L'Appel du Vide

by Balambfish

Part 1: A Life with Meaning

The second she stepped down from the chopper, her boots crunching into hard-packed snow, she felt it stir inside of her. Her calling.

She felt its rightness, like a faint hum in the back of her mind, and its familiar presence seemed to warm her against the frigid Arctic air. It revitalized her, as it always had, like waking up from a long nap. She took a deep breath, the cold biting at her nose and throat, and stretched her arms above her head. After ten listless days steaming from Resolute across Baffin Bay and breaking ice through the Nares Strait, it was wonderful to have solid ground beneath her boots again.

She reached back into the chopper and hauled out her pack, grunting as she slung it over her shoulder. Beneath the oppressive thunder of the rotors, she couldn't hear anything as she hammered against the side of the chopper with a gloved fist, but Grant gave her a thumbs up that she returned with a grin. She trotted away as the engine began to whine and held up a protective hand as the downwash buffeted her with increasing force. The chopper rose and swung away east, and she watched until it was only a red-and-white blip above the featureless white horizon. The Henry Larsen was anchored only ten klicks away, but it could as well have been a thousand.

Settling the weight of the pack across her shoulders, she turned to trudge towards base camp, her calling thrumming happily in her head. The clock in her cabin on the Larsen had read 7:45 PM as she packed the last of her things, but the sun was still high in the west. The sun never set above the 80th parallel, at least not in August. It was a mixed blessing: temperatures would probably only hover around freezing for the entire duration of their fieldwork, but the constant light would do strange things to their sleep cycles. It was funny the first time you accidentally stayed up working for 26 hours, but it didn't take long for your body to crash. Hard.

She turned to face her new, if temporary, Arctic home. One of the cargo skids was already half-pulled apart, and Marie and her team were already struggling with the massive longhouse tent that would be their makeshift lab. Her heart went out to the two long-suffering grad students who were fighting to wrangle the snarl of metal rods and heavy canvas as Marie barked orders at them rapid-fire. She had her own job to do, though; as soon as the chopper dropped her off they were officially on-station.

The sun hardly seemed to have moved by the time the camp was assembled, but her watch claimed it was nearly midnight. They had erected the tents in a rough triangle, with the longhouse tent acting as a windbreak along the eastern edge, and the drill site marked off just north of it. The center of camp was dominated by the squat, green shape of the Bandvagn 206 all-terrain carrier, or as Mark insisted on calling it for some reason, the Short Bus. Its three cars were parked in a little triangle of their own, like a wagon circle in a western movie. Blue smoke trailed from the third car as its built-in diesel generator chugged along, a messy tangle of electrical cables stretching to every tent.

The Bandvagn was the University of Copenhagen's main contribution to the project – besides herself, of course. If everything went according to schedule, in less than four days they'd be packing the whole camp up into it and driving five kilometers northwest to Bravo point. Well, she'd drive; she'd had countless hours behind its wheel during her postgrad work in Greenland two summers ago. She ran her hands over it, feeling the cold of its metal body seep through her gloves.

It was Mark who finally shooed them all to bed just after 1 am. Marie had been making noises about trying to get the drill set up first, but he'd pulled rank as the first aid officer, much to the obvious relief of her grad students. For a while she laid in her narrow cot and listened to the three of them talk in hushed voices, but, between the constant growl of the generator outside and their bewildering Québécois accents, she soon gave up. Instead, she pulled out her laptop, running over her schedule for the hundredth time. Four days at each drill site, plus one day between each for travel and setup, and then two long days of driving back from Echo point to re-board the Larsen. Ten days to steam back to Resolute, and then three plane trips back to Copenhagen. Her fingers traced along the screen, running over the dotted red line that marked the transect. If things went on schedule, they should be arriving at Delta point right around her mother's birthday. Maybe she'd be able to sneak some time on the satphone to talk to her…

It should have been exhausting to think about; God knew the whole team had groused about it the whole trip up. But her calling was alive inside her, filling her with giddy, nervous energy. She never talked about it, not anymore, not even to her family. Her mother had been first to name it, back when she was barely old enough to articulate what it was. It wasn't until high school that she realized it was something uniquely hers: her secret weapon, her personal oracle and advisor. She watched with pity as her friends waffled over their futures, wasting their lives debating who to date, what to study, where to work. She left had them behind with no hesitation or regrets, trusting in her calling as she made bold leaps forward, knowing it would never lead her astray. It waxed and waned, certainly, but it was always there when she was at a crossroads, ready to propel her to the next step of her life. Working here on Ellesmere Island was only the latest.

And now it swelled in her, making her want to leap from the bed and do… something. Anything. She read and re-read her itinerary until her laptop finally died, and with a start she realized it was almost 8 AM. She hadn't slept a wink, but she leapt out of bed anyway, noticing absently that she had forgotten to get undressed last night. She hadn't even taken off her coat. But, she couldn't make herself worry about that when there was work to be done.

She pulled off her socks, wriggling her toes in the cold for a minute. Once they'd had a chance to breathe, she slid new socks on and stepped into her boots, stamping the ground a few times to settle into them. Her tent-mates were just starting to stir as she unzipped the door and stepped outside. It wasn't too cold - just under freezing, barely jacket weather - and she took a deep breath, glad to clear the stale air of the tent from her lungs.

Mark pushed a hot mug of coffee into her hands as soon as she stepped through the flap of the lab tent, which she accepted gratefully. "Mornin'!" he said cheerfully. "Hungry? I got sausages, eggs, bagels, OJ… you're the first one up so you get first dibs!" Mark was the only non-scientist on the expedition, but he wore the most hats: medic, cook, safety officer, and ice field guide. He was on-loan from the Coast Guard for what was probably an obscene amount of money, but ArcticNet's budget was paying for him. It was a luxury to have his help with such a small team.

"Some eggs would be nice, thanks," she replied absently. Her mind was already turning to the work of the morning. Three people could setup the drill in about an hour, but she could do the visual inspection herself…

A hand on her shoulder made her jump. Parts were spread out in a semi-circle around where she sat, cross-legged, on the ice, and she stared at them, blinking.

"Breakfast is served," Mark said with a grin. Scrambled eggs steamed on the paper plate he held out to her.

"Oh, uh, thanks," she mumbled after an awkward delay. She reached up and took the plate gingerly, then took a bite, not really tasting it.

"How's everything lookin?" he asked, glancing around at the bits scattered around her. "We took some bumps in the Nares." She snorted. Only a Coast Guard boy could call fifteen-meter swells 'bumps'.

"All good, nothing broken," she said. Even if something had been, they had almost enough spare parts to build a second drill.

"Well, glad to hear it," he smiled at her again. She smiled back silently until he got the hint. "I'd, uh, better get back before the natives get restless…" She kept a smile on her face until he ducked back into the longhouse. Mark was cute, in a swarthy sort of way, but there was work to do. And besides, her calling would have told her if he was worth spending any effort on.

She was just finishing her eggs when the UCalgary team emerged from the tent, blinking at the sudden glare of sun on ice. "Goddammit," said one, fumbling to put sunglasses on. "It shouldn't be this sunny and cold at the same time." Kurt Vogel was the project's principal investigator, a minor celebrity in the tiny ice-core geochemistry community, and a friend. This was their third expedition together. "How are we looking, Lil?"

"Good to go," she replied, standing up and brushing snow off of her legs.

"Good, otherwise these guys are gonna have to cut these samples by hand!" Kurt laughed. She rolled her eyes. Same joke, every time.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Kurt and his post-grads managed to get the drill up with minimal fuss, leaving her to put her own station together. Occasionally, her concentration would break as Mark placed a plate of food next to her, but a minute later she'd be back to wiring the light bed or wrangling her camera.

It was funny how easily she fell back into the field-work groove. When a tired-looking Kurt tapped her on the shoulder, she looked up from her camera to find it was almost 9 PM. "C'mon, Lil. I don't know about you, but I'm bushed." He glanced down at her desk, where a plate of Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes sat cold and untouched. "Get something in your stomach and get some sleep. The real work starts tomorrow."

She stared at him for a moment. "Yeah," she said finally, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "Yeah, you're right." She shut down the light bed and closed her laptop. Kurt gave her a smile and squeezed her shoulder before walking out of the tent. She tossed the core sample she'd been testing onto the wastewater patch behind the drill site, and grabbed an apple from the mess area before heading back to her own tent.

Warm air rushed past her as she stepped under the flap, and she found Marie and her students huddled around a cheap metal card table, a space heater humming at their feet. They looked up as she entered. "First in, last out, eh?" Marie said in French. "You up for some Cabo? We just started this hand if you want us to deal you in."

She waved them off with all the courtesy she could muster. All the ArcticNet people seemed to do was play cards on the way here; she didn't understand how they weren't sick of it by now. Her cot creaked as she sagged into it, kicking off her boots. Part of her was tired, but her calling was buzzing in her head. She wanted to leap back out of bed and get back to work, but it was pointless until they started drilling in earnest tomorrow. She plugged her headphones into her laptop and turned on a random music playlist to drown out the card game, and then opened the project map. Her fingers traced along the screen, running over the dotted red line that marked the route. If things went on schedule, they should be arriving at Delta point right around her mother's birthday. Maybe she'd be able to sneak some time on the satphone to talk to her…

The music stopped suddenly. She blinked a few painful times, her eyes beginning to water. Her neck and shoulders were tight and knotted, making her groan as she sat up and looked around. Marie and the girls were in bed, and when she took off the headphones she could hear one of them snoring softly. The time on Marie's alarm clock said 5:52 in glowing red numbers. She looked down at her laptop. It read the same.

She must have passed out at some point, but she could still feel a lethargic burning in her arms and legs. There was nothing she wanted more than to curl up on the cot and steal a few more minutes' sleep, but she was already swinging her feet onto the floor. Her calling was already buzzing urgently, filling her with the energy that sleep had failed to. She slipped on her boots, not bothering to change clothes, and stepped outside.

The camp was still and quiet, besides the ever-present rumble of the generator. Even Mark was still asleep, so she strolled into the lap tent and flicked on the hot plate. The coffee pot was just starting to boil when Mark walked in, scrubbing one hand through his hair. He jumped when he noticed her standing in the kitchenette, staring at him.

"Jesus, Lil," he mumbled, rubbing one eye. "You scared the shit outta me."

"Sorry," she said, forcing herself to smile. She held up the coffee tin. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, two sugars, please and thank you." He walked over to her as she began to scoop grounds into the filter. "Hey, uh… you sleeping alright? I mean, pardon me for saying so, but you're lookin' a little rough `round the edges."

She side-eyed him, trying not to be offended at his tone. "I'm fine. I'm just… having trouble getting comfortable on the cot."

"Yeah, they beat sleepin' on the ice, but not by much," he replied with a grin. "Look, why don't you sit down for a spell, I got this." He gave her a wink. "Gotta earn my keep somehow, right?"

She replied with a tight smile and wandered over to the other side of the tent. Leaning back against the light bed, she gripped it hard with both hands and tried to stifle her impatience. When a hot mug was thrust into her hands, she looked up at to see Mark looking at her with concern.

"Double-double, right? I asked, but, uh, I guess you didn't hear me."

"No, sorry… I've got ice on the brain," she apologized.

That seemed to mollify him, or at least he seemed to read her mood and let her be. She stood, staring into space and nursing her mug until people started to file into the tent. She sat with everyone as they chattered through breakfast, but she only half-listened, her mind already jumping ahead to the work of the day. When they finally finished, she leapt from her chair and all but ran to her station, but there was nothing to do but wait. It seemed like hours before Kurt finally ducked into the lab with the first core sample, cradling the two-meter shaft of glassy ice in his arms like a baby. It was all she could do to keep herself from snatching it out of his hands.

After that, time dissolved into the routine of work: each new sample had to be polished, photographed from a dozen different angles, wrapped in polyethylene netting so it wouldn't freeze to another sample, tagged, and packed with enormous care into the giant deep freeze built into the Bandvagn. Once the drill warmed up, the rest of the team was bringing up samples faster than she could process them, so she worked through lunch, and then dinner. Mark made concerned noises, but the timetable said two whole cores needed to be completed by the end of the day, so she did what she had to.

When the last sample was finally packed, she sagged back into her chair, exhausted but satisfied. If they could keep up this pace, she'd have the third core done before lunch tomorrow, and they could begin packing up for the slow hike to Beta point. Her calling pulsed impatiently inside her head at the prospect.

That night found her tossing and turning on her cot. As soon as she closed her eyes, they would pop back open. A few meters away, Marie lay snoring in her own cot, and the sound was like an augur in her temples. She pictured herself sneaking over and smothering Marie with her pillow, but the stupid thing was so thin she'd probably be able to scream right through it in that gutter excuse for French she spoke. Still, she chuckled quietly to herself at the thought.

She considered walking around camp a bit to tire herself out, but that idea was quickly discarded. Outside the darkness of the tent it was as probably as bright as noon, and the light would just wake her up even more. Besides, for all her insomnia, her arms and legs felt like lead from the day's exertion. With a sigh, she leaned over and grabbed her laptop. If she couldn't sleep, she could at least work.

There were hundreds of pictures from the line scanner to sort through, but something made her bring up the project map again. She traced a fingernail over the dotted line that charted their transect below the Agassiz ice sheet. It seemed to writhe and shimmer under her finger, and she circled Delta point idly with her fingertip. If things went on schedule, they should be arriving at Delta point right around her mother's birthday. Maybe she'd be able to sneak some time on the satphone to talk to her…

A sudden, sharp pain jerked her from her reverie: her own fingernails digging into her right palm, clenched so hard that blood already began to well around them. It took a supreme effort to open her fist, and for a second she just stared as red rivulets ran down her wrist, dripping down onto her pants. Then her calling came, as strong as it ever had. It sizzled and snapped, hot and insistent, like her brain was being fried in her skull. The laptop tumbled to the floor as she stood up on shaky legs. She pulled her duffel out from under her cot, heedless of the blood she smeared everywhere.

Clothes and toiletries scattered across the floor as she ransacked her bag until she found what she was looking for, packed away tight at the bottom. Even in August, temperatures could drop as low as -20 C this far north, so everyone had brought survival gear in case one of the treks to the next station turned nasty. She hurriedly stripped off her clothes, her bare flesh goosepimpling instantly. Her teeth chattered as she pulled on her thermal underwear, and then more, layer after layer of clothing, leaving only her head and hands bare.

She was already sweating when she opened the tent, but her calling hadn't steered her wrong. The midnight sun was smothered by dark clouds that streamed across the sky, and the wind howling through the camp drove chaotic flurries of snow before it. She strode into the center of camp, squinting into the wind. Her calling surged as the Bandvagn's blocky silhouette came into view, and her pace picked up in response. She dropped to her knees behind the main car and fumbled with the hitch joint, the cold metal biting into her already-throbbing hand as she hammered on the retaining pin with the heel of her palm.

When it wouldn't give, she pushed herself to her feet, stumbled over to the driver's door and wrenched it open. It only took a few seconds of digging through the survival bag behind the front seats to find what she was looking for: a curve-handled ice tool. She dashed back and jammed its saw-toothed pick head into the pin and yanked with all her might. The pin slid out with almost no resistance, sending her sprawling to the frozen ground. She scrambled to her feet, swearing under breath, and jammed the tool into a loop on her chest harness.

After taking a quick knee to make sure the hitch had disconnected cleanly, she did a quick circuit around the ATC, more out of habit than anything else. She'd gassed it up herself on the Larsen, so that wasn't a problem. Should she bring more fuel? It would only take a few minutes to get the pump mounted on one of the fuel barrels…

"Lil?"

She could grab some supplies from the lab tent, too. Maybe some band-aids or something for her hand - but her calling was already thrashing in her head, driving her to move on…

"Lilith!"

She looked up with a start, and saw Mark advancing towards her, one hand up against the wind. He wore only a plaid flannel shirt and wool trousers, but if he was cold it didn't show. "What the hell are you doing out here? It's two in the morning!" he said loudly over the gale. "Jesus, are you bleeding?"

She looked down and saw for the first time the red smears that streaked her jacket. "Oh… I hadn't even noticed!" she exclaimed with mock surprise. The cold had reduced the blood dripping from her gashes to a slow oozing. "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to check on the Bandvagn, make sure it made the trip over okay." The lies fell easily from her lips, and she made herself smile reassuringly.

Mark's face was hard with skepticism. "When was the last time you slept?" he said bluntly. "You've barely been eating, either."

"I'm fine, really!" she pleaded. "Just… let me finish checking a few things and I'll get back to bed." She turned and began to walk back towards the driver's door, but Mark followed behind her.

"That can wait. C'mon, let's go to the lab and I'll make you some tea. I want to take a look at that hand, too. Don't make me play the medic card, Lil."

She gritted her teeth, fighting to remain civil while her calling roared in her skull. "Look, just… leave me alone! I have to go!" She opened the door and began to climb into the cab, but Mark grabbed the hood of her jacket, pulling her back.

"Lil!" he barked, and she wheeled around, full of a sudden, coursing fury. Her arm swung in a wide arc to knock his hand away, but now the ice tool was in her fist, and it was slicing through the air, half a foot of serrated vanadium steel that crashed into Mark's temple with a force that sent a shock running all the way to her shoulder.

Mark didn't make a sound as his body collapsed, folding in on itself like a puppet with cut strings and yanking the ice tool from her blood-slick hand. She stared down in frozen horror, mouth moving soundlessly as a scream struggled to bubble from her throat. It was her calling that came to her rescue, drowning out her panic with a torrent of pleasure that filled her head like hot honey, thick and cloying. She shuddered, grabbing onto the door as her knees went weak. After a minute the tides of joy receded, leaving her feeling numb except for a distant ache of guilt that she hadn't trusted in her calling. Her calling was good. Her calling was right. It knew what was best.

She climbed into the ATC and turned the key.