Hannah Ross: The Last Outpost: An Antarctic Dystopia

“I hope you’re going to get along with Victor,” he observed. “He has been my assistant for the past five years, and I think he was entertaining some ambitions of becoming the overseer after I retire. Alas, it was not to be.”

“Why?” Scott asked. Now that he thought about it, he felt stupid for never asking himself the obvious — why was he, a complete outsider who had never even been to Antarctica before, offered this important positon, rather than someone belonging to the McMurdo staff?

“I will be honest with you. I recommended against his appointment — very tactfully and discreetly, of course, but I made myself quite clear. Victor is good at following instructions, but he isn’t much of an independent thinker. He goes wholly by the book, and you need to be prepared to do more than that in a place as remote and, for half the year, as isolated as McMurdo.”

“I’m sure he was disappointed.”

“He might have been. I don’t know. We never went so far as to actually discuss the matter. If Victor kept silent then, however, he won’t talk now. He’s very professional, and I’m sure he will keep performing his duties just as well as ever.”

Scott nodded. “And did Professor McLaughlin assure you I was an independent thinker?” he couldn’t help asking. Anders Lindholm grinned.

“He described you as the most inquisitive and deliberately willful student he ever had to teach, but also as the one with the best-developed personal initiative and an admirable ability to think out of the box. And, of course, there are your credentials, without which you would never be considered for the position. You are planning to conduct some independent research for your Ph.D., isn’t that so, Buck?”

“I was hoping to collect samples and make use of the laboratory, yes,” Scott confessed.

“You won’t have time to do that before the station closes down for the winter,” Lindholm warned him. “Nope, you won’t have too much time until then. But once most people have departed and the last great sunset had taken place — why, you’ll have to give your mind some exercise to keep from getting bored. I understood that Mrs. Buckley might be joining you before the winter?”

“Yes, I hope so. Brianna, my wife, was… a little apprehensive about my taking the position.”

Lindholm nodded. “Quite understandable. Pam liked it here well enough in the summer, but the months of darkness and freezing cold… it’s a challenge. Does Mrs. Buckley have qualifications in environmental science as well?”

“No, Brianna is an English teacher. I’m sure Antarctica will fascinate her, however.”

“I can’t imagine it being otherwise. In fact, just between us, I don’t understand why people are shooting off to Mars in pursuit of the unknown, while we have so many mysteries here under the ice. I suggest you collect your samples while it’s still warm enough, Buck, and leave them for later analysis in the winter, when you’ll have plenty of time to tinker with them. Deep freezing will keep anything fresh. That’s what I had done over the years. Without undue bragging, I have completed two curious research papers — you can browse them in the unclassified library. There are, of course, some things… well, it’s time to bring up your contract, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand,” Buck frowned. “I emailed my contract with my digital signature before I left Wisconsin.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But there are certain, ah, additional clauses we figured we’d better handle on the spot.” And, reaching into yet another drawer, he took out a thin, black-bound file, which he flipped open and slid in Scott’s direction. Scott looked at the page in front of him. There, in big bold letters, it stated, General Overseer Contract Extension — Secrecy Clause .

Scott shook his head. “Secrecy clause?” he repeated. “I don’t understand. Professor McLaughlin never mentioned anything of the sort.”

“You see, Buck, McMurdo is a research station. A lot of the work here, and most of what you will be doing, is pure logistics and has to do with personnel, supplies, running the station, and so on. But some of the information at your disposal is classified, and you must commit to keeping it secret.”

Scott was reading. The neatly printed paragraphs on the page in front of him stated, in so many more long words, what Anders Lindholm had just said.

“A mere formality,” Lindholm went on, “but without it, you will not be able to assume your duties as an overseer. I suggest you don’t think too much about it. I assure you, it’s nothing compared to what the Russians have to sign over at the Vostok station.”

A little hesitantly, Scott reached for a sharp-pointed steel pen and drew his signature at the blank to which Lindholm pointed. “Can I have a copy of this?” he asked.

“Of course, of course. You’ll get a copy of your entire contract with everybody’s signatures as soon as it’s filed. But now… I think I have detained you too long. I daresay you’ll be glad to see your quarters and have a bite to eat.”

Anders got up, and Scott did likewise. Instead of moving towards the door, however, he stared into Lindholm’s blue eyes. “Anders,” he said, “please be honest with me. I have already signed the contract, and you are leaving soon. This secrecy clause… is it really just a formality, or does it have to do with what you spoke of earlier — mysteries hidden under the ice?”

Lindolm looked aside. He seemed slightly abashed. “This is hardly the time,” he finally said. “But… we will discuss it at some other opportunity. Very soon, I assure you. For now, just make yourself comfortable and get used to the place. It is your home now.” His hand on Scott’s arm, he directed the new overseer towards the door in a friendly but firm manner. “Good luck, Mr. Buckley. See you at dinner.”

Scott walked out of Lindholm’s office, pulling his suitcase-on-wheels and hauling his backpack. Following the signs and arrows that were visible all over the station, he soon found its way to the communications center, where a young woman was frowning into a computer screen.

“Er… hello,” he said. “I am Scott Buckley, just arrived, and I was wondering if you might explain how I get to my quarters.”

The woman tore her eyes away from the screen and looked at him with interest. She had sparkling grey-green eyes and very smooth dark hair that just touched the middle of her earlobe, in a style that looked like a helmet. Her name tag read ‘Zoe Marchini’.

“Ah, so you are Mr. Buckley — welcome! Sure, we have been expecting you. Getting to your quarters is pretty straightforward, you just… hang on, wait just a sec. I’ll show you the way myself.”

She got up and approached him with the springy step of someone who worked out every day. Her handshake was similarly sprightly. “Zoe,” she introduced herself. “I work here at communications, and in winter, when things are dull, I do some other odds and ends. Well, come along — that way. Is this all you have arrived with? A suitcase and a backpack?”

“I like to travel lightly,” Scott said, “and I figured that whatever I might really need later on can be ordered by mail from New Zealand.”

“You are quite right. No need whatsoever to overstuff your room with things you might not need, especially since the quarters are a bit cramped. In the summer months, nearly everyone has to budge up and make space for a roommate… you, however, are privileged, and will have your quarters all to yourself. Not that it’s a luxury suite in any case. Turn left, Mr. Buckley — the living quarters are that way.”

She led him past the common area of the station, with the little shop and gym and club and library, and veered in the direction of plain-looking two-story buildings, each much the same as the next.