Dry Ice

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  Greg said nothing, and didn’t change his expression of cool indifference.

  “Even after they passed BSR, no one warned them about the weather, so she didn’t turn back or divert to Neumayer or SANAE. And guess what else? Since no one knew they were coming, we had to bust our asses to get out there and plow the runway in time. They all could have been killed a dozen times over.” Nik fixed a hot gaze on Greg’s face. “What gives?”

  “The flight was canceled,” Greg replied stiffly.

  “Really?” Nik feigned surprise. “Someone should have told the pilot.”

  “Yes, someone should have.”

  Kicking the door shut behind him with a move better suited to a longshoreman than a Beacon Hill Brahmin, Nik stepped into the room, moved the files Greg deliberately kept stacked on the room’s lone guest chair, and sat down. He slouched with his ass perched on the front edge of the chair, knees wide apart, arms refolded across his chest. His dark eyes glittered and everything about him bespoke aggression.

  “Care to share what cargo was so important that it had to be delivered this long after the no-fly deadline passed?” he asked, his voice dripping with acid. “Or should I make that who was so important?”

  “You’ll be informed at the appropriate time.”

  “I’m second in command, Greg. I want to know why Tess Beauchamp just walked through our doors.”

  Greg stiffened. “Might I remind you, Nik, that if it hadn’t been for me, you would be writing sleek algorithms for people who trade weather derivatives on Wall Street, instead of developing code that can alter weather systems. Yet you have the nerve to behave like this, to question me. I think you’ve forgotten your place.”

  “Hell, yes, I’ll question you. Looks like I should have done it more often. And ‘my place’ isn’t somewhere in the backroom with the boys, Greg. As assistant director, ‘my place’ is right here with you. So tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “As I said, you’ll be informed in due time. Surely you have better things to do than harass me.”

  Nik adjusted his slouch to a cockier angle. “Can’t think of any.”

  “Nik—”

  “From what little I’ve heard, that was a hell of a storm they flew through, Greg.” Nik’s voice had dropped so low that it met Greg’s ears and went not a millimeter further. “Huge winds aloft, seriously low pressure at the surface. Know something else, Greg? I know you did it. I saw what you did when you did it. I just didn’t know why.” He paused. “So what was your goal? Did you want them to divert and be grounded somewhere for a few months, or did you want them to die?”

  Greg kept his eyes on Nik’s dark, accusing face, kept his voice steady and calm as he replied, “This conversation is over, Nik.”

  Without another word, Nik stood up, turned on his heel, and left the room.

  * * *

  Other than enduring the flight from hell and the humiliation of climbing out of the plane on legs that could not support her weight, Tess’s reintroduction to the Ice had been pretty much what she expected. The blast of frigid Antarctic air that assaulted her the instant the aircraft’s door opened was the same; even inside the cavernous hangar, the wind was laden with snow that had strafed her like spray from a pellet gun. Her breath froze into a frosty ring around the mouth opening of her balaclava. The extreme dryness of the air had made her eyes sting and then water. The resulting tears on her eyelashes had turned instantly to crystals.

  Antarctic bling.

  She’d spent less than five seconds on the ground before being hauled upright and shoved into the huge tracked vehicle that had pulled up closest to the plane. Moments later, she’d discovered it was Nik who was playing host. She’d known it was him from the first word out of his mouth. That deep voice with the JFK overlay was one of a kind.

  But Nik had disappeared upon arrival at the installation while she’d been hustled off to the clinic. Now, after being checked out by the curious but quite unamused base doctor, and made to drink a pint of Gatorade, she’d been released into the wilds of the TESLA habitat.

  As warm welcomes go, this one sucks.

  She headed up the tight, circular staircase outside the clinic door. At the top of the stairs, Tess paused to get her bearings. She’d studied the layout and photographs of TESLA, but she still wasn’t quite prepared for the real thing. For openers, the installation looked nothing like any other polar research station she’d ever been in—and she’d set foot in most of them. From the outside, TESLA looked like a short stack of white pancakes separated by squatty wedding-cake pillars—not unlike other recently built stations with similar space-agey designs. It was the inside that set TESLA apart from the rest.

  The interior held no hint of the usual stripped-down, bare bones, government-issue economy that inhabitants of other stations accepted as their lot because of cost and logistics. Even the new Belgian station, hailed as state of the art when it opened, was as inviting inside as an unfinished basement.

  But from the first step beyond the ready room, it was apparent that neither cost nor logistics had been an issue in the design of TESLA. There was no open ductwork anywhere, no visible plywood or unfinished walls, no industrially spare furniture designed for functionality and built to take a beating. In fact, nothing about the place was the slightest bit utilitarian. In contrast, the lounge she entered at the top of the stairs resembled a public room of an elite, old-fashioned boarding school. Tess felt like she’d wandered onto the set of a period film instead of the world’s newest, most high-tech polar research station.

  The walls were paneled in what looked like real wood. Wing chairs and deep couches upholstered in rich fabrics sat in small clusters around polished tables. The furniture was elegant, solid, comfortable, and anything but institutional. Heavy draperies lined much of the exterior wall, presumably covering the continuous flow of windows that encircled each level. The floors were bamboo, stained dark and highly polished, and covered with thick Oriental-style carpets that looked like the real deal. The walls sported real art—some photographs obviously taken on site as well as paintings that could easily belong in a museum.

  The atmosphere was one of studious calm. The presence of a real fireplace burning cheerily in the corner took her by surprise, but underscored the room’s overall warmth and comforting coziness.

  At the moment, the sitting room resembled a frat house on a Sunday morning, minus the smell of stale beer. Every person who was on the flight was present. She was apparently the last to join the group. Some of the crew were asleep, sprawled on the comfy-looking sofas or slouched in the wing chairs. A few sat at a card table, their heads resting on folded arms. The remaining ones were still upright, sucking on fresh mugs of coffee. One of the crew caught her eye and motioned to a tray on one of the tables, which held several insulated carafes and clean mugs.

  “So, do you like it better than McMurdo?”

  Her heart lurched at the low voice murmuring an inch from her ear. She spun around.

  “Nik,” she said, letting out a hard breath, “please don’t do that. I’m still kind of jumpy from the flight.” She studied the good-looking, dark-haired, dark-eyed, not-quite-as-tall-as-she-was guy standing there wearing faded Levi’s and a hot-pink, short-sleeved Polo golf shirt. He was eying her just as thoroughly and apparently liking what he saw just as much.

  You’ve aged well, Niky. Really well.

  “Sorry.” He smiled. “It’s been a long time, Tess. How are you? You’re looking good.”

  His smile was still pretty potent and, before she could stop herself, she brushed some loose hairs from her forehead, then tucked a few more behind her ear. “Thank you.”

  He laughed. It was a nice, familiar sound. Coming from a nice, familiar face. That sat atop nice shoulders and a trim, in-shape body that was a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t been buff at Gakona. There hadn’t been time or a place to work out. Clearly, there were both at TESLA.

  His nice face and body report directly to you, Tess. So
forget about it.

  After a moment of nearly awkward silence, Nik extended his hand and they shook. “Welcome to TESLA.”

  “Thank you. I’m so glad to be here. I’d have kissed the ground out there if I hadn’t known my lips would freeze to it.”

  “So that’s what you were up to. I thought your legs gave out.”

  She smiled. “They did.”

  “Nervous flier?”

  “Angels would have been nervous on that flight.”

  Nik laughed again, displaying straight white teeth framed by his easy smile. “I’ll take your word for it. Where are you headed now?”

  “To find Fred Tate and Tim Bamberger, who flew in with us, and then the three of us need to go to wherever Greg is.”

  “If they’re not here, they must be in the dining room. You haven’t seen Greg yet?”

  “No, I’ve been in the clinic choking down electrolyte fluid,” she replied with a wry grin. “But I do need to see him. Is he around?”

  “He’s in his office. I’ll take you there. We can cut through the library to get to the dining room,” he said, and led her out of the lounge.

  Tess stopped short at the next threshold and looked at him, not hiding her incredulity. “Books? You guys shipped real books down here? Haven’t you heard of e-readers?”

  “You don’t like books?”

  “I love books, but it had to cost fifty thousand dollars a crate to get them down here. For that kind of money, I can live without the paper cuts.”

  “Come on, Tess. Remember how everyone bitched about the lack of them up at HAARP?” Nik laughed. “Greg remembered that. Don’t get me wrong: he’s still a colossal pain in the ass about most things, but then he demands something like this on our behalf and, well, it almost makes him human.”

  Tess glanced at him again, one eyebrow slightly aloft. It was a look meant to tell him that he was heading into awkward territory. He picked up on it immediately and gave a short nod.

  As appalled as she was by what it must have cost to furnish the room—any of the rooms she’d seen so far—Tess had to admit she was soothed by the sight of all those hard-bound treasures. They really did make the place feel warm and friendly.

  “Anyway, apparently he—Greg—decided that this eighteenth-century English country house look would keep the place cozy and keep people a little less stressed out. You know how he is; the pace we keep down here is close to your basic churn-and-burn doctoral program. Never rest on your laurels, keep asking, keep working, keep striving, question everything and everyone—except him.” Nik gave her an easy grin.

  “Is it working?”

  “So far. Most of the team has been down here for more than a year, and we haven’t turned into a reality TV version of Clue yet. No fights, no murders, no Mr. Green in the dining room with a bloody hammer.”

  Tess smiled. “I guess it’s true that some things never change.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re the self-appointed neighborhood smart-ass.”

  “As ever. Gotta keep the tone light,” he replied with a satisfied look.

  She nodded, then returned her gaze to slowly pan the room. “So the whole place is like this? I mean, I studied the layout, but most of the photographs in the file were of the arrays.”

  “No. The work spaces are very high-tech and uncluttered and bright. The personal quarters and common areas were designed to provide a visual and mental change from the work spaces.”

  “Does that work? Does walking down those stairs give you that ‘ah, I’m home’ feeling?”

  Nik resumed walking. “In its own way. Given the hours we keep—which are self-defined and therefore pretty odd—it’s nice to be able to literally leave the work behind when you leave the third floor. You pass through that high-security doorway and go from the twenty-first century back to a calmer one.” He shrugged. “When your entire world is narrowed down to about twenty thousand square feet, every little bit of artifice helps.”

  “So, speaking of working hours … If you weren’t expecting the flight, what was everyone doing up and dressed at four A.M.?”

  “Like I said, we keep crazy hours. But, normally, not that many are up now. Today is a special day, though. It’s April 27th.” He glanced at her. “Ring any bells?”

  “Will I be graded on this?”

  “I’ll give you a pass since the date would be different at McMurdo. Today is the last day that the sun will rise above the horizon here at the Pole. We’ll be performing a little ritual later in the day, and we needed to prepare.”

  Tess laughed. “Ah, yes, the rituals. I won’t ask. I’ll just look forward to it.”

  “Actually, the truth is that our wake-sleep cycles are shot. I hope you’re braced for Big Eye,” Nik said, referring to the condition that afflicted nearly everyone who wintered over. Part insomnia, part attention-deficit disorder, with a few other more physical issues thrown in, Big Eye was the traditional name for the peculiar emotional fragility that frequently accompanied the complete disruption of the body’s circadian rhythms coupled with extreme isolation.

  “How could I forget about Big Eye? It’s one of the joys of the Ice,” she replied drily.

  “It’s not as bad here as it is at some of the other stations. We try to combat it. All the lighting is in the natural spectrum, and the fixtures are set to get brighter and dimmer to simulate daylight, twilight, whatever. It’s Greg’s attempt to keep everyone in sync. Here we are.”

  Nik stopped at the entry to a sitting room slightly smaller than the one they just left. This one sported a large-screen TV on the wall. The sofas and chairs in the room were more casual than those in the other room, and were suitable for sprawling.

  The television was dark, and the only occupants of the room were the two Flint executives who had flown down with Tess. They sat side-by-side on a couch studying papers spread out on the low table in front of them. Greg was nowhere to be seen. Tess felt her mood, which had lightened considerably while chatting with Nik, become somewhat grim. Greg’s conspicuous absence was not only a slap in the face professionally, but personally as well.

  He should be here—somewhere—to greet us.

  The two men stood up as Nik and Tess entered the room.

  Tess smiled as she came to a stop near where the two men were standing. “Nik, I’d like you to meet Fred Tate and Tim Bamberger. Fred is Flint’s deputy general counsel and Tim is the vice president of human resources for research and development. This is Nik Forde, assistant research director.”

  “Nice to meet you, Nik. Thanks for being part of the team,” Tim said, shaking hands. Fred followed suit, then turned to Tess.

  “Is Greg meeting us here?” she asked, forcing a smile.

  “I’ve just gotten an email from him. Greg is in his office, expecting us,” Tim replied diplomatically.

  Nik turned to face Tess. “It’s not unusual. Greg has always believed that rank has its privileges. He prefers having the mountain to come to Mohammed,” he said lightly.

  “In that case, let’s party on,” Tim replied, his voice so dry that it made Tess bite back a laugh. The four of them left the room.

  * * *

  “So,” Nik said, stopping at the top of the circular staircase that had brought them to the upper floor, which housed the scientists’ offices.

  The corridor here at the top of the habitat was indeed, as Nik had said, a different world. The walls, floor, and ceiling were sleek, stark, and white. Abstract prints lined walls that were closely punctuated by anonymous doors that bore no nameplates or numbers, but each sported a small device that could read the strip on a smart card and another that read biometric data.

  “Yes?” Tess replied absently, concentrating more on remembering how many doors she’d have to pass before finding Greg’s office. According to the schematic she’d studied, his was the tenth on the left from the top of the staircase she’d come up.

  “I think this would be a good time for you to answer the question I as
ked you out in the Delta,” he said, his tone conversational and a little too smooth. “Why are you here, Tess?”

  An odd mixture of amusement, annoyance, and even a little admiration ran through her as she looked into eyes that were dark, warmly familiar, and openly curious. His grin was charming and his voice meant to disarm. She glanced at the other men, who were watching her, probably for a cue.

  “You’re still adorable, I see,” she replied with a smile that was slightly forced. And dumb like a fox. “You’ll be brought up to speed, Nik. But I need to see Greg before I say anything.”

  Nik didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not so sure he wants to be seen.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  Her words weren’t delivered sharply, but Nik raised an eyebrow anyway and gestured that they should continue walking.

  Taking a surreptitious deep breath, Tess tapped on the door Nik had indicated led to Greg’s office.

  The door opened after a brief wait and then Tess stood face-to-face with Greg for the first time since that awful conversation fifteen years ago. Her stomach flipped at the sight of him.

  He’d aged somewhat, but little about Greg had actually changed. He still had most of his hair and it was still thick and wavy, although the dark blond was well streaked with silver. His eyes were still bright blue and as warm as the glaciers ringing the continent on which the five of them stood. His clothing was still expensively geekish, his posture still steel-rod-for-a-spine straight.

  Nope, not much has changed.

  Tess met his gaze again and corrected herself. The look in his eyes was new. Harder, meaner— She stopped there, not wanting to start conjecturing.

  What the hell. Crazier. He looks wild on the inside.

  Something about seeing Greg standing there, rigid, made Tess unconsciously correct her own posture, adding another inch to the several she already had on him.