Hannah Ross - The Last Outpost - An Antarctic Dystopia

There was a nasty, vicious, greedy expression on Victor’s face, which Scott didn’t like at all.

“I won’t permit you to rob the Anai, Nash. You don’t have clearance to go into the AN-85 zone, and none of us have the authority to interfere with the people of that valley.”

“Authority!” Nash snarled. “Don’t you realize that whatever pathetic little guidelines the U.S. Antarctic Program may impose, they are worth shit in the current circumstances? Why should we be the only ones rationing food? The Anai are gorging themselves on whale and seal meat, with a zillion calories and a heap of fat at each meal. They can give us their extras. And if things come to worst, and we no longer have energy enough to heat the station, we can all move to that valley and away from this goddamn cold.”

“You are just looking for excuses to exploit these people, Nash,” Scott said, his anger rising.

“I’m looking for ways to survive!” Nash exploded. “And if the wishy-washy rules of the Antarctic Program don’t put much stock in our lives, well, I say—”

“I don’t care what you say,” Scott got up from his chair, and his eyes, cold and ruthless, bore into those of his adversary. “You are an egocentric douchebag, Nash, and I’m going to keep a very close eye on you from now on. This is a warning. Now get out of my sight.”

Nash obeyed. As days passed, Scott saw less and less of him in person, though he still found curt notes saying, ‘here is the data for this month’s report’ or ‘the hospital has exceeded its energy allotment’. He replied in writing, in an equally impersonal manner. Frankly, he didn’t miss Victor’s company, and hoped to avoid it for as long as possible — preferably until the station could connect with the outside world again. He would do all he can to get Nash to leave, Scott decided… or he would leave himself.

Still, Nash displayed some signs of suspicious behavior. Several times, Scott spotted him deep in quiet discussion with a group of people, in a quiet corner of the galley or in the corridors. Those were usually the same people, and Nash didn’t particularly look as if he liked to be seen talking to them. The conversations would inevitably break off as soon as he caught Scott’s eye.

Scott was uneasy. He had a distinct feeling Nash is up to something. But then, what could he do? People were allowed to confer. It was not against the law. Still, he watched Nash more carefully and stealthily than ever.

About three weeks after celebrating the start of winter with the Anai, Scott made the — many would say reckless — decision to snowmobile to the valley on his own. The station was just running the daily operations, most science and research activity has slowly stopped, and there wasn’t very much for him to do. The AN-85 team wasn’t planning to go out anytime soon, and though Scott knew that him venturing that far alone, and in the Antarctic night, too, did not quite comply with the safety regulations, he still counted on a relatively safe journey. The weather, though windy, was clear, and there was plenty of light from the auroras.

As predicted, he had reached AN-85 safely, and was congratulating himself on his successful journey as he went down. He relished the growing warmth and moisture, so very welcome to him after the freezing dryness of the terrain high up. His fingertips, which had turned icy, began to thaw, and as he reached the edge of the valley he took off his orange parka, rummaged in his backpack, unfolded the sealskin parka Tahan had made for him, and put it on. He liked the idea of her seeing him wear it as he approached.

He could see the village in the celestial shimmer of the auroras. It was full of twinkling lights, as people burned whale oil lamps all through the long night. He walked slowly, enjoying the sense of familiarity this place now had for him. As he reached the village, well before he was within sight of Tahan’s house, he saw the building site of Omrek’s new home.

The house walls were done, and the place was a buzz of activity as the men were putting on the rafters. These were made out of long pieces of whalebone, secured together by tight ropes of fiber. The whole construction would be then smothered with clay, binding it together and preventing the ropes from rotting. Finally, waterproof sealskins, sewn tightly together, would be pulled over the top and secured with ivory hooks.

Someone was currently straddling the roof, binding the rafters, while other men were waiting below, mixing the dense clay. Looking closer, Scott noticed that the man on top was Omrek himself. Tahan’s brother squinted down, and it took a second for him to recognize the visitor.

“Scott!” he called out, letting himself down from the roof in one agile movement. “I didn’t recognize you at once, wearing this parka. You always know to come at just the right time! The house is nearly ready — there is just one day’s work in spreading and burning the clay, and then we’ll put on the leather flaps over the door and window. And then the next day,” he went on triumphantly, “Manari and I will be joined together as man and woman of one hearth! You will stay, of course. You will be an honored guest.”

“Thank you, Omrek. Do you want me to climb up and lend a hand?”

“If you feel like spreading some clay, come — but first, I suppose, you will want to go and greet Tahan.”

Though made a little self-conscious by this supposition, Scott wouldn’t dispute it, and went on down the familiar path. It began to drizzle, as it not unfrequently did in the Anai valley, the weather being warm and moist enough to allow condensation of clouds and rain, and he felt sorry for Omrek for having to deal with slick, sticky clay in this weather.

As he approached Tahan’s house, he was surprised to hear the exchange of two voices within. One was obviously Tahan’s, the other belonged to a man — an older man, by the sound of it. To alert them of his coming, Scott stopped just outside the entrance flap, and clapped his hands once. In a moment, he heard the sound of steps, and Tahan pulled the flap aside. “Scott,” she smiled upon him, “this is a surprise. Come inside — I have a visitor.”

Upon seeing Scott, little Egan, who had been playing quietly in the corner with his ivory animal figures, ran over to him and pulled on his pant leg, demanding to be lifted up and tossed into the air. Scott picked up the little boy and, straightening up, observed Tahan’s visitor — a very dignified-looking man sitting cross-legged on a sealskin cushion, sipping hot herb tea out of a clay cup. It was hard to tell his age — he might have been in his fifties or sixties, judging by his grey hair and deeply lined face, but his upright posture belonged to a man no older than thirty.

“Scott, this is one of our elders,” Tahan said in Anai. “Ne Riorag, this is…”

“I know,” Ne Riorag said, getting up. He grasped arms with Scott in a formal manner. “Our friend from beyond the sea. Be welcome. Though I am the father of Ne Tarveg,” he went on, “I don’t share my son’s prejudices against foreigners.”

“We were just talking about something — something we recently found,” Tahan said.

“You are called Scott, yes?” Ne Riorag said. “Tahan tells me you have been to the Cave of Spirits, and learned some tales of the Anai people.”

“I had that honor, yes,” Scott replied in his best Anai.

“Then you had better see it with your own eyes. Perhaps you, as a man from beyond the sea, can bless us with knowledge we don’t have. If Tahan approves,” the elder added, looking at the chieftainness.

“Of course, Ne Riorag. I’d say it’s a good thought.”

“See what?” Scott didn’t understand. Neither of the two answered.