Getting Back (44 page)

"It's not inevitable. We're going to strike a balance and make a better world. We've learned from your mistakes."

"That's not what history teaches. It's an endless wheel of mistakes. Until now."

"Until here. The other thing our species does is learn."

Their counselor's look grew impatient. "If we have to, we can destroy you," he warned.

"No you can't," Raven replied. "If you come we'll go back into the bush until you go away. If you try to hunt us down your secret can't be kept from the thousands of soldiers it would take to prosecute such a war. And even if you did destroy us it would only prove how phony and bankrupt all your pretensions about this place are. Come after us, Elliott, and the truth about this place will pull your pyramids down around your ears. It's your society that's fragile, that can't tolerate questions or challenge, that has to fear its own best people and turn its back on its worst. So if you try to harm us it will ultimately be we who destroy you. Leave us alone: as a secret, a rumor, a myth. We want nothing from your world."

"You can't survive in the long run! It's impossible!"

"People survived here for fifty thousand years."

"I don't want you wasted!"

"Then stop sacrificing people here! Cultivate your so-called misfits before your civilization fossilizes! Because if you don't use them, we will, in our new society. And because of that, we're your only hope." She looked at him evenly.

Coyle's mouth was a line. "United Corporations has no need for your hope."

"Goodbye, Elliott." Raven took Daniel's hand, squeezed it, and, turning, began walking away.

Their counselor stood rigid, looking after them.

"Are you okay?" Daniel asked her, glancing back at the man in black.

She nodded, glancing up at the sunlight filtered by the trees. "Very okay."

"It's the opportunity of a lifetime!"

Ico Washington shook the candidate's hand reassuringly, smiled confidently, and saw himself, what he had once been, in the Outback Adventure client's eyes. Unhappy, suspicious, anxious, hopeful, vain. They were all like that, the young men and women who came through his door. Walking time bombs of dissatisfaction. They would go, and learn, and come back.

Or not.

There was always doubt, of course. These were people filled with doubt. So if you could never decide for them- that was against the rules, to push too hard- it was necessary to reassure. "It's the perfect experience for a dynamic, independent individual like you," he recited. "A win-win opportunity for everyone. It changed my life. I'm sure it will yours."

It was so easy. Just tell the truth.

The recruit left, liberated as always by the drastic decision and the vacuuming of his savings. Ico stood from his desk and stretched, looking out the tinted glass window. The city ran to the horizon, a chessboard of light as dusk fell, the office towers the board's strategic pieces. Ten millennia of human thought had created this. It was the apex of civilized achievement, and he its unsung defender.

Finally, he had a job he succeeded in.

Ico looked at the glow of corporate names, the tracery of lasers, the streams of homeward traffic. The city throbbed with the reassurance of ten million human hearts. He saw it differently since he'd come back. Saw what it all was for.

So strange, then, that Daniel and Raven had stayed.

Their decision troubled him. He'd thought of contacting the cyber underground, of course, but on reflection thought better of it. It would become another rumor of losers, and people wouldn't understand. It would change nothing, or ruin everything. So he'd done for Daniel and Raven what he could: more than they'd ever done for him! Told of their progress, urged their rescue. Coyle had gone himself and come back moody and irritable. The pair had sent him away!

He thought he'd known them better than that. What had the whole trip been about, if not getting back?

As he looked out he saw his own reflection in the glass. His tan fading now, his body a little softer. But a different confidence, surely. He'd done the right thing, hadn't he?

For a moment he saw in the glow of the city lights the red dust of Australia, and he recalled the snow-white trunks of the twisting ghost gums. The unreal clarity of it. A strange, strange place. His nightmares of it were of hot sand and relentless pursuit, so sometimes, after jerking awake in his vast, soft bed- the shadows of his condominium looming and the drumming of the city a mutter beyond his thick walls- he'd try to remember the sound of the birds. So many birds! But they wouldn't come to him.

Just as well.

He wondered, for the thousandth time, if Virus 03.1 had really been an accident.

Then Ico sat at his console, clicked up his schedule, and glanced at his watch. The one he'd worn to the wilderness.

"Your next appointment is here, Mr. Washington."

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William Dietrich!

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Sometimes you have to go into nothing to get what you want.

That was the Jed Lewis theory, anyway. West Texas oil patch, Saudi, the North Slope. Hadn't worked for him yet, but one kind of extreme had led to another, one kind of quest to its polar opposite. Sometimes life patterns like that, when you keep changing your mind about what it is you do want. So now he'd come to the very end of the world and was peering over its edge, too late to turn back, hoping that in the farthest place on Earth he'd finally fit in. Atone to himself for his own confusion of purpose. Belong.

Maybe.

"The Pole!" Jim Sparco had seduced him. "Feels closer to the stars than anyplace on Earth. It's high desert, a desert of ice, and the air's so dry that it feels like you can eat the stars. Bites of candy." The climatologist had gripped his arm. "The South Pole, Lewis. It's there you realize how cold the Universe really is."

The money had almost been secondary. They'd understood each other, Sparco and he, this longing for the desolate places. A place uncomplicated. Pure.

Except for their rock, of course. That raised questions. It was their pebble, their tumor, their apple.

The world is round but it has an edge. A cold crustal wrinkle called the Trans-Antarctic Range runs for more than a thousand miles and divides Antarctica in two. On the north side of the mountains is a haunting but recognizable landscape of glacier and mountain and frozen ocean: an ice age world, yes, but still a world- our world. To its south, toward the Pole, is an ice cap so deep and vast and empty as to seem unformed and unimagined. A vacuum, a blank. The white clay of God.

Lewis crossed in the sinking light of Antarctic autumn. He was exhausted from thirty hours of flying, constricted by thirty-five pounds of polar clothing, and weary of the noisy dimness of the LC-130 military transport plane, its webbed seats pinching circulation and its schizophrenic ventilation blowing hot and cold.

He was also entranced by beauty. The sun was slowly dipping toward a six-month night, and the aqua crevasses and sugared crags below were melodramatic with blaze and shadow. Golden photons, bouncing off virginal snow, created a hazed fire. Frozen seas looked like cracked porcelain. Unnamed peaks reared out of fogs thick as frosting, and glaciers grinned with splintery teeth attached to blue gums. It was all quite primeval, untrodden and unspoiled, a white board to redraw yourself. The kind of place where he could be whatever he made himself, whatever he announced himself, to be.

The Trans-Antarctic Range is like a dam, however, holding behind it a plateau of two-mile-thick polar ice like a police line braced against a pressing crowd. A hundred thousand years of accumulated snowfall! A few peaks at the edge of the ice plateau bravely poke their snouts up as if to tread water, but then, farther south, relief disappears altogether. The glaciers vanish. So do ridges, crevasses, and theatrical light. What follows is utter flatness, a frozen mesa as big as the contiguous United States. When the airplane crossed the mountains it entered something fundamentally different, Lewis realized. It was then that his excitement began to turn to disquiet.

Imagine an infinite sheet of paper. No, not infinite, because the curve of the Earth provides a kind of boundary. Except that the horizon itself is foggy and indistinct with floating ice crystals, suspended like diamond dust, so that the snow merges without definition into pale sky. There was nothing to see from the tiny scratched windows of the National Guard transport: no relief, no reference point, no imperfection. When he thought he saw undulations in the snow the load master informed him he was merely looking at the shadow of cirrus clouds far overhead. When he thought he saw a track across the snow- left by a tractor or snowmobile, perhaps- the load master pointed to a contrail being left by an outgoing transport. His track was the shadow across the sky of that dissipating streak.

Lewis moved among the pallets of cargo from window to window, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. The plane lumbered on, cold slithering along its fuselage.

He checked his watch, as if it still meant anything in a place where the sun went haywire, and looked out again.

Nothing.

He looked out a different window. No movie would start on the blank screen below. No progress could be discerned. He searched a sky and plateau that seemed blank mirrors of each other, vainly searching for some rip, some imperfection, some reassurance that he was someplace.

Nothing.

He sat on his web seat and chewed a cold lunch.

After a drag of time the Guardsman cuffed his shoulder and Lewis stood again, looking where the sergeant pointed. Far away there was a pimple on the vastness. A tiny bug, a freckle, a period with a white runway attached to make a kind of exclamation mark. Amundsen-Scott Base! Named by Americans for the Norwegian who got there first in 1912, and the hard-luck Brit who froze to death weeks later after seconding at point zero. Lewis made out a bottle cap of a dome that sheltered the South Pole's central buildings and an orbit of smaller structures like specks of sand. From the air the human settlement was remarkable only for its insignificance.

"The buildings fit in a circle about a mile wide, altogether!" the load master shouted to him over the roar of the engines. "Doesn't look like much, does it?"

Lewis didn't reply.

"You staying the winter?"

He shrugged.

"Glad it's you and not me!"

They buckled in, the snow seeming to swell up to meet them, his heart accelerating during that disquieting gap between air and ground, and then with a thump and a bang they were down, swerving slightly as the skis skidded on the ice. The plane shuddered as it taxied, continuing to vibrate when it stopped because the pilots didn't dare shut down the engines.

Lewis stood, stiff and apprehensive. He was the only passenger, the last arrival of the season. An antimigrant, swimming against the tide of humans fleeing north. Well, his timing had never been the best. The cargo ramp opened to a shriek of white, and the cold hit him like a slap. It was palpable, like a force you waded into.

"We had a fly stowaway from New Zealand one time!" the load master shouted, his military mustache almost brushing Lewis's ear. The propellers were still whirling so the hubs wouldn't freeze, and the National Guard sergeant needed this intimacy to be heard. "Buzzed like a bastard for three thousand miles! When we opened the doors it flew to the light and made it three feet! Three feet! Then the fucker dropped like a stone!" The man laughed.

Dizzy, Lewis walked out. He couldn't get a proper breath. There was a crowd of orange-parka people at the edge of the runway, waving but fidgety, anxious to get away. The last of the summer crew, going home. Snow from the prop wash blew over them, hazing them as if they were already being erased. Awkward from his duffel and enormous white-plastic polar boots, Lewis staggered toward the group in seeming supplication. A figure detached from the crowd to meet him. The man's hood was up and all Jed could see were goggles and frosted beard, framed by a ruff of fur. Lewis had been supplied the same government-issue parka. He'd been told it cost seven hundred dollars and a sacrificial fox.

"Jed Lewis?" It was a shout, above the noise.

A nod, his own goggles giving the Pole a piss-yellow tint.

The man reached, not to shake hands but to shoulder the duffel. He turned to the others. "Let's move, people! Let's get this cargo off so you can all go home!" His goggles rotated across their rank, taking mental roll. "Where's Tyson?"

There was a long moment of silence, goggled heads turning, a few smiles of unease and amusement. In their cold-weather gear everyone looked alike except for strips on their coats with block-letter name tags.

"Sulking!" someone finally called.

Jed's greeter stiffened. There was another silence beneath the drum of the engines, someone shrugging, his guide sucking in an unhappy breath. "Well, someone go the hell and find him and tell him to get the damn sled up here so we can get this plane off! He's got eight long months to sulk!"

The others shifted uncomfortably.

The man turned back to Lewis, not waiting to see if anyone followed his command. "This way!" They set off toward the central aluminum geodesic dome, half-buried by drifting snow, their pace briskly impatient. Lewis looked back, parts of the orange-clad group now breaking off to troop to the plane. Then ahead to the dome, an upended silver saucer, dramatic and odd, like surplused flotsam from a World's Fair. He'd read the dimensions: fifty-five feet high, a hundred and sixty-four feet in diameter. An American flag snapped at the top, its edge ragged, its gunshot stutter audible now above the idle of the plane. Streaks of snow dust curved across the top of the dome in neatly drawn parabolas.