The Winter Over(12)

“Yes,” Cass said, then plunged into the corporate message she’d been told to memorize. “TransAnt maintains a one hundred percent commitment to preserving the original mission of the base, which is to advance science in any and every capacity.”

“Except that TransAnt is assured of research and patent exclusivity, correct?”

Cass hid a grimace. The benefits their employer would receive for taking the reins of Shackleton away from the NSF were well known and difficult to defend. With the possible exception of TransAnt employees like Hanratty, Taylor, and the base psychologist, Dr. Keene—those who were not either new hires or remnants of past South Pole crews like the rest of them—no one on base was excited about increasing TransAnt’s bottom line instead of working purely for science. But that was beyond their pay grade. For most, the South Pole was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and if they needed to be employees of TransAnt to come here, so be it.

“I’m personal friends with most of TransAnt’s board of directors, Jimmy,” Sikes broke in testily. “I’m sure there’s nothing untoward about the situation.”

“I understand, sir, but you’re going to be fielding some tough questions when we return—”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle. In any case, all the public wants to know is that less of their tax money is going to pie-in-the-sky science projects and whether or not we’ve found the cure for cancer under a block of ice. No one cares if TransAnt makes a small profit at the same time, especially considering the risk they ran taking charge down here. We’ll work on messaging on that long flight back.”

“It’s bad optics,” Jimmy groused, unsatisfied. “This place is outfitted like a resort.”

“Don’t begrudge them a few creature comforts, son. You’ve never lived in subzero temperatures for nine months.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” a third man interjected, a handsome, Harvard-looking type. “Have you met Jimmy’s mother?”

After the laughter had died down, Cass pulled the group along to the berths and the greenhouse, the e-systems control room and the IT pit, but the big belly laugh at Jimmy’s expense had popped the cork on the formality of the group. Snickers and side conversations picked up as they waddled down the corridor, a sign that attention spans were shrinking. Time to wow them a little. She stopped in front of a door set into a black-and-orange-checkered wall.

“If you take a peek in here, you’ll see a room with a kitchenette, some comfortable couches, and shelves full of books. It looks just like one of our extravagant lounges.” She glanced at Jimmy. “We call it the Lifeboat. The thick wall you noticed is a three-hour-rated firewall, the kitchen is stocked to keep a skeleton staff alive for weeks, and the whole mini-wing has its own dedicated power supply.”

One of the men cleared his throat. “Why three hours on the firewall?”

“Our engineers have calculated that’s the maximum amount of time it would take for the rest of the station to burn to the ground.” Cass let that sink in. “There’s some extra margin built in, but not much.”

“I thought you said you were stranded here, that no one could reach you from McMurdo, even if the station were in trouble,” Sikes said, curious. “The existence of the Lifeboat implies a rescue would be forthcoming.”

“I exaggerated a bit. The three medical flights we discussed were successful, of course, but there’s no way to safely or efficiently remove more than one or two crew members at a time, so we currently have no protocol for transporting ten or twenty people during the winter-over. However, if the base itself were in jeopardy, with all hands at risk, there’s a plan in place to initiate a rescue.”

“At which point, it’s not about the ability to do it, but the time to make it happen.”

She nodded. “The expectation is that an overland rescue operation could make it here from McMurdo in about two months. Hence, two months of survival supplies.”

“Isn’t there a Russian station fairly close, though?”

“Yes,” she said. “Lyubov Orlova. It’s only about fifty kilometers to the southwest—quite close to the SPoT highway, in fact—but its full-time crew is tiny, smaller even than the winter-over numbers here at Shackleton. In an emergency, we’d overwhelm them, putting both populations at risk.”

There were nods and murmurs of assent. After passing the fire lockers and more display cases, they reached the end of the hall, where a set of steel doors blocked their path. Cass stopped and turned to face the group.

“This is the point where I give you the choice of how we proceed. We can return to the first floor and look at more labs, berths, and maintenance facilities. But”—she gestured behind her—“this is the top of the tall, vertical tower I’m sure you saw on your way in. We call it the Beer Can. It’s a massive corrugated metal cylinder protecting a stairwell that not only provides access outside at ground level, it keeps going fifty feet down into the substation ice. That’s where our service arches are—the place where we fix things, build things, and store things.”

“So, what’s our choice?” Harvard Man looked at her quizzically.

“We only have time to do one. The first floor is warm, safe, and dull. The service arches are cold, crude, and interesting.”