Chapter 11 - Stuck

Stuck in glaciers tonight. Guessing ice massed on striation during shivering. Tracks will not move. Sky too cold for manual de-icing. No Wind. Icicles still present, but shivering has passed.

‘No striation branch’
‘No artifacts, human or golem’
‘85 day burnables; 15kg Staegon flesh (lean), 7kg Staegon flesh (fat), 90 kg grain stew, 3kg mango jerky, 5 kg prunes, 116 mineral tablets’
‘0hr spin; 0km approx dist’

The Man heaved on the oar. Sweat beaded across his forehead. His hair clung wetly to the back of his neck. His eyebrows couldn’t hold back the flow, and the salt stung his eyes. His drenched brown beard released a spray of sweat with every return to the catch; it formed a wet spill on the front of the spinner rail, and a wet, muddy puddle with the packed feather insulation.

The Man ignored the sweat. He ignored the sting in his cut arm, and the ache in every muscle, and the air which his gasping lungs couldn’t seem to pull in fast enough. He was unconscious of the loaded furnace’s warm air blowing through the vents.

The Man focused only on pulling as hard as he possibly could. He counted strokes in his head. He counted them in threes. He counted them in singles, up to twelve. He counted up to five and back down to one. With every number, he tried to pull harder. The flywheel screamed in his ears. He ignored that too.

His heart, all the while, beat faster, and faster, and faster.

Just as the edges of his vision began to narrow, The Man released the oar. The flywheel sucked the connecting rope in; the wooden handles cracked against the casing. The Man bent forward and gasped over his knees. His legs trembled.

The Man held back desperate breaths long enough to listen.

He heard the hollow sound of warm furnace air gusting through the vents. He heard a throaty warble from the corridor. He glanced left and saw his Phaen’s bone colored beak, poking under the flaps of the plastic, and its pink tongue wagging with concern. He heard the electric vibration of the heart chamber thrumming through the shell.

But The Man heard, also, the same loud, constant grinding. The furnace turned its steam engine, the current flowed into the heart, but the gears were still stuck.

The Man had taken off every limiter, stoked the furnace to its hottest, and hauled upon the oar. He’d pushed his own heart to one hundred and ninety, at least. Despite it all, the shell remained locked in place.

Suspended.

Seventh day in glaciers. No Wind. Dropped shell temp to 40, halving fuel consumption. Phaen has adapted to half ration.

‘~150 day burnables; 13kg Staegon flesh (lean), 5kg Staegon flesh (fat), 86 kg grain stew, 3kg mango jerky, 4.5 kg prunes, 111 mineral tablets’
‘0hr spin; 0km approx dist’

The Man looked up quickly from the yellow pages of a trapper’s journal. He’d thought he felt the ship sway. He looked at the window. The candle on his desk made undulating flamelets in the facets of the fractured glass. Otherwise, the view was unchanged.

Then The Man glanced to the side. He saw the Phaen moving toward him. The bird had caused the tiny motion in the shell when it rose from the silk pile.

The Man set the book on the shelf behind his head. He felt for the cup of tea sitting on that shelf. He brought it to his lips. The tea was gritty and cold. The Man set it down beside the hammock. He listened for a moment to the radio static coming from the speaker. Every so often, the voice of one the hosts was picked up by the antenna.

Usually though, there was only static.

The Man let his eyelids drop halfway and rest upon the painting. She Crawled in Stars with Elder Bugs lay propped against the window. The Man left it there in the nights, where he might look at it from his hammock. Behind the painted starry sky, the actual sky beyond the window was black and cold.

The Phaen came over beside The Man. It dunked its beak at the cup of cold tea. The bird seemed to share The Man’s opinion of the drink. It left off, and settled beside the hammock.

The Man pushed a part of his texel comforter off the hammock and draped it over the back of his bird. He stroked a thumb over the shorter, softer feathers at the edge of its beak. The Phaen’s breaths became heavy beneath the comforter. It made a low trill like a snore.

They lay like that, together, for some time. The Man stared dully out the window.

Frost was forming upon the broken glass.

Tried using coilspear to break ice on tracks. Too cold; forced to retreat. Saw ice covering connectors. No Wind.

‘123 day burnables; 65 kg grain stew, 1 kg prunes, 84 mineral tablets’

The Man took a deep breath. He ran his eyes down the length of the shell corridor. He squinted, moving his arms in a test throw. He felt the weight of the object in his hands and judged the force to apply. With a second deep breath, The Man swung his arms back between his legs and underhand-tossed the bundle of silk wrapped in twine.

The cloth ball rolled forward to the other end of the corridor. It rolled smoothly across a gritty floor cleared of insulation. The ball bounced off a shallow ramp made from a ballast brick and a piece of shell metal. It went airborne just before the furnace room and soared toward the curtain.

Flapping its wings and stretching to its full height, the Phaen knocked the ball from the air with its gullet. It batted the ball to the floor, then killed the momentum by smothering it under the feathers of its breast.

The Phaen stood back and contemplated its catch like a bird with a worm. It pecked, trying to grab the twine with its beak. It failed. It began nuzzling the cloth. The bird worked the orb over the backside of the ramp, then began pushing it down the corridor in a clumsy zigzag pattern.

The Man leaned against the bulkhead and watched. He cocked an ear. The Leeges Mission Broadcast - the radio hosts’ voices - were just audible in the static.

Ma: “…a moment to thank Specialist Methodias of Konos. He’s a chemist on board The Ikleion, serving the Federation at Nakadana’s Black Cliffs.”

Dano: “Thanks Methodias, from all of us. Did he…” static “…out of the tall prison towers in Kezzeki Castle?”

Ma: “His message came by radio.”

Nikon: “Good choice.”

Ma: “Apparently he had a friend in the prison Luce’s inner circle. A friend who…” static “…and King Chairos simply sailed his swift trim ships into the bay while the Puncturers were dismantled.”

Nikon: “It’s looking smooth for Chairos; this western campaign. Pretty clever.”

Dano: “How many escaped from Kezzeki in the assault?”

Ma: “Uhhh, eighty seven? Eighty eight?”

Dano: “If any of them are listening; we’ll see you at home soon, lads.”

Ma: “They also found over a hundred bones. Nakdanan Shore Service apparently makes their prisoners…” Static

Dano: “…that knifeplay hasn’t happened for breaths of the world. Not here in Leeges. I think I forgot how comfortable home is, when this war began.”

Nikon: “Surely.”

Ma: “Agreed. Apparently Methodias alone of his sloop survived.”

Dano: “My heart bleeds for him.”

Nikon: “I’ve said it before, but for a guy who…” static “…long enough to win us a landing with his subterfuge and save more lives… static …fits better than at any other time. It is l… Hold on. We’ve got a visitor!”

The Man leaned unconsciously toward the curtain. He momentarily forgot the ball game with The Phaen. He listened through the rattle of the speaker and the radio static as he heard the voice of a child.

Child, giggling: “Dana, Nika, Ma!”

Dano: “Hi Little Star…” static

Child: “…in king’s palace.”

Ma, laughing: “For the listeners; Dano’s son, Krios, just dropped by the broadcast room.”

Nikon: “This warms me…” static “…on the radio?”

Child: “I like King’s Corner. King’s Corner! King’s Corner!”

Dano: “I know you like…” static

The radio faded into completely unintelligible garble. By then The Phaen had shoved the ball of wrapped cloth up to The Man’ boots. It ducked and rose repeatedly over its catch.

The Man squatted. He cupped the soft feathers of its cheeks in his palms and rubbed its head. The Bird shivered and cooed happily. The Man noted, however, the gaunt feel of its jawbones under the skin.

The Man sighed through his nose. He started toward the small closet chamber holding the radio. He meant to turn the static off - the voices almost never came through. A sharper trill behind him stopped him. He glanced back and saw the Phaen standing over the ball. Its blue eyes held a question.

The Man changed his mind. He decided to leave the radio on for the bird. He walked over and resumed his leaning spot on the bulkhead. He picked up the cloth ball. The Phaen, without an order, scurried back to the corridor’s end.

Tried bullet hammer on exterior shell to make vibrations. No effect, except crack on front window widened. Tried leaving shell again. Too cold; forced to retreat. Found a way to retrieve ice/water by heating shell, opening door, and using lasso to pull in icicles.

Food supply highest concern. Phaen now consumes 400g stew/day, I consume 300. Both below maintenance.

‘63 day burnables; 18 kg grain stew, 24 mineral tablets’

The slow massing of ice covered the cracked study window. The desk candle - the last one - gifted the room its dying honey glow. Even so, the rounded corners were dim.

The Man sat not on his hammock, but on the insulated floor, beside his Phaen on its silk pile. Both Phaen and Man looked gaunt. The Man’s eyes seemed sunken into the chalky earth of his face. Beneath his silken shirt, his ribs protruded. The Phaen’s feathers had slack to them, as though the animal rested beneath a loose blanket of white plumage, rather than wore it as skin.

The Phaen tried to rise. The motion had little strength. The Man kept a palm on its back and pressed it firmly down. He made shushing sounds. The Phaen wanted food, It wanted to run to the furnace room and peck at the dregs of grain left in their stores.

The Man stared at the iced window. He wished for some clue in it - some clue in the environment for solving his circumstance. How did the ice form? It might have formed from solid particles; individual flakes, invisible to the eye, drifting on a near-motionless current of air to crust over the shell. It might also have formed through condensation/freezing, or deposition; water vapor turning into ice. The Man had considered both, though the latter seemed unlikely in the intensely cold air.

The Man had wondered about the ice a hundred times. Before the freezing over of the window, he’d stared long at the spires on the glaciers. The Man guessed the icicles formed over ages. He understood the Wind blew rarely here. He guessed that the entire system relied upon this lack of Wind - this lack of motion. Over unknown numbers of world breaths, scarcity of motion had allowed the ice to densely mass. The glaciers rose, blocking out more of the Wind, letting in more of the ice, pushing plants and birds away. With thickening ice, fewer stars shone. With fewer stars came greater cold. With greater cold, further stillness. The ecosystem built itself upon lack of motion.

The Man’s dilemma was overcoming this ecosystem. If he could just find a way of turning that feature to his advantage…

The Man stopped his thoughts. They were useless, brooding ones. He was stuck. Unless a high Wind blew, or the air warmed, he would remain stuck.

The Man’s only strategy was to wait out the glaciers; to last as long as possible.

The Phaen stirred under his hand again. It lifted its soft blue eyes and stared up into The Man’s face. It gave a weak crow.

The Man didn’t meet the Phaen’s eyes, but kept its body firm under his hand. He fixed his own eyes on the portrait against the desk. He stared at the sad child’s face. He followed the trunk of many elder bugs up, towards the painted glass - the closest The Man ever came to the sky anymore. The hostile freeze beyond his shell kept the real sky at an insurmountable distance.

The Man followed the trunk of painted bugs to its roots. His eyes followed one root as far as it went, to the wooden frame. His eyes drifted past the frame, into the shadowed corner of his shell. His own elder bug shell lay in the dark, beyond the edge of the painting, caught in the glaciers like a fish in a trap.

The Phaen struggled against The Man’s heavy hand. This time he met its eyes. The bird could have shoved him off with a real fight. The Man’s will - his order, given with the touch of a hand - kept the hungry creature in place more than his force of arm.

They looked at each other in the candlelight for a time. About them, nothing stirred.

“I’m sorry, Penelope,” said The Man. He let the static reclaim the air. The Phaen lowered its head. It seemed to collapse, with a long, sad sigh. The Man, after a moment, added, “We must be strong.”

The Man stroked the Phaen’s soft feathers with a hand. He made the small shushing sounds to help it relax. He locked his brown eyes on those of the child in the painting. His eyes took a decisive, harder glint in the light of the candle.

With his other hand The Man reached to his side. He took up the wooden handle of a sharp knife.

‘59 day burnables; 17 kg grain stew, 26 kg meat (lean), 20 mineral tablets’

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