A Stranger Thing (The Ever-Expanding Universe) (15 page)

At the moment, Oates has put me in charge of inventory. Oates estimates the
Echidna
is about a two-day sled ride from here, but he’s packed enough supplies for nearly a week—two days there and two days back, one day at the site, plus one day to err on. Along the way we will sleep in a tent, perched on the ice, with nothing but a thin thermal sleeping bag to shield us from the cold. I can only imagine how thick my forearm hair is going to get after all this.

I scan the list.

One thermal tent. Six thermal sleeping bags. Two heating pods for cooking and, if it gets bad, warming the tent. Four canteens to fill with melted snow, for drinking. Food for the dogs. One replacement runner for each sled. One can of oil for the sled runners. One first aid kit containing bandages, gauze, antiseptic, stitching. Our rations for the journey: six loaves of hardtack bread, two boxes of protein gel packs and vitamin powders, approximately nine billion kilos of pemmican, and, obviously, two tins of tea. Lastly, our “covert ops” gear, which is really just
a nice way of saying “nerd stuff”: two lap-pads, some cables and climbing gear, and a tool kit for fine wire work, in case we have to hardwire ourselves into the
Echidna
’s computer systems for any reason. The files we’re hoping to find will most likely be on a separate, non-networked machine, which will make locating them more of a hassle, but we’ll still want access to the main computer systems to make sure we can move around the ship.

Honestly, I can’t imagine how Pontius and the other dogs are supposed to haul all this crap stacked on just two sleds. I look longingly at the snowmobiles that the Enosi rode in on. My mother suggested we take them for our trip, seeing as they can go twice as fast as the dogs, but Oates merely scoffed at that. This morning, when we came outside to pack, we found out why: the overnight freeze had iced over the motors, and the mobiles were useless—just hunks of metal rusting in the snow.

Oates has been adamant that the supplies be divided between the two sleds—so that, he explained, if half of us sled down a giant crevasse or something, we won’t
all
die for lack of food. Which, when Oates mentioned it, did not make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but at least you know the dude is planning ahead.

It takes us a good two hours to pack up, check, and double-check all our supplies, and another hour for Ducky to pry Olivia out of my arms for the last time as the waterworks break and I become a sniffle monster. But finally I let her go. Cole rubs my back in little circles as he blows kisses at our daughter.

“She’ll be fine, babe,” Cole says. “She’s going to be with her uncle Ducky.”

“I pumped tons of milk last night,” I remind Ducky through the sniffles. “It’s—”

“The bottle in the refrigerator marked ‘baby milk,’ ” Ducky says. “I kinda figured. And she has to be burped after every meal. And she doesn’t like when her socks bunch up by her toes.” He offers me a sympathetic smile. “I’m going to be the rockingest babysitter the girl ever had.”

I laugh through my sobbing. “She’s never had a babysitter.”

“Victory by default, then.”

A few meters away, Oates is giving some last-minute instructions to Rupert, to whom he seems to have left the metaphorical keys to the metaphorical castle. (Jørgen, no shocker, seems to be not-so-metaphorically pissed about it.)

“Make sure our guests are treated well,” Oates continues. “
All
our guests.”

Rupert nods his handsome head. “Of course,” he agrees. “One big, unruly family.”

Jørgen—who’s
supposed
to be securing the supplies on the back of the sled but seems to be too busy being a humbug to tie even a slipknot—grumbles loudly under his breath toward Oates. But when Oates turns to face him, the sourpuss goes back to work.

As Cole makes his way back to Oates, I shoot Ducky a worried look. “If that xenophobic douchetard of a Swede so much as
sneezes
in Livvie’s direction—” I hiss, but he cuts me off.

“Clark and Rupert have my back,” Ducky assures me quietly. “Besides, this little lady’s round-the-clock security guard is sporting some serious
guns
.” One arm still grasped tight
around Olivia, he flexes his pathetic bicep in a clear effort to make me laugh, and dammit, it totally works. If there’s anyone I’d trust my baby with, it’s Ducky, pathetic biceps or not. I know he’ll care for her like she’s his own child.

“Thanks,” I say genuinely. “And . . . sorry. You know. About yesterday.”

He shrugs off the apology. “I was just being a grump.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “You were. But you weren’t wrong, either.”

The cabin door opens and Zee heads out, carrying the last of the ice-climbing gear. Three hybrids follow her outside—hanging on every word she says, like she’s the mama duck and they’re her obedient little ducklings.

Ducky snuggles Olivia close as he watches them. “I still can’t believe that’s your
mom
.”

“That makes two of us.” I tickle Olivia’s chin as I watch Zee. I wonder if Ducky thinks we look alike at all. We have the same chin, same severe eyebrows. But I definitely got Dad’s cheekbones.

I turn back to Ducky to ask if he sees the resemblance, but he’s not looking at my mom anymore. A certain skinny redhead is occupying far more of his attention.

I laugh, poking him playfully in the side. “She’s cute,” I tell him honestly. “You should, I don’t know, ask her to tea or something.” His face turns into a beet. Like an actual beet you could chop up and serve on baby spinach with a nice vinaigrette.

“Why should I do that?”

“Like, duh. You clearly
love
her.”

“No, I don’t,” he counters artfully. “
You
love her.” And then, not one second later: “You really think she’d go for me?”

“Of course she will,” I assure him.

No way she’ll go for him. She’s five years older, at least, and pretty, and she seems, well,
worldly
. And Ducky may be Ducky, but he’s still . . . Ducky. But like a good PIP, I challenge him with a wiggle of my pinkie finger till he finally gives in.

“All right,” he says, sighing, as our fingers lock in the unbreakable bond of pinkie oaths. “But if you come back and find me a shattered shell of a man, it’ll be on your head.”

“I accept all the consequences,” I tell him.

Oates finally finishes up with Rupert and makes his way to me. “Enough with the long good-byes,” he says gruffly. “This is a brief foray into the wilderness, not a yearlong trek. We must head out now if we hope to make the first leg by nightfall.”

I nod and gulp. “Okay,” I say. But I can’t tear myself away from my baby. She’s still sleeping so soundly, curled up in Ducky’s arms. She doesn’t even know I’m leaving. When she wakes up and someone besides me is holding her, will she totally freak out? Will she writhe and wail when Ducky tries to feed her from a bottle instead of a boob? Or by this time tomorrow, will she completely forget I even existed?

“Now, child,” Oates says again. I dart my eyes in the direction of the two sleds. My dad, Cole, and Bernard are already climbing on board.

“One sec.” Oates nods brusquely, then heads to the sled to harness the dogs.

“Hey, Elvie?” It’s Ducky again. I think he’s going to give me one last reassurance about my daughter, but he does not. Instead, he says: “Be careful out there, all right?” And for the first time he looks deadly serious.

I smile, glad to finally have the chance to reassure
him
. “I’ll stay well away from Yetis, I promise,” I say.

“No, I meant . . .” He shuffles his feet. “You remember those freaky Jin’Kai heavies that nearly lopped off all your heads back on the
Echidna
? The, uh, Devastators?”

“The Almiri aren’t great with nomenclature,” I admit.

Ducky shifts Olivia up on his shoulder for a better grip. “I know you never actually saw them, but I did, on your phone . . .” I can’t tell if his face looks so pale because of the reflection off the snow or because of something else. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. “I know there probably isn’t anything left alive after the crash, but . . . just be careful.”

“Duck,” I say seriously. “If you want to worry about me, pray I don’t get attacked by an Emperor penguin along the way. I hear those guys can be real bastards.”

He gives me a tight smile, but I know I haven’t eased his worry much. That’s when Zee passes us on the way to the sled, zipping her thermal up to her neck. “Come on, Elvan,” she calls. “You can gab with Dino when we get back.”

“It’s
Donald
,” I reply, annoyed. But really, what’s the point? The lady can’t even seem to get
my
name right. So I swallow down my exasperation, and instead squeeze Ducky and baby Olivia up in a baby–best friend sandwich, hugging them hard. “I’ll see you in less than a week,” I tell them.

•  •  •

The twelve dogs make such light work of the snow that their little puppy paws barely dent the crust of the slick, icy ground as our sleds cruise along. Every once in a while we hit a squishier patch, where the snow has begun to melt in the sun and slush
over, but for the most part our first few hours are smooth sailing. Or smooth mushing. Whatever. I’m still learning the lingo.

The good thing about snow travel is that there are no real paths, so you can go pretty much wherever your heart desires. The bad thing is it’s hellaciously monotonous. Bernard has taken it upon himself to become the crew’s onboard entertainment, “amusing” us all with road-trip games.

“I spy . . . ,” he shouts to us, over the
whish
of the sled runners across the snow, “something
white
!”

“For serious?” I mutter to my dad. In my sled it’s just me, Cole, and Dad. Cole’s in front, in control of our six dogs, which would probably freak me out, except that he’s the only one of us who can stand that much wind in his face, so he won the position by default. Dad tugs the zipper of his thermal suit so that it covers a fraction of a millimeter more of the skin at his neck. This suit is good for warmth, but still, with this much wind, it’s pretty bitter. And as the only purebred human on this little voyage, Dad must be absolutely
freezing
.

“Bernard’s just trying to keep our minds occupied,” Dad replies. I don’t really get how Dad can defend the guy. Me, if I found out my long-lost spouse had actually been living a totally separate life somewhere else and canoodling a doofus like Bernard, it would be all I could do to not punch them both in the face. But here’s Dad, being the bigger man and stuff. Still, I notice he doesn’t play along.

Someone
does, though.

“Ummmmmm . . . ,” Cole calls over to the other sled, where Oates is at the helm, with Bernard and Zee curled up behind. “Is it that snow cliff?”

“Bingo!” Bernard shouts back. “You’ve gotten every one! Who’s up for State Names?”

The voyage is quite majestic, scenery-wise, but is not one for the easily bored. Looming straight ahead of us, but not appearing to grow any closer, for all the hours we travel, is an enormous cliff. It must be at least a thousand meters high, and it’s pure ice. The sun glints off it, turning the ice a sparkling blue, then silver, then gold. It’s amazing how many colors ice can be. And the structure of it is beautiful too. If I squint, I can see faces in the various crevasses and dents—some menacing, some kind. Round about lunchtime, though, it just starts to look like a giant block of Parmesan cheese. Nothing else changes. Ice, snow, ice, snow, jingle-jangle, every here and there a dog poop. I’ve had more riveting afternoons counting my own teeth.

I wish I had my phone so I could call Ducky and find out about Olivia. Of course, that would necessitate that Ducky had a phone too. But I’d build a cell tower myself if it meant I could hear that precious girl smacking her baby lips just once today. She’s probably eating right around now. I hope that’s going well. Olivia’s never used a bottle before. Is she spitting up? Is she gassy? I hope Ducky remembers the technique I showed him, leaning Livvie forward in one hand and rubbing her back slowly with the other. Dad taught me that trick just a couple days ago, and it’s made a world of difference.

I glance over at Zee, sitting straight as an arrow in her sled, staring off at the ice cliff. Did she wonder what I was doing, minute to minute, after she left? And how long was it until she stopped?

“Elvs?”

I snap out of my trance and turn to Cole in front of me. “Yeah?” I say.

He looks at me like I’m a geometry quiz he forgot to study for. “We’re stopping for lunch. Didn’t you notice we stopped?”

“Oh,” I say. “Oh yeah.” We have indeed stopped. Oates is unhitching the dogs. “I guess the, uh, ice glare is getting to me.”

While I help Oates with the dogs, Bernard and my dad unpack our lunch rations, and Cole powers up the electric heating pod so we can melt some ice for drinking.

“Watch it,” Zee scolds him. “We want water, not steam.” Chagrined, Cole dials the temperature on the pod down by half.

“I still can’t believe you walked all the way to the camp,” Cole tells Bernard as we’re digging into lunch. We’ve all perched atop one of the sleds, chowing down. I’m trying to make my food last, since there isn’t much of it, but all I want to do is shovel it into my gourd. I cut myself a thin strip of pemmican from the tin, then squeeze a line of brown protein gel on top like frosting.

Yum.

“Sure did, friend,” Bernard replies. “Hoofed it all the way from the Iceberg Hotel on McMurdo Sound, with nothing but the shirt on my back. Well, the
parka
, that is.”

“And a knapsack full of food you stole from the hotel cafeteria,” Zee adds. I can tell she’s still pissed that she followed his ass here. “Not to mention the book of maps you stole from me to find the place.”

So
that’s
the big book he’s always losing.

“Oh yeah,” Bernard says. “And that. But mostly I lived off the land. Like one of the first humans. Just me and the ice. I carved out ice caves to sleep in. Took me almost two weeks, all told. It was crazy.”