warming Planet Book 2)

by J. G. Follansbee

  A glance at her accounts showed the rising total of the evening’s revenue, despite the discounts offered as a courtesy to her new business partners. In the AFEZ, sin was not sinful. She found her business partner Ginny, dazzling in a diamond-studded backless gown, laughing with an overstuffed Russian. Molly begged everyone to enjoy themselves before the signing ceremony planned at Pole Station tomorrow. The room of two hundred or so applauded with the enthusiasm of the rich who are about to get richer, and their gratitude and fondness for Molly was genuine. She was a businesswoman who kept a bargain.

  The evening became the wee hours ship time, and Molly strolled to the observation deck. With her were Kristian Nordland, Ginny, and the Russian businessman, who introduced himself as Vladimir. The Arctic sun shone as bright as it had at noon ship time. A servbot trundled by, holding a half-dozen glasses of champagne. Molly picked up one and sipped. Her eye fell on an antique sailing ship cruising nearby, a barkentine with customized rigging, by the look of her. A number of mounted telescopes had been emplaced for spectators, and Molly aimed the lens of one of the scopes at the ship.

  “Molly used to work on boats like that,” Ginny said to Vladimir, who was building new container yards at Archangel.

  “Twenty years ago,” Molly said.

  “An adventurer. That explains many things.” Vladimir slurred his words.

  “Can you see the name of the boat, Mol?” Ginny sipped her champagne.

  “The ship’s name is...” Molly adjusted the focus. “Aganippe.”

  “Aga-what?”

  Nordland peered through the window. “Aganippe. A Greek naiad who inspires poets.”

  “Aga-nipple.” The drunken Vladimir stared rheumy-eyed at Ginny’s full breasts. “Ya vdokhnovennyy.” He grunted and tripped on the leg of a deck chair.

  Molly ignored the Russian’s antics. Her mind flashed to days when she was ordered aloft to loosen gaskets, letting the sails fly...

  The ship held station off the port beam, heeled over a bit much, in Molly’s opinion. The wind is rising. I’d shorten sail, if I were her master. A reef would put her in perfect trim. As if the captain read her mind, figures crawled up the shrouds to the t’gallant and topsail yards. Molly imagined hearing the orders from the deck, despite three layers of glass that separated her from the forty-degree temps outside. Setting her champagne glass on the narrow ledge of the window, she adjusted the telescope, following the foremast to the fore-tops’l yard. She made out the faces of the sailors as they reached down to reef the canvas: a bull-necked Asian, a middle-aged woman with a tanned face, and a forty-ish man with powerful forearms and broad hands who reminded her...

  No, it can’t be.

  Molly stepped back, making an awkward twist in her stiletto heels. The telescope swung off kilter, knocking over her champagne glass. It shattered on the deck, splattering the fizzy liquid on her dress. Ginny rushed over, but Molly pushed her aside and stumbled, not from drink, but from shock.

  “Molly, wait!” Ginny called, but her partner tore off her shoes for better purchase on the carpeted deck, and she trotted forward in her hitched-up gown; running was impossible. Drunken Vladimir held up her companions, and Molly struggled with the com code to unlock her cabin door. The image of Bill on the Aganippe’s yard floated in front of her, ghostlike.

  She took refuge in the need to change clothes. She picked a fresh gown from the closet. She picked up a lipstick, then dropped it into the sink. Her hand was shaking, as if she were freezing or terrified. She willed herself to regain control, gripping the counter, taking deep breaths. She picked up the lipstick again and touched it to her lips, not daring to apply it, for fear her trembling hand would smear the cosmetic.

  Knocking on the cabin door morphed into a pounding, and she heard Ginny’s voice. Molly opened the door, allowing Ginny in but leaving Nordland and Vladimir in the passageway.

  “What’s wrong, Mol?” Ginny was alarmed and insistent. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “I saw him, Gin. With the telescope.”

  “Saw who? Was there an accident? Did somebody fall?”

  “I never thought I’d see him again. I didn’t want to see him again.”

  “Who? Who are you talking about?”

  “It’s Bill. I saw him.”

  “Bill who? Who did you see?”

  “Bill Penn. He’s here.”

  Ginny was taken aback, then spoke slowly. “Bill Penn. You mean the Bill? The man you told me about? The one you married?”

  “Yes, he’s here.”

  Molly sat on the edge of her bed, her hands in her lap. She didn’t believe her own eyes, but she knew it was Bill on the yard, reefing the sail. Ginny pulled over a chair and took both Molly’s hands in hers. “Mol, listen to me. Are you certain it’s Bill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he knows you’re here?”

  Molly, dazed, shook her head.

  “Okay, listen. If he doesn’t know you’re here and the boats just sail together, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Fine. That boat isn’t going to be there very long. It will go off somewhere. Right?”

  Ginny’s face was framed by golden curls interwoven with iridescent silver thread. She always has a level head in a crisis.

  “Stop worrying and come back to the party,” Ginny said.

  Molly didn’t move. The image came back of Bill’s face: older, more lined, perhaps with worry, perhaps with loss. Feelings from a life given up long ago reappeared in Molly’s mental vision, irritating her, resisting her attempts to push them away.

  What about Anne?

  Ginny, attuned to Molly’s moods after years of working together, gathered herself. “I think the night’s over for you. Maybe it’s best you turn in.”

  Molly fought back tears and nodded to her friend, whom she loved like a sister.

  Ginny sighed. “I’ll make your apologies to the guests. I’ll tell them something, last minute details on the agreement. You’re going to be one hundred percent tomorrow, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Ginny kissed Molly on the cheek and departed the cabin. Molly sat for a long time, wondering what she was going to do.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The electric-powered longboat Dawn slipped from its berth below the Aurora’s broad fantail and took up a northerly heading. The air was clear and the sun intense. The wind had died to almost nothing, and the sea had grown quiet. The longboat’s clock in the enclosed cabin read 11:44 UTC. Molly, about a dozen of her guests—including Ginny and Nordland—and an equal number of entertainers, made small talk in the Dawn’s cabin. Aurora’s AI furled the liner’s entire suit of sails. A skeleton of yards and masts remained. They had gentle curves to take maximum advantage of the wind’s energy when the sails were deployed.

  “It’s the curves that give sailing ships such feminine majesty. Do you agree, Kristian?”

  Nordland followed Molly’s curves with his eyes.

  “Your logic is impeccable.”

  “So tell me, Kristian, are you making money with her?”

  “Enough. Thank god for government subsidies of green power.”

  Aganippe kept station nearby, her sails stowed. The shock of seeing Bill had worn off, and Molly was embarrassed at her schoolgirl reaction. None of her friends said a word, and she reassured Ginny that she was concentrated on the signing ceremony.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Molly said, “we’ll be arriving at Pole Station in a few minutes. Please prepare to disembark.”

  When the Dawn was secured, Molly and her guests entered an elevator, never feeling the freezing outside temperature. The huge station resembled an oil-drilling platform. It floated on six hollow pylons, each anchored by a half-dozen cables to the sea bed fourteen thousand feet below. The station’s lower level was manned year around by an international team of scientists who monitored the atmosphere and the sea. Above the observation deck was a mast that
soared upward a thousand feet. Hundreds of radio antennae, microwave relays, satellite dishes, radars, and anemometers studded the length of the structure. At the top, six powerful strobe lights flashed together once a second.

  The appointments of the foyer, lounge and the enclosed walkway on the observation deck that encircled the station were like those of a good quality airport terminal. The lounge was filled with men and women in business wear. Gold pen sets adorned a linen-covered table on a dais. Buffet tables were set with slices of Fairbanks apples, quartered Newfoundland oranges, wild Scottish salmon, Greenland veal, and Australian beef from that continent’s last working ranches along the south coast of Victoria State. Molly noticed a bronze plaque on the wall. A relief of a man’s bearded face was framed by the ruff of a parka’s hood.

  At this location, the North Pole, on April 6, 1909, Robert Edwin Peary, USN, and four Inuits, Ootah, Seeglo, Egigingwah, and Ooqueah, became the first human beings known to reach the top of the world.

  “So much has changed in a couple of hundred years,” Molly said to Nordland. “What do you think he’d say about what we’ve done to the Arctic?”

  “He’s past caring.”

  A servbot offered Molly a tray. “Champagne, madam?” Molly took a glass as Ginny arrived.

  “We’re still waiting on the U.S. rep,” Ginny said. “The Dawn has to go get her. Thirty minutes, max.”

  “We have a short delay, my friends,” Molly called out. “There’s a time-honored tradition for visitors to Pole Station you may have heard of. I’d like to invite you along. We’ll be stepping out of the lounge, so it will be chilly. A servbot will hand out wraps and collect them when we return.”

  The machine laid the service tray on a table and pushed a wheeled cart with two dozen parkas through the crowd. About half the group, including Molly and Nordland, donned a parka.

  Molly took Nordland’s arm again, and beckoned people to follow. They passed through a door into another section of the corridor, open to the Arctic air, starker and Spartan compared to the lounge, with rust stains on the steel under the windows and on the doors. The pair strolled, as if on a seaside path, making a slow circumnavigation of the platform. She smiled at Nordland. “Technically, we’re circumnavigating the globe.”

  Nordland leered. “There’s another Pole Station tradition, Mol.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Nordland and Molly stopped and let the train of guests pass. Nordland tested two of the doors and found a third unlocked. It was an unused office. Molly followed Nordland inside. He closed the door and drew close to her, opening her parka and pushing it down over her shoulders. She allowed him to kiss her and pull at her knee-length skirt. She liked the executive. He was passionate, yet gentle and considerate. He had few expectations, though he was not shy about asking for what he wanted. He never rushed, and in the empty office, as he pressed her against the steel bulkhead, a fear of discovery added a thrill. The glimpse of a past life the previous day through the observation telescope was nothing more than a wisp of memory for Molly. Her focus had returned to her present and her future. Thoughts of Bill were as far away as the Aganippe from Pole Station.

  Molly was content, and she compared her orgasm to the gentle waves that lapped against the pylons floating on the sea below. Nordland kissed the palm of her hand, and Molly adjusted her coat to return to the promenade. Her client and business partner opened the door, and he bowed as a signal for her to lead the way. She felt the cold breeze brace the skin of her face and neck and stepped through.

  Bill stood before her. His shock of recognition was instant. His eyes widened, and he tried to speak. He mouthed something, but no sound came out. Molly’s lips parted, the crimson lipstick framing silence. She stared at her old lover, her ex-husband, the father of her child, and she saw the added years to his hair, his face, and his careworn eyes. Her reaction was anger and annoyance, though she kept every muscle in control. She would not allow an unexpected distraction to send her off-course. How is it possible that he could be here, now?

  Molly pushed past Bill, her hand in Nordland’s. “Kristian, we need to return to the lounge for the ceremony.”

  “Molly?”

  Bill’s voice was not quite as silken as it was when he was twenty-one and fresh aboard the ship-rigged bulk-carrier Chelsea with his able-seaman’s papers. Nordland touched Molly on her elbow, and she pressed forward, leaving Bill’s question unanswered.

  “Molly!”

  Yes, that’s Bill, all right. A question turns into a demand and a demand turns into a shackle.

  The executive opened the lounge door for Molly. “Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies and gentlemen.” Molly slipped off her parka and gave it to the servbot. Champagne glasses were lifted and scattered applause greeted her. All the chairs on the dais except two were filled with reps from government and private firms. The nations ringing the Arctic Ocean were ready to sign the contract: Canada, United States, Russia, Denmark, and Norway. CEOs from mining companies, timber and lumber syndicates, construction companies, fishing conglomerates, and tourism companies waited. Nordland took his seat as rep for the shipping firms. A human rights NGO was a witness the contract. Molly took her seat at the center chair. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know that many of you are on a tight schedule. I suggest we dispense with further ceremony and move forward with signatures. I will be last to sign. Agree?” Molly called for the official copies, and Ginny supervised as aides circulated the paper.

  Bill and his companion entered the lounge. That’s Micah Panang. How is this happening? The pair edged toward the bar, though Bill kept Molly in his sights. He had no idea what to make of the gathering, and something in Molly tripped, like a relay. As the last national representative initialed and signed the document, she cleared her throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for participating in this historic hour. I feel the need to have a least one small ceremony. I’d like to propose a toast.” She raised her glass, glancing at Bill. “To leaving the past in the past, and to making new futures.”

  Bill’s eyes darkened as she swallowed the last of the champagne.

  The lounge emptied within minutes, leaving Molly and Ginny to gather the documents. Molly urged Nordland back to his ship. Bill started for Molly, and Micah made a weak attempt to hold him back. He shrugged her off. Molly’s mouth went dry, but she treated him as if he were another guest.

  “Molly,” he said.

  “Hello, Bill. What a surprise to see you. Micah, nice to see you as well.”

  “Same here, Mol.” Micah smirked, thoroughly enjoying the encounter. “How’s tricks?”

  Molly ignored the remark.

  Ginny messaged Molly via her minds-eye: Do you want me to call security?

  Molly glanced at the secbot stationed near the lounge door. No, Gin. Bill won’t hurt me.

  “I’m surprised, too.” Bill scanned the now empty lounge. “What just happened here?”

  Bill wore a white cable sweater that had faded to a gray-yellow with a hundred washes, jeans threadbare and frayed at the edges, though clean and well-tended in the proud way of the frugal poor, and flex-sole boots with new laces. He also wore a parka, stained by the rain from countless storms and bleached by the Arctic sun’s harsher ultraviolet. The contrast to Molly’s formal business wear was stark.

  “A contract signing, an important one.”

  “I gathered that much.”

  “Molly Bain is President and CEO of the Cyprian Association.” Ginny measured Bill, her skepticism in full view.

  “‘Cyprian,’” Micah said. She put a finger to her lips. “That’s a fancy word for prostitute, right?”

  “Our association is something like a union, Micah,” Molly said.

  “A union? Of whores?” Bill struggled to comprehend. “These people signed a contract with you to be a whore?”

  Molly heard the judgmental tone before from many people. Bill’s was nothing new. “The Arctic is a new land. We’re offering a new
way of thinking about a very old institution. It’s good for everyone.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s happened to you?” Bill’s shock was palpable, as if someone had popped a balloon. He’s discovered that I am not what he thought I was. I never was that person.

  Molly studied Bill’s gray-green eyes, part of her screeching against the rising feelings of decades past, like half-seen ghosts in the heart of a twenty-two-year-old, free-spirited, intelligent woman with three circumnavigations to her credit, and she remembered how he melted her defenses with his eyes, like a secret weapon.

  “You haven’t changed at all, Bill,” Molly said. “Older, but not different.”

  Bill straightened in offended annoyance. “How would you know? You haven’t spoken to me or Anne in fifteen years.”

  What about Anne? The mention of her daughter’s name opened an old wound. Her pregnancy was a mistake. After she agreed to marry Bill, ending the pregnancy seemed impossible. Her marriage to Bill was the worst decision of her life.

  “Do we have to discuss this now? Let me buy you a beer on the Aurora. I’ve worked for this day as long as I can remember. Let’s celebrate it and get reacquianted.”

  “Reacquain—we were married for three years. The beer here is just fine.” Bill indicated the lounge’s bar. “Luxury liners aren’t my thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Bill, but it’s time for Ginny and I to go.” Molly gathered her portfolio and headed toward the elevator. Ginny followed, glancing back at Bill and Micah like a rear guard.

  “What happened at Algid, Molly?” Bill called it out, like an announcement. “I want to know.”

  Are you sure you don’t want me to call security?

  He’s torturing me. Molly kept this thought to herself. Instead, she texted: He’s angry and hurt, Gin, that’s all.

  “I have a right to know. Anne has a right to know. Why didn’t you come back?”

  Why did I get pregnant? I didn’t want children, but Bill was so kind, so gentle and caring while I expanded into an ugly whale. The birth was a relief, and Bill was instantly in love with his daughter, and I did what I could to be the doting mother, but it was not what I wanted. Bill had found a way to tie me to him as surely as a prisoner chained to the wall of a dungeon.