by Hannah Ross
"Scott, a three-week hiking trip in Northern Canada could be an adventure. But moving to Antarctica for months, and just when an endless night is about to fall?" she shook her head. "I can't do that. I will tell you straight, Scott, I will not come. Not now. Not ever," she concluded, as if steeling herself for something unpleasant.
"Well, it won't be before next spring that I can visit," Scott said, feeling a little helpless.
"Visit... this isn't the way a marriage is supposed to work, Scott, you know. I can understand that your sister copes when her husband is deployed - he's a soldier, and she has no choice. But you? You just up and left and now sit holed up in some freezing research station, and talk about it as if it's the greatest place in the world, expecting me to throw my whole life away and join you. Things don't work that way," Brianna’s voice broke, and though the image of the digital camera was a little fuzzy, Scott could not miss the tears glistening in her eyes. He felt a lump in his throat, and longed to take her in his arms and hold her.
“I understand, Brianna, I really do, but… we talked about it before I accepted the contract. I thought you were alright with me taking the position, though we both knew things wouldn’t be easy."
"What could I say? Was I supposed to keep you on a leash? You are a grown man, Scott, and you have your ambitions, but you had to realize that this job was incompatible with having a family."
"A lot of people here have families," Scott said.
"Oh yeah? And how many of them stay year-round?" When he didn't answer, she went on, "Just as I thought, very few. Not that I would be alright with my husband being away half the time."
This, Scott had to admit, was true. The seasonal workers were counting the days that remained until they could rejoin the families they left behind, and the few married people among the year-round workers usually had their spouse right there, occupying another position at McMurdo.
"Brianna, I'm sorry things are tougher than you imagined they would be.”
"They aren't. It is just as I imagined it would be. And Scott, I'm sorry, but I can't take it anymore. You have made your choice, chosen your way, and... and I can't walk it with you."
There was such a tone of finality in her words that Scott felt mounting panic. "So what is it that you're trying to say?"
"It was for the best, after all, that we didn't have time to have a baby. It would have made things a lot more complicated."
"What do you mean?!" he nearly shouted, pain and anger mingling in a helpless, terrible frustration. If he were near, if he could take a step closer and hold Brianna, he could stop these words that were bringing his whole world tumbling down.
"I want to sell the house, Scott, and use my share to start a new life elsewhere. Maybe I'm going to leave Madison. I don't know yet."
"Brianna, wait. Don't do anything rash. Let us talk this through, and I'm sure we can..."
"It's too late, Scott. I want us both to be happy, but it just doesn't seem we can make this work, not together. My lawyer will email you."
The connection was cut off, and Brianna's icon turned to 'unavailable'. Slowly, Scott set the laptop aside and bowed his head, gripping his hair in frustration. He felt like a complete, hopeless idiot. While he was immersed in the work of running the station, and in fascinating discoveries beyond it, his marriage was crumbling and falling apart without him being any the wiser. The divorce papers might be making their way to him even at this moment.
He tried going back to the office, but it was no good. He couldn't concentrate on work – words and numbers danced before his eyes, and in his helplessness and confusion he wished he were home, wished he had never gone from home. He longed to call his sister, but restrained himself. Laura had her own troubles to think about, and besides, he knew only too well what she would say. She thought Brianna ought to throw her full support behind his career choices, whatever those might be. But things weren't always so simple.
He put his stuff in order, locked the office, and made his way to the greenhouse. Jerry was there, replanting some arugula seedlings. "What's up, Buck?" he said, straightening up. "You look all perturbed."
Scott pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. "My wife is filing for divorce," he announced.
Jerry let go of the potting tray and gave a low whistle. "You must be kidding. What happened?"
"She says she can't put up with an absentee husband," Scott uttered through gritted teeth.
"Wait right there," Jerry said, letting go of his plants. "I'll fix you a drink. You look like you need one badly."
Jerry dove into the depths of his little refrigerator and extracted a bottle of vodka, and about thirty seconds later, held out a tall glass to Scott. It was filled with a greenish, poisonous-looking brew, but Scott was past caring. He took a gulp of the drink, which was surprisingly refreshing.
"Spiked lime and mint juice," Jerry explained. "I won't give you anything stronger right now. After work hours, if you want to, you can get roaring drunk. But first, tell me just what happened."
Scott shook his head gloomily. "I suppose I should have seen it coming. Brianna wasn't happy with me going to work here, and she wasn't happy with me being happy about the position. She wasn't prepared to change her life, our life, but I... I guess I kind of pushed that feeling to the edges of my brain. Until it was too late," he took another sip.
"No chance she might come around?"
"You don't know Brianna. Once she makes up her mind, she goes all the way with it, full steam. And this, I guess, is something she has been struggling with for a while. I suppose I'll get the divorce papers via New Zealand mail sometime soon," he concluded bitterly.
"But if you packed your bags and ran home right now... would it help?"
Scott looked him straight in the eye. "I have a contract. I am under obligations. I can't just up and leave, it would be irresponsible."
"In other words, you aren't prepared to give up your position here. Not that I think you ought to," Jerry hastened to add. "If you go home right now, Lindholm will not rest until he tracks you down and murders you. He won't suffer his replacement to disgrace him."
"But it's more than that, Jerry. It's not only that I can't leave. I would hate to leave. I feel like I'm just opening a window into a new world."
Jerry grinned. "I see how it is. If you were only staying out of duty, it would make you a morally superior being. But Buck, I don't think it matters to your wife whether you enjoy your job or not. She just wants you home, not in Antarctica."
"Which is understandable. I just... I wish she had put her foot down more firmly when I was considering the position. If she had said, Buck, it's either me or that research station at the end of the world, I would have sobered up. Maybe I should never have married in the first place," Scott finished despondently, downing the rest of his drink.
"Well, someone might be made happy by this, after all," Jerry noted after a pause.
"What do you mean?" Scott was baffled.
"Zoe," Jerry explained. "When she hears about this, she'll be all sympathetic, of course, but I'll bet deep down inside she'll be celebrating, and when the time comes..."
"Don't be ridiculous," Scott snapped.
"Alright, alright. That was pretty insensitive of me, I guess. Another drink?"
"No, thanks," Scott handed back his glass. "McMurdo won't gain much by me staying here if I spend my work hours getting drunk. I'll see you later, Jerry."
Chapter 12
For the next weeks, Scott buried himself in work. The preparations for winter went up a notch, and there was not an hour to spare. Nevertheless, Scott made up his mind to journey to the Anai Valley and participate in the Great Darkness Falling feast which marked the end of harvest and hunt season, and the beginning of the long night.
He attempted to get in touch with Brianna a few times more, but she never took his calls. He did receive a short, official email from one George Howey, who presented himself as her lawyer, and notified Scott that the divorce settlement paper
s are on their way. This made Scott swallow a hard, bitter lump, and write the following email:
"Dear Brianna,
I understand that you feel I have put our marriage last on my list of priorities, and though this is far from the truth, I realize that some of my decisions seem to indicate otherwise. I don't want to accept that our love has come to an end, but it is not in my power to stop you from going your own way if this is really what you want. Still, I'd think that after seven years together, the least I can expect is to hear from you again, in person, and not through Mr. Howey. If you aren't prepared to face me, at least send a few lines by email in reply to this.
I'm still hoping you will change your mind. I can't leave before winter, but one word from you, and I will tell my supervisors that I'm terminating my contract come spring, whatever the penalties may be, and going home.
Your husband
Scott
Scott jotted down these few short lines using the email app on his phone, and sat silent and motionless for some minutes after pressing the 'send' button. He was startled by a knock on the office door, and guiltily pushed the phone out of sight.
"Come in," he said, shaking his head like a dog trying to get water out of its ears.
Victor Nash came in. "Morning," he said. "I came to have a word about the order of plumbing and wiring. I've been doing some accounts, and it appears that the budget of the Antarctic Program... is everything alright?" he regarded Scott's frazzled look with an expression of cold politeness. "Should I come another time?"
"No, no, it's fine," Scott said. As always when seeing Nash these days, he felt a jolt of unpleasantness, and Tahan's confession was on his mind. He deemed it unwise to confront his assistant directly, however. "Have we exceeded the budget again?"
"I'm afraid so. A committee will meet to revise the McMurdo budget next July, and it may be hoped we'll get an addition, but for now, we have to make do."
"Thanks for letting me know. I'll get to some number-crunching right now."
Nash nodded. "I'm glad to see you so absorbed in work," he remarked. "The research team has made another trip to AN-85, and I rather thought you would choose to join them."
"I've been too busy at the office," Scott said curtly.
"Right. It's always busy here this time of the year. Not that I wouldn't understand the, ah, attractions of the Geyser Valley."
There was an unpleasant smirk on Victor's face, and Scott wished he would leave. It seemed that Nash enjoyed taunting him, and he was in no mood to put up with this right now. Anger flared up within him again, hot and hard. Slowly, he got up from his chair.
"Oh yes, Nash," he said quietly, "I know all about how you appreciated the attractions of that valley. So much so that you lost your clearance to go near it again."
Nash stood with his back to the door and faced him with an ugly scowl. "What do you know about that?" he demanded. "Did Lindholm fail to keep his mouth shut? Don't be a prude, Buckley. You have seen those women, pretty wild things that they are. They would have been none the worse for a little attention."
A muscle twitched in Scott's jaw, and almost without perceiving it, he advanced toward Nash. "You are a molester and a dirty scumbag, Nash," he said. "That’s why Lindholm kept you from getting his position and made sure you had no clearance to go to AN-85. I say he was too soft with you. If I were him, I would act to get you sent away from McMurdo no matter what it took. I'm ashamed to know that a walking disgrace like you still has a place at the station. Now get out of my office before I punch you in the face."
One of Victor's hands edged behind his back and gripped the door handle, but he didn't move. "A disgrace, am I?" he repeated mockingly. "You hypocrite, Buckley. We'll see how you get on a year from now, with your wife away and no decent-looking woman in sight. You have no idea how to run the station, you clueless upstart. You wouldn't have lasted a week without me."
"Oh yeah?" Scott's voce was dangerously low. "Well, Nash, you might as well put this to test. The summer workers are going to leave soon, and you are welcome to join them."
Nash strode out, banging the door, and Scott returned to his desk. He massaged his temples and closed his eyes. Satisfying as it was to tell Nash exactly what he thought of him, he had no idea how they could keep working together with tolerable civility now.
Before Scott had the chance to worry too long about his work relationship with Nash, there was a series of beeps and, upon checking, he saw that it's an Internet call from the Antarctic Program headquarters. He wondered what the reason could possibly be – he only got a direct call from headquarters once since starting his work at McMurdo – but, naturally, pressed 'receive' at once, and found himself face to face with Trevor Lang, his supervisor.
"Scott, you're alone, that's good," Trevor said, sounding harried. He was a lean, bony man in his fifties, with a square face and a haircut so brutally short it put one in mind of convicts. "I did want a few minutes – you'll see the latest broadcasts soon enough, I presume, but first I'm going to brief you."
"News?" Scott repeated. "Is it about the war with North Korea?"
"Not just that. North Korea, India, China, Europe... the world is going up in flames, and Australia and New Zealand are wisely trying to keep out of it, but I don't know how long they can hold on. There was a bombing in Washington – the details are still confidential, but it's far worse than September 11th. It's war, Scott, global war, and I'm afraid that not even a place as remote as McMurdo is going to evade the consequences."
Scott gripped the edge of his desk. "What do you mean?"
"The summer employees were supposed to leave soon, but under present conditions, I seriously doubt we will be able to provide transportation for them all. Both flights and ships are going to become scarce from now on, and not to be taken for granted... in the current situation, some countries can no longer be relied on to respect the Antarctic Treaty, you see, and if regions of sea and land turn disputed, sailing can be unsafe. A plane is going to arrive soon to carry off the tourists, and whatever summer workers can fit it, and evacuate them to New Zealand, but it's almost certain there won't be a place for everyone. Some of the workers will have to overwinter at McMurdo rather than go home... and, it pains me to say so, but they might be safer in Antarctica than in the States."
"But," Scott cut in with a feeling of mounting panic, "if we have more people than we counted on at McMurdo over winter, we must have more supplies. I made some extra orders, but if you can just give me a total number..."
"I can't guarantee any extra shipments," Lang said impassively. "In fact, you must get to grips with the fact that no one can guarantee anything right now. The communication lines may turn patchy, especially as darkness falls. You will have to make do with what you have, Mr. Buckley. I trust in your capabilities during this difficult time."
Scott was about to say something else, ask more questions, but Lang's voice became scratchy, unintelligible – they were losing the connection. It closed a few seconds later, and Scott was unable to renew it. Deeply perturbed, he walked out of his office, turning on Google Chrome on his phone at the same time, and pressing a shortcut to a news website. He barely caught a glimpse of the headline, Emergency Report: Bombings in Washington, World in Utter Chaos, when he collided with Jerry, who was practically running down the corridor, pale and out of breath.
"Have you heard, Scott? Washington, D.C. – the bastards dared to touch it!"
"Calm down, Jerry. I know it all... or at least enough to realize we must have an emergency meeting. There are some important communications to make, and I want you on board, too. Zoe as well, and all the team leaders, doctors, head researchers, and the people who are in charge of the recycling and water purification plants. The conference room isn't big enough, so I'll have the meeting at the bigger club in an hour."
"You'll want Nash to alert the people, I suppose," Jerry said, sounding slightly less frantic.
Involuntarily, Scott wrinkled his nose. "No," he said, "I'll send t
he message through Zoe myself."
Zoe sounded positively on the verge of fainting when he called her at the communications center. "I have family in Washington," she said. "I can't get through to them..."
"I understand, Zoe, but we must get this under control, OK? I need everybody at the meeting in an hour, and I must prepare."
In the hour that remained before the meeting, Scott did some thinking and some number crunching. Luckily, most of the tourists have already left McMurdo, prompted by the world turbulence and the approaching winter. There remained about fifty, who would all be considered top priority for evacuation. A brief email received from headquarters in the meantime informed Scott that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, the plane, having the capacity of 150 passenger seats, would arrive in two days. Subtracting fifty seats for the tourists, this left a hundred for the summer workers. Scott's first priority was to avoid hysterical competition and elbowing among the summer employees to get these seats. They would have to go through the files of seven hundred summer workers and create a priority list based on people's health condition, family situation, and capabilities.
There were other considerations, too. Of around a thousand people at McMurdo, about eight hundred and fifty would be left after this one guaranteed evacuation flight, as opposed to the usual two hundred and fifty year-round workers. This left an extra six hundred people to feed, house and keep warm over winter, and Scott had no idea whether the station's resources would hold on. We might have to implement rationing... he shook his head, praying for extra flights, or ships that would brave the Sub Antarctic waters and carry people away to relative safety.
All those he invited arrived at the meeting punctually to a minute, and as he entered the room, Scott suddenly realized they were looking to him for answers and reassurance. This realization was disconcerting, for he had never felt less fit to reassure anybody in his life.
There were only a few whom he knew more than in passing - Jerry and Zoe, Dr. Hope from the hospital, Sue Ellis of the research team, Fred the electricity technician. There was the head accountant, mechanics, scientists, and the head of maintenance. Though Victor Nash had not been invited – a little act of rudeness Scott relished in the midst of all the mayhem – he still found his way in, and was sulking somewhere in the back of the room. Come to think of it, the entire room was more crowded than Scott had anticipated. More people than he summoned must have come to hear what he had to say.
