When I saw water sky, it was the first time I could articulate the exact color of Lennix’s eyes. Dark, stormy gray, and seeing far. Seeing things no one else did.
“What I wouldn’t give for a water sky,” I say softly, only giving the situation half my focus. What I wouldn’t give to see her. To tell her I was a fool to think I could walk away from eyes like that.
“Right,” Grim says, frowning at the gathering clouds. “We need open water. You see all this ice crowding around the ship?”
He’s right. Even just an hour ago, our path was clear, but now tessellations of ice have interlocked around the ship, a tundra jigsaw puzzle that, if not navigated skillfully, could strand or even sink our ship. Beyond skill, we’ll need a lot of luck.
That night, I fall into a dead slumber after all the work we’ve done over the last few days. It’s not a loud boom or crash that jolts me out of my sleep. It’s another sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
Absolute silence.
The engine of The Chrysalis is quiet. The steady throb that’s become so much a part of the ship’s environment is gone.
David and Grim jerk up in their bunks, too, and we stare at each other for a few seconds absorbing the quiet together before, leaping out of bed and dragging on our sweats and down jackets.
On the bridge, there’s a forced calm to the energy as the captain and crew study satellite feeds and maps. They say for every iceberg, the visible ice comprises only ten percent of the whole. The other ninety percent lies below the surface. That’s what this is. The ten percent the captain shows us is controlled, but an icy panic rules the atmosphere from beneath. Dr. Larnyard sits on a bench with his head buried in his hands.
“What’s happening?” I ask Captain Rosteen, a former Australian naval officer who has negotiated this planet’s roughest seas for decades.
“We’re locked in,” he answers, deep lines around his mouth and eyes showing distress from the typically unruffled Aussie. “Rudder’s blocked by ice.”
“What’s that mean?” David asks.
“Means we aren’t in control of this ship,” Grim says with a dark frown. “We got no steerage, right, Cap? The ice is steering us.”
“Right.” Captain Rosteen gives a terse nod. “According to our satellite projections, a powerful storm’s coming, blowing westerly winds.” He pulls up an image on one of the radar screens.
“What’s that big blue thing?” David asks.
“An iceberg,” Dr. Larnyard answers, his voice muffled behind his hands. “It’s on the move and headed for us.”
“Dammit!” I link my hands over the tensed muscles behind my neck. An iceberg of eighty thousand tons will easily break through the ice floes that have us trapped and crush our ship.
“Should we evacuate?” Peggy asks. “We have enough lifeboats to get off before the ’berg hits.”
“That storm that’s coming,” Captain Rosteen says, shaking his head. “Being caught in a lifeboat in the middle of that with no land for miles could be as much a death sentence as a sinking ship.”
“We’ll call for help,” I say quickly. “Planes should be able to get in now that winter’s over.”
“Already called,” the captain says. “They’ll try.”
“They’ll try?” Grim asks, anger showing through on his usually impassive features. “What the hell do you mean they’ll try? We have sixty-five people on this ship, in addition to your crew. Students. Teachers. Women. They need to do more than fucking try, Cap.”
“The closest team that could help is a Japanese ship that can only break through ice that’s three to four feet thick,” Captain Rosteen explains. “It’s impossible. Everything around us is at least twice that now.”
“And the storm that’s closing in on us,” Dr. Larnyard says wearily. “It’s already all around. The visibility in the surrounding areas is too low for anyone to fly in safely.”
Even as he says it, wind whistles violently beyond the porthole, rocking the ship. The Antarctic shows us what a capricious bitch she can be—placid one moment and violent vengeance the next. A thump jerks the ship dramatically.
“Shit,” Captain Rosteen says, moving over to check the tilt meter. “Ship just went three degrees to the right.”
He runs from the cabin and we follow. Dread sinks to my belly like an anchor dropped overboard. The wind, silent just hours before, wails high-pitched screams all around. Up on deck, the three degrees on the tilt meter is more obvious, setting the ship slightly askew. A cluster of ice floes jostling for position have formed a pointy steeple and pierced the side of the boat.
The captain searches the sky crowded with ominous clouds and looks up at the stars imploringly, like they might pose a solution where there apparently is none. He says the words we all hoped we’d never have to hear.
“We’ve been hit.”
28
Lennix
“Don’t leave a street unturned,” I tell the volunteers sitting around the cheap wooden table in Nighthorse campaign headquarters. “We need to get as many eligible voters to vote early as possible. Inclement weather, long lines, voter suppression tricks onsite the day of—all well-documented barriers for our demographic on voting day. Let’s get as many of them to vote in advance as possible.” I pause to smile. “Vote for us, of course.”
The small team comprised mostly of student and elderly volunteers laughs at my tiny joke. I try to keep morale high. Have to. We are in the fight of our lives with a strong incumbent still in the lead, according to every poll.
Last week, Mr. Nighthorse asked me to help with our voter drive. We’re about six weeks away from the election, and we may be behind, but we gain ground every week. By election day, I believe we can not only eliminate the sitting congressman’s lead, but overtake him.
“Okay,” I say once the laughter and chatter die down. “Let’s get out there.”
Everyone has their assignments and grabs clipboards already loaded with absentee ballot forms so if people want to complete them onsite, we’ll literally take the forms and mail them in for them.
I’m grabbing a clipboard, too, ready to hit my assigned streets when Kimba walks in. She started working with the campaign a few weeks ago. I know she believes in Jim, but I think more than anything she didn’t want to be apart from me. After four years of college and inseparable friendship, I don’t want to be away from her either.
“Have you seen the news?” she asks, her face troubled.
“News about what?” I ask distractedly, checking to make sure I have my forms, buttons and campaign signs to give anyone who wants them.
“It’s Maxim.”
A droplet of ice water cuts down my back. I haven’t heard from him. That was fine. We agreed to that. I knew that, though a tiny part of me has been marking off the days until his expedition is over and, according to his voice mail, we can talk. I haven’t let myself consider the dangers he was potentially facing. No news has been good news.
Until now.
“What about him?” I ask, trying to keep the panic from my voice.