A.D 4094
The Old Kievan Facility for Political Conspirators; Formerly: Spitsbergen
78°54′N, 18°01′E
5:04 PM Central European Time
It’s snowing again. He knows it is because it’s always snowing. All he can remember now of the world outside is that of a landscape of miles of whitewashed wasteland.
He presses against the cold chill of the metal wall and shivers.
Outside looks nothing like snow even, only a blinding burst of white, sped from the north with a screaming frenzy of winds. A white darkness obscures everything.
He only knows two things:
It’s always snowing.
He’ll never get out of it.
The boy sighs and his breath condenses and swirls for a moment before dissipating. He shivers again. “Shouldn’t snow in September.” The words smoke from his purple lips in the frigid air.
“Do you know what they used to call this place, Alexi?”
The voice makes him cringe. It’s at least twenty degrees warmer then the air around him. His name tickles the back of his neck, rustling the fur at his coat collar. He would have known the answer to the question if he hadn’t been asked. “Sweeden,”
It is silent for a moment and an artificial light flickers halfheartedly, sounding much louder than it should.
The voice tuts softly. “Svalbard. Average temperature of four degrees Celsius in the summer.”
“I knew that,” he says, spite dripping from his lips, steaming on the frozen floor.
Another tut fills the hollow hall, the arrogance almost palpable. “No you didn’t, Alexi. You never do listen.”
His shoulders slump and a frustrated sigh escapes. “How long have we been here?”
“Ten years, Alexi.”
Ten years on Svalbard, where the winters last a geological age each. A decade on Svalbard. He hasn’t seen grass in a decade. “Haven’t been warm since I was twelve, then,” he mutters.
“What did you say?”
The voice is infuriatingly calm and steady in his ears. Red blossoms over his face like a wound, spreading to the tips of his ears. “I said this is your fault!” He turns hotly to face the man behind the voice and his anger turns the hall sweltering. His lips are dry now and he licks them. “Your fault.”
“How so?” The voice belongs to a man of middle age, his already gray hair turning white in splotches. The man’s eyes stare unblinkingly back at Alexi, filled with an emotion the boy doesn’t understand.
Alexi runs his tongue over his lips. “You… you…” He stops. “I don’t remember what you did. You never told me.”
No movement from the man. “Maybe I did. You never do listen.”
He sniffs, from both the cold and obvious indignation. “We’re exiles. At least you are.” He stares out the window at the whiteness before him. “One day…” A pause. The light flickers. “I’m going back. To Russia.”
Flicker.
“You remember Russia?”
“Yes,”
Flicker.
It’s then Alexi notices the man’s eyes, the dark bags underneath them. He notices the thin covering of stubble. It only means one thing—“You’re inventing something,”
“That is why the keep me here.” A smile spread thinly across the man’s face.
“Us.” The word seems heavy, final. It thuds on the ground like lead between the two. “They keep us here.”
A sigh. “Yes. Yes they do, Alexi.” His face lights up genuinely this time. “But you’ll really like this one! I promise.”
“What is it?” The tone is less than enthusiastic.
“I’m calling it the Daedalus Project.”
Flicker.
“That’s stupid.”
He shakes a finger as if scolding a young child.
I’m sixteen. I’m sixteen not five and I’m not stupid and stupid Svalbard has made me at least a millennium old. “It’s stupid.”
“Only because you don’t know who Daedalus is. It’s fascinating, actually, Alexi…”
Alexi tunes him out. Daedalus is an inventor blah. And he has a son named Icarus blah. It’s some kind of tragedy.
“I don’t care about some dumb kid falling into some Greek sea and some wooden cow and some maze. But if I had wings I would fly back to Russia right now. There’s not even any sun to melt the feathers.”
“The wax,”
“Whatever.” He gestures vaguely out the window.
A smile flits across the man’s face and this time reaches his eyes. They crinkle at the edges like old paper. “You remind me of myself at your age.”
“No, I don’t.” Alexi responds scoffingly.
The man pauses, looks pensive and distant. “You’re right, you don’t. You’re much more eager, Alexi. Sometimes too eager. But you could be great.” He shrugs.
The tension breaks slightly. “You’ve never told me that.” Alexi’s voice is softer.
“Yes I have,” replies the man. “You just never listen. Do svidaniya, Alexi.” The man walks away, his footsteps surprisingly soft on the metal floor.
“Bye, Dad.”
2:17 AM
“Wake up, wake up!”
Alexi stirs himself slowly from unconsciousness. Sleep claws at his vision and almost grabs him back until something rolls him out of his bed. The unseen awakener forces several sweaters over his head and zips him into a parka. Alexi’s feet are suddenly stuffed into seal skin boots.
“Dobroye ootro.” His father’s voice comes quick and breathily. He sends clouds of smoky words into the darkness. “Good morning, Alexi.”
“What?”
His father grabs him by the shoulders. “Project Daedalus,” he whispers almost inaudibly, and stuffs some stale bread into Alexi’s yawning mouth. “Now come. I packed you a bag, pick it up.”
Alexi numbly obeys and allows himself to be dragged through the halls. The pair dart through the shadows, avoiding manmade light. Their footsteps are soft and light.
It takes several minutes of blinking a mild confusion to get out, “Dad, where are we going?”, but in response he only receives a short “Shh!” and a mild slap on the back of the head. He questions nothing until his father stops in front of a wall no different than the rest of the walls of the Facility. It’s metal and cold and windowless and Alexi sees nothing special about it, so he tells his father so.
His father’s eyes twinkle strangely in the blackness. “But look,”
Alexi looks. He scowls.
His father shakes his head. “No, Alexi. Really look.” He bends down and grabs at the edges of a metal wall panel, shaking it until it comes reluctantly loose. “An old guard exit,” His words are hushed, and he ushers for Alexi to see.
Bending down, he sees nothing.
It’s a tunnel, and it leads to nothing. It leads to the outside world. A blast of cold air rushes in at subarctic temperatures, stinging and biting. The rushing sound is the snow. It has to be snowing.
It’s September, after all. “Four degrees in the summer time,” Alexi breathes out slowly.
“And negative twelve in the winter,” says his father, but he’s already halfway encased in tunnel.
So Alexi follows.
He worms his way blindly after his father, too tired to question, too tired to point out the ludicrousness of going out into the white.
He begins to doze but his body keeps working until he notices there’s no one in front of him, only a blue white haze.
And just like that he’s out. Out of the Facility. Out on Svalbard.
It’s colder out here.
He shivers, and even after blinking his visibility doesn’t change. Snowflakes land on his eyelashes.
“You don’t see it?” comes his father’s voice. He can barely hear it over the wind, but he turns and sees a splash of faded red in the dark.
“You made this?” Alexi screams.
A shrug. “Eh, basically. I found plans for one from awhile back and…”
Alexi runs up to the machine, not even trying to conceal his excitement. “A while back? Dad, this is at least… at least…” He runs his hands over the machine reverently. “Centuries, right?”
He nods.
“What do they call ‘em again?”
His father dusts the already thick coating of snow from the seat. “Snowmobiles,” He bubbles with the history of the things and how to work them, but Alexi’s not listening. He’s too eager to get on it.
“… and that’s how you’re getting back.”
Alexi’s head jerks up. “Back?”
His father puts a hand on his shoulder, slowly, methodically. “You’re going home,”
And he realizes why his father seems so sad. “There’s… only one seat.”
“It’s yours. Don’t protest. It’s yours. I’ll find you somehow.” He gestures to the snowmobile. “Listen, Alexi. It won’t be long before they notice we’re gone. I need to get back soon, but you’ll be long gone. The island we’re on used to be called Spitsbergen. All you need to do is go straight. It’s a straight shut to the mainland, Alexi.” He’s breathless. “Get to the mainland and find someone. You speak Russian. You will find someone, Alexi. You’re smart. You’re eager. You’ll be fine. Now listen—” And he’s rattling off instructions on how to use the thing but Alexi’s not listening. He’ll understand once he’s on it.
And he’s on it and there’s a helmet and his pack is on and it’s all real.
“Listen,” His father is right by him. “Listen, Spitsbergen is surrounded by a giant frozen like. You only need to get to the mainland, but listen. It’s only September, and I know that it’s cold and I know that it’s snowing, but listen,” He pauses and lets the gravity sink in, but it floats over Alexi’s head. “The lake is not totally frozen. Stay to the edges where the ice is thick? You see the middle stretch ahead of us?” It looks solid to Alexi. “Don’t go on it. Don’t get cocky. Don’t go too fast.” There are few words left to say. His father embraces him and Alexi revs the engine.
“Goodbye, Alexi.”
And he’s off.
3:09 AM
Snowmobiling is not like anything Alexi has ever done before. He can control it and go as fast as he wants and it’s only now that he realizes how much control he’s been missing. I’ve been on a freaking glacier for ten years after all.
He goes faster and heads toward the middle of the lake. He can go faster in the middle, and the ice is thick enough. And what does his father know? He hasn’t been off of Svalbard in ten years. The ice could have changed.
And that’s when there’s a crack. And Alexi’s gone.
That’s another thing about living on a glacier- you never do learn to swim.
3:18 AM
Somewhere in the black water, Alexi Bogomolov shuts his eyes. Do svidaniya, he tries to say. But all that comes out is bubbles.
Thanks so much for reviewing!
-Anti
I really love some of the lines in this, and I love the detail you give in certain places, but I do have some minor issues I'd like to point out. First, some errors I caught!
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