Hannah Ross: The Last Outpost: An Antarctic Dystopia

“Be careful when going in the snow and ice.”

“Of course. In fact, they won’t let me off the station before I complete a short safety course. It’s all down in the rules.”

There was a blip in the connection, and Brianna’s image froze for a few seconds. “Scott, I seem to be losing you,” she said.

“The connectivity here can be patchy, I was told,” he said. She attempted to say something else, but her words were lost.

“It’s no good,” he finally heard her. “Try to call me later, honey, OK? Call whenever you can, don’t mind the time difference. I miss you terribly.”

“I miss you too,” he said. “I love you,” he added softly, but the connection was already shut off.

Scott checked the time. It was now past eleven, and his stomach hinted that an early lunch might be the very thing. He got out of his quarters, turned around to lock the door, stepped back, and collided with someone.

“Hey, watch it!” a voice exclaimed, but with no great annoyance.

“Sorry,” Scott said. He faced a man about his age, or a little younger, with ruffled red hair and a ginger beard that would no doubt go magnificently with the orange outdoor parka worn by the staff. Scott received such a uniform himself as part of his welcome package, and was told he can put his private gear aside. The bright orange clothes stood out well against the snow and made it possible to notice people from afar. Such practical considerations trumped fashion around here any day.

“No prob,” the man said, sizing him up curiously. “Hey, aren’t you the new big supervisor?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. I’m supposed to be the overseer and general logistics manager.”

“Never mind — you’re him? I mean, that’s you — the guy who’s supposed to replace Lindholm?”

“Yes, that’s me. Scott Buckley.”

“Jerry Gordon,” The two men shook hands. “Good luck — you’re sure going to have quite a bit of headache until the end of the summer season. Old Lindholm always hated the summer months. No wonder he’s keen to leave. You were heading down for lunch?”

Scott nodded. “Are those laundromats I see down the hall?”

“Yes, a handy place to do all your washing. I take it you haven’t seen much of the place yet?” Jerry asked as they began walking in the direction of the stairs.

“Hardly anything. I have only just arrived. Zoe from the communications center showed me the way to the living quarters.”

“Ah, Zoe Marchini,” Jerry’s face assumed a dreamy expression. “She’s a nice gal… won’t go out with me, though, no matter how many times I’ve asked her. You’d think she might have given me a chance — there’s not much choice around here, after all — but no, she’s a picky one. Do you have a girl back home?”

“I’m married. My wife might join me here later.”

“Good for you. It’s better to already have someone when you come here, because you’ll have a tough time finding a lady friend later.”

Scott laughed. “I can imagine. Anyway, what do you do?”

“Me? I’m the most important man at McMurdo,” Jerry said proudly and, seeing Scott’s puzzled expression, chuckled and added, “I’m in charge of the greenhouse.”

“The greenhouse? Ah, yes, I did hear that…”

“We have fresh fruits and vegetables shipped from New Zealand during the summer,” Jerry spoke across him, “but in winter we’re pretty much stuck with whatever will keep — which, as you can imagine, makes the freshies kind of scarce in the menu. So growing our own is a nice supplement, and it’s therapeutic for people — when they want some warmth and greenery, they can come over and lend a hand. You are welcome to visit too.”

They came to the doors of the mess hall, more commonly known as the galley. As he walked in, Scott was enveloped by the smells of food and the clinking of many knives and forks.

“Pork chops and lamb stew today,” Jerry gave a swift diagnosis as they approached the self-serving station. “About the best this kitchen gives out, I think. And roast potatoes, too — man, it’s like they’ve planned a welcome meal just for you.”

The two loaded their trays and headed off to a remote table in the corner, but Jerry was hailed by some of his friends. “Ah, that’s Will Mahoney, the electric technician,” he said. “I need to have a word with him about the greenhouse lights. See you later, man, feel free to drop by — my room is just across yours.”

Scott sat down to a table alone, which suited him just fine, but he scarcely had time to break apart his roll and start buttering it when Zoe joined him, setting down her tray. “Glad you found your way alright,” she commented, pouring water into her glass.

“The mess hall is kind of hard to miss. Besides, Jerry Gordon showed me the way.”

Zoe rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Ah, yes, you’re rooming just near Gordon,” she said. “You’ll be seeing a lot of the fellow — he’s like a wart plaster, honestly.”

“He seems alright. The food is pretty good,” Scott commented, tasting his lamb stew. He couldn’t help stealing a curious look at Zoe’s plate, the contents of which were scarcely recognizable.

“Quinoa salad with steamed vegetables,” she said, noticing his glance, “and tofu cubes roast with peppers. I’m vegan,” she explained. “Luckily, there’s always a vegetarian dish around here. It isn’t terribly varied, but it’s alright.” She picked up her fork and began to eat. “Did you manage to talk to your wife?” she asked between mouthfuls.

“Oh, yes — a little, until there was a burp in the connectivity. It seems things are fine at home… but I still feel a little guilty about leaving her alone,” he confessed.

Zoe shrugged, evidently with very little sympathy. “If I had a man, I wouldn’t let him go to the end of the world alone,” she said. “I would come after him. Good men are a rare commodity these days.”

“There’s Jerry,” Scott ventured, and Zoe nearly snorted water out of her nostrils. He laughed quietly and speared a roast potato. His eyes strayed across the vast hall, where many dozens of people were eating — some in large groups, some in small groups, some alone. One of the loners, Scott observed, was Victor Nash, who sat hunched over his plate, consuming his lunch with machine-like efficiency. Zoe noticed where he was looking.

“Have you met Nash already?” she asked.

“Just for a moment, in Lindholm’s office.”

“I would be careful around him, if I were you.”

Scott looked up from his plate. “Why?”

Zoe shrugged. “No particular reason. Nobody has a bad word to say about Victor Nash. He’s a good worker, polite, stays away from any mess. But he’s very, very quiet — keeps mostly to himself, and doesn’t talk much. Everyone knows he wanted your position really, really bad, though.”

This made Scott uneasy. The last thing he wanted was to start off at McMurdo with rivalry and jealousy between himself and the person he was supposed to be working most closely with. He surreptitiously observed Nash again — the dark hair, the glasses, the impassive lines of his face — and dropped his gaze to his pork chops. He reached for the mustard.

“Do you know why Nash wasn’t asked to step in after Lindholm’s retirement?” he asked in a would-be casual voice.

Zoe shook his head. “I never stick my nose in those administrative decisions,” she said, “but I somehow got the impression that Lindholm didn’t think him a good fit. It’s just a hunch. Nash sure knows the way the station is supposed to run, and he’s pretty reliable… but when it comes to the human element — you’ll see it when you take Lindholm’s place. It’s not all about filling order forms and balancing budget sheets. People approach Lindholm about all sorts of personal matters. One guy was supposed to bring his wife over, like you plan to do, but couldn’t get medical clearance for her, and started a full-blown war with the Antarctic Program headquarters. Another got terribly homesick during the winter, and kept clogging up the internet stream with video files of his toddlers that his wife was sending him from home. Anders Lindholm knows how to sort these things out, but I couldn’t imagine Nash doing that, not in a million years.”