Ice's End, page 26
Roscoe returned to his seat, and Chip took his place at the podium. For the first time, Roscoe saw the scientist groomed and shaven.
“Thank you, Examiners. Mister Slake has pleaded no contest to conspiring to undermine Spigot’s water production by fabricating evidence of a freshwater source on the Yule Bay seafloor. I intend to demonstrate that his actions were not fabrications and were necessary to reveal serious shortcomings in Spigot’s environmental knowledge.”
The Head Examiner lost his boredom. “Please proceed, Doctor Erskin. I remind you that each witness is limited to ten minutes at the podium.” They’d known that too. As Roscoe and Hamza got things ready, Chip had practiced his speech, sanding it down to the key points.
“Thank you. As you all know, Spigot drains meltwater from the Taylor Glacier’s underside for exports.” The Examiners nodded. “It stands to reason, then, that any leakage of meltwater into the open ocean could threaten Spigot’s business model—and its viability.” A few more nods followed. A few eyebrows went up too.
Chip tapped his podium screen, activating a two-sided presentation display showing the same images to both the Examiners and the Drone Ops employees in the back. They could all see Chip’s first slide: a satellite view of the Ross Sea, with Spigot, Yule Bay, and the freshwater plume labeled.
“In 2111, I detected a freshwater source on the floor of the Ross Sea, near the coast of Yule Bay. It had not been detected in any previous surveys of the area.”
“What do you think caused it?” asked one of the Examiners, a woman, leaning forward.
“I hypothesized that some kind of underground connection had opened up between Taylor Glacier and this site near Yule Bay.”
“You mean, water was flowing underground from one of our glaciers and bubbling up into the ocean?”
“Yes, water can flow dozens or even hundreds of kilometers through underground channels. Based on local geology and the chemical makeup of the water, I surmised that some combination of underground erosion and shifts in the Earth’s crust had opened up such a passageway for water to flow from Taylor Glacier to Yule Bay.”
The three Examiners stiffened. They processed the implications quickly—every day, they dispensed with StarCross employees, but now its water was at stake.
“Only StarCross has the technology to test this hypothesis,” Chip continued. “Over the years, I have asked Mister Jahnford for the technology and manpower to conduct a seismic survey of the bedrock in the area. He has refused. I have also asked him to secure StarCross Security’s permission to release dye into Taylor Glacier’s meltwater stream, then monitor the freshwater site to see if this dye surfaced. He refused this request as well.”
The Examiners’ expressions hardened. Unlike with Roscoe, Chip didn’t need to explain why Jahnford might want to ignore this place, or why StarCross should care that he had.
Chip had been honest up to this point, but the time had come to stretch the truth. “I informed Mister Slake of this situation when we met on the twenty-first of June. He had recently learned of the freshwater plume from a friend who worked in Spigot’s Drone Operations department. When he learned of Mister Jahnford’s failure to conduct an experiment, he became gravely concerned that StarCross would lose a valuable water source and struggle to fulfill its obligations under the Updated Terms of Service.” The Hearing Examiners flinched at this reminder that StarCross—like its customers—had obligations under the Updated Terms of Service.
“At great risk to his future, Mister Slake attempted to inform Mister Jahnford of this freshwater source himself, presenting it as a recent discovery to ensure Spigot’s CEO would not face repercussions for failing to act on it sooner.” Roscoe didn’t dare look at the Examiners or Jahnford, but he savored the knowledge that they were within each other’s sight. You had your chance, Grei, he thought. I tried to help you.
“Mister Slake didn’t just inform Mister Jahnford. He also offered to use his inside access to Spigot to conduct the dye test and determine if such a freshwater source existed.”
Roscoe couldn’t stifle a small smile. Chip had just confirmed StarCross’s accusations regarding the dye test as true. But with the way he’d framed them, the Examiners didn’t seem to care.
Chip tapped the podium again, playing a ten-second video loop. Rippling ice filled the top third of the screen, with tan silt at the bottom and floating particles in between, all illuminated by an unseen light.
“This video was taken from the camera of a drone recovery device known as a grabber. The day after my conversation with Mister Slake, he piloted this device up Spigot’s tunnel network to the underside of Taylor Glacier.”
Chip was outright lying now—Roscoe hadn’t done any of this. It was Hamza who’d pretended to be practicing tunnel maneuvers with the grabber, secretly positioning it beneath Taylor Glacier while carrying the Griquas’ bioluminescent algae canister. “They’ll notice if an open-sea subdrone goes missing,” he’d explained to Roscoe and Chip, “but no one keeps track of the grabbers.”
Another tap brought up a second video, taken from a camera mounted on the back of the grabber. It showed a milky spray hitting the murky water, turning electric blue a few centimeters out from the camera. The glowing stream lit the underside of the glacier as it drifted out of view—hopefully toward the fissure that Chip believed lay somewhere nearby.
The algae were working perfectly. Chip had shown Roscoe and Hamza how the dye worked by turning off the McMurdo galley’s lights and adding some dye to his SynCoffee press. “It only activates in fresh water, under pressure.” He pressed down on the piston, and the dye, initially cloudy, came out glowing blue. His National Science Foundation mug cast an eerie sheen onto the ceiling.
“How long does it glow like that?” Hamza had asked.
“Indefinitely, as long as the freshwater concentration’s high and there are enough nutrients in the water,” Chip had answered. “I’ve calculated that the journey from the glacier to the plume site should take nearly a week. So if we release it soon, it should reach the plume by the time the hearing begins.”
Hamza had gotten the dye in place. Now, the Examiners saw the same eerie glow on the glacier’s underside. “One week ago,” Chip explained, “we released bioluminescent algae from the grabber into Taylor Glacier’s meltwater stream.”
“And any dye that flows into this fissure,” the Examiner said, “would survive and illuminate the site of the freshwater plume at the bottom of Yule Bay.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Examiner.” Chip seemed to be enjoying himself now. It was time for the kicker.
“As it happens, StarCross itself has eyes on the site. StarBuoy-18 monitors this region of the Southern Ocean at all times. One of its cameras is near the seafloor, so it should capture the test results. Using my research credentials, I requested a time-lapse video from the past week. This footage comes directly from StarCross. I’m viewing it for the first time myself. You’re welcome to inspect the source code to confirm its authenticity. Spectral analysis of the dye’s light will confirm the presence of fresh water.” Roscoe didn’t quite understand what that meant—other than that it was the moment of truth.
Chip tapped the podium and pressed Play. The Examiners leaned in. So did Roscoe. Everyone seemed to have the same question: What would this video show?
Nothing.
For eighteen seconds, the screen stayed a deep, inky black. The progress bar stretched across the bottom of the screen, then started again as the video looped. Roscoe silently willed the video to change, for even a spark of light to appear, but each loop was the same as the last.
“Um, is this it, Doctor Erskin?”
“Er, I believe so, Examiner.”
“What exactly are we looking at? Where’s the freshwater plume?”
“It’s down there somewhere. But … the dye doesn’t seem to be there.”
The Head Examiner waved to someone off-camera. The back of an aide’s head appeared on the screen. “Patch us into a live-stream from StarBuoy-18,” he instructed. “Yule Bay in the Southern Ocean.” The aide disappeared. “Let’s take another look, Doctor Erskin, just to be thorough.” If nothing else, Chip had certainly won their interest. Two agonizing minutes passed in silence. Finally, interference filled the screen, then cleared to show another black screen. “StarBuoy-18—Live,” the caption read, followed by coordinates.
“Doctor Erskin, what would it suggest if no dye is visible at this site?” the Head Examiner asked.
“It … it would suggest that whatever is the source of this freshwater, it isn’t a fissure. Or, maybe there is a fissure, but water takes more than a week to flow through it. Remember, we only released the dye one week ago. Longer-term monitoring may be necessary to conclusively establish a connection, or lack thereof, under the seafloor.”
Roscoe nearly slapped his forehead. Nervousness was bringing out the techno-speak in Chip. That wasn’t going to help here. Just tell them we need to give it more time!
“Is that all you wish to present, Doctor Erskin?”
“Yes, Examiner, unless you have any questions.” Each of the Examiners shook their heads before the Head Examiner spoke again.
“Mister Slake, are there any further witnesses?” he asked.
“No, Examiner.” Roscoe told himself that there was still a chance, however small, that they’d decide to prolong the proceedings, giving the dye more time to reach the site—if it could reach the site.
“All right, thank you for your presentation. Please wait in the Examination Room while we deliberate.” The speakers went dead; the screen switched back to the StarCross logo.
Chip hunched in his chair, cupping his hands over his mouth, then dragged his fingers down his face. “Christ, I’m sorry, man. I really—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Roscoe replied. “You did all you could.”
Chip leaned back. “It’s just—sometimes, when you’re doing science, you’re just certain you’ll be right. You forget it’s just a test.”
“We don’t know you’re wrong,” Roscoe said. “For all we know, there is a fissure, and it’ll just take the dye more time to travel through it. Maybe they’ll give the experiment more time.”
“Maybe.” Chip tapped the table lightly, his jaw tight. “The simple fact that they’re even deliberating might be a good sign.”
Just then, the ceiling flashed blue, and a recorded voice asked them to rise. The Examiners appeared on screen again.
“We find Roscoe Slake guilty of all charges as presented by Inspector Smailer. We further find that Mister Slake’s witness testimony has not established any mitigating circumstances or other compelling reason to deviate from StarCross Security’s recommended punishment. We therefore prohibit him from employment with all StarCross subsidiaries and from residence in any StarCross properties for life. He is to be transferred to the custody of StarCross Security until transportation away from Spigot can be arranged. StarCross Security is instructed to provide Mister Slake with a transcript of this proceeding, all associated documents, and instructions for the StarCross appeal process if he chooses to pursue that option. This hearing is adjourned.”
Roscoe felt gloved hands clamp on each bicep as the two masked and armed StarCross Security agents pulled him to his feet, cuffed him, and marched him out of the Examination Room. They had made it ten paces down the hall when a voice called from behind. “Wait! Turn him around.”
The agents spun Roscoe around, bringing him face-to-face with Grei Jahnford. Without a word, Spigot’s CEO punched him in the gut. As Roscoe doubled over, Jahnford grabbed his shoulders and slammed him chest-first onto the floor.
He lay there a moment, bracing for another blow, but instead, the agents pulled him upright. Jahnford and his two head interns were already heading to the elevator. Jen stole one quick look—Roscoe could swear she looked pained—before following Jahnford and Trent away. None of them spoke.
The agents took Roscoe to his tiny dorm to collect his single duffel bag of clothes, then back to the StarCross Security office. This time, they rode in an open jitney. An intern, handcuffed, bruised, and shell-shocked, wedged between two armed agents. StarCross couldn’t send a clearer warning to anyone else considering defiance. The driver turned on the siren and drove slowly. Heads turned as they passed, but Roscoe kept his eyes on his lap the entire way. By the time they reached the holding cell, the lump in his throat had shriveled from rage.
“Mister Slake, do you wish to appeal this decision?” the booking agent asked after Roscoe had surrendered his wristband.
Roscoe paused, thinking of his parents up north. Sequestered by StarCross, he hadn’t seen or talked to them in years. Still, he knew they were counting on him to get off-world, and if he refused to appeal, they never would. Even now, Roscoe couldn’t forget the feeling of his dad’s finger on his sternum as he said “You’re it,” and looked back up at Lagrange-2.
“Um, I—”
The booking agent, still staring at his computer screen, cut him off. “You are aware that your parents exchanged their future intern family housing in Antarctica for a third party’s gas lease? If you are blacklisted, they will have to forfeit that lease—and possibly other assets.”
Roscoe froze, the words sinking in. His parents hadn’t even wanted to see him after his internship? All they had ever cared about, he realized, was getting off-world. To do that, they’d been willing to drug him for years, and when he failed to deliver, they took what they could and ran.
Was he supposed to start crying right now or something? Compound had dulled so many reactions he’d read about in old books and seen in movies. Instead, all he said was, “Fuck them, then.”
The agent flinched.
“I won’t appeal,” Roscoe added. “I’m done with StarCross—and with them. Just let me call my ride.”
Chapter 28
H.M.S. Erebus
Unnamed Sea
January 1841
Yule entered the galley the next morning to find both surgeons still there. “Morning, Yule,” McCormick greeted him. “Doctor Hooker here is on the mend.”
“M-m-morning, Yule,” Hooker stammered. “Th-th-thank you for your help.”
“And … and thank you for yours,” Yule said. “Doctor McCormick told me of your concern with the letter.” Hooker managed a weak smile and sipped his tea.
McCormick leaned toward Yule. “Return his papers to his desk,” he whispered. “They won’t need a custodian.”
Yule returned to his bunk. Just as he was about to open the drawer where he had placed Hooker’s papers, the grinding of ice and shouts for depth soundings drew him above deck.
T T T
The Erebus and Terror had left Franklin Island and Mount Erebus behind. Ross no longer sought to touch the mainland. February had arrived; the expedition had a shrinking window to reach the magnetic pole and escape the advancing winter ice.
Yule reckoned their location—they had reached seventy-six degrees, six minutes south. The dip needle stood almost vertical now, but he estimated they still had three hundred miles to go to reach the pole. This distance was not to Ross’s liking.
“Damn this wind, and this crew!” Ross shouted through his scarf. He waved his arm at the able seamen. “I offer them all I can: an extra brace of rum and a bonus upon our return to Hobart, if they can maintain a speed of at least nine knots.”
To Yule, this sounded much like the French captain’s strategy Ross had scorned back in Hobart.
“I would not want such speed in these waters, Captain,” an officer said from behind Yule, nodding forward. “Look at what awaits us.”
A thick white band lined the horizon.
“Perhaps it is the iceblink, or more pack ice,” Ross said. “We shall proceed at full sail for now.”
It soon became clear, however, that this was no trick of the light. Through his spyglass, Yule saw the band sharpen into a towering ice cliff—an unbroken wall, hundreds of feet high.
Ross lowered the spyglass. “We may as well try to sail through the Cliffs of Dover.” He convened his officers in the Great Cabin, then was rowed over to the Terror to confer with its crew. When he returned, he announced a plan: they would sail east in hopes of finding a passage through the ice shelf.
“The pole is at hand!” Ross proclaimed to the crew. “Providence has brought us this far. Let us trust that it shall provide a passage for us!”
The officers and able seamen managed a weak cheer, their zeal for discovery dulled by the Antarctic chill and ceaseless sun glare.
At least no one has developed scurvy yet, Yule thought as two more plates of Kerguelen cabbage were set before him and Hooker that evening. McCormick stepped in as soon as the steward left.
“Evening, gentlemen. The Captain has asked each officer to sign this note.” Yule and Hooker read the slip of paper placed between them.
February 3rd, 1841
On this date, Her Majesty’s Ships Erebus and Terror, tasked with reaching the South Magnetic Pole, encountered a barrier of ice at 76 degrees south, 195 degrees east. This barrier measured several hundred feet in height and blocked further passage to the south. The officers have determined that this obstacle will not deter the Expedition from pursuing its goal. The ships will proceed east, in the hopes of finding a channel through this barrier that will lead to the Pole. We trust that Providence will provide this channel and ensure our reaching the Pole. Should a safe return prove impossible, we trust that Providence will deliver this message to a civilized nation capable of recording our achievements for the glory of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, and for posterity.
Ross and several other officers had signed the note already. McCormick did the same, then handed the quill to Yule.
