The Last Outpost

by Hannah Ross

  The fish were small and didn't take too long to cook. Soon, Ki Tahan took a stack of clay bowls down off a shelf, filled them with fish stew, and handed them round - the largest bowl for Lindholm, the smallest for her son. Each of them also got an ivory spoon, the handle of which was carved with overlapping geometrical patterns. The bowls, though unglazed, were beautifully made. Every article in this house, no matter how small, was the product of hands hardworking and skillful, aiming for both beauty and utility.

  Scott put a spoonful of stew into his mouth. It was very good, thickened with what looked and tasted like bits of some kind of starchy root. The fish, as far as he could judge, were freshwater, and this was a pleasant change, for he got nothing but mackerel and salmon and cod since he left Wisconsin. He noticed Ki Tahan looking at him, as if waiting for his reaction, and nodded his grateful approval.

  "These fish, they are very good," he said.

  "Easy to catch," said Ri Omrek. "I can teach. I show Anders how to catch with spear - remember, Anders?"

  Lindholm nodded. "Easy enough even for an old geezer like me."

  "I'd love to learn," Scott said, hardly aware of his own words. He felt as if he had somehow stepped into a scientist's paradise. The valley of the Anai could surely provide learning material for a lifetime.

  "This, I fear, is the last time for me to sit and eat one of your stews, Ki Tahan," Lindholm said, setting his spoon down regretfully. "A ship will soon come to take me home. I came today to say goodbye."

  It took a moment for the impact of his words to sink in. Ki Tahan and her brother exchanged a concerned glance. The little boy, oblivious, set his empty bowl aside, climbed upon his mother's bed and reached for his ivory-carved toys.

  "You... going away, Anders?" Ki Tahan frowned. "To your home land beyond the Great Sea?"

  He nodded.

  "This is sad. You are friend, and will be missed. But... you going away, never come back?"

  "I don't think so," Lindholm said gently.

  "But what of your village here, across the Frozen Bay?"

  "Scott here will take my place. He is a good man, will be a friend to you," Lindholm said.

  Ri Omrek looked at Scott as if attempting to read his face. "He is good man, I am sure," he said, "but... it is still sad you go away, Anders. I am happy you go to see your home, still. You miss home, yes?"

  "Yes," Lindholm said, "my children are there. I am old, and home is calling more strongly than ever before."

  Ki Tahan laid a hand on the old man's shoulder. "We never forget you," she said.

  Sitting upon the comfortable stool in this strange and beautiful little dwelling, Scott was hardly aware of the passage of time, but Lindholm, checking his watch, brought him back to reality and pointed out that the pilot will be expecting them soon. It was time to say goodbye to Ki Tahan and Ri Omrek who, with many good wishes and kind words, walked with them to the edge of the valley. Ri Omrek then surprised old Lindholm by embracing him, and Ki Tahan took off an ivory pendant hanging on a leather strap from her neck and gave it to the old man. The pendant was beautifully carved in the form of a seal, lifelike and made in intricate detail.

  "Ki Tahan, this is too much," Lindholm feebly protested.

  "Not much. My father make this. I want you to have it, to remember me by."

  In a gesture of affection, she grasped the old man's arm. Lindholm blinked rather rapidly, took the pendant, put it into one of his pockets, and zipped it up. "Farewell, my friends," he said. "I am grateful for having known you."

  In silence, Scott and Lindholm ascended the steep trail. When they were about halfway up, Lindholm stopped, turned around, and laid a hand on Scott's shoulder. "This is why I brought you here today," he said. "So you could see the Anai. Saying goodbye to them is the most painful part about leaving Antarctica. I am more than fascinated with them, I have grown to love them... and I'm sure you will, too. Watch over them, and make sure no greedy person oversteps their boundaries and disrupts their peace. I will make sure you know whom to inform if something like that happens."

  Scott frowned. "You sound as if you are speaking from experience."

  Lindholm chose to ignore this comment. "Above all, remember - this is top secret information. You are not to divulge it to anyone. It is in the agreement you had signed."

  "Who else at McMurdo knows about them?"

  "A special team of researchers - I will give you the list of names when we get back and can sit undisturbed in my office for a while. Stanley and another pilot. And Victor Nash," Lindholm added as an afterthought. Scott wasn't sure whether he imagined this, but he thought he heard a note of faint disapproval in Lindholm's voice.

  "I understand."

  "As the overseer, you will get access to the classified library section that contains all the research done on the Anai. You will find some very interesting reading there, I am sure. Oh, and you will have clearance to return to the valley when you choose, but try not to make your visits too frequent or conspicuous – you don't want to draw undue attention to Camp AN-85. And now," Lindholm checked his watch again, "let's hurry so that we can get back to McMurdo in good time."

  Chapter 6

  Scott was astonished at how familiar and mundane McMurdo station seemed when they stepped off the chopper. Though he had only arrived the day before, and though he had yet to memorize all the paths to the various buildings, along with the numbers and functions of the latter, it all seemed commonplace, threadbare compared to the Anai valley. McMurdo and Madison, Wisconsin, though far apart, were on the same planet. The Anai belonged to quite another.

  "Well, Buck," Lindholm turned to him as soon as they were down upon the ground again, "now it's time for everyday grind. Tomorrow morning I expect you at my - that is, soon to be your - office, and Victor and I will start briefing you on all the practical aspects of your job. And now, good evening to you. I suggest you take your dinner at the galley and make an early night of it. As for me, I'm going to grab a couple of sandwiches from the vending machine and spend the rest of the evening doing some more packing."

  Neither of them mentioned another word about the Anai, but there was a new sense of comradeship and understanding in the nods of the two men as they both went their separate ways.

  It was 6 PM by now, and the galley was packed with diners. Scott picked up his tray and was hovering by the serving stations when he heard a voice behind his back.

  "I don't recommend the Thai Shrimp Curry. Just a hint: I have no idea what they put in it, but it doesn't have much to do with shrimps."

  It was Jerry Gordon. Scott smiled, thanked him, and settled for plain but safe chicken with roast potatoes and salad. The two sat together at one of the small round tables, and Jerry pulled out a napkin. "A beer," he said wistfully and confidentially. "A nice cold beer with dinner would slip down so nicely, and it wouldn't hurt anyone. But no, a guy has to go to that crummy little bar for a drink, or bring a six-pack to his own room."

  "I'm not a big drinker," Scott confessed.

  "Neither am I. I mean, none of us can compare to Lindholm and his Aquavit - we all know he takes a nip about once an hour on the job, right? Not that anyone can complain about how Old Lindholm runs the show. He's tough as a hardwood board, and taking his place will be quite a challenge, Aquavit or no. Anyway, I'm just talking about decompressing. Relaxing, you know?"

  The two noticed Zoe, who passed by carrying her dinner tray, accompanied by a dumpy little woman with thick round glasses. Zoe waved and Scott waved back, and he was mildly surprised when Jerry ducked his head, as if searching for a fallen fork, until the two ladies had passed.

  "That's Heather Milton," Jerry explained when the women were out of earshot. "She's a nurse at the hospital. She has tried to make advances at me a little while ago, but I'm not that desperate yet."

  "She isn't that bad-looking," Scott observed.

  "It's not that. You can't get too picky here, and not everyone gets a nice-looking girl like Zoe. But Heather, she's a chatt
erbox. An hour in her company, and you can't stop your ears from buzzing. So... tell me – you went out in the chopper with Lindholm today?"

  Scott nodded, and hurriedly took another bite of chicken to give himself an excuse to chew rather than talk.

  "That's what I heard through the grapevine, and it left me curious. You went to the AN-85, didn't you? Not far from here, but I've never been to the area. Approach is forbidden to all but a handful of people, they say. I wonder why."

  "There's some... classified research going on. They don't want people to disrupt the, er, biological balance."

  "Ah, another place with some million-year-old amoebas, then," Jerry said, an expression of mingled understanding and disappointment upon his face. "But why take you there? And on your first day on the job, too?"

  "Lindholm decided it's a necessary part of my briefing. He wants me to do some... some updates on safety regulations," Scott invented wildly.

  Jerry didn't seem to notice his confusion. He stifled a yawn of boredom. "Ah, I see. Safety regulations, yadda yadda... as if we don't have enough rules around the place controlling how we breathe. Well, I'm about done here. It's too early to go to sleep, and I'm not in the mood for TV or the club. I think I'm going to check on the greenhouse once more before I turn in. You wanna come?"

  Scott had no objection, and the two of them made their way across the station to a plain dark building, which hardly looked like the greenhouses he was familiar with.

  "No glass panes," Jerry explained. "With the local light patterns, this wouldn't make sense. In winter, it's one long night, of course - and during the summer, it's way too much light. Plants need light to grow and develop, but they also need dark to breathe. Otherwise they get tired."

  The greenhouse was flooded with artificial light. It was rather small, but every square inch of space was made the most of. The place was a veritable jungle of tomato plans, peppers and climbing beans. There were small forests of lettuce in every imaginable variety, tiny radishes just poking out of their beds, and even small fruit trees in containers.

  "Everything grows in a hydroponic solution or an artificial growth mix," Jerry said. "One can't import soil to Antarctica, you know, even for potted plants, because some microorganisms can supposedly escape to the local soil and compete with the local species. The Antarctic Conservation Act," he rolled his eyes. "Baloney, I call it. What imported microbe would survive in the frozen wasteland out there?"

  "The place looks wonderful," Scott complimented him. Indeed, the contrast between the dry and frozen landscape outside, all austere and rocky and white and grey and black, and the lush greenery within, was fantastic. Jerry looked gratified.

  "Thanks," he said. "I'm kind of proud of doing all the work here myself. The plants grow well, though I can't get the humidity above 20% no matter how hard I try. This is without a doubt the greenest place in Antarctica."

  Scott suppressed a smile as he thought of the lush, hospitable, warm valley he had visited that day, with its geysers and grasses and mosses, and its strange and fascinating people. He merely nodded and followed Jerry to a tiny corner where the latter had carved out a space for a couple of hammocks and garden chairs.

  "For people who like to relax in a green atmosphere," he explained. He pulled one of the chairs aside, revealing a little refrigerator, pulled out a couple of beers, knocked the caps off them, and offered one to Scott.

  "Some fancy New Zealand brew," he said, eyeing the label with mistrust. "Came in the last shipment. I'd rather have a plain old Heineken, but this isn't too bad."

  It was extremely pleasant to sway in the hammock among the lush green plants, sipping a cold beer. The greenhouse was warm, and the two soon cast aside their parkas and sweaters. "You know," Jerry observed, "I often wonder how crazy I am, working here. In my heart, I'm nothing but a gardener. I could go home, and I could roll real earth between my fingers, and grow plants in the open air. There's really no reason for me to be here. Yet I stay at McMurdo year after year."

  "There's something about the place," Scott said. "It's so... detached."

  "Yeah. Sometimes I almost forget there's a world beyond this station. One does after a time, you know. I used to chat with my mom every day. Now she's lucky to get a sign of life from me once a month. And I hardly ever watch the news anymore."

  "Nothing very cheering to see there."

  "You bet! Have you heard the latest news? The European Union is all torn to shreds, and it looks like Europe is about to be divided into two war camps, north and south. For the life of me I have no idea what all those little countries have to fight about."

  Scott shook his head. "Neither do I. How can humans be so stupid as to waste time and resources on war? I'm glad I'm not a soldier."

  Jerry grinned, draining the last of his beer. "In a way," he said, "you are. We all are."

  ***

  Around 9 PM, after the two had shared another beer and a bag of chips, Jerry yawned and declared he's ready to turn in. Scott walked with him part of the way, but said he isn't tired yet, and would rather take another turn around the station.

  "It's the light," Jerry said. Indeed, though so late, it was barely twilight, and the snow contributed to the brightness outside. "You'll feel sleepy if you pull down the blinds and go to bed."

  "I'll do that in a little while," Scott said.

  He headed for the library, and though it was long closed for the night, he gained access to the building and the classified section by scanning his card. His heart suddenly all aflutter, he used the computer to look through the section, and soon located the research done on the Anai over the years. There was a considerable volume of material, but most of it was purely technical - the structure of their clothes, tools and houses, their outward appearance, their social customs. It was all fascinating in its way, but there was very little that probed into the great mystery of their existence.

  According to the findings of the researchers, the Anai civilization was very ancient, dating back at least eight hundred years and possibly more, though nobody dared to estimate at which point in history they had come to Antarctica, and from where. The nearest populated land was New Zealand, but the Anai bore absolutely no resemblance to New Zealand natives in their looks, genetic material or language. Their language, indeed, was a puzzle in its own, and Scott spent an hour looking through the one grammar guide that was written on it. The structure of the Anai language had nothing in common with any other language group on earth, though its agglutinative nature suggested a faint resemblance to the Ugro-Finnic group - further connection, however, was refuted by other elements of the grammar structure. The vocabulary was extensive and, as the author of the grammar guide confessed, barely touched upon. There was also a written language, a complex combination of hieroglyphs, symbols and runes, which no researcher had obtained satisfactory knowledge of so far. The Anai were a separate race and culture, a drop of humanity in its purest form.

  Scott closed his eyes and sat like that for a while, and the images of the valley came flooding back to him. The uniqueness of its nature was irresistible. The simple stone dwellings breathed repose and harmony, and the people looked, though he hated to think in these terms, as belonging to a superior race. He approached them not with the fascination of a researcher bending over a fine specimen in his laboratory, but with the simple admiration and humility of someone prepared and eager to learn.

  He thought of Ki Tahan, of the beauty and dignity that evoked respect in every move and feature, and wondered at her past, and at the fate of her child's father. His brief observation of the one or two valley families, as well as the research materials he had just read, told him that the Anai basic family structure was nuclear, with a mother and father raising their children in a monogamous marriage. Ki Tahan, therefore, must have had a husband. What happened to him?

  He got up and carefully filed all the papers on the Anai back into place. These gave him dry information, but not the knowledge he sought. The latter could only be obtaine
d in one manner – in going back to the valley. From now on, he realized, the place would pull him like a magnet. He would always want to go there again.

  ***

  Come morning, he had to put the Anai from his mind for a while, as his regular duties made demands on him. After a quick breakfast, he presented himself at Lindholm's office, and spent the morning holed up inside with Lindholm and Nash, observing them at work and, occasionally, taking Lindholm's place, as he would soon be expected to do full-time.

  "There are delays with some of the shipments," Nash reported. "Europe is in turmoil, so canned salmon from Norway will not be making its way to New Zealand anytime soon."

  "We'll do without canned salmon," Lindholm said, "but I'd like to know what the world is about. Some of my relatives in the Old Country are thinking of emigrating to the States, but visas are hard to obtain." By Old Country, Scott realized he meant Sweden.

  "Maybe we should order extras of anything we can get right now," Scott put in to his own surprise. "Just in case there are shortages of other things later on. Not just food, either. Medicines and supplies for the hospital, fuel... anything we can think of."

  "What's that, some sort of doomsday prep strategy?" Victor Nash spoke up. He sounded condescending.

  "No, no, Victor, my boy," Lindholm said. "Buck is right. These are unstable times, and though almost anything is obtainable if you have enough money, prices are rising. That Norwegian salmon, I could have ordered it by way of China, but I'm not prepared to shell out the dough."

  "The hospital is overstocked as it is," Nash argued. "Many medicines are past their due date. As for fuel, there are the wind turbines, and in winter our energy needs drop anyway, because the population is less than a quarter of what it is now."