Icecore

9781416949077

1416949070

23 Frost forms on my lashes within minutes of my stepping outside. I am one ofsix detainees in this detail, walking single file to the runway now. Thewind and snow may have died down since our arrival, but the cold continuesto make its mark. Even with the thermal head covers handed out to us, theair out here bites into my lungs with every breath I take. The snow crunchesunderfoot like ground glass. Despite the conditions, it's good to be free ofthe artificial heat inside the cannery. I blink rapidly for a moment to clear my vision, then dab my eyes on theback of the gloves we've also been issued. It still feels like we're on thecusp of dawn or dusk, even though we must be approaching midday, for ourshadows are tapered and stretched. I have to look around to spot the sun,and find just the crest behind the pine trees that border the far side ofthis headland. It seems distant and burned out, but still gleams throughthe branches as I move. Yesterday, having touched down in the heart of a snowstorm, it felt like Ihad arrived on a different planet entirely. Without the thermal clothinghanded out to each of us for this task, all I could do was keep my headdown and pray that the subzero temperature didn't freeze my bones before Imade it inside. Now, having had some time to reflect and gather my wits, Ilook around with interest. Walking away from the cannery, toward the compound gates, I face a vastwhite expanse banked by forested slopes and elongated shadows. The banksappear to meet in the far distance, which makes me think we're situated atthe mouth of some glacial valley. Behind me the cannery juts into thisstretch of frozen water. It looks even more run-down from the outside.Weather-beaten to the extreme. Out at sea, icebergs cut the horizon line.Closer to the shoreline, the scuppered wreck of the trawler commands myattention. Only the prow is visible, tipped back so the wheelhouse facesthe big sky. "Eyes ahead, Hobbes. We're not on a sightseeing tour!" Two guards are flanking us, with a third leading the way. All of them carryassault rifles, while one glance at the watchtowers confirms that snipersare indeed stationed up there. I can see one watching me right now througha pair of binoculars. We stop before the main gates, which are closed. Oneof the guards is repeating a request into his walkie-talkie and gloweringback at the frosted windows of the communications tower behind us. Ifthat's where the gates are controlled, I figure, someone up there must beasleep at the wheel. As we wait in line, stomping our feet to stay warm,the guard dogs in the kennel block go wild once again. This time I feelsome connection with them. The only difference between the detainees andthe animals caged in there is that the latter don't wear jumpsuits. "I will not tell you a second time, Hobbes!" Having come through the interrogation, I find this kind of barking doesn'tbother me so badly. I feel as if I've given them everything they needed toknow, even if it does seem crazy that I had to come this far to do so. The way I see things, I'm helping to clear the runway just so I can leaveon the next flight out. When the gates rock open for us at last, we trudge out and turn toward thesingle-story building where Commander Stagger first addressed us.Yesterday's aircraft is nowhere to be seen. Strangely, this comes as arelief to me. It means at least I don't have to risk my life flying homeon that hunk of junk. I look around briefly, in case I've missed a hangarwhere it might've been taken for repairs, but see nothing but a blanket ofsnow. "Hobbes!" "Sorry, sir." I look at the boot heels of the detainee in front of me. Irecognize him from the flight here, along with the guy leading the way. Theother four were in cages when we a