Ices end, p.4
Ice's End, page 4
“Whereas it has been represented to us that the science of magnetism may be essentially improved by an extensive series of observations—” Yule listened as the Earl instructed the Erebus and Terror to meander south down the Atlantic and east toward Australia, stopping to survey coasts, collect mineral, animal and botanical specimens, and take the all-important magnetic measurements at several ports and islands along the way. Yule smiled at the mention of one of these stops: Kerguelen Island, the knob of ice and rock Cook had found far southeast of Cape Town, where so many of Yule’s hopes now lay.
His smile faded when the Earl instructed them to sail south from Van Dieman’s Land, the island just below Australia. “—in order to determine the position of the magnetic pole, and even to attain it, if possible, which it is hoped to be one of the most remarkable and creditable results of this expedition. However,” the Earl continued, “you are to use your best endeavors to withdraw from the high latitudes in time to prevent the ships being beset with ice.”
Yule forgot the late-summer heat, and his own hopes for this voyage. Cook had been the first to venture below the Antarctic Circle, sixty-six degrees of latitude south, more than sixty years before. He had returned telling of icebergs higher and longer than any seen in the Arctic—but also insisting that the mythical southern continent, Terra Australis, could only be a myth. Yet, many still believed. The sealers and whalers who followed in Cook’s wake had found many islands south of Tierra del Fuego—and glimpsed peaks and coastlines on the horizon. Was this a southern continent? Had Cook been wrong? None had dared to investigate. Once a ship filled its hull with seal pelts or whale oil, it left to escape the horrors of a southern winter.
Yule’s captain had just been tasked with avoiding those hazards—but also with finding the South Magnetic Pole. Yule wondered which order Ross valued more.
The Earl’s next instruction turned Yule from that dark thought back to his hopes for this voyage. He told the crews that, “in the event of England being involved with any other power during your absence, you are clearly to understand that you are not to commit any hostile act whatever.” This voyage promised none of the great sea fights that had built careers like his father’s, no chance for more of the prize money that had paid for him to learn navigation at the Upper School of Greenwich. No matter, Yule had a different plan for advancement and wealth at sea, and it lay at their ship’s scheduled stop in the Kerguelens—and in a years-old letter at the bottom of his trunk.
“On your return to England,” the Earl continued, “you are forthwith to repair to this office in order to lay before us a full account of your proceedings, taking care before you leave the ship to demand from the officers the logs and journals they had kept, and the charts, drawings, and observations which they had made and which are all to be sealed up.”
Yule and First Master Tucker would collect many of those observations. They would use the latest theodolites and sextants to survey each port in their angle-books. They would fill their remark-books with depth soundings and details of life at sea. All of this would let the Hydrographic Office update its charts and maps of these locales upon the expedition’s return to England.
Yule thought that was the end of it, but the Earl had one final order. “You are to endeavor to preserve all such specimens of the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms as in the course of the voyage may have been collected by any person on board either of the ships.”
With that, the Earl closed the letter. “Do you accept, Captain Ross?”
“Aye, my Lord.” Ross saluted. The Earl handed Ross his instructions. “Then may Providence guide your voyage.” The official ceremony had ended, and the Earl shook Ross’s hand. “Godspeed.”
With the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty departed, and each ship’s chart-box delivered, Yule had no further duties for the day. He headed into town for a few bottles of Madeira; after all, a long voyage lay ahead. He passed two dockhands near the base of the gangway.
“Think they’ll make it?” he heard one ask. “The South Magnetic Pole.”
“Wouldn’t bet on it, no matter how many mouthfuls of rum they toss overboard. Heard plenty o’ nightmares about those parts.”
“Such as?” asked the first hand. Yule slowed his pace to eavesdrop.
“Well, there was a chap at the pub once—a sealer,” the second dockhand continued. “Way he put it was, ‘Below forty degrees south there is no law. Below fifty degrees there is no God.’”
Chapter 5
Ross Sea Coast
Antarctica
May 2123
Roscoe’s withdrawal headache throbbed all through his first day. It started soon after he opened a whaling captain’s log and began deciphering the first paragraph of nineteenth-century cursive. By the time he checked the text against the list of data and keywords, he understood why the Equation favored humans for this job.
At least there didn’t seem to be any hurry. When Roscoe peeked over at Karla, he saw his boss smiling to herself, flipping through the papers, and typing away.
Whatever she had pulled from the stacks must have been more engaging than the three hundred pages of weather reports this captain had dutifully noted—and slain whales he had tallied—in his log. He had decoded about thirty pages by mid-afternoon when other withdrawal symptoms—homesickness and drowsiness—joined his headache. He’d process a few sentences, enter any requested details—dates, depths, coordinates, weather, and ice observations—and then his eyelids and neck would droop. The old cursive would blur into visions of his parents scrutinizing his latest Q-CAT scores, or of scrolling through photos of life on Lagrange-2. Each time, he’d jolt himself awake and tell himself, You’re it, focus! He finally snapped out of the cycle when Karla’s footsteps approached his desk around five o’clock. If she noticed him nodding off, she didn’t say anything.
“Pretty exciting, right?” Karla’s accent made it hard for Roscoe to tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. “Good work today. See you tomorrow.”
T T T
As Roscoe stumbled into the tunnel, rubbing his eyes, his wristband buzzed with a new message. Jen Doil, one of the head interns, had just sent a message to him and four others. Hamza was one of them, along with Ana, Darren, and Kevin from the voyage down. He stopped to read the message:
Hello interns! Hope everyone’s first day went well. Welcome to my intern cohort. Intern orientation group meeting over dinner at 1800. Galley, table B1. I’ll be taking attendance!
For a moment, Roscoe considered skipping, but then he remembered that Jen had gone to Granite Gorge and might know he was a compounder. He’d be wise to stay on her good side, so he headed to the galley. The tunnels were bustling with rush-hour traffic, but he noticed everyone looked about as lifeless as he felt. He didn’t see a smile until Jen flashed him one from the table.
“Hey Roscoe, how’d your first day go?”
He forced a smile back. “Pretty well. No complaints so far.”
“That’s great! Go grab a bite and come on back.”
Roscoe headed to the serving counter and filled a tray with StemSteak, quinoa pilaf, and some kind of pickled cabbage that didn’t look very tasty under the galley’s lamps. One more reason to get off-world, Roscoe told himself as he headed back to the table.
Jen started talking as he ate. “All right, now that we’re all here, let’s get down to business.” She pecked the screen projecting from her wristband, and read a list of bullet points in a monotone. “Welcome aboard, we’re honored to have you with us as we supply the world with life’s necessities. Our mission is important, so it’s vital we catch problems early, yada yada yada.” She pinched the screen away, leaned in, and lowered her voice. “Okay, now that that’s over with, let’s go to Newloon.”
“Newloon?” Ana asked mid-chew, covering her mouth with one hand. She swallowed and wiped her mouth with a napkin before adding, “What’s that?”
“The non-StarCross settlement up the coast. You can get everything there that you can’t get here.”
Roscoe rubbed his temple. The name “Newloon” sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Then he glanced at Hamza, whose expression mirrored his own: compound.
Hamza hesitated for a moment before speaking, his voice cautious. “We can go there?”
Jen leaned back, smiled, and tightened her ponytail. “The rules say we can’t, but it’s a short and easy drive and we can borrow a ride from Motor Pool anytime. They won’t ask questions.”
“You’re sure we won’t get in trouble?” Hamza pressed, the concern lingering in his voice.
“We won’t. Jahnford belongs to a church that makes him ban fun in here.” Roscoe thought back to the separate gender tunnels. “But he can’t keep us happy with just those T3 pills. If people didn’t have a place to buy drugs and booze, and a cheap motel to have one-night stands, half of Spigot would go insane, and the water supply could get interrupted.” She recoiled in mock horror. “Then, he’d really have some explaining to do. The governments that buy water from us might actually be able to exercise some of their rights under the Updated Terms of Service. Can’t have that.”
Roscoe figured the three new interns were wondering the same things he and Hamza were. Was compound available there? If any of them were compounders, would Jen rat them out for buying? Was this some kind of sting?
Jen stood up. “Believe me, this is as much for me as it is for you guys. I’ve gone way too long without a beer.” One by one, they rose and followed her out.
Jen led them to Spigot’s foyer: a rock portal with a row of turnstiles and security desks. Out front, a large sign with white letters on a red background caught their attention.
ATTENTION!
YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER ONE OF THE MOST DANGEROUS ENVIRONMENTS ON EARTH
READ CAREFULLY BEFORE PROCEEDING
Winter weather conditions on the Ross Sea Coast can cause frostbite, hypothermia, and death within hours if not minutes. Between May and September, Spigot employees and Residents may not exit the settlement without completing the following safety protocols:
Log the journey, its purpose, expected route, expected return time, and all participants’ names with StarCross Security prior to departure.
Don a Spigot-issued survival suit. ENSURE IT IS PROPERLY ADJUSTED AND LOCATOR BEACON IS ACTIVATED.
Only carry personal belongings in a Spigot-issued backpack.
Only deviate from journey plans if able to contact and inform StarCross Security.
Check-in with StarCross Security upon return.FAILURE TO FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS MAY RESULT IN DEATH. STARCROSS RESERVES THE RIGHT TO BLACKLIST ANY SURVIVORS AND THEIR IMMEDIATE FAMILIES.
Roscoe didn’t shudder until he read that last line. Blacklisting meant getting banned from working with StarCross, receiving or selling WECs or RECs, or living on StarCross properties. It would leave someone—and their family—stranded on Earth, scratching out a life on the edge of everything StarCross offered, permanently. That threat gave StarCross’s unarmored water trucks all the protection they needed as they plied the roads around Roscoe’s home.
So far, StarCross hadn’t blacklisted compounders, though it had barred academies from accepting new ones. And here Roscoe was, about to tempt that fate.
The other new interns hesitated in front of the sign as well, but Jen strode up to one of the security desks and smiled at the agent on duty. “Hey, Joi.”
“Hey, Jen. Taking the new interns on their first driving course?” Joi answered back with a wink.
Jen returned the wink. “You know it. Standard route, up to Lake Bonney and back. We’ll be back by midnight.”
“Sounds good. I’m sure all your beacons will show that route,” Joi said with a smirk. “Suits are in the first six lockers on the right. I’ll have Motor Pool send a track up.”
With that, Jen led them through the turnstiles and into the cave, where long rows of benches were positioned between rows of shoulder-high lockers. Jen opened one on the right.
Inside the nearest locker, Roscoe found a pair of boots and a hooded jumpsuit made of heavy, bright red fabric. At least it’s not a submarine suit, he thought as he unzipped the seam and finagled his legs into the suit.
“What did you tell the girl at the desk?” he asked Jen, who donned her suit in a few quick steps and stretches.
“Oh, that’s just the standard cover for trips to Newloon. Joi and I started in the same internship class. When she finished, she joined StarCross Security. She knows what’s up. She’ll load a decoy trip into the system, so it looks like our beacons are taking the route I gave her.”
“Aren’t you worried about … blacklisting?”
“Relax, it’s not gonna happen. Jahnford has to talk tough about safety protocols to keep StarCross happy, but like I said, both he and StarCross know he’s got to let people have nights out.”
Hamza, Darren, Ana, and Kevin all stopped wrestling with their suits’ sleeves and zippers long enough to shoot Jen a skeptical look.
“And besides,” Jen said, clearly unfazed as she zipped her front up, “Spigot cribbed most of its safety protocols from the old research stations years ago and hasn’t updated them since. It’s not so bad out there nowadays.”
Roscoe felt his wristband’s hooks snag on something and saw the band had aligned with a clear plastic window in his suit’s sleeve. When he tapped it, its screen projected as normal. Having figured out what those hooks did, Roscoe tightened his suit’s straps as much as he could. The fabric bunched up awkwardly to fit his stunted frame, making him sweat as they shuffled toward the exit.
The cave ended at a black metal wall with a low door marked “Tracked Vehicle Pickup.” Jen led them into another cave, and for the second time in his life, Roscoe felt cold—the temperature dropped fifty degrees as they stepped through the door. No longer sweating, Roscoe and the other interns hurriedly pulled up hoods and adjusted their goggles. Jen, unfazed, grinned. “Welcome to the South, fingies.”
Someone looked at her through goggles. “Fingies?”
“Old Antarctic station slang—fucking new guys. Said with great affection.”
The foyer was just a one-lane tunnel segment. Metal doors opened at one end, and a Spigot Motor Pool staffer drove in with their ride—what Jen had called a “track.” It resembled the Humvees Roscoe had seen in old war movies, but it was longer, painted the same bright orange as their suits, and marked with Spigot’s droplet logo on the side door. Instead of wheels, it had wide triangular treads.
The Motor Pool worker got out and left the keys in the ignition. “Keep your suits zipped up, gang,” Jen said, adjusting her goggles as they climbed in. “Tradition is to drive out the first time with the windows open.” Darren and Kevin got in the back row. Hamza and Ana took the middle. Roscoe was bringing up the rear, so he sat up front with Jen, who hit the accelerator as soon as he closed the door. The tunnel sloped upward, then spat them out into the Antarctic night.
Roscoe quickly realized he hadn’t properly adjusted his suit. His thighs and armpits went numb as cold leaked through the loosened straps. The wind knifed into the gaps around his goggles and facemask, and the freezing air shot up his nostrils, chilling his brain cavity and stoking a withdrawal headache. His lungs burned from the dry Antarctic air, and the ache in his scabbed left wrist returned.
He doubled over, trying to spare his face from the cold and to tighten his suit’s straps; everyone else was doing the same. Jen soon took pity on them and closed the windows. She laughed as she pulled off her hood and goggles. “Like I said, welcome to Antarctica. You’re not fingies anymore.”
It still felt cold with the windows up, but at least breathing didn’t hurt. The red searchlight dipped behind a berm and out of sight. The windows went dark. Roscoe was surprised that night had fallen so early in May, then remembered this was Antarctica, where night lasted from April to August. The windshield showed a brown path with two shallow ruts as wide as the track’s treads. Small signal flags, like the ones around the overgrown golf course at Granite Gorge, marked off the route every few yards. Roscoe could make out alternating streaks of ice and rock to their left, angling upward. This road ran along a hillside.
“Anyway, guess we should introduce ourselves,” Jen said, giving Roscoe a slap on the shoulder. “I already know Roscoe. He’s a Gorgie like me, so he’ll have a leg up in the Leadership Training Program. And rumor has it someone off-world’s got executive positions reserved just for Georgies sent down to Spigot.”
Roscoe’s mouth barely opened to form a “What?” before Jen said, “just kidding,” and flashed a grin. “No Exec or Resident’s wasting their favors on a bunch of kids from the boonies. We’ve gotta earn our way up like everyone else.”
Roscoe didn’t want Jen asking more questions—questions that might force him to divulge his senior capstone topic, or who in his class had gotten off-world, or, God forbid, that might reveal him to be a compounder. So he turned the questioning back on Jen. “Where in the area were you from? I was outside Scranton.”
“Moved around a lot,” she said hurriedly, then glanced at the rearview mirror. “Hamza, tell us about yourself.”
“Hi, everyone. I’m from Hobart in Tasmania. Went to an academy there. Working in Surveying.”
“Nice!” Jen said. “Don’t think I’ve met any Aussies down here yet.”
