Frostplains: Chapter 1. By Violet LaFleur

It didn't even really register with Shriver at first. You may as well have told him a wagyu cow was grazing on the Northern peninsula. Weather data, storm reports, the continual shifting of parameters. A man as deathly optimistic as Shriver could shake off all the world's inpredictabilities for the nebulious future. Until they're in the open doorway, staring at you.

"What do you mean 'Gone', Nigel?"

"Vernadsky called it in. Yelcho, Palmer. They're just gone."

The air weighed heavy between the two of them. McMurdo's radios and terminals continued to bleep away, spinning archaic machinery that weathered the storm scores better than they. Neither said a word. There was no sensory connection between the information and reality. Just words floating out in the aether. Nigel continued, if only to try and bridge that gap.

"Fyodor said its like it was never there."

"Sheet of ice, a kilometer high."

"Its even blocking out the sun." Every piece was another cold reality. Shriver pursed his lips tight.

"No refugees? Survivors?" Nigel shook his head, unwashed hair shifting on his shoulders.

"Fyodor said its just ice."

Shriver tried to imagine it, bring it to reality. Make it something he could face. But nothing worked. Yelcho was on the brink, Palmer too. They all suffered, but the peninsula was closer to the Gray than any of them, right on the doorstep of the Argentine Islands. Everyone knew it would have to be evacuated soon, flash estimates were a month before life supports on the outer stations would begin to falter. But to just be erased like that? It still wasn't something he was used to. It wasn't something anyone was used to. His mind adjusted. 900. 870. 3%. After a minute, Shriver spoke.

"We have to get the Ukrainians out of there. The whole peninsula must be a timebomb."

Nigel's face shifted, fear of the unknown gave way to frustration with the familiar.

"To where?? Fyodor wont even talk to the Argentinians after their weather drone screwed them. He can't let anything go..."

"Well you gotta get through to him Nigel. We need to get them and any survivors to San Martin. We need people centralized."

Nigel's frustrations grew. He threw his headset down on the table, clacking errant keys and knobs on impact.

"You don't GET it Shriver. He would rather sink into the fucking shelf than listen to me!!! Why is he like this... Why didn't he come here back when he had the chance????" Misplaced anger peppered Shriver, standing in the doorway. Miscalculations, letting humans be humans. Nigel slunk back, exasperated. He sighed.

"Yelcho, Palmer, they're all dead. A few kilo's away from him. And he doesn't wanna even think about it. Big fucking macho man, won't even act like he's scared out of his mind..."

Nigel threw his hands over his head. Sensing what was to come, Shriver finally moved out of the doorway and into the comms room, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey hey, c'mon. That won't do any good, talking like that." Shriver spelled. It wasn't helpful, but it was the best he could do with the distraught man before him. His skills were limited, with human emotions even moreso.

"I told him, I keep telling him its not safe out there... But he won't listen. And now look, two more colonies just wiped out... right next to him..." He sniffled softly. Shriver wanted to excuse himself, to take himself out of this messy tangle. But he knew that such was not his fate, whether he liked it or not.

"Why don't you take the day off nige, huh? We'll put Clara on the chair. She knows russian, maybe she can win him over, get him to give the order."

"Ya, or maybe he'll scream at her to speak english" Nigel chuckled between small sniffles.

"Ya... Maybe" Shriver reflected with a small exhale. Patting his back, he signalled him to take a breath in his quarters. Nigel rose up and away.

"Even if we get the Ukrainians to Martin, he'll still be a thousand miles away..." Nigel sighed, glumly making his way out of comms. Shriver stood there for a few, the knobs and lights clicking their flickers against bright white walls and beaming overheads. Last renovated, 2045. He looked over the control panels, rows of buttons and switches, rows of musicians demanding the attention of an esteemed Maestro. A Maestro scorned. He hurried along. Not only was Clara on the other side of the station, she would want to talk his ear off before even considering covering for Nigel. The warm halls of McMurdo breezed by him, his head full of calculations and recalculations. Timings and pinpoints. No way he could let himself stumble today, he had work to do.

Yelcho. Palmer. 30 dead. Move on. Focus on the living.

He didn't like how accoustomed it was getting. The North wing door squeeked and echoed, leading down the ramp into the research labs. Maybe he could get a plane across the pole. Once enough people got to San Martin.

++++++++++++++

Hills. White as the Devil's snow. White bars of light across the plains, winds strong enough to topple a freight train. The sun stared down with a malice never known in the days before the storm, beating rays that failed to melt a single snowflake. It must have been frustrating, to be the sun over Earth.

The towers of McMurdo held fast. For how long? Was anyone's guess. There weren't any veterans on the ice to give their professional estimates, just a collection of nervous first years. His eyes became thin as he stared out into the hills. Clouds beyond the Ross sea continued to swirl, up into the edges of the stratosphere. Wavy walls of gray, as if they were the ends of Earth itself. Certain death, standing ramrod still a hundred miles away.

Shriver stepped away from the window, turning. New faces from Scott base were walking through the halls. They spoke briefly, something about coming in to help tune photovoltaic outputs. They soon departed, and gave him a wave as they left. Smiling softly, he returned. He made a note to make sure Clara sends them home with a crate of cabbage and collard. Lord knows they need it. His eyes thinned once again. Thats Right, he thought. Stepping away from the Window, he hurried down the hall.

"McMurdo Hydroponics Department. Est: Jan2049"

While the regulators held the humidity within McMurdo stable, hydroponics was uncharted territory. Anything less than a sauna was enough to spark panic in the department, especially now with their regular foodstuffs drying up fast. Shriver took off his flannel and tied it around his waist, walking out the airlock and into the misty maze of vine filled tubes now surrounding him.

Hanging rows. Vibrant greens, deep purples, reds and oranges rising up from white plastic grow houses. One would hardly believe that the blank void of tundra was less than a few meters away, with a bonafide jungle like this. Cabbage, Carrots, Chard, Beets, Bokchoy, Spinach, yet no Clara. Peaking between columns, Shriver continued seeking the woman in charge. But his footsteps were the only ones to echo.

"You piece of fucking shit. Fuck you, I HATE YOU. MUDAK YOBANI."

Ah, there it was. Shriver floated to the source, pushing past great big bellowing leaves and long winding tubing. Finally, He came across her. Arms stretched out over exposed floortiles, black hair in a loose puffy tie behind her shoulders.

"DONT MAKE ME GET THE IMPACT CHORTNAYA SUKA, FUCK."

He brushed another vine out of his view. The floor was hissing steam out of a loose pipe, clouding Clara in a hot frustration as firey before her eyes as behind them.

"FUCK. YOU."

With a twist, she was flung backwards, wrench flying out of her hand, clankering at his feet. The flow of steam had stopped, soft sounds of puttering irrigation channels coming back to the garden. She did not relax, once all was clear. Instead she rose back, sitting on the floor. Shoulders slumped. There was no victory in something like this. Just tepid neutrality. It almost felt rude to interupt. Clara simply stared out into nothingness, deep breaths between the rattles of hydropumps. One machine ceases, the other just begins.

As if on a motor, her head snapped back, eye in eye with Shriver. A fire erupted, whatever steam she was fighting with had fully possessed her.

"What??? Just standing there? Didn't think to help huh???" She sprung up from the floor, ready to strike.

"Clara..."

It was no use. He knew more than anyone else: this was an oil fire, the only thing to do was let it burn itself out. He could only stand there, thanking the Lord the wrench lay on the floor and not in her hands.

"YOU. You were here for five fucking years!!! You couldn't ask them to bring some rice seeds? potato spuds? mushroom spores?"

He opened his mouth to speak, in spite of his best judgement. But she was already a step ahead.

"YA YA YOU WERE JUST THE JANITOR, WHATEVER. YOU COULD HAVE TRIED HARDER."

"IM SICK OF IT. IM SICK OF CABBAGE AND BEANS EVERY FUCKING DAY."

"PENGUIN TASTES LIKE SHIT. AND I HATE FISH SHRIVER, I FUCKING HATE FISH."

She slammed back down to the floor like someone had cut her strings, motors coming to a screeching halt. Knees to her chest, eyes cast down. Neutrality given way to fire, given way to defeat.

"I just want potatoes... like how mama made them..."

She ran her hands through her hair, refusing to make eye contact again. Shriver squatted down, a knee on the floor, leveling his face even if she didn't want to look at him.

"I know kid, I know..."

"this isnt fair for anyone, especially you."

"I'm sorry."

Short, grizzled words from a rough neck. She looked up at him, eyes wet with tears.

"THIS PLACE IS FALLING APART AND ITS ONLY SUMMER. IT WAS NEVER MEANT FOR THIS LEVEL OF OUTPUT. WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GONNA DO WHEN WINTER HITS??? WHY DIDNT THE OTHER BOTANISTS EVER MAKE IT HERE, THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO TEACH ME SHRIVER!!! I DONT KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M DOING."

With an almost parental gentleness, Shriver leaned forward, swift as sea, and wrapped her in his arms. Tears flowing freely, dampening his shoulder.

"I don't know what I'm doing Shriver..."

They sat there for a while, sat there until his knees started hurting. But he didn't dare stand up and away from her, not until she was ready. The poor girl was only supposed to be here for a semester. But this would make month number 7.

"You know more about plants than anyone here, Clara." Shriver spoke softly, relaxing his embrace of her. She inhaled sharply, her sobs cutting in and out.

"god, thats depressing." She laughed between tears, pulling away from him a little bit. The woman was barely out of her teenage years, but Shriver would never be the one to point that out.

"Only if we make it that way."

"We're proud of you kid, you are doing better than anyone could ask. This lab would be a hole if it wasn't for you." Shriver said, holding her by the shoulders as if the support beam, keeping a tangled tower of vines high in the air.

"Thanks Shrive..." Clara said breathlessly, leaning back into him, exhausted. She clung there for a little while, Shriver doing his best as an object of comfort. It was a role he was subject to time and time again now, as those who knew more than him stewed in the dismality of their situation. But such was not his burden. Atleast not for now.

"Do you need any help around here?" He asked, as they both made to their feet. Clara put her hands on his arms, lifting him up as his aging legs readjusted.

"No, no I don't think so. Well, here let me check." She turned on her heels, grabbing a tablet off the table. With a few taps, Documentation and figures, schematics and descriptors, all manner of information flew past her fingertips.

"Lets see. Now that the growing stage for most of the legumes is tapering off, we can take down the PSI a few notches. Redirect it to the herbs and tubers, keep pressure off the mainlines..." diagrams danced in front of Shriver from holographic projectors, beaming lines and vectors eminating from the back of the tablet. It looked more like a circus trick than hard data, and to Shriver was about as comprehendible as the former.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know if we have more of that L12 booster from the prototype runs would you? Scott Base might be able to isolate the compounds I need for target germination, because our yield is still way too low for the kind of solution we're pumping. I think its because they can't synthesize properly off of-"

This was more Shriver's speed, standing there nodding politely as two years of enthausiastic college eduction flew right over his head and into the foliage behind him. Openly, he was glad she was back to her old self. Innerly, his eyes kept glancing up over her pacing figure at the clock hanging above the doorway.

08:56

08:57

09:05

09:10

"So, ya. we'll be good. Good for the next 24 hours atleast... Ya. Ya..." Shriver could see the calculator in her brain turning multiples and divisions. Silently, he braced himself for another deluge. But with the turn of her eyes, he could see that the accounts had balanced. A smile, and a breath out.

"Now what brought you all the way out here anyway?" She put her hand on her hips, tablet hanging loosely from her other arm.

"Well, I wanted to see if you could take a crack at comms for the rest of the day. Something came up, Nigel had to take the day off."

"Mmm, you mean someone, right?" Shriver's eyes darted. The last thing he wanted was to be in the middle of all this, which Clara knew all too well. With haste, he deflected.

"Its real easy! All you gotta do is sit there and scan the frequencies, and keep a line open to Vernadsky." Shriver tried to sell it as best he could, tried to find a way to interject what he needed from her without heaving a shock, but Clara was intelligent.

"Ya, and if its so easy why don't you cover it?" She could tell, Easy was just a very poor anagram for Boring. And doubly, that Shriver was leaving something out.

"You're telling me that Nigel, who stays up to 3am talking to his crush, suddenly wants off the comms?" She pressed him, thinking to push his buttons on Nigel's preverbial roommate, unaware that his discomfort stemmed from something else entirely.

"boy troubles, huh?" with crossed arms and a smirk.

"Clara, Yelcho and Palmer colony are gone." The words carried an arctic chill, even in the high humidity of the growhouse jungle. The smile dropped from Clara's face, eyes widened slightly. Shriver continued.

"We need to get the Ukrainians off the peninsula, atleast to San Martin. But Fyodor won't listen to Nigel." Clara continued to listen, a serious expression staying on her face.

"You mentioned that your dad was from Kyiv, maybe you can use that to get through to him?" The question tangled in the water particles between them, the unsuredness of Shriver's tone hanging in the air.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks sake, shrives..." Clara laid down her tablet and grabbed the windbreaker hanging off a nearby coat hook. She began making her way through the maze towards the airlock, Shriver following closely.

"So, what? You want me to convince Nigel's loverboy to tuck tail and run away to the guys who fucked him over in the first place? You're right shrives, real easy." Shriver cursed under his breath, he never could understand how word got around so fast.

"You clearly don't know men." he heard her say, as they turned a corner.

"No, no I don't. But you're a stranger, I'm sure theres a lot he can tell you that he doesn't want to tell Nigel."

"A Stranger and uh, a woman..." He added sheepishly, as they passed through the halls of South wing. Shriver opened the door to the radio room.

"Men and their fucking bravado..." Clara sighed as she dropped down in the chair, picking up a headset.

"Look, tell him over and over again that the peninsula is dangerous. Hell lie if you have to, tell him we have some new weather data or whatever. From brand new machines, ones that never got to Vernadsky." Clara listened from one ear, looking down the radio codes that hung from the wall.

"Well, he might be dumb enough to believe it if he's fallen for Nigel." She said, flipping a panel on and switching through the knobs. Her actions started inquisitive, then got more confident as she familiarized herself.

"Alright, I'll see what I can do." Shriver sighed in relief as her hands glided over the buttons, turning and tapping as if on their own.

"Now get going, aren't you late for the haul? I cleared the payload hours ago." Shriver looked up at the clock. 9:28. He gasped, and turned for the door. But not before turning back to Clara.

"Hey make sure Scott's people don't go back without a crate of greens, ya?" Clara gave him a thumbs up from her free hand as she scanned through the clipboard, before setting right back down to the control panels. Hurriedly, Shriver made his way to storage, the whiz and whirls of comms gradually trailing far behind him.