Viva Los Vostok

One more stop for the Timbiani Express. It's not it's real name. The Express isn't really even a train, though through fogged goggles it might pass for one. The half-track is blocky and red, and the passenger cart it drags behind it is a darker red and lined with tiny square windows. It hauls people and supplies to the half-dozen stations here in the wilderness. But for anyone standing out here in the numbing cold, it will do. For anyone out on the ice it is a welcome sight.

This, it's next-to-last stop, is for the unmanned climate research center one click to the north. From here the Express rolls along a long, sweeping arc on level ground for about three clicks, circumnavigating the depression lying between the research facility and home base; Vostok. For Depard and others like him, though, this stop is the end of the road and the start of his Journey. True, his final destination is the Ross-Keep Station and the Klemper Habidome in Vostok, but he intends to walk the rest of way there himself.

Through the scratched plexi door the old climate research station is a blurry splotch of black. It's already cold out here on the platform, waiting for the doors to open. Depard touches the blue-gray matte-finish temperature valves on either side of his torso. He's been at <<62 deg>> Celsius since the last stop. Once he gets moving he will warm up. The key is not to overheat and sweat too much. Loads of data from <<>> years of Antarctic exploration tell you not to sweat too much. London had something to say about that, too.

The plexi doors slide creep open, thick, icy air wraps around it's pointed tentacles around the edges, draining the sparse heat of the little cab and ripping it to shreds. Depard is pushed back by both the wind and his surprise. He stands immobile, held there by fear and the ceaselessly blowing wind.

A sound over the intercom and Depard turns his head. He rolls his head in his helmet. Jerking a leg forward he places a foot across the threshold of the transport's short steel stairway. then he moves his body forward. Hands on either door edges, he drops his left foot onto the first stair, then the right to the second. Below is the white nothing.

Out on the snow Depard scrunches his feet together then turns about. The transport doors close with a hiss higher and louder than the steady wind and He takes a small step backwards. The Timbiani roars to life with a lurch, sending hundreds of tiny icy shards against Depard's back and left side. He wobbles on feet rooted in the packed and creaky snow. Right in place he lifts and turns his feet, stamping around to face the other way; to face what he believes is south. A couple of taps on the yellow glowing buttons on the side of his left forearm and the heads-up display flashes and sharpens. Depard looks startled; alarmed, even. He glances to the left, then to the right. South looks to be just a little to his right. With a smile Depard hits a few red and blue switches on his belt. Temperature, humidity, air ; all online, all good.

Within three clicks Depard should see the glitter of the mid-summer sun off the Klemper Habidome or the refinery tower. Until then it is all trusting the instrumentation. That's part of it; part of the reason for the walk. Depard could have spent his money and taken his vacation in the Bahamas or New Belize. But he is on a mission, a retreat, a journey of the spirit, as it is called. Aware of the certainty of his choice and seriousness of his situation, Depard takes one small step twelve degrees south by south-east, his heads-up display glowing a pale rose-red.

The ground crunches under each slow, deliberate step. It breaks rapidly through the glossy top layer before hitting a second and third and fourth sheet of ice, each seemingly thinner and more fragile than the one on top of it. A slow step directly downwards feels really jagged; crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch. Depard stops in his tracks, carefully lifting his back foot from the snow behind him and swinging it slowly in front. Again he steps down slowly, counting the layers in his mind. Depard has never seen snow like this. He has never seen snow or known a day colder than <> degrees centigrade back home. No one has for fifty years. Once while in Denmark, though, he saw snow one morning, Large clumps of the tiny six-pointed crystals clung together in pea-sized spheres that fell lazily from the sky. They clung to clothing and wetted sidewalks and turned the heads of dogs and children and young adults upwards and blink into the gray sky.

Depard is now looking up into the gray Antarctic sky, blinking, though no snow can reach him through the faceplate. The trip is said to take the better part of a day, and although there is no night-time here this time of year, Depard knows he should get moving as he is in what the shaman said was "the last naturally inhospitable place on earth."

Ross-Keep is in Vostok, the Point of Accessibility - the place in Antarctica geographically furthest from the ocean in all directions. It is more than a geographic curiosity - it is also the coldest point in Antarctica because it is furthest away from the warming effects of the sea. Vostok was originally settled by explorers, then came adventurers and researchers. Once the private sector could own land in Antarctica in thirty-three, Vostok became the focus of one of the largest construction projects in fifty years.

Within ten minutes into his march the first big gust hits Depard on his left front side. He is pushed backwards onto his right leg, his left arm reaching for nothing overhead. Re-planting his right foot deeper into the fragile frosty ground he leans to his left, head down and arms back. While bent over against the wind, Depard watches bits of ice move with determination from one ridge to another in the path ahead, shaking violently on tiny air-pockets before being lifted over one ridge to the next farther down wind. Depard can hear ice shards bounce and break against his kevlar-ceramide suit. this is the stuff climbers wear. It will resist penetration by a pickaxe dropped from ten meters. Out here a fall against a rock or icy outcrop can rip open a suit and seriously gash or impale a traveler. At a minimum, a compromised suit can leave one open to hypothermia and death within ten minutes.

In this hunkered-down position Depard realizes for the first time that he is indeed watching the snow, looking at the ice, just as the Shaman had said he should. 'Focus on the white, the cold, the isolation and the wind. But you must first see the snow - that which is all about you but invisible from view'. Depard will watch the snow in hopes of understanding why this trip will bring him closer to finding what he seeks, why he is here.

Vostok still is home to basic research and data collection on Antarctic and atmospheric phenomena, but has grown in breadth since the big buildup. There is now an observatory, a penguin habitat and even a small mining operation. There are support services; medical and psychological, educational, entertainment, and so on. Usually one person per. Security services has five. The Habidome supports about fifteen-hundred people and is scheduled for expansion beginning next year.

The rushing wind stops suddenly, sending Depard towards the ground to his left. An outstretched glove crashes through the layers of ice and Depard slowly comes to a halt, his faceplate inches from the surface of the packed and glassed-over snow. Both knees have broken through the ice and his right arm rests lightly on the surface, out to his side. He presses down to lift himself up and that hand breaks through. Beginning to wriggle and stab at the snow with his hands, Depard makes his way out of the little pit he pressed into the snow and climbs to his knees. With a deep exhale that fogs over his faceplate he throws his arms upward and rises to his feet. The heads-up display shows him facing left of where he wants to go, due south. Turning his body to the right and after standing there for just a moment, Depard takes one big step due south.

After another hundred meters, Depard stops and turns his head about. Looking down at his left wrist, he begins tapping a round green button, cycling the info on the heads-up. Mission time is one hour, forty-three minutes. He exhales forceably and fogs the inside of the faceplate. One hour and forty-three minutes in open Antarctica, out in the <<>> degree air, the powerful winds and merciless sun, but all from the comfort of his suit. Protected from the world. Traveling through. Depard turns his body around to look back at his trip; looking back for his footprints. But this is exactly what he is here for, isn't it? And what did he do? He forgot why he was here. Very appropriate for his mission. Turning about again to the south, Depard taps about the base of his helmet until his fingers meet the small button and a dim red light glows inside the helmet. He takes in a few deep breaths and presses in hard on the button again, flipping open the faceplate. The howl of moving air makes him twist his head; the cold air makes him blink and then open his eyes wide. He wobbles in place, arms swinging and legs buckling. When he can focus he puts his right arm up to his visor to shield his eyes. He blinks rapidly and opens and closes his mouth a few times. One forceful exhale, then a wait that seemingly takes forever, then one deep inhale. He blinks again and closes his eyes before releasing his breath. This is Antarctica.