Gillian Anderson - The Sound of Seas

Which one of the groups do you help? he asked himself.

Walking away was not an option. This had been his professional life’s work and there were profound questions he and only he could still answer. That was why there was no question about going out there, by bulldozer or Ski-Doo, or even on foot if it came to that.

So , he thought. Time to try and convince either base commander Eric Trout or chief scientist Dr. Albert Bundy to let me have one or the other.

Trout was the least likely. The burly, mustachioed former Royal Marine commando engineer was a hard-nosed manager, in charge of everything that wasn’t science. Mikel had nearly wrecked a key module of the base: Trout would not give the man access to anything with wheels or treads. The Oxford man was the better target. Bundy had previously given Mikel what he wanted thanks to Flora’s connection with the RAF—though that was before the base suffered its series of setbacks. Bundy would be less receptive now. Moreover, if the ice shelf had been compromised—and there was as yet no indication that the new location was secure—then it might be necessary to move again. Every means of transportation would be required.

The key may be assuring him that you can answer his questions as well by going back to where it all began , Mikel told himself.

Feeling cautiously optimistic, Mikel slipped from the bench. He walked past the rock-climbing wall that was used for exercise then headed down the spiral staircase to the cafeteria. Several of the staff had gathered there, hungry after the long hours of relocation and data crunching. Dr. Bundy was among them, sitting with several of his top scientists. The six-foot-seven-inch frame of Siem der Graaf was alone at a separate table, which was how and where Mikel had first met him. The maintenance worker was visibly stiff from having shared some of Mikel’s adventures.

“How’s everything going?” Mikel asked, pausing beside the table.

The young man looked up from a bowl of pea soup. His disinterested expression brightened slightly.

“I’m okay, my crazy friend. How’s the wrist? And, how are you even standing after the fall from the truck? I feel like a sack of corn.”

“I’ve learned to ignore superficial bumps and bangs,” Mikel answered. “A hazard of the trade. Also, I’m sort of built like a cat. I bend.”

“You under six-footers have an advantage there,” the big man said. “I move like a log. A hungry log,” Siem added as he returned to his soup. But his eyes remained on Mikel. “Speaking of which, you have a rather hungry look. Not for food, I think.”

“What kind of a mood is Bundy in?” Mikel asked, his eyes on the scientists’ table.

“Not bad. He seems to like having a crisis to manage,” Siem replied. “I don’t mean moving the base, that was mostly Trout. No, I’ve been hearing things like, ‘What bloody caused this instability?’ and ‘There isn’t a bloody computer model that predicted or can explain this!’” Siem said, mimicking Bundy’s stentorian British accent. “Oh, and he doesn’t believe it has anything to do with global warming.”

“The greenhouse effect wouldn’t quite explain a column of flame.”

“Apparently, none of the satellite images or data suggests any cause, which is why they started spitballing,” Siem said. “A new Russian superweapon. Shifting interaction between the Van Allen radiation belts and the plasmasphere. Dragons.”

“Dragons?”

“Yes. That was Dr. Cummins’s suggestion. She meant it in jest, I think. I hope. We don’t have armor-piercing weapons at the base.”

“Good God, Siem, why would you kill a mythical creature come to life?”

Siem snickered. “That’s a very good question, you know? Too many movies, I guess. And I never was much of a conservationist. I’m a big fan of the Industrial Revolution.”

Mikel smiled as he continued to watch the group. They either didn’t know he was there or were ignoring him. “Is Bundy planning to go out there?”

“Not yet, as far as I know,” Siem replied. “They want follow-up satellite imagery and more data from the remote automated systems before making any decisions.”

“Whatever happened to eyes-on scientific reconnaissance?”

“Gone with the insurance documents we all signed to be here,” Siem said. “They want to make sure it’s not going to go off again.”

“It isn’t,” Mikel replied quietly.

Siem looked up again. “How can you be sure? It’s happened three times already. Nerves are a little unsteady.”

He was referring to the initial appearance of the flame, the one that killed scientist Jina Park, and to the flare they had all seen while preparing to move the base.

“Because I know what caused that last flare-up, and I know it’s burned-out,” Mikel said. “The trick will be convincing them.”

“Just on your say so?”

“In addition to being a lousy spelunker, I am a first-class PhD,” Mikel pointed out.

Siem snickered again as he picked up the bowl and drank down the remainder. “Friend Mikel, I like you. And I might very well believe you. But even I wouldn’t risk a research party on your say-so.”

“We don’t need a party,” Mikel said.

“Just you?” Siem said knowingly.

“Just me.”

“Good luck,” Siem said in earnest, then wiped his mouth. “But if you wouldn’t mind—what did cause the explosion?”

“It was an ancient power source, fueled by deep-flowing magma that’s still under the ice,” he said.

“What kind of power source?”

“A mineral,” Mikel said. “One that is extremely powerful and apparently unique to the region.”

Mikel didn’t bother adding that the blast was actually the result of an ascended soul releasing its hold on a portion of that energy. Ascribing the incident to lava was cleaner.

“A new mineral?” Siem said dubiously.

“That’s what brought me down here in the first place,” Mikel said. “A sample I found, from the waters off the Falklands.”

“You have it?”

Mikel shook his head.

“Too bad. But the other part of your theory is a problem too,” Siem went on. “Lava would be difficult to overlook, and I don’t believe anyone has found geologically active pockets out there. It would be talked about. I would have heard about it.”

“The minerals may be screwing with their instruments,” Mikel said.

“Ah.”

Mikel also did not want to explain that the magma was not active now but in another epoch. He looked over at the scientists. “I should probably talk to Bundy about this.”

“Probably,” Siem said. “And I wish you luck. I do.” His eyes held Mikel’s. “You were pretty wild down there, Mikel. Are you convinced that you didn’t strike your head when you broke your wrist? Or perhaps the air was toxic?”

“I don’t blame you for being cautious, Siem—”

“It isn’t caution,” the maintenance engineer replied. “Frankly, it’s doubt. I’m a mechanical engineer.” He rapped the table. “Reality, not speculation. Also, I have some concern.”

“For?”

“Whatever you do out here will follow you when you go home,” Siem said. “I studied Antarctica, its history, before agreeing to accept this appointment. For centuries—going back to the seventh century, if you believe some accounts—people have come to the South Pole and left with crazy ideas. I’ve read about those ideas and their adherents. Holes to the center of the earth, spaceships of ancient aliens, living dinosaurs, dinosaurs from space living inside the earth. Trust me, Mikel. Careers have been ruined.”

“But imagine the contribution to science of the first researcher to find a prehistoric beast down here—even a frozen one.”