One other plan that the Supreme Council initiated in the second year had to do with their descendants.
Among the personnel at the American, British, Soviet, and Norwegian stations were sixteen women, who were the only women in all of Antarctica. And perhaps, probably, these sixteen women were the last human females alive. Looking ahead, even if it became possible to return to temperate zones someday, these women were the last chance for the continued existence of the human race. Most of these sixteen women were not all that young—somewhat problematically, the youngest of them was twenty-six and quite a beauty—but all were still of childbearing age.
This problem had an extremely delicate aspect, in that it affected the sex lives of ten thousand men, and there was no way to proceed except to gradually, cautiously reason with one another. Colonel McCloud and others knew very well that as long as there were no suggestions of sex as a possibility, there was little danger that the men would become violent as a result of deprivation. However, considering the fact that each individual has their own levels of prejudices regarding sex, and further considering the gender gap of nearly ten thousand to sixteen, the situation clearly called for discretion.
As far as this problem went, the opinion of project headquarters was split right down the middle. One side said that the nature of the problem should be spelled out clearly to all Antarcticans, all the women be isolated, and that “volunteers” be sent to the “harem” in an orderly fashion. Furthermore, to assist with the problem, all countries should pool their “dutch wives”—the extremely elaborate ones and the partial ones alike—to be considered the common property of all. The council would also officially tolerate homosexuality, without going so far as to encourage it.
“I am flatly opposed to that!” said Colonel McCloud. “If we did that, the chaos would actually get worse. We wouldn’t just be dealing with acts of lust; we’d be having murders!”
The other opinion was that this problem should be handled as quietly as possible. They argued that a secret committee should be formed, and that the supervision of the women and arrangements for their impregnation be placed under its jurisdiction. Using hidden monitors, the committee would maintain surveillance of the collective Antarctican sexual stress, so that at any time under cover of secrecy, they could have that stress “relieved.”
Admiral Conway, however, was the Special Supreme Commander for the Antarctic Circle. This was not because he was an American but was the result of his election from among the members of the Multinational Council of Leaders. Yet again, he adopted a proposal from Professor Borodinov, who was the eldest among Antarctica’s survivors, allying himself with neither faction, but instead choosing a third option.
He explained the situation to everyone, women included. Then he appealed to them, saying that this was not a mere problem of instinct, but an extremely serious problem for every Antarctican—a problem of maintaining the species. The admiral already knew very well that when it came down to it, the best way was to bet on everyone’s reason. He believed that the only way to prevent scandalous incidents was to rely on everyone keeping an eye on one another, being considerate of one another, reinforcing social norms, and following the democratic rules of their groups. The women would continue to work alongside everyone else just as they had up till now. However, from this point forward, they were to be respected all the more and viewed from a standpoint of guardianship—not just as women but as the mothers of the future. Broadly speaking, the methods and the selection of those involved in impregnation would be left up to a select committee organized by doctors. However, those who had tried their utmost to contain themselves but felt it a losing battle were told they should quietly come forward. Based on a thorough inquiry, and in particular on the feelings of the women who were asked, such requests would be considered.
“All right, everyone, from this point forward,” the admiral said with great seriousness into the microphone, “when you see a woman, you are not to whistle at her or secretly ask her for a date. Women are to be called either ‘Mom’ or ‘Mother.’ If you think of her as your mother, you shouldn’t get any funny ideas.”
Everyone was smirking.
“Question, Admiral!” said a thickly accented voice from Australia Station. “Can we not request a partner in an orderly, impartial way? It’s ten thousand to sixteen. Our turn would come round once every two years.”
“That’s disrespectful of the women,” the admiral replied. “There are some among the women who have said they would be willing to accept such an arrangement, but from the standpoint of selective impregnation, I want those who can control themselves to do so insofar as they are able.”
“What are we supposed to do if nothing works and we just can’t control ourselves? Put in applications to have ourselves straitjacketed?”
Suddenly, the admiral smirked. “If it reaches that point,” he said, pausing just slightly, and then bellowing out in a voice loud enough to be heard all over Antarctica, “then just go jerk off or something!”
Stations all across Antarctica exploded into laughter.
In this manner, Antarctica gradually adjusted to its new course. There were regional and national groups, and it would take a much longer time for these to gradually merge into a cohesive whole, but even so, little by little, through joint work projects, they were now moving in that direction. Now that they had lost their homelands, they were no longer the people of this or that country. All of them were Antarcticans, the earth’s only human society.
The short summer ended, the sun went round and round, sinking halfway to the horizon, and at last another winter and another summer came. Each time summer came again, Antarctic ice lit by the sun slipped and fell off into the sea, becoming icebergs that drifted away northward. The pack ice also grew loose, and the penguins and the seals returned. At the start of summer, people closely watched the ice that was carried away to the northern sea, and at the end of summer they watched the animals returning to the warmer north. From the dark, cold world of ice, to the distant north.
It was in the autumn of the third year that the first baby was born in Antarctica. It was a chubby baby boy. Men all across Antarctica wore such happy expressions that it looked like someone had been tickling them, and some of the tension was leaving their cheeks. All ten thousand of them felt as if they had become a father for the first time. Among them were those who also pulled out photographs of their own small children who had died along with everyone else two years earlier, staring at them intently, sometimes turning aside toward the walls to sob voicelessly. On the day the child was christened, everyone in Antarctica rested from their labors. Admiral Conway, who had been asked to be the child’s godfather, fidgeted so much that twice he upended the dish of holy water, and when he hesitantly touched the child’s cheeks, his stern expression cracked into a helpless smile.
The boy, named after the Antarctic region itself, was called Antonio.
This child was a new light of hope for his ten thousand fathers. At every opportunity, the men used the pretense of various errands to visit McMurdo base where the hospital was. Even those without any business there hung around outside as close as they could get, getting shooed away, waiting in long lines, and then finally getting a glimpse of little Antonio’s face.
“What a fine boy!” was the typical sentiment. “Look! He’s a really good boy! He looks really strong, and he’s handsome on top of that!”
“That’s the truth!” was the usual excessively articulated response. “You could put Antonio in any baby pageant in the world, and he’d absolutely be in the top class! He’d bring home the gold medal for sure! I guarantee it!”
Then they would turn toward his mother sitting beside him, blink their eyes as if looking into a bright light, and then speak to her in almost reverential voices. “Mother, please take good care of yourself. Please eat plenty so you can feed him plenty. Don’t let Antonio catch cold …”
Most of the things they said were set phrases.
&nb
sp; The child was growing up strong and healthy, and at last other mothers began to have children as well. Among these, a baby girl was born, named Pola after the Polar region. Each time there was news of a new birth, all work in Antarctica would stop. This was one thing that even the Supreme Council could do nothing about. When the submarines were away at sea, nearly all communications with them—aside from those about their mission—were about children. The children were all given “Antarctica” as their last names: Antonio Antarctica, Pola Antarctica, Ivan Antarctica, George Antarctica, Thor Antarctica, and Yoshiko Antarctica.
As a pattern settled into place wherein the uproars over children turned into uproars of festival, life in Antarctica was also beginning gradually to be absorbed into steady rhythms. Among the people, scenes of loud weeping and crying out in anguish had already disappeared for the most part. Instead, to the same degree that worries over private matters and feelings of resignation had sunk to the bottom of the everyday, things such as hope and despair had turned into quiet things: intense but helpless homesickness that occasionally ached in the bottoms of their hearts and irreconcilable grief for the dead world had been carved into the hearts of each and every one.
Starting around this time, visible shortages became apparent. The things made by a number of temporary, small-scale production facilities were plain and homely, and produced in quantities far too small to cover the shortages. People silently moved from one level of primitive living to another. Instead of electric lights, they began using candles made from the fat of seals and penguins. A number of smaller stations were abandoned, and their former occupants began living like Eskimos in igloos. Rather than using guns, it became popular to hunt using handmade harpoons and lances.
The determination and preparation to live like this for the long term—pitiful life though it was—was seeping into all of Antarctica. However, the eyes of the people blazed with a burning, bittersweet hope as they gazed out toward the fog-covered horizon of the northern sea.
Someday . . .
But every year, reports from the two nuclear submarines that went out into the seven seas to conduct research came back with the same answer: “No.” The air near the continents was still polluted with the bizarre cocci and their spores.
Every cubic centimeter of it.
Four years passed. People by this time hardly raised any kind of fuss anymore, not even over the birth of a new child. That unimaginable tragedy and the harsh, long years gradually hardened the hearts of the Antarcticans. The short summer of the fourth year passed and autumn arrived. Nereid and T-232 returned to port with heavy footfalls and no good news.
And then …
PART TWO:
RESURRECTION DAY
THE SECOND DEATH
“And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.”
The Book of Revelation 20:14
1.Report ST3006
The only things moving in this world were the swiftly flowing, undulating stripes of light and shadow. With a force like that of exhaust plumes being expelled from jet engines, something resembling white smoke flared up above a rough land covered in thick, frozen snow, and then dispersed.
In the midst of a blizzard with wind speeds of thirty meters per second, Yoshizumi was standing with his back toward the wind.
It was, of course, impossible for him to stand facing the wind. He was wearing his typical polar gear, snow goggles, and mask. His feet were planted in the frozen snow, and he leaned back against the wind that blew against him. Grainy snow blew between the outer shell and inner layers of his gear from every unprotected angle, and in no time his fingertips had started to stiffen. Even so, Yoshizumi continued to stand there, paying it no mind. Though appropriately dressed, the cold air seeped into his bones. When he looked up into the dark sky, whirlpools of black grains were blowing past like windswept ashes. Suddenly, his eyes lost focus and the scene became blurry.
“Yoshi!”
Under the roar of the wind, he could hear someone crying out his name. It was the voice of Steve Hathaway, from McMurdo Station’s central computer room. Were the results of the computations completed then?
“Idiot … in this blizzard …” Steve’s hand gripped his shoulder firmly. When he turned around, crackling sounds came from arms frozen stiff as rods.
Yoshizumi didn’t answer.
Steve shouted something at him, but the wind was drowning it out and Yoshizumi couldn’t catch the words. He suddenly felt his shoulders being grabbed and pushed. Steve had gotten behind him and started pushing. When the two of them joined their efforts, they were at last able to resist the wind and make it to the station’s buildings. Just now, Yoshizumi had thought himself no farther than ten or so meters away from them, but at some point he had ended up getting separated from them by more than twenty meters. He had been pushed by the wind.
When they opened the building’s double door and went inside, Yoshizumi took off his shell coat and rubbed his cheeks and his fingertips against each other. Both were numb from the cold, but at last sensation returned.
“What did you think you were doing out there?” Steve said, as he rubbed his own cheeks. “I was afraid you were trying to commit suicide.”
Yoshizumi remained silent as he busily massaged the stiffness out of his fingers. The heat inside the building was melting tears that had frozen in his eyelashes, and now they were running down his cheeks.
“Is standing out in the middle of a blizzard how Japanese express their sadness?” said Steve in a gently teasing tone of voice. “I heard that Nereid had stopped in Japan. Are you wishing it hadn’t?”
Not answering, Yoshizumi pulled his coat off and hung it from a steam pipe. Melted snow formed drops that dripped from the pipe.
“How about the computation cards?” Yoshizumi asked as he walked down the corridor leading to the data processing center.
“They’re finished,” said Steve with a nod. “Oh, and after that, they said they want you to report when the final results become available.”
“If you’re talking about the Geology Committee, I’ve submitted interim reports, but—”
“No, not them. The Administrative Committee.”
“The Administrative Committee?” Yoshizumi suddenly stopped in place. “What interest does anyone on AdCom have in changes in the earth’s crust? And changes that are so far north of here.”
“Good question,” Steve said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Pull your results together quickly, though. I don’t know the reason, but the bigwigs struck me as being terribly interested in your report. I got a phone call just a little while ago wanting to know where you’d gone.”
What Steve had told him was true. The data processing center was humming with the sounds of many microcomputers when Yoshizumi went inside, and on top of the small desk he was borrowing were mountains of just-completed computation cards, as well as a large number of memos affixed to them with pins.
Y: AdCom called. Return call ASAP, RE: report ST-3006, which you filed at Geology Committee at General Observation Headquarters.
Yoshizumi: Some big shots from the Supreme Council were looking for you. They want you to explain your report to the council in person. —Slim …
To His Excellency Yoshizumi: Admiral Conway called for you in person!
The last memo read,
Inform the Office of the Administrative Council of the time at which results will be fully processed. You are to attend a special session of the Supreme Council. Be prepared to give detailed explanations relevant to geological report ST-3006, submitted by you to the committee members. —Office of the Administrative Council.
Yoshizumi tilted his head and pulled the telephone over toward himself. Stuck between the phone and the receiver was a strip torn from a piece of computational paper on which another note was written in a messy scrawl. Call AdCom Office!!!
Yoshizumi picked up the receiver. The operator transferred him to the office the instant he heard Yoshizumi’s vo
ice.
“Yoshizumi?” said a voice with a dry-sounding Russian accent. “This is Popov. You’ve kept me waiting. Where have you been?”
“To get a breath of air outside,” Yoshizumi said. “What’s going on?”
“I hear you’re busy processing all kinds of data,” Popov said. “When can you have those calculations or whatever finished?”
“The cards are already prepared. I’ll start my analyses now, and those results will be compiled into a general report.”
“You can’t explain it as-is?”
“A specialist could follow it now, but … if I add in two, three supplementary factors, it will become much more easy to understand.”
“In that case, I’d like you to do so. There are some scientists on the Supreme Council, but there are also soldiers and other people outside of your specialty as well, so I’d like you to explain it so it can be well understood.”
“May I ask why?” said Yoshizumi. “What is it about that report?”
“Why? I don’t rightly know,” said Popov. “Anyway, I’m just telling you what they want you to do. How long will it take?”
“You mean the general report?”
“No, you don’t have to go overboard with that. Just tell me when you’ll have what you need to explain the results in broad strokes.”
“Well, let’s see.” Yoshizumi looked down at the cards, where pompous strings of numerals written in magnetic ink were arranged, and thought about it for a moment. “If I can have five hours, that would work.”
“Can you not speed it up any?” said Popov. “At this very moment, VIPs are gathered here from stations all over Antarctica. There are some who’ll go back to their own stations as soon as the blizzard lets up.”
Virus: The Day of Resurrection Page 31