Ices end, p.7
Ice's End, page 7
With his last spark of energy, Roscoe tapped out a quick message—just enough to let her know he’d made it back without revealing anything: Hey Jen, thanks for the driving lesson! Made it back to my room okay. See you around!
Having done all he could, Roscoe grabbed the survival suit off the floor and headed for the laundry chute. As he walked, he felt something in the inside pocket, reached inside, and pulled out the pamphlet he’d been given earlier. Smoothing the creased paper under his room’s reading light, he saw a bizarre symbol—a crucifix, inside an atomic bomb’s mushroom cloud, inside the outline of Antarctica—and a single boldface paragraph:
THE CHURCH OF THE REVELATORS
As Revelators, we know that God is gathering His true believers in Antarctica so that they can cleanse the world of all non-believers with the mighty power of nuclear weapons. We have dedicated our lives to this goal—and will dedicate our deaths if necessary, for we know that God will reward those who make His Cleansing Fire a reality.
HELP US PREPARE FOR THE CLEANSING FIRE! JOIN A CONGREGATION TODAY!
Roscoe crumpled the pamphlet and tossed it in the trash, figuring he’d be a Resident before he went to one of those services, then threw his suit down the laundry chute. Climbing into his bunk, he reminded himself to check in with Hamza. After all, Jen was a head intern—and if she knew they were compounders, they had better stay on her good side.
Chapter 6
H.M.S. Erebus
English Channel
October 1839
The expedition took twenty days to leave England. The Admiralty had arranged several stops for the interested public along the Medway and the Channel. The officers soon grew weary of hearing of the exotic ports where they would call, and the terrors they would face in the Antarctic seas to bring glory to Her Majesty and enlightenment to Her subjects. For Yule and Tucker, only the task of calibrating their sextants, sounding-lines, and other instruments while still in familiar waters broke the tedium.
Finally, though, Lizard Point—the knob of rock at England’s southernmost tip—slipped below the horizon. With Erebus now in deep water, Yule had time for a proper meal.
Like the other officers, he messed in the wardroom, a space just fore of the captain’s Great Cabin on the lower deck, barely large enough for two men to sit and dine. The ship’s officers ate when their duties allowed. Yule had been so busy guiding the ship into open ocean that this was his first chance to meet his messmate since leaving Chatham.
“Joseph Dalton Hooker, at your service,” the assistant surgeon said when Yule entered, rising from the table to shake his hand.
“Henry Braddick Yule, much obliged,” Yule replied, placing a bottle of wine on the table. “Would you care for some Madeira?” he asked. “Bought it in Chatham.”
“It’s not Madeira,” Hooker said, “but if you’re offering, I’ll take it.”
“Beg pardon?” Yule handed Hooker the bottle to let him read the label. “This is Miles Seco. Best Madeira there is.” Yule guessed that the young surgeon knew little of Iberian wine varieties.
“Regardless of what the label says, the cork tells a different tale,” Hooker countered, pointing the neck of the bottle toward Yule. “See how light the cork is? How fresh it looks?”
“Aye.”
“No cork trees grow on the island of Madeira. Any wines produced there must be bottled with secondhand corks. True Madeira would have a much more worn, dark cork.”
Yule maintained a smile. “How about a taste test, then? Let’s see who’s right.”
“Certainly, although the taste may be too close to call. I’m sure only a close approximation of Madeira could be passed off as such to Royal Navy officers.”
Yule wondered if Hooker meant that as a slight, or if he truly did not know any better. He said nothing as he poured them each a glass, then took a sip.
As soon as the wine touched his tongue, Yule knew Hooker was right—it wasn’t Madeira. The taste was close, but something was off—something Yule couldn’t quite put into words and might have missed entirely had Hooker not sharpened his senses.
“You’re—you’re right. Well done.”
Hooker blushed. “As I said, I’m sure only a very close approximation could deceive such an experienced officer.” Yule again wondered if he spoke with sarcasm. “What variety would you say it is?” Hooker asked. “Port?”
“It must be. The only other wine produced in that part of the world.”
“I wouldn’t know. Father seldom allowed me wine. Even as he worked to place me aboard this voyage to the Antarctic, he guarded my sobriety.” Hooker chuckled. “First time he can’t. May I have some more?”
Yule refilled his glass, then watched this young surgeon empty it and his plate of mutton in minutes. Yule felt a stab of pity for the sailors who might go under his saw. “Well, I think I shall return to my treatises. May I have the cork?” he asked. “I may want to examine it under the microscope. Perhaps the shape of its cork cells will reveal its true origin.”
“The ship’s microscope has been readied for use?” Yule asked, handing Hooker the cork.
“Oh, yes, Ross has already seen to its assembly in the Great Cabin. He shows great interest in the natural sciences—we are lucky to have him as our Captain.” Hooker rose and left without another word.
Yule went to the upper deck, leaned over the aft gunwale, and watched the ship’s wake vanish into the darkness. At twenty-three, Hooker was just four years younger than him, yet somehow he made Yule feel long past his prime. Ross had a similar effect—he had been only four years older than Yule when he planted Britain’s flag at the North Magnetic Pole. Now, at twenty-seven, Yule had no delusions of making such conquests himself—only the prospect of enduring more of Ross’s lectures, the kind better suited for wayward schoolboys.
But that could all change with this voyage, Yule told himself. Each southward mile brought him closer to the wealth he needed—enough to win a promotion and escape all the indignities of being a second master in Her Majesty’s Navy. His plan would work. It had to.
Yule looked at the last dark swig of fake Madeira in his bottle. He had never put much stock in sailor’s superstitions, but if ever there were a time to appease the sea, it was now. He poured the wine overboard and tossed the empty bottle in after it.
Chapter 7
Ross Sea Coast
Antarctica
June 2123
“All right, how much did the compound fuck you up last night?”
“A lot,” Roscoe admitted to Hamza. They were in the galley, downing SynCoffee and wolfing down quinoa, trying to purge their hangovers before another day’s work. The only new message this morning had come from Jen: Ok, thanks for letting me know. Glad you made it home. ;)
Hamza had gotten an easy out. He’d been at Gallagher’s with the rest of the cohort when the compound hit, so they just left him in a chair until it was time to leave. During the drive back, he’d come to prop up against the track door, with a bucket between his legs—courtesy of Jen.
“A lot of new interns get hit by that machine’s compound. Jen felt really bad that she had forgotten to warn us, and that she left you, but if she hadn’t gotten back in time, Security would’ve started a search—and that would’ve been bad.”
So now Jen and the rest of the cohort knew that he and Hamza were compounders. Great.
“So … she was going to leave me there?”
“She didn’t want to,” Hamza replied. “She was trying to think of some excuse to go back and look for you today, so it’s good you got back when you did.”
Roscoe smiled. As rough as last night had been, he’d kept things from getting worse—for both himself and Jen. At least he’d shown her a pounder could take care of himself.
“What about you, man?” Hamza asked. “How’d you get back?”
The StarCross Silence instinct kicked in—but not to cover for the compound. Who knew how useful Chip’s tidbits might be? At least for now, Roscoe decided to keep them to himself.
“I found a Spigot guy who gave me a ride back. Seemed chill about it. I was half out of it in the track, so we didn’t talk much.” Time to change the topic. “So I’m curious. When you operate drones for Spigot, how do you use the data you get from Archives?”
“What do you mean?”
Roscoe relayed what Karla had told him, about how the Archives department culled information from centuries-old documents to guide Spigot’s search for water.
Hamza blinked. “No, didn’t hear anything about that. But hey, it’s only day two, right? I’ll let you know if it comes up.”
“Sounds good.” Roscoe had started to doubt his value to Spigot’s mission of bringing water to a thirsty world—especially compared to Hamza’s. He made a show of calling up his wristband screen and checking the time. “Well, I better go.”
“Sure man, have a good one.”
As soon as Roscoe stepped away, the thought hit him again—why had Jen needed that weird tool, the XRF gun? No time to go back and ask Hamza now. Roscoe followed his wrist to the Archives, where Karla was already there, her shoulders hunched and her voice tense.
“Ay, am I glad to see you, weón! I just got a message from Jahnford’s office. He’s hosting some bigwigs from StarCross tomorrow and wants us to supply the decor. He wants a map.”
“A map?”
“Yeah,” she said, exhaling through her nose, then adjusting the strap of her wristband. “An old map, from the early days. Like everyone else around here, he’s insecure about doing the dirty work on Earth when StarCross sees its future in space.”
“And he thinks an old map will help?”
Karla gave a small, tight nod. “I think he’s hoping to convince them we’re heirs to a glorious heritage of exploration and that it’s something they should care about.”
“Why not a photo, then?”
“He didn’t say,” she said with a shrug, then began kneading the back of her neck. “Probably because most of them just show old gringos trying to keep their noses or—ah—other parts from freezing off. The maps hide all the ugliness of trying to survive down here.”
“Can we just look for one in the catalog?”
Karla shook her head. “These old maps don’t provide anything the models using written data can’t. Because the pricing algorithm doesn’t assign a WEC value to them, I haven’t cataloged many of them.” She sighed. “If only I’d known.”
Karla had lined up several of the Archives’ storage bins beside Roscoe’s desk. She rapped her knuckles on one of them. “These boxes are the ones most likely to have good maps inside. Look through them as a start. Once you’ve found one, we can frame it and deliver it to Jahnford.”
“Is there any map in particular I should be looking for?”
“The Ross Sea Coast or the McMurdo Dry Valleys would be best, since that’s where Spigot is, but see what you can find. Just make sure people can tell it’s Antarctica. That might be hard with some of the old stuff.” She returned to her desk, rolled her shoulders, and gave Roscoe a small, tired smile. “I’d help if I could, but of course this request came down on top of another deadline for me. So I’m afraid you’re it.”
At those words, Roscoe straightened up and hardened his voice. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.
Karla gave Roscoe an approving nod. “Mucha suerte,” she said, before turning to her screen and whatever deadline she had.
His resolve steeled, Roscoe crouched over the first box on the floor. Instead of books, it held manila folders, each a few centimeters thick with yellowed papers.
He scanned the box’s barcode with his wristband and read the entry: “Collected Letters of Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker, 1817-1911; Correspondence from Antarctic Expedition; Contains Hooker’s letters from the James Clark Ross Expedition of 1839-42, as well as drawings and ephemera from the voyage. Provided by Royal Botanical Gardens, Kew, England.”
The next few boxes Karla had pulled had the same label: “Records associated with the James Clark Ross Antarctic Expedition of 1839-42. Records contain blueprints, maps, captain’s logs, angle-books, remark-books, and ephemera collected by the crew of H.M.S. Erebus and Terror on this voyage, as well as memoirs published by Capt. Ross and Assistant Surgeon Robert McCormick. These records do NOT contain materials associated with Erebus’s and Terror’s later unsuccessful Northwest Passage Expedition under Sir John Franklin. Provided by UK National Archives.”
Roscoe pulled a folder from the first box, and found it had letters from Hooker. Imagine going through life with a name like that today, he thought. He turned the pages slowly, taking care not to damage any of Hooker’s letters, and remembering Karla’s awed voice when she told Roscoe about the men writing “with quills, on sailing ships.” Roscoe guessed he’d lose Karla’s reverence when he actually had to read Hooker’s slanted script, but not today. Every so often, he found a sketch of icebergs, seals, or penguins—but no maps.
“Anything yet?” Karla asked, looking away from her screen.
Roscoe closed the box with the Hooker letters and checked his wristband. It was nearly noon.
“Nope, nothing.”
“Well, keep at it,” she said, her voice tight again. “He needs something by the end of the week.”
In the next box, Roscoe found just two books, each about three centimeters thick, with reddish-brown paper. The spines had the same faded, gold-leaf label: Ross: Voyage in the Antarctic Regions 1839-42. One book’s spine was marked “1” and the other “2.”
He opened Volume 1. The first page featured a sketch of two sailing ships anchored in a U-shaped harbor beneath towering cliffs. In the foreground, a Union Jack fluttered, and on the horizon, a stone archway rose from the ocean. Turning the page, he learned that the book had been published in London by “John Murray, Albemarle Street,” in 1847.
The last two hundred seventy-six years hadn’t been kind to it. As Roscoe eased the book upright, flecks of paper fell onto his desk like wood shavings. Some pages clung to the binding by threads, while others had already come loose. Roscoe tried not to open the book too wide, but after a few delicate page turns, a folded sheet slipped out onto his desk.
Karla gasped and rushed over, but Roscoe’s panic ebbed as he unfolded the sheet and saw that it was exactly what they had been looking for—a map.
Roscoe read the label in the lower left corner: “Victoria Land, Discovered in H.M.S. EREBUS & TERROR Under the Command of: Capt. James Clark Ross H.M.F.R.S. and Cmdr. Francis R.M. Crozier R.N., Jan’y 1841.”
At the bottom of the page, between the border and the paper’s edge, another note read: “London Published according to Act of Parliament at the Hydrographic Office of the Admiralty, Dec. 5th, 1846. J & C Walker, Sculp.”
The coast arced across the top of the map in a solid black line and snaked down the right side, where tiny type had been used to label shoreline features: Mt. Terror, Mt. Erebus, Cape Crozier, Franklin Island, Yule Bay—the place Hamza had mentioned—Cape Hooker, and, in the top right corner, McMurdo Bay.
Roscoe realized this was a map of the Ross Sea Coast. But it was oriented with south at the top. He turned the map around, comparing it to the satellite photo of Antarctica set as his computer’s wallpaper. A dotted, numbered line—the ships’ voyage, maybe?—zigzagged across part of the Ross Sea. Where the satellite image showed open water, this map had a dimpled curve running down its left side, labeled with the words: “Line of Pack Indicated by Strong Blink.” The ships seemed to have explored the edge but turned back. Roscoe realized that, back then, the Ross Sea had been locked in ice year-round—and, more importantly, he had found exactly what they needed.
“Perfect, weón!” Karla said after a quick glance. Squinting at the printer-paper-sized sheet, she added, “It’s small, but we can work with it.” She tapped her floating wristband screen. “I’m messaging the Machine Shop now. Head over there and they’ll make a bigger copy and get it in a frame, so you can take it to Jahnford. I’ll message them, too, so they know you’re coming.”
She refolded the map, slid it into a plastic sheath, and pressed it into Roscoe’s hand. “Hold on to it tight. That thing’s old.”
His orders issued, Roscoe headed out. He was beginning to get the hang of Spigot’s tunnel network; for the first time, he didn’t need his wristband to navigate. The main city had been built—or rather, dug—as four slanted parallel tunnels, each eight kilometers long. Waist-high concrete walls divided each tunnel lengthwise into a four-lane central avenue with sidewalks, while additional chambers branched off on either side, bored deeper into the rock as needed.
The Archives occupied the far end of Tunnel 1, right in front of the turnaround for the city’s vehicles; the machine shop was near the opposite end. Roscoe flagged down one of the passenger jitneys that ran the length of the tunnel. The few passengers aboard wore standard-issue synthetic pants and jackets, just like his. The traffic was light at this hour, so he managed to get a seat.
The jitney cruised the outside lane, occasionally pulling over to let passengers on or off at narrower cross tunnels that intersected the main one every kilometer.
Only now, after visiting Newloon, did it hit Roscoe just how sterile Spigot felt. There were no storefronts vying for his attention, no fights breaking out, no one begging for change or raving about the end of the world. And definitely no one was offering him a gig as a sex slave on another colony run by neo-Nazis. On the jitney, no one spoke or made eye contact; the few people on the sidewalks kept their heads down and their eyes on their wristband screens.
It was quiet here, but not peaceful. StarCross Silence at work.
