The Dying of the Light: Interval (7 page)

Onevás came back on the line. “I think Colonel Burke might have something to say about that, Ms. Michaelson.”

“Yes, well, fortunately, he’s not in charge anymore, Mr. Onevás,” she said, smiling at Shaw. “Cooler heads have prevailed, in this case. So that just leaves the vote. Although I should let you all know that this offer to join us here will be going out to all your people, through emails, phone calls, or even carrier pigeon, if we have to.
Everyone
will know what we’re trying to do. Keep that in mind when you vote for your people.”

She pulled a pad over to her, scribbling as she spoke. “I’ll go down the list, and the delegates can vote yay or nay. Australia? Belgium? Brazil? Bulgaria…”

He stood up and walked to the door, glancing back at Jennifer. Head down, intent and focused, she hadn’t noticed his departure. He shook his head in amazement as he walked down the hall, pulling on his parka for the quick walk to the marshal’s office and its holding cell.

I guess it’s true: you really
can
change the world in a moment
.

“So, it’ll take a year and a bit to coordinate and move everything, but we’ve got a plan, and it’s already started,” Jennifer said, throwing her coat towards the hook on the wall in their tiny quarters, then curling up next to Shaw on the couch. “I can’t believe it’s really happening. The mechanics are already working on the C-130. We should be able to fit all the Argentinians and quite a bit of equipment in it.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t have used the Galaxy?” he asked, draping one arm across her shoulders as he handed her a beer.

“Thanks. No, it’s too big, and uses too much fuel for this. Besides, I have other plans for that—plans that will use all the fuel we can get.” Shaw let that one go without comment, knowing she’d tell him when she was ready. Hell, she
had
to, since he was the only one qualified to fly the plane. Or at least one of a
very
select few.

“No, the Hercules will be fine, we just need to get it to them ASAP. They’re almost out of food. It’ll be rough, but I think we can do it. They’re working to clear an ice runway right now, and it should be ready by tomorrow or the next day. It’ll be close, but doable. The other bases, though… they’re farther away, have more equipment… It’s going to be a logistical nightmare, but it needs to happen.”

“I just keep thinking about how different it’ll be here, with that many people. And from all different places… At least we’ll have more variety on the menu.”

“No more Mexican nights all to ourselves.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m still a bit queasy.”

“I think I can fix that,” she said, taking his beer and setting it down next to hers on the coffee table. She pulled his sweater over his head. “I had some medical training in the marshal service, you know.”

He grinned. “Oh, is that so? Well then, what would you prescribe for me?”

“Hmmm, let me think,” she said, kissing Shaw and removing her own sweater. “I think I know just the thing…”

Chapter Four

McMurdo Station
One year later; Z-Day + 4 years

Sabrina Tanner looked over the spreadsheet one last time, sighing. She turned to her communications cohort Edward. “Still nothing? It’s been six months.”

He glanced her way and shook his head, then turned back to his own monitor. “Yup.” The world ended. No one’s talking, and certainly not to us down here.”

Sabrina sighed and collected her reports. It was time to take a walk back to the Hub, regardless of how little she wanted to make the journey. “Damn you and your ‘let’s flip a coin,’ Ed!”

He grinned. “Mind you remember your gloves this time!”

Sabrina winced as she put her papers in her bag and pulled on her coat for the journey from the Shack—their nickname for the communications building—over to the Hub.
You forget one time in four years, and they never let you forget it
. She paused as she pulled her gloves from the coat’s pocket, staring at where her fingerprints had been. Just smooth skin there, now. All it took was a fraction of a second for exposed skin to fuse to metal at these temperatures, but she’d had to get inside, hadn’t she? Shaking her head against the remembered pain, she pulled the gloves on and went through the double-door airlock system.

The wind was blowing hard, harder than it should this time of year, and the temperature was very low… low enough that she should probably wait for it to clear a bit before going over. She sighed and got her bearings. The Hub was a constant beacon of bright light, just off to her right, and she kept moving forward towards it, never losing sight of it and never, ever looking back.

She clutched her bag tight to her as she pounded the last few feet to the door through the snow, then twisted the handle and hurried inside. Knocking the snow off her boots, she quickly stripped out of the cold-weather gear, revealing a tight t-shirt and sweatpants.

Fashion was a bit informal these days, among the only humans left on the planet.

She hurried with her bag to the director’s office. As she caught her appearance in a glance at a passing window, she realized she was looking rather the worse for wear, and stopped into the loo for a quick brush-up. She sighed again, knowing she was almost just making it worse, and decided to stop delaying the inevitable. A knock on the outer office door, and the director’s assistant had her take a seat. Moments later, she was being ushered into the inner sanctum, where Jennifer Shaw—formerly Jennifer Michaelson—sat behind her desk.

“Good to see you, Sabrina!” Jennifer said, smiling at the younger woman. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know, as well as can be expected, I suppose. Wouldn’t mind a bit of summer, though.”

“You and me both! So, what have you brought for me today?”

“I’ve got that update you wanted on outside communication,” Tanner said. “Which is: still nothing.”

Jennifer frowned. “How long has it been now?”

“We haven’t heard
anything
for six months, and before that it was four months, and before that, it was nine.”

“That’s…” Jennifer looked like she was doing the math in her head. “That’s only three messages in nearly two years.”

“That’s right. And even then, the last one was barely intelligible.”

“Where was it from, again?”

“Christchurch. The airport. Something about fortifying or something.”

“Oh, right, right. I remember now. Sounded like a bunch of loonies.”

“That’s the one.”

“Is there any way to boost our reception capabilities?”

“Not that I know of. But that brings up another point.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I’ve downloaded some of the telemetry and I’ve been going over it in my spare time—”

“You’ve been going over satellite telemetry in your spare time?”

“Yes, just a bit here and there. It’s really quite fascinating if you…” she trailed off as she noticed Jennifer smiling at her. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing. You just reminded me of someone I once knew, a long time ago. So, tell me about this telemetry.”

“Well, that’s just it: It just ended recently, with no more reports. The last we have is about three weeks ago.”

“Did you send a diagnostic?”

“Yep. No response.”

“So…” Jennifer said, looking like she was trying to understand what all this meant.

“So, it’s like the damn satellite just fell out of the sky!”

“But…”

“I know, I know. Satellites don’t do that. It could be half a hundred things, really, from something as simple as a fried board to some piece of space trash smashing it to bits. There’s no way to know, and nothing we can do about it now, anyway.”

“How many other commsats does that leave us?”

“There’s four others in geo-sync orbit that we can bounce signals off of to the rest of the map, but we’re out of luck with anything from Australia to two-thirds of the way to South America.”

“Which just happens to include New Zealand, and Christchurch.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, shit.”

“That was my reaction,” said Sabrina.

Christchurch was the only significant airport nearby, and the source from which all their supplies had always come, and there was no other way to communicate with it than by satellite. This technical failure meant that McMurdo was effectively cut off from anyone who could reach them with help… if any help was ever coming.

“Have you tried talking with any of the others about this?” Jennifer asked. “Atkins has a knack for comm work.”

“I can talk to them about it and see if we can come up with anything. I thought Atkins was a geneticist?”

“He is, but he dabbles. With talent.”

“Ah. I’ll get him into the Shack then, and see what we can’t turn up.”

Jennifer nodded, then cleared her throat, looking everywhere but directly at Sabrina. “How are things going over there?”

Sabrina knew what the director was fishing for, and decided not to waste time for either of them. “We’re still dealing with him being one of the Lost, Jen. He was a part of our family for… well, for a long time. Lots of us imports even looked up to him from our own stations. He was our Papa Bear. But he’s gone now, and we deal with it the best we can. Jackson… Dr. Monroe… will never be forgotten.”

Well, I made it through that whole speech without crying. Again. Maybe I can handle this, after all
.

“Well, if you ever need to talk, Sabrina…”

“I know. Thanks.” Sabrina tried to smile, and thought she might have pulled it off. “I’ll get Atkins and the others and see what we can figure out about that commsat.”

“Thanks.”

Sabrina stood, collecting her bag and reports.

“Sabrina, one more thing,” said Jennifer.

“Yes?”

“As you know, we’ve had to cut back on all our power expenditures to conserve fuel. I’d like for you to come up with a schedule for shutting down some of the more esoteric functions of the Shack. What do we
absolutely
need, etc, and how much power is required to run it. Get it to me by the end of the week, if you can.”

“Sure thing. I’ll start on it right away,” said Sabrina, her mind not on the conversation any longer.

Sabrina made it back to her room in the Shack before losing control. She collapsed on her small bed, curling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. The tears flowed once more, though not as readily as they once had. Some distant part of her knew that she must be getting over his loss, but right now, she didn’t care. If she wasn’t careful, Doc Stirling would just want to put her on meds again, and that had just been a bad time all around. Especially with what little meds they had already restricted to the most urgent cases.

She remembered the good times that they’d had, their little mini-vacations that Jackson would arrange, snagging a heat lamp from storage and somehow finding some fruit juice to go with the rapidly dwindling supplies of rum. That, too, was tightly controlled, for obvious reasons, but it never seemed to stop him. He’d transform her quarters or his into a reasonable facsimile of the beach, or as close as anyone could get from here, and they’d pretend they were in Acapulco, or Tahiti, or Fiji, sipping cocktails.

He always knew exactly what to do, exactly what to say, to make her smile, to forget that they were all entombed with no escape and nowhere to go even if they could. For a little while, he made life worth living.

And then, one day, for no reason anyone could find, he just walked out into the snow and ice, without a coat or gloves or goggles.

He wasn’t the first. That had been that asshole Colonel Burke, much to everyone’s surprise, and several who not-so-secretly cheered his departure. It seemed likely that Monroe wouldn’t be the last, either. The survivors who remained called them ‘The Lost.’ Those poor souls who, for whatever reason, couldn’t take living anymore. Or, at least, living in Antarctica.

If you can call
this
living
, thought Sabrina.

The Lost simply gave up, let go of life. Some became catatonic, unable or unwilling to move, think or even eat. Others had to feed them, to clothe and bathe them, meaning they were a constant and consistent drag on the resources of the group as a whole. But the alternative was unthinkable.

Still, not all of the Lost chose the same manner in which to check out. Nearly a quarter of them simply… disappeared, starting with Burke. Since there was nowhere to go on the base that wasn’t, at least at some point, regularly visited by other personnel, the prevailing theory was that they just walked out into the snow. Only once or twice had anyone actually seen it happen, and it was over and done before they knew what was going on.

Dr. Jackson Monroe wasn’t one of these. He had left no witnesses. All they found was a note, printed from his computer, telling Sabrina how sorry he was to leave her but that he just couldn’t bear it one more day. For her, that was the worst part: knowing that the solace she had found in him was something she hadn’t been able to return. And now he was dead because of it.

Because of her.

She would get past this, she knew. She’d had other loves, in the past, and knew that this was a temporary thing. She would move on, and figure out the damn commsat problem, and find a way to keep going. Eventually. But not tonight.

Tonight was for remembering.

Dr. Reuben Hacker puttered around the hydroponic tray, humming along with the music coming from his iPod’s earphones. The strains of an Italian opera filtered out across the lab.

“Reuben!” his Scottish assistant, Marcie Thompson, called.

He jumped, startled, and looked around, seeing her looking at him from where she was working at a microscope. He hit pause on the iPod and took the earbuds from his ears. “Yes, Marcie, what is it?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“What?”

She pointed at the iPod. “What’s that, then??”

“That?” Hacker glanced down at the MP3 player in his pocket and back up. “That was ‘Duettino Sull’aria,’ from
Le nozze di Figaro
.”