by Perrin Briar
He’d lived the majority of his life out of suitcases. It’d taught him the value of a minimalist life, something his wife Margaret could never understand. It meant all he had to give was his set of figurines. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. Everything else in his life had been taken care of. His wealth had been calculated and divided up, to be handed out to various family members. No one gave a damn about his little figurines. But his real family did. They understood.
The only part of his will he took any interest in were the large donations to various science foundations across the world, projects he believed in and thought would make a difference to the human project.
Would Margaret like the little figurine he’d left her? Almost certainly not. If it wasn’t encrusted with jewels, she wasn’t interested. She was incapable of seeing past the superficial, caring only what she could show her friends. Like the golden pendant he’d bought her for their twentieth anniversary. If she’d known he’d bought it from a flea market he doubted she would have worn it.
Dr. Scott covered his mouth and coughed. It was a wet, hacking thing. He spat into the tissue and tucked it in his pocket.
Now, he was a shadow of his former self, and so were his discoveries. You expected to lose the strength of youth, they warned you about it, but no one warned about the loss of respectability. That had been the greatest blow to a man such as Dr. Scott.
Until today.
His team had been drilling into the ice to uncover the ice cores and the secrets they held, and the story that hadn’t been told for over seven million years. That’s when they came across it, packed between two ice layers like the fish in a monger’s window.
It promised to usher in a new era of Dr. Scott’s career, to the heights he hadn’t had since his heyday a decade earlier. The fossil was perfectly preserved, its jutting jaws perfect, its fins beautiful. He couldn’t have wished for a better specimen.
But it contained a secret, dark and sinister, that would wreak havoc upon the human race if untended. Dr. Scott felt a fresh wave of shivers, but these he had experienced before. The excitement of a question unanswered.
He turned to the row of drawers behind him and pulled the specimen out of its icy prison. It’d frozen to the container. Dr. Scott caught the tray before it fell to the floor. He gripped the tray and pulled the specimen out.
It was an ugly thing, a fish frozen during the Pliocene era. Its beauty was in its perfect preservation. Its flat stubby teeth would have been used to graze on underwater plant life, picking and chewing on the shoots – a world away from what the Antarctic was now. There was no way a creature such as this could survive in these waters today. Its ancestors would have either evolved to cope with their surroundings or moved on to warmer climes where green underwater vegetation still grew. Or they perished, unable to adapt quickly enough.
He looked at the dead eyes and said what he’d never said to any discovery he’d made before:
“I wish I’d never found you.”
Carl, one of his divers, had enough resin to make a new bubblehead figurine for him. He was a talented artist, and Dr. Scott had employed him largely because of this skill. The figurine featured a fish-like dolphin head, and stood up on its flippers. It was an excellent piece of work and fit in with the others. His final discovery. He smiled at the recognition he would receive, and then remembered he would be receiving it posthumously.
Dr. Scott approached the door, cast an eye over his office, his inner sanctum, and peered at all the little figures, his landmark discoveries dotted about the room. Each had a tag with a name attached to it. His final gift to friends and family. He shut the door on his past and turned to meet his future.
Duty or passion. Sometimes they were the same thing.
There, lying in a small puddle of blood on the floor, was a single tissue dabbed with blood, having fallen from Dr. Scott’s pocket. All the little figurines were staring at it, eyes wide and fearful.
It was the beginning.
Z-MINUS: 8 hours
Laurence M. Gould scythed through the shards of ice like a red-hot blade. The fragments made calming thudding noises on the hull. The air was cleaner than Hamish had ever experienced. In fact, it was too fresh. Hamish had to keep coughing to clear his lungs. He’d get the craving to suck on exhaust pipes before the week was out.
Captain Meadows was very hospitable, even offering his own cabin to the seasick Hamish, who clutched his stomach with every slight wayward movement. It had been rough coming out of Punta Arenas’ Chilean harbour, the sea lolling and ungainly. Now, the surface was calm and clear, not a ripple to be seen. Hamish still wanted to hurl.
They’d passed an island of sea lions on their journey. The creatures had looked up and watched as Laurence M. Gould passed, completely at ease, waiting for the stranger to leave their neighbourhood. It seemed a shame to ruin the calm tranquillity with Laurence M. Gould’s juddering engines.
Laurence M. Gould was clean and efficient, like its crew. He was a seventy-meter ice breaker, launched in 1997 and used by researchers from the United States’ National Science Foundation. There were two deckhands, Jerrol and Glyn. They moved with the smoothness of those who knew every intimate nook and cranny of their vessel. It only made Hamish feel even more like a spare.
He wasn’t the type to sit idly by while others did the work. It wasn’t in his nature. He’d asked if he could help. They asked him to tie a knot in the rigging, and after seeing his effort, they immediately redid it themselves and never accepted his help again. Some things were better left to the experts.
The clouds were reflected perfectly in the flat clear water below, and the white smudge on the horizon swelled as they pulled closer to the giant landmass until it stretched from one horizon to the other. It was cold, but no worse than the frigid temperatures he was used to on the east coast during the ‘winter vortex’ season.
Then some black smudges came into view, clear and vibrant against the white. They seemed at odds with the beautiful blanket of nature around them. The smudges became distinct, resolving into square blocks that clung unnaturally to the snow like limpets. It was Palmer Station, and it was going to be his home for the next two months.
Two months. Here. Hamish shook his head. He must have been mad to accept the position. He’d had a cushy summer deal in New York before he left. He was a research professor at Princeton. Instead of lounging on the beach somewhere like Tahiti, he was going to be here. In popsicle hell. But when the opportunity came up, he’d seized it with barely a moment of hesitation.
Ordinarily there would have been no physical contact with Palmer Station during the Winter Over, but the resident biologist Dr. Scott had passed away and they needed a hasty replacement. Hamish was that replacement. He’d been made the offer first – apparently he’d been Dr. Scott’s first choice. Hamish didn’t know he held him in such high regard. But Hamish was an excellent biologist, one of a handful fully capable of filling Dr. Scott’s shoes, but he was more of a theorist than a physical researcher. Hamish felt a little uneasy at the job description. Everyone in the science community would be judging him.
The captain brought Laurence M. Gould around in a wide circle, turning the engine off long before they reached the land. They coasted, silent and calm. The cold wind pressed against Hamish’s face, a breath of ice.
“Storm’s coming in,” Captain Meadows said.
“Now?” Hamish said.
“No,” Captain Meadows said. “Later. This afternoon, perhaps.”
Hamish looked up at the sky. Not a dark cloud in sight. He didn’t know how the captain could predict the weather with any level of certainty. There certainly wasn’t any high tech weather gear on board, but he supposed there was such a thing as instinct. Experts were able to make excellent judgements in their field of knowledge with very little time or information. It was called ‘thin slicing’, and it was something every man, woman and child in the world was exceptionally good at. They often couldn’t explain why they felt
the way they did, only that they did. It could leave a seemingly profound and deep meaning in their mind at times, but really it was merely the way the mind worked.
You often meet someone and get an instant impression, sometimes good, sometimes bad. It’s the setting of their eyes, the expression on their face. Something about their appearance tells the human mind not to trust this person, that there was something a little ‘off’ about him. It might be the look in his eye, or the way he pronounced a certain word, or the cut of his hair, but something tipped you off to not trust him. It was the kind of thing scam artists and conmen trained themselves to be adept at, to hide in plain sight and give the right clues. That was why, when it was revealed that the kindly old man at the end of the street who had always been quiet and kept to himself, was revealed to be a serial killer, it was always a shock. People assumed they should have picked up on it. And they would have, had the killer not been so adept at hiding. Being a serial killer required you to be exceptional at hiding. Your profession depended on it. Their habits and mannerisms gave them away if they weren’t careful, so they had to be vigilant at all times.
It had been a long journey to the Antarctic. Hamish had flown from JFK airport to Chile, and then taken Laurence M. Gould from the harbour. He hadn’t gotten much more than forty winks on the plane. Normally, he could have flown in from Chile on a charter plane, but it was the dead of winter, and there were strict rules of conduct concerning flight. It was so cold the fuel tank could freeze, and the plane would literally fall out of the sky. Hamish would have made a bad sailor, but an even worse pilot.
There was a second reason for not letting airplanes land on the Antarctic, and that was contamination control. All parties who conducted research were obligated not to dump their refuse outside for fear of contamination. No one could claim ownership of the Antarctic. It was for the whole human race. Everyone was there to research nature’s diversity and hidden depths. It was an international treasure, and it should not suffer the same fate as the rest of the world.
With shrinking government funding and a mass migration of marine experts out of the Antarctic, they were lucky to have anyone at all working at Palmer Station. Some of the world’s greatest scientists had worked there. Right now there was a skeleton crew to oversee experiments and carry out general maintenance during the Winter Over. They were meant to be undisturbed for the entirety of that period. But circumstances beyond their control had brought Hamish to them.
As Laurence M. Gould pulled up alongside the shore, Hamish made out a single figure waiting for him. He stood watching as the boat pulled up to the flimsy quay. As shipmate Glyn tied them up, a gangplank was lowered. The crew began unloading the freshies – fresh food and other supplies the occupants of Palmer Station had requested ahead of time. Might as well make the most of Laurence M. Gould if it was docking anyway.
Hamish and Captain Meadows walked down the plank onto the quay and met the waiting man. The man shook Hamish’s hand. He was tall, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes. He must have been cold, but he showed no signs of it. Hamish felt a shiver. It was colder than he thought. He wanted to put on a thicker coat, but didn’t want to appear less manly than those present.
“Welcome to Palmer Station,” the man said. “I’m sorry there aren’t more people to welcome you. They’re all busy with various tasks. You’ll meet them later.”
“It’s no problem,” Hamish said, though truth be told, he was hoping there would be more people here to meet him.
“I’m Daniel,” the waiting man said. “I am Dr. Scott’s assistant. Now, I’m also your assistant.”
Hamish looked the man over. This was the man he was going to have most contact with over the next couple months. He seemed friendly and approachable, and didn’t wear the same false smile many assistants did. It would be best if they got on well.
Hamish held out his hand and gave Daniel a warm winning smile.
“Nice to meet you, Daniel,” he said. “I’m Hamish.”
“I’ll take you for a tour around the facility in a moment,” Daniel said. “First I need to have a word with the captain, if you’ll excuse me.”
Captain Meadows was orchestrating his shipmates, making sure the garbage was safely stowed onboard. They would be heading back to Punta Arenas, Chile as soon as they could.
The captain removed his hat and held it between his hands at Daniel’s approach. He looked somber.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Captain Meadows said. “The professor was a good man.”
“A great man,” Daniel said. “But he’ll come back to us soon.”
Captain Meadows frowned.
“Come back?” he said. “I thought he passed away?”
“Dr. Scott sometimes goes on little forays like this,” Daniel said.
Captain Meadows looked Daniel over. Was he being serious?
“He’ll return to us when he’s good and ready,” Daniel said.
“As you say,” Captain Meadows said, putting his hat back on his head.
Daniel held up a package for the captain.
“What’s this?” Captain Meadows said.
“Just a few of Dr. Scott’s personal items,” Daniel said. “He wants it returned to his family. He wrote tags and attached them to the figurines before he left. I figure he wanted them sent out.”
“Are you sure?” Captain Meadows said. “If he’s going to come back maybe he had other plans for them.”
“Dr. Scott never did anything without a comprehensive plan,” Daniel said.
“Where do they live?” Captain Meadows said.
“All over the US,” Daniel said. “I’d be very grateful if you could see to them getting posted.”
“Posted?” Captain Meadows said.
He fingered the address on each package.
“Most of these are for New York,” he said. “New York is my old stomping ground. I’m heading there as soon as I get back to Punta Arenas. I can deliver them personally, if you like.”
Daniel smiled.
“Dr. Scott would appreciate that,” he said. “But some of the others are a little far.”
Captain Meadows reached into the bag and read the label of each package. The majority were due for New York. Two were for Chicago, another for LA. One for Charlotte, North Carolina.
“North Carolina,” Captain Meadows said with a smile. “My sister doesn’t live far from there. I was going to visit her anyway. I can drop it off on the way. I’ll just post the others.”
Laurence M. Gould was fully loaded, the crew standing by, ready to leave. The conversation had come to its natural conclusion. Daniel didn’t seem the type to want to continue a conversation if there was no purpose to it.
“Thank you,” Daniel said. He added perfunctorily: “Would you and your crew like a cup of coffee before you go?”
“No, thanks,” Captain Meadows said. “We should be getting back. Good luck with the rest of the season.”
He looked up at the sky.
“You’d better be careful,” he said. “Looks like it’s going to be a bad one.”
Hamish followed the captain’s look. There still weren’t any dark clouds. How could he still think there was going to be a large storm? Daniel nodded politely and waved Captain Meadows and his crew off.
The mooring line was cast off and Laurence M. Gould’s engines revved as he turned and took to sea. The water was clogged with floating clouds of ice that pushed back and forth toward the coast like it was breathing. Come the depths of winter those shards would reform and freeze up again, reattaching themselves to one of the largest ice cubes in the world. The Antarctic contained thirty million cubic kilometers of ice and ninety percent of the Earth’s fresh water.
Captain Meadows and his crew couldn’t resist casting a look back at the landscape. It was a balmy fourteen degrees, another stark reminder that the Antarctic was undergoing massive change. But Captain Meadows and his crews’ eyes weren’t focused on the beautiful rolling white dunes or the starched
white cliffs, but on the horizon, where the land met the sky. They could see something there that none of the others could.
Hamish was suddenly hit by how remote they were on this rock. There was no hub of civilization for hundreds of miles. They were alone. A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold. Hamish couldn’t describe why, but as Laurence M. Gould pulled away, he found he wished he was onboard too.
Z-MINUS: 7 hours 2 minutes
“Captain Meadows said something about a storm,” Hamish said.
“The captain always says something about a storm,” Daniel said. “Sailors always assume the worst. But it rarely happens.”
“So there isn’t going to be a storm?” Hamish said.
“I didn’t say that,” Daniel said.
He bent down to pick up a box of supplies.
“Are you hungry?” Daniel said.
“Starving,” Hamish said. “All we ate onboard was what we could catch on the way here. It was pretty slim pickings.”
“It won’t be much better over the next couple months,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “Locked away here with the minimum of supplies and strict regulations.”
“You make it sound like a prison sentence,” Hamish said.
“Isn’t it?” Daniel said.
“You’re really filling me with confidence,” Hamish said.
“How about some coffee and eggs?” Daniel said.
Hamish smiled and licked his lips.
“Now you’re talking,” he said.
“Thinking with your stomach,” Daniel said with a grin. “You’re one of us already. Come on, give me a hand with the freshies. The others will fall in love with you if they associate you as the bringer of food.”
The others will fall in love with you. Hamish didn’t need them all to love him. Only one.
He picked up the second box of supplies and carried them toward the main building. An American flag hung limply on a pole. Hamish knew how it felt.