Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
“I don’t like what the sky’s telling us,” David says, his brows rouching over concerned eyes. “Iceblink.”
There are only a few places in the world where the phenomenon of iceblink, glaring white near the horizon reflecting light from ice, is even possible. Antarctica is one of them. Polar explorers and sailors have been using iceblink to navigate arctic seas for centuries. In contrast, water sky projects open lanes of water onto the clouds, showing how to avoid hazardous ice floes that could lock up a ship for days or even weeks. Hell, for months.
When I saw water sky, it was the first time I could articulate the exact color of Lennix’s eyes. Dark, stormy gray and seeing far. Seeing things no one else did.
“What I wouldn’t give for a water sky,” I say softly, only giving the situation half my focus. What I wouldn’t give to see her. To tell her I was a fool to think I could walk away from eyes like that.
“Right,” Grim says, frowning at the gathering clouds. “We need open water. You see all this ice crowding around the ship?”
He’s right. Even just an hour ago, our path was clear, but now tessellations of ice have interlocked around the ship, a tundra jigsaw puzzle that, if not navigated skillfully, could strand or even sink our ship. Beyond skill, we’ll need a lot of luck.
That night, I fall into a dead slumber after all the work we’ve done over the past few days. It’s not a loud boom or crash that jolts me out of my sleep. It’s another sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
Absolute silence.
The engine of The Chrysalis is quiet. The steady throb that’s become so much a part of the ship’s environment is gone.
David and Grim jerk up in their bunks, too, and we stare at each other for a few seconds, absorbing the quiet together before leaping out of bed and dragging on our sweats and down jackets.
On the bridge, there’s a forced calm to the energy as the captain and crew study satellite feeds and maps. They say for every iceberg, the visible ice comprises only 10 percent of the whole. The other 90 percent lies below the surface. That’s what this is. The 10 percent the captain shows us is controlled, but an icy panic rules the atmosphere from beneath. Dr. Larnyard sits on a bench with his head buried in his hands.
“What’s happening?” I ask Captain Rosteen, a former Australian naval officer who has negotiated this planet’s roughest seas for decades.
“We’re locked in,” he answers, deep lines around his mouth and eyes showing distress from the typically unruffled Aussie. “Rudder’s blocked by ice.”
“What’s that mean?” David asks.
“Means we aren’t in control of this ship,” Grim says with a dark frown. “We got no steerage, right, Cap? The ice is steering us.”
“Right.” Captain Rosteen gives a terse nod. “According to our satellite projections, a powerful storm’s coming, blowing westerly winds.” He pulls up an image on one of the radar screens.
“What’s that big blue thing?” David asks.
“An iceberg,” Dr. Larnyard answers, his voice muffled behind his hands. “It’s on the move and headed for us.”
“Dammit!” I link my hands over the tensed muscles behind my neck. An iceberg of eighty thousand tons will easily break through the ice floes that have us trapped and crush our ship.
“Should we evacuate?” Peggy asks. “We have enough lifeboats to get off before the ’berg hits.”
“That storm that’s coming,” Captain Rosteen says, shaking his head. “Being caught in a lifeboat in the middle of that with no land for miles could be as much a death sentence as a sinking ship.”
“We’ll call for help,” I say quickly. “Planes should be able to get in now that winter’s over.”
“Already called,” the captain says. “They’ll try.”
“They’ll try?” Grim asks, anger showing through on his usually impassive features. “What the hell do you mean they’ll try? We have sixty-five people on this ship in addition to your crew. Students. Teachers. Women. They need to do more than fucking try, Cap.”
“The closest team that could help is a Japanese ship that can only break through ice that’s three to four feet thick,” Captain Rosteen explains. “It’s impossible. Everything around us is at least twice that now.”
“And the storm that’s closing in on us,” Dr. Larnyard says wearily. “It’s already all around. The visibility in the surrounding areas is too low for anyone to fly in safely.”
Even as he says it, wind whistles violently beyond the porthole, rocking the ship. The Antarctic shows us what a capricious bitch she can be—placid one moment and vengeful the next. A thump jerks the ship dramatically.
“Shit,” Captain Rosteen says, moving over to check the tilt meter. “Ship just went three degrees to the right.”
He runs from the cabin, and we follow. Dread sinks in my belly like an anchor dropped overboard. The wind, silent just hours before, wails high-pitched screams all around. Up on deck, the three degrees on the tilt meter is more obvious, setting the ship slightly askew. A cluster of ice floes jostling for position have formed a pointy steeple and pierced the side of the boat.