The Last Vikings

#StayCurious

Three scientists came out of the research station to watch our group as we larked about at the sign-and-pole that marked the Pole, laughing and taking selfies and pictures of each other.

They came over to chat, and one of the scientists, a woman in a red parka just like Paulo's, offered to take a picture of us as a group.

I was in good spirits after the hike and it was pretty dark, so I even joined the crew for the picture, Ruben's arm around me, GlobalGreen be damned.

We were the first tourists that had ever been at the Pole during the long night, the scientists told us.

Turns out those ottercopters were something special—the research stations didn't have them. The skeleton crew we met out on the ice at the Pole that day were hunkered down, trapped, unable to leave until spring-time.

Which made us quite the novelty.

"I'm sure InTrepid would help you out," I said, "if there was an emergency."

The lady scientist shrugged, handing Ruben back his camera. Her coat was making me think of Paulo, which reminded me of my shameful behaviour. I tried to shake it off.

The lady scientist and Ruben were now chatting about crab stalls in Baltimore, which is where she was from.

"The South Pole research station is an American base," Ruben told me as we hiked back to the ottercopter, still dawdling behind the others so we were almost alone.

"The US don't have any territorial claims in the Antarctic, but they're still like, Boom bitches, here's our station at the South fuckin' Pole."

"Who does have a territorial claim here?" I asked, puffing air up with my bottom lip in an attempt to thaw my nose.

"You guys, the Brits. New Zealand. Argentina."

I told myself not to think about Paulo.

"Chile. Australia. Norway," Ruben went on.

"Not Russia?" I said, remembering Sam and his story.

"Nope, but they definitely got an interest," Ruben said. "They've been building way more research bases out here recently. China too. And if you think that's about a pure love of science, you're fuckin' dumb. It's about making sure you got some fingers in the pie when the time comes to exploit the resources."

"What resources?" I asked, surveying the dark, icy wasteland around us.

"Oil," Ruben said. "There's a fuck tonne of it under the ice."

"But surely they couldn't drill for oil here?"

"They could if they had the technology, which Russia do." He shrugged. "They're already drilling in the Arctic. They're just not allowed to here—yet—cause of the Antarctic Treaty."

We walked on in silence as I mulled over Ruben's words.

"So you think InTrepid is a Russian company?" I asked.

"Seems so, if the Russians took those bodies."

"So that would make the Ottercopters a Russian technology," I said. "Which is why the US research stations don't have them."