Imelda—had a four-person crew and a cargo of booze,
diesel fuel, and a massive electrical generator covered by a tarp, as
well as a climate-controlled steel container filled with potatoes,
apples, fresh spinach, grapes, and oranges. The box was painted with
the logo of Whole Foods, and indeed all the produce was organic.
For the old-timers the very idea that fresh fruit and meat could be
almost (not quite) year-round was astonishing, and it caused quite a
bit of grumbling about how easy things had gotten.
It was nearing summer in Antarctica, and there in McMurdo
Sound the thermometer showed a pleasant twenty-nine degrees Fahr-
enheit. The wind was a noticeable but manageable eighteen knots.
The sun was shining. This time of year it shone pretty nearly all day.
All in all about as pleasant as you could ask for at McMurdo.
The Jade Monkey floated over the water and up onto gravel, its
big black rubber skirts all puffed out and vibrating like a trumpet
player’s cheeks. Suarez powered down, and the vehicle came to rest
with a disgruntled wheeze of engines and a long, slow fart as the air
cushion bled out.
Imelda Suarez was twenty-eight years old, five feet seven inches
tall, dark-skinned, weather-beaten but pretty in the right light. She
had worked for Cathexis Inc., owner of the Celadon and her two
LCACs, for three years, two as skipper of the Jade Monkey .
It was grueling, brutal, often boring, but occasionally terrifying
62
BZRK APOCALYPSE
work. Suarez had never lost a cargo, she had never lost a crewman,
and she had kept that spotless record by never underestimating the
A-factor. The Antarctic factor. The capacity of the most alien of all
continents to complicate or obliterate the schemes of Homo sapiens .
Antarctica was always out to kill you.
But the advent of the Cathexis era had changed life on the ice. In
the old days the bases that dotted the rim of the continent had been
cut off for as much as ten months out of the year. Aircraft get a bit
unsafe in high crosswinds. LCACs do, too, but these specially modi-
fied versions could make a forty-mile run from the Celadon in all but
the worst conditions—and in emergencies, even then.
All of which was extremely useful, because McMurdo Base—
MacTown, as it was known—was growing more rapidly than just
about any place on Earth. There was oil under the ice and offshore.
With the Middle East in turmoil even the greens admitted that oil
exploration on the ice was a better option than fighting wars to main-
tain supplies from volatile countries.
MacTown, which had once been full of nothing but scientists, aca-
demics, and support staff—generally from cold lands like Alaska and
Montana and Maine—was now home to a whole lot of people from
Texas and Louisiana. The same evolution was occurring at British,
Russian, Aussie, Kiwi, Chinese, Japanese, Chilean, and Argentinean
bases. The effort to locate oil and develop the technology to survive
the harsh environment was big, well financed, and in a hurry. And
they could afford oranges that cost fifteen bucks apiece to bring in
from Wellington or Tierra del Fuego.
Suarez stepped out of her cockpit, nodded at her chief who was in
63
MICHAEL GRANT
charge of matters from this point, stretched up onto her toes, hefted
a rather heavy shoulder bag, and headed up the long gravel slope into
MacTown. Solid ground, ground that was not bucking and vibrating
like the deck of the Jade Monkey , felt oddly uneven and unsteady. She
headed toward the new admin building where Cathexis Inc. had a
small wing of cubicles—nothing but a bunk and an electrical outlet,
really. This was her third trip of the day, and Suarez was required by
company policy to grab a minimum six hours of sleep. LCACs did not
want to be steered by sleepy pilots. LCACs steered by sleepy pilots had
a tendency to flip over.
She was intercepted on her way up the road by a tall, not-bad-
looking man with a full
diesel fuel, and a massive electrical generator covered by a tarp, as
well as a climate-controlled steel container filled with potatoes,
apples, fresh spinach, grapes, and oranges. The box was painted with
the logo of Whole Foods, and indeed all the produce was organic.
For the old-timers the very idea that fresh fruit and meat could be
almost (not quite) year-round was astonishing, and it caused quite a
bit of grumbling about how easy things had gotten.
It was nearing summer in Antarctica, and there in McMurdo
Sound the thermometer showed a pleasant twenty-nine degrees Fahr-
enheit. The wind was a noticeable but manageable eighteen knots.
The sun was shining. This time of year it shone pretty nearly all day.
All in all about as pleasant as you could ask for at McMurdo.
The Jade Monkey floated over the water and up onto gravel, its
big black rubber skirts all puffed out and vibrating like a trumpet
player’s cheeks. Suarez powered down, and the vehicle came to rest
with a disgruntled wheeze of engines and a long, slow fart as the air
cushion bled out.
Imelda Suarez was twenty-eight years old, five feet seven inches
tall, dark-skinned, weather-beaten but pretty in the right light. She
had worked for Cathexis Inc., owner of the Celadon and her two
LCACs, for three years, two as skipper of the Jade Monkey .
It was grueling, brutal, often boring, but occasionally terrifying
62
BZRK APOCALYPSE
work. Suarez had never lost a cargo, she had never lost a crewman,
and she had kept that spotless record by never underestimating the
A-factor. The Antarctic factor. The capacity of the most alien of all
continents to complicate or obliterate the schemes of Homo sapiens .
Antarctica was always out to kill you.
But the advent of the Cathexis era had changed life on the ice. In
the old days the bases that dotted the rim of the continent had been
cut off for as much as ten months out of the year. Aircraft get a bit
unsafe in high crosswinds. LCACs do, too, but these specially modi-
fied versions could make a forty-mile run from the Celadon in all but
the worst conditions—and in emergencies, even then.
All of which was extremely useful, because McMurdo Base—
MacTown, as it was known—was growing more rapidly than just
about any place on Earth. There was oil under the ice and offshore.
With the Middle East in turmoil even the greens admitted that oil
exploration on the ice was a better option than fighting wars to main-
tain supplies from volatile countries.
MacTown, which had once been full of nothing but scientists, aca-
demics, and support staff—generally from cold lands like Alaska and
Montana and Maine—was now home to a whole lot of people from
Texas and Louisiana. The same evolution was occurring at British,
Russian, Aussie, Kiwi, Chinese, Japanese, Chilean, and Argentinean
bases. The effort to locate oil and develop the technology to survive
the harsh environment was big, well financed, and in a hurry. And
they could afford oranges that cost fifteen bucks apiece to bring in
from Wellington or Tierra del Fuego.
Suarez stepped out of her cockpit, nodded at her chief who was in
63
MICHAEL GRANT
charge of matters from this point, stretched up onto her toes, hefted
a rather heavy shoulder bag, and headed up the long gravel slope into
MacTown. Solid ground, ground that was not bucking and vibrating
like the deck of the Jade Monkey , felt oddly uneven and unsteady. She
headed toward the new admin building where Cathexis Inc. had a
small wing of cubicles—nothing but a bunk and an electrical outlet,
really. This was her third trip of the day, and Suarez was required by
company policy to grab a minimum six hours of sleep. LCACs did not
want to be steered by sleepy pilots. LCACs steered by sleepy pilots had
a tendency to flip over.
She was intercepted on her way up the road by a tall, not-bad-
looking man with a full
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