by Hannah Ross
“Yes, and other species as well. Many believe that the pterosaurs remember the valley, that they are wired to return to it like homing pigeons.”
“Or maybe they’re just looking for a warmer place,” suggested Petri.
“That makes sense, yes. Though their lair must be somewhere that is warmer, or at least more sheltered, than most of Ross Island. I mean, otherwise, how could they survive? Either way… the First Anai managed to fight them off somehow. So will we. But we need to have a plan…”
Scott was momentarily distracted by a bling of his cell phone, which indicated an incoming email. Almost absent-mindedly, he flipped the phone out, tapped the screen, and frowned. The message ran as following:
Dear Mr. Buckley,
Following our last meeting, it seems to me we have many things yet left to discuss. I assure you I mean you and your people no harm, and the way I see it, we can join forces for a mutually beneficial cause. I therefore invite you to visit me at our research station at your earliest convenience. You can reach us by snowmobile, or join us in a helicopter that will fly to Siyanie within the next day or two. Either way, you will be an honored guest.
Yours truly,
Sergey Pechersky
“What do the Russians want with you?” Petri asked, puzzled. “Why not talk to Douglas, or Lindholm, or…”
“Whatever it is, I suspect it’s not perfectly legal,” Scott said. Then he told Petri about the Russians’ unauthorized visit to the valley. Petri’s eyebrows nearly touched his hairline.
“Fishy. Very fishy,” he declared.
“You don’t say. I don’t know what they are up to, but perhaps I should find out.”
“You’ll go to their station?”
“I think so. Yes. You want to come?”
“With you?”
“You’re about the only one at McMurdo whom I really trust. Well, and maybe Lindholm, but I’d rather leave him out of this. He’s all for toeing the line and… and I’m afraid I’ll have to step out of it.”
“You don’t think this might be dangerous?”
Scott pondered this for a moment. “Not really, though it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. I’ll leave a note with the administration telling where I have gone, and a request to get in touch with me within a day or two. If I don’t come back on time, old Lindholm will tear their station down until he finds me. No, I don’t think the Russians would dare to play foul openly.”
If Scott had any reservations about visiting Siyanie, those had to do with his staying away from home for an additional couple of days. He was needed at the village, and he hated to leave Tahan alone at this time. Still, he felt compelled to dig into the case of Sergey Pechersky. Like a dog with a bone, he kept turning his encounter with the Russians over and over again in his mind, wondering what to make of it.
The helicopter from Siyanie came twelve hours later, to bear away a group of Russian bacteriologists who had taken advantage of the more advanced laboratory equipment at McMurdo. Scott and Petri joined the men, furtively taking a less well-trodden path to the helicopter pad. Scott did leave a note with the administration, just in case, but he didn’t say a word to Douglas or Lindholm, and he preferred that neither of them should know anything about the visit until it was over.
It wasn’t until Scott was on board of the helicopter that he started having misgivings. The wind was picking up, the threat of a blizzard loomed ahead, according to the weather forecast, and the pilot was considerably less skilled than Stan. Petri appeared to share his sentiments. He sat very rigidly, muttering under his breath.
“Did you feel that?” he turned to Scott. “That pilot thinks he’s a kid playing a video game. Even I could fly this rickety old thing better.”
Scott wisely refrained from commenting. He had flown with Petri as the pilot once, and had no desire to repeat the experience.
The helicopter gave a huge rattle and shake. Petri lapsed into a string of Finnish profanities. “Perkele,” he hissed. “Mitä helvettiä? What the hell? We’ll be dead before we get there. I don’t know what we were thinking.”
“Do me a favor, pass the paper bag, Pete,” asked Scott, who had turned green in the face.
Despite the very shaky flight, however, the helicopter and all its passengers safely arrived at the newly established Russian research station. On the way, in atrocious English, the pilot’s assistant let Scott and Petri understand that Siyanie was built over the remnants of the old Soviet station, but hardly anything was left of it due to tectonic changes and exposure to the elements for such a long time.
Sergey Pechersky himself came forward to meet them, wearing tattered work overalls in dirtyish yellow. Scott couldn’t imagine anyone to look less like a parliament member. “Welcome, Mr. Buckley, welcome,” he said, wringing Scott’s hand with his steely fingers. “And you, Mr…” he eyed Petri, a little apprehensively.
“This is Mr. Petri Karhu,” said Scott. “I asked him to accompany me because I couldn’t think of a more trustworthy companion.”
“Hmm. Yes. Well, anyone you choose to bring is a welcome guest here,” Pechersky eyed Petri and nodded, but made no motion to shake hands. “No ceremonies here, yes? Just call me Sergey. I knew someone named Karhu once. Vladimir Karhu. And, funnily, he was from Medvezhyegorsk.”
“You mean Karhumäki?” Petri raised his eyebrows. ”Anyway... I don’t know this person. We have no relations in the occupied part of Karjala.”
”Occupied? Ho ho, I see you know your history. That was long before any of our grandparents were even born.”
”Perhaps. But after the recent war and the following wave of pollution, Finland has little habitable land left, while Russia still has more than it can occupy. Surrendering Karjala appears to me a gesture of basic decency, and the correction of a great historical wrong.”
Pechersky shrugged his massive shoulders. His yellow work-suit threatened to split along the shoulder seams. ”You can’t possibly hold me responsible for international politics.”
”Why not, Mr. Pechersky? You are a member of the parliament. You are, therefore, responsible at least in some measure.”
”One member of the parliament can do little, very little. I could tell you much about –”
”Why don’t we continue to talk inside, Sergey?” Scott suggested, trying hard to stop his teeth from chattering. The helicopter pad of Siyanie was completely exposed, with nothing to block the icy wind from every direction. But Pechersky, somehow, didn’t seem to mind the cold as much as normal people did. He looked around with some surprise, as if he had forgotten they are all still standing outside. ”Yes, of course. My fault. Shouldn’t have kept you out, very bad manners. Let’s go – living quarters are that way.”
Siyanie was considerably smaller than McMurdo, maybe only two times as large as Scott Base, their nearest neighbor, and Scott was able to take almost everything in as they crossed from the helicopter pad to the living quarters. The number of living quarters, indeed, appeared to be remarkably high in proportion to buildings used for research and utility purposes.
”How many people do you have here?” Scott asked in an off-hand manner.
”Oh, it varies,” Pechersky replied vaguely.
As they walked, a heavily clad, thickset woman stepped out of one of the buildings, carrying a pile of bundles in her arms. A high-pitched voice called after her, and she turned around and answered, but her voice was swallowed by the bitter wind, and the door slammed shut.
”Was that... the voice of a child?” Petri frowned. ”It sounded very young.”
”We have a few youngsters here. It is part of the program,” Pechersky said, but did not elaborate. This was very strange. The Russian research stations were notorious for their men-only teams. They included a woman or two in research expeditions now and then, but never permanently, and never over the winter. When queried upon the subject by the gender equality division of the Antarctic Committee, the Russian representative crabbily said that ”teams that work well to
gether are more important than feminism, and a female minority at a research station would disrupt the team work.”
They caught up with the woman as they walked. She wore a bulky hooded parka akin to Pechersky’s, but in faded black rather than yellow. She did not look like staff. Scott caught a glimpse of her face; she had coarse features, protruding brow ridges and a receding chin.
”Is she... a relation of yours?” Scott hazarded to ask. Pechersky gave him a sharp look.
”Why would you think that?” he asked, but did not wait for an answer as he rushed them inside.
The living quarters were pretty Spartan, but clean and tidy. A warm, meaty smell wafted through the air, and Scott’s stomach growled. Now that the precarious helicopter ride was over, he had time to remember he hadn’t had lunch yet.
”Would you like some meatballs and mashed potatoes?” Pechersky asked. ”I’m afraid our menu is not as varied as at McMurdo. We just do one main dish every time.”
”That would be great, thanks.”
An older man with a broomstick in his hand collided with them at the doors of the mess hall. ”Kto eto?” he asked Pechersky, suspiciously eyeing the two visitors up and down. Pechersky quietly said something in Russian, and the man moved along with a noncommittal grunt.
The dining hall was homely, small and rather dark. Compared to it, the Galley of McMurdo with its plentiful and orderly meals seemed full of luxury. Scott and Petri didn’t mind, however, and quickly polished off their platefuls of meatballs and mash. Pechersky sat opposite them, sipping a cup of tea with a slice of lemon. The Russians appeared pretty well supplied.
“So,” Scott said, leaning back and pushing his empty plate away, “it would be nice to know the purpose of this invitation.”
Pechersky nodded. “How about if we go to my office? We can talk more comfortably there.”
Pechersky’s office was large but messy, with haphazardly overstuffed shelves and a sofa that had the air of a folding bed. Scott wouldn’t be surprised to know that Pechersky slept as well as worked here. The more he thought about it, the stranger it appeared to find a Russian parliament member in such conditions.
Scott and Petri stared expectantly at Pechersky, who sat opposite them. The Russian appeared to be deep in thought, his prominent brows drawn close together. It was odd to see this brutal-looking man in such an introspective mood. Pechersky’s hands were on the desk separating them, the heavy, hairy fingers locked together.
“I should be open, I guess, if I hope you would help me. You have probably guessed our research station has a great interest in the AN-85 area.”
Scott nodded. “You aren’t the only ones. The Anai Valley is a unique place, a livable oasis in the middle of a frozen desert. Now that the secret is no longer hushed up, scientists all around the world are fascinated with it and would like to visit. But we can’t let everybody in. The valley rightly belongs to the Anai people. We refuse to let it be turned into a tourist spot.”
“We are not tourists. We are explorers,” Pechersky said. “And we are interested in dinosaurs more than in Anai.”
“Again, you aren’t the only ones. There is a whole research team in McMurdo, led by Dr. Geels, that is dedicated to researching the prehistoric reptiles. I personally am more concerned with their threat to the safety of our settlement.”
Pechersky leaned forward, and his small, deep-set eyes bore into Scott’s. “Where do they come from? I understand one was frozen in ice and you saw it get out and awaken. But how are there more? Where were they hidden all those years? And how do they live? They can’t be exposed to the cold of continental Antarctica and survive. They must depend on warmth if they evolved in the valley.”
Scott shrugged. “You raise interesting questions, but frankly, I’m not the right person to ask, Mr. Pechersky.”
“Sergey, please.”
“Sergey,” Scott nodded. “I want those beasts to stop threatening my family and my people. I don’t care much about anything else.”
“Our researchers have a theory. The Anai valley is warm thanks to the geysers. There might be another warm area, not very far from where the Anai live, but far enough and inaccessible enough to be missed by explorers. The reptiles found it and settled there. That’s how they survive.”
Petri shook his head. “That theory is full of holes. If this other place exists, and the reptiles have lived there all those years, how come they were never sighted before?”
“I don’t know,” Pechersky said. “But if we manage to track the creatures back to their lair, we might find an explanation. And, more importantly, we’ll find the place. That’s why we need your help,” he looked at Scott. “Douglas won’t grant us access to AN-85. The Antarctic Committee won’t either. But if you allow us to come to the valley and begin the search from there, we might find the monsters’ lair together. We can help you eliminate them. You want them gone, I know.”
“But why do you want them gone?” Scott asked with narrowed eyes.
“Like you, I don’t care much about them. Their place is more important. If it exists, we want it.”
“What for?”
“To live. If it’s habitable, sheltered and unpolluted, we want to found a permanent settlement there.”
“I’m not so sure that’s in accordance with the Antarctic Treaty,” Petri chimed in. “And besides… why would you want to settle in Antarctica? Surely Russians are not that desperate. You have plenty of land.”
“It’s not that simple, Mr. Karhu. Your government… it cares for people. The Russian government does not. And though I have some influence, being in the Duma, one man can do little.”
“Many researchers have tried to find an area similar to the Anai Valley,” Scott said. “They failed. But even if such a place exists, it must be very small. How can a tiny settlement in Antarctica help an enormous country like Russia?”
Pechersky sighed. “It’s not about the global interests of Russia,” he said, “but about my own people. Not many know this, but I was born in Trepanovo, a small village in the plains of Central Siberia. It’s a remote spot, and has been so for many, many years. But after the recent wave of pollution, the land in our area has become more lucrative. The government has big plans for it. They are going to chop down the woods, build a dam upon the river, and raise up a city like Tomsk or Novosibirsk. Trepanovo’s days are numbered.”
“That’s really unfortunate, but the villagers will receive compensation, won’t they?”
Pechersky shook his head. “The Russian government isn’t known for its consideration. They might give the village families one-bedroom apartments in some cramped new building. It won’t do. We’re attached to land, and we want a place where we can live in peace.”
“There are plenty of depopulated villages in Siberia, as far as I know,” Petri said. “The people of Tre-pa-novo can join one of them. That would be more practical than moving them to Antarctica, if that’s what you have in mind,” he finished with an incredulous little laugh. Pechersky, however, did not look amused.
“What you have to understand…” he paused, as if unsure how much he ought to tell. Finally, he gave a resolute nod. “Trepanovo has been our stronghold for many centuries. We have suffered great persecution at times, and there aren’t too many of us left.”
“Of us?” Scott queried. “What do you mean by us? I thought you were just Russian. I know, of course, that there are some minority peoples in Siberia, but…” he trailed off, uncertain. He had meant to say, you don’t look like any of them, but he was uncertain how Pechersky’s looks could actually be defined. There was certainly something odd, almost unnerving, in those enormous shoulders and that angular, roughly chiseled face.
“You are in the right direction.” Pechersky got up, walked over to a shelf, and pulled off a thick volume in English that was titled The Anthropology Overview. He opened it, flipped through several sections, and placed it on the desk between Scott and Petri. Then he sat down opposite them and crossed his mass
ive arms.
Scott, puzzled, glanced at the page. It was titled Historically Recent Remnants of Homo Neanderthalensis in Siberia. There was a photograph of a reconstructed face with a sloping forehead, receding chin and deep-set eyes belonging to a man who looked as if he could have been Pechersky’s cousin. All of a sudden, it hit Scott what Pechersky was suggesting. A gurgle of laughter escaped his lips before he could stop himself. He did not even attempt to keep a straight face.
“You’re pulling our leg, Sergey, aren’t you?” he chortled.
“Sorry?” Pechersky looked puzzled.
“Never mind. What I mean is, you can’t seriously be suggesting that you are… I mean, it’s true that most Europeans have a certain tiny part of Neanderthal DNA, but its contribution to the modern human genome is minuscule. Phenotype is nothing, it can happen at random. And besides, apart from this article here, I have never heard of any evidence of Neanderthals living so far to the east.”
“There is research unknown to the general public, Scott, when government has its own interests. Much like with the Anai,” Pechersky added. The impact of his words gradually began to sink in.
“Goodness, you’re actually serious, aren’t you?” Scott asked in disbelief.
“Most anthropologists adhere to two distinct theories,” Pechersky went on. “Either Homo Sapiens had violently clashed with the Neanderthals, forcing them off their land, or mated with them, diluting the gene pool until the population influx of Homo Sapiens won out, washing out the Neanderthal genes until nothing but an insubstantial amount remained in the main human population. But the truth is that some Neanderthal tribes fled east when Europe became too densely populated by Homo Sapiens, and settled in Siberia. The most recent ice age was waning, and the climate was getting warmer. Having already adapted to the cold, the Neanderthals moved up north, where the conditions were more familiar to them. There they continued to live… and still do, though not many remain.”
Petri, who was listening as if transfixed until now, shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense.”
