Outpost

She lay beside him; let his head rest on her shoulder.

‘Take it easy for a while,’ she said. ‘Get your breath back.’

‘Just need to rest.’

Liquid in his lungs. Each breath died away in a bubbling rattle.

‘Take your time.’

‘I can splice a domestic extension lead into that powerhouse console. We can run a couple of heaters. Cook food. It’ll keep us alive. Buy some time.’

‘After that?’

‘Look for an intact length of three-thousand megawatt cable. A few metres. That’s all we need. Patch that break in the line and we are back in business. Just need to rip up floor plates until we find some.’

He took an epinephrine syringe from his pocket. ‘Sure you want to do this?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. Final lap.’

Lifeline

Punch stood at the refinery railing and looked east. Ice surrounded the refinery and spread towards the island. The sun no longer rose. Daytime was a brief pink twilight. The Arctic was entering perpetual night.

He took an old Sony radio from his coat pocket. He had found it alongside a drum of paint and a roller. Someone had been redecorating a corridor and quit halfway through the job. The batteries still held a charge.

He extended the aerial and adjusted the dial. Whistling static.

A ghost voice. Male. French accent. Tired, distressed. Punch pulled back the hood of his coat and pressed the radio to his ear.

‘… est advice… safe place and don’t venture… can hear me… refuge… hopeless… God help.. ’

Punch returned to the observation bubble.

‘Anything?’ asked Sian.

‘Nothing. Doesn’t seem to work.’

Punch shook batteries from the radio and tossed it aside.

He and Sian had turned the observation bubble into their base camp. They had pushed chairs back from the transmitter console and erected a dome tent. Each night they cooked on a stove. They ate and counted stars. They zipped sleeping bags together and slept skin-to-skin.

‘What do you think is waiting for us back in the world?’ asked Sian. She was sitting cross-legged by the stove stirring noodles in a mess tin.

‘I bet the worst is over. People will have got organised by now.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah. When the chips are down, neighbours help each other out.’

Punch wanted to say: ‘Promise you’ll kill me. If I get infected, if I turn like Rawlins, finish me off. Don’t let me become a monster.’

Instead he asked: ‘How are the noodles coming along?’

‘Soon be done.’

The powerhouse. A steady hum from Generator Three. Massive megawatt output, enough to power a small town. Ghost had run a single domestic extension lead from the control panel. It ran through an air vent into the submarine hangar next door. A single plug socket. A single convection heater. Crewmen took turns to sit in the orange glow.

The crew were camped in front of the submersible. Steel manipulator claws curved above them like a protective embrace. A couple of crew huddled in blankets and played chess. One crewman relentlessly sharpened a knife. Bottles of drinking water were lined up in front of the heater to keep them thawed.

Ghost lay beneath three parkas. Short, bubbling breaths. Jane sat beside him. She stroked his head. Once in a while he opened his eyes. She smiled. She wanted him to see a reassuring face. She didn’t want him to feel alone.

He opened his eyes wide and steady.

‘How you doing, champ?’

Thumbs up.

‘Warm enough?’

Nod.

He stroked her face. Peeling skin.

‘Guess I got too close to the fire,’ said Jane. ‘Sunburn.’

He licked dry lips.

‘Drink something.’ She put a canteen to his lips. ‘Wet your mouth.’

She rearranged the coat beneath his head to give him a better pillow.

‘Get as much sleep as you can.’

‘Feel like I’ve been punched in the gut,’ whispered Ghost. ‘I can barely breathe.’

‘Getting worse?’

‘Yeah.’

Jane looked for Rye.

‘She’s in the sub,’ said Ivan.

Jane lowered herself through the roof hatch. Her flashlight lit tight banks of instrumentation. Rye sat in the co-pilot seat. She was listening to an iPod.

‘Rocking out?’ asked Jane.

‘About an hour of battery left. My last tunes.’

‘What’s the prognosis?’

‘Ghost? Not so great. I’m dosing him with antibiotics but the pneumonia is caused by chemical damage to his lungs, rather than infection. If his throat closes much further I might have to intubate.’

‘What are his chances?’

‘Fifty-fifty. His lungs might recover, given enough time. He could be back on his feet in a couple of weeks, if he’s lucky, if he doesn’t exert himself like he did yesterday. Another shot of speed would kill him stone dead.’

‘So there’s nothing we can do but wait?’

‘Like I say, I’ve been giving him antibiotics as a preventative measure. It might help, it might not. And plenty of painkillers just to keep him comfortable.’

‘Okay.’

‘Question is, when do we pull the plug? He’s used up his share of meds already.’

‘Give him everything he needs.’

‘I appreciate you two are close.’

‘He was a systems technician. He kept the lights on, the water running. He’s worth more than most of the crew out there, worth more than me.’