Beneath The Ice - Chapter 1

In the world’s coldest silence, something waits to be heard.

Chapter 1 - The Edge of the Map



By the time the transport dropped through the last bank of cloud, Melissa's laptop battery was dead, her fingers were numb through her gloves, and she'd rewritten the opening line of her article seven times in her head.

On the coldest continent on Earth, humanity is about to...
Too dramatic.

Some discoveries change the world. Others only change the people who make them.
Better, but still trying too hard.

She rubbed her thumb over the edge of her notebook, the gesture automatic, the same one she used whenever doubt gathered at the edges of her thoughts. Her sister Annie would have told her to breathe, to stop spiralling, to remember she was smarter than the men who kept underestimating her. But Annie wasn't here. Melissa was on her own, in a place that looked like it might swallow her whole if she blinked too slowly.

The small aircraft bucked in a crosswind, the world outside the porthole tilting: sky, then nothing but white, then a strip of gravel runway clawed into the ice. Her stomach did a small, traitorous flip.

A thin groan shuddered through the aircraft frame--metal protesting the cold. The air tasted recycled and dry. Static lifted strands of her hair inside her hood. Even through three layers, the altitude pressed against the sides of her skull like a warning.

"First time?" the man in the opposite seat asked.

He had that easy, field-worn look--sun lines around his eyes, jacket that had seen more than one winter, hands that didn't seem bothered by the cold.

"Is it that obvious?" Melissa asked.

He grinned. "Everyone looks like that the first time. Like they're about to land on the moon."

Melissa tried to smile, but her gaze drifted back to the window. She wondered who she'd be meeting on the ground--people who belonged to places like this. People whose footsteps made sense in the snow.

She glanced back out the window. Antarctica stretched to the horizon in a flat, blinding sheet. It was too big. Too empty. A landscape with no room for mistakes. Her chest tightened with the quiet realisation that there was nowhere to hide out here--no crowds to disappear into, no city noise to drown her thoughts.

No trees, no buildings, just the faint grid of McMurdo Station--cargo stacks, equipment, a scatter of prefabs huddled at the edge of nowhere.

"Feels more like the end of the world," she murmured.

He stuck out a gloved hand. "Arun Dev. Microbiology team."

Of course he had an easy smile. The universe loved giving confidence to people who already had it. There was something disarming about him--a steadiness, like the kind of person who noticed when someone else was struggling and pretended they weren't.

"Melissa Golding." She shifted the strap of her camera bag and took his hand. Her own glove was clumsy, her fingers stiff. "Journalist. I'm just hitching a ride on your science project."

"'Just,'" he repeated, amused. "You're the one who's going to tell everyone what we actually did out here. That's not nothing. You're here because they wanted an independent set of eyes," Arun added. "Government oversight looks cleaner when a journalist's in the room."

If I don't screw it up.

She'd kept hearing her last boyfriend's voice in her head--"You're great at soft features, Mel. Leave the real stories to people with the training." So when her editor had framed this assignment as an opportunity--a scientific milestone, the biggest research push in years, and you'll be the one to document it. She'd jumped at the chance. But the truth was simpler: he wanted her out of the lifestyle section. Sink or swim.

The aircraft's wheels hit the ice with a scream of metal and rubber. Her body thumped against the harness, then the world steadied to a bone-rattling roll. Cold bled through the fuselage so sharply it felt personal. The smell of fuel and metal threaded through the air, mixing with the sour edge of adrenaline. A thin cheer went up from somewhere behind her. Someone else swore under their breath.

McMurdo rose up to meet them--closer now, more human. Vehicles crawled like beetles between low, blocky buildings. Flags snapped in the wind. Smoke or steam curled into the sky from some hidden exhaust.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She'd read about this place, stared at photos, drawn little doodles of its layout in the margins of her notes. Seeing it in person felt like stepping into a photo she'd been pressing her nose against for months. A quiet whisper in the back of her mind said: You don't belong here. Another one, softer, almost hopeful, countered: But maybe you could.

The aircraft finally squealed to a stop. The engines spooled down with a long, descending whine.

"Welcome to the bottom of the world," Arun said, unfastening his harness.

Melissa's fingers fumbled at the buckles. Of course they did. The guy next to her, the microbiologist, had probably been flying in and out of extreme environments his whole life. Meanwhile, she was struggling with basic seatbelt mechanics.

She managed it on the second try and told herself that was fine. Two tries was respectable. Three was panic. Four was a story she'd never live down when she got back to the newsroom.

If she got back to the newsroom.

Stop it, she told herself. You're here to work. Act like it.

The cold hit her like a verdict, sharp and absolute, as if Antarctica itself was judging whether she belonged. It stole her breath for a moment. For half a second, the horizon seemed to ripple--a trick of light, she told herself. Exhaustion. Nerves. The sensation vanished before she could think more about it. She blinked against the sting, eyes watering as she stepped onto the metal stairs and then, finally, onto Antarctic ice. Everyone around her moved with purpose, knowing where to be and what to carry. Melissa fought the sudden, childish fear that she was the one person here without the right script.

Her editor had called this assignment "a chance to prove herself," the kind of job he only gave reporters he believed could handle pressure. It still felt more like a dare than a compliment.

The ground was harder than she expected, almost like stepping onto stone. Her boots squeaked faintly. The sky was so high and empty it made her slightly dizzy to look at it.

Her hood pulled tight against the wind as she stepped into a swirl of voices--orders barked, greetings exchanged, the metallic rattle of pallets sliding across the ice.

"Golding?"

The voice came from ahead, clear and carrying. Melissa turned.

The woman who'd said her name stood near the edge of the landing zone, one hand on a clipboard, the other shoved into the pocket of a heavy parka. She was tall--easily six feet--even with the bulk of the jacket. Red hair escaped from beneath a beanie in an untidy twist, bright against the monotone background. Dark eyes regarded Melissa from under the shadow of her hood, sharp and assessing.

Melissa's brain supplied, This must be her, a beat before the woman stepped closer. There was the faintest hitch in her approach--a half-breath's pause, like she was bracing for something unspoken--gone so quickly Melissa could've imagined it. Something in Melissa stilled. Maybe it was the way she held herself--balanced, contained, like she'd carved space out of the cold rather than stepping into it.

"Charlotte Franklin," she said. "Most people call me Frankie."

Her handshake was firm, brief, businesslike. Melissa hoped her own grip didn't scream city girl. Her fingers still hadn't quite gotten the memo about blood circulation. Frankie had the kind of presence that made people instinctively straighten--an anchor in a place where gravity felt optional.

"Melissa," she said. "Golding. From--"

"The magazine. Yeah, we were warned." The corner of Frankie's mouth twitched. It might have been a joke. Might not. "You get all your gear?"

Melissa's first instinct was defensive--warned--but she smothered it. "Yes. Camera, laptop, personal kit. I was told I'd pick up cold-weather stuff here."

"This is the warm-weather stuff." Frankie gestured at Melissa's issued parka, the gloves, the hat that suddenly felt inadequate. "If it gets bad, we'll find you something thicker. Try not to need it."

There was a dryness to it. Not cruel. Just matter-of-fact.

Behind Frankie, a forklift trundled past, piled with crates labelled with hazard symbols and serial numbers. A gust of wind tore through the landing zone, finding every gap in Melissa's clothing. She shivered, unable to hide it.

Frankie's eyes flicked to her, then away. "You'll acclimate," she said. "Eventually." A beat. "If your eyelashes freeze together, don't panic. It's annoying, not dangerous."

"Comforting."

"Come on." Frankie jerked her chin toward the cluster of buildings. "We've got a briefing in twenty. I'll get you a bunk and a mug of something hot first. You look like you're about to shatter."

Melissa opened her mouth to protest--I'm fine--then realised that would be a lie so obvious it would insult both of them.

"A mug of something sounds... good," she admitted.

The sharp scent of diesel cut through the cold. Radios crackled from somewhere she couldn't see. Metal groaned as the wind pressed against the siding of nearby buildings. Everything about this place felt temporary and permanent at the same time.

As they walked, the snow underfoot went from raw ice to compacted tracks, then to patchwork gravel. The wind found new angles to attack her from. Melissa tightened the strap of her bag across her chest and tried not to broadcast just how out of her depth she felt.

Frankie moved easily through the cold, steps sure, body balanced like she'd grown up here. She didn't talk much as they skirted around cargo piles and weaving personnel. When she did, it was mostly directions.

"That's the vehicle depot," she said, pointing with her chin at a low, long building where tracked machines crouched like sleeping beasts. "Power station over there. You won't need to go near that."

"Noted," Melissa said. "Stay away from the place that could turn me into a charcoal briquette."

Frankie huffed, a sound that might have been a laugh. "More like a popsicle if it fails."

"Even better."

They reached a squat structure with a heavy door and a faded sign Melissa didn't catch before Frankie shouldered them inside. Warmth hit her like a physical thing--dry, recycled air that nearly made her knees buckle with relief.

The interior was all narrow corridors, scuffed floors, walls painted a colour that might once have been white. The smell was old coffee, damp wool, and disinfectant.

"Bunkroom's this way," Frankie said. "You're in with some of the comms and science team. Try not to steal anyone's socks and you'll do fine."

"I'll try to restrain myself."

This time the huff was definitely a laugh, quick and genuine, before Frankie smoothed it away.

The bunkroom was smaller than Melissa expected. Four bunks, two high, metal frames bolted to the floor. A few duffel bags lay open, personal items tucked into net pockets above pillows. Someone had pinned a postcard of a beach between two bedframes--a strip of turquoise water and sunlit sand that looked obscene in this place.

"That one's yours for now," Frankie said, pointing to the lower bunk. "We rotate people through, but you can settle there while we're still at McMurdo."

"Until the traverse," Melissa said quietly, sliding her bag onto the mattress. "That's the over-ice trip to the anomaly site, right?"

"Right." Frankie leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "You get carsick?"

"Not usually."

"Good. It's like a very slow, very loud road trip with no scenery and a higher chance of death."

Melissa blinked. "Do you ever sugar-coat anything?"

"Not if I can help it."

She should have been annoyed. Instead, something unclenched, just a little. At least she knew where she stood.

"What exactly is the anomaly?" she asked. "In the brief, it was just a lot of adjectives. 'Unprecedented.' 'Significant.' 'Potentially historic.'"

Frankie's gaze sharpened. For a moment, Melissa felt like a specimen under a microscope.

"You actually read the brief," Frankie said.

"Radical journalist behaviour, I know."

That earned her another small, reluctant smile. "We don't know exactly what it is yet. Satellite and ground-penetrating radar picked up a structure under the ice. Regular shapes. Clean lines. The ice flow around it is... wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"Like the ice is flowing around something that shouldn't be there. Think of a boulder in a river. Only the boulder is harder than rock, doesn't show up on standard scans, and might be older than the ice itself." She hesitated. "It's not geological. Not in any way we understand."

A tingle slid down Melissa's spine. The kind that came when she knew a story might be bigger than the word count her editor had in mind.

"And you're leading the ice part of the team," she said. "Right."

"Glaciology, structural assessment, safety. I tell them when the ice is going to kill us."

"Again with the uplifting job description."

Frankie shrugged, unfazed. "It helps people listen."

There was something almost comforting about the bluntness. No marketing spin. No vague corporate promise of "extraordinary opportunities for discovery." Just: this place can kill you, and I'm here to stop that if I can. Watching Frankie talk about ice safety like it was second nature only sharpened the quiet truth she was trying not to think about: the people here belonged to the cold. Melissa... wasn't sure what she belonged to yet.

"Do you have a minute for a couple of questions later?" Melissa asked. "Off the record to start, I mean. Just so I don't--" She gestured vaguely. "Write something stupid before I know enough not to."

Frankie studied her for a beat too long. Melissa felt heat rise under her scarf, absurd in a place that could freeze exposed skin in minutes.
She hated how small the question sounded in her own ears--like she was asking permission to matter.

"I've got a briefing with Sloan," Frankie said. "After that, I can give you fifteen minutes. No promises on making you not write something stupid."

"Harsh but fair."

Another flicker of a smile. "Briefing's in fifteen. Cafeteria's two doors down on the left. Get something hot in you before we throw a wall of information at your half-frozen brain."

"I'm sensing a theme," Melissa said. "Hot drinks as a survival strategy."

"That and not walking into crevasses." Frankie pushed off the doorframe. "You can quote me on that part."

She turned, then paused, hand on the door.

"And Melissa?" she added, not quite looking back. "If you start feeling... off -- headaches, dizziness, dvu that feels like more than memory -- tell someone. Tell me. It's usually altitude or exhaustion, but it's better to check early."

The warning stuck with her more than she expected. Everyone else acted like this was simply part of the job, part of Antarctica's vocabulary. Melissa still felt like she was learning the basic grammar. "Is that... normal out here?"

"Probably not," Frankie said. "But this place does strange things to people. I'd rather be paranoid than surprised."

Then she was gone, boots thudding down the hallway, leaving Melissa alone with the hum of the heater and the quiet creak of the building against the wind.

A flicker of unease stirred under Melissa's ribs. Not because she expected anything strange to happen--but because Frankie said it with the tone of someone who'd seen things she didn't talk about.

Melissa sat slowly on the edge of the bunk. Her legs felt like someone else's. She pulled off one glove, then the other, flexing stiff fingers.

You wanted something bigger, she reminded herself. You begged for something that wasn't just celebrity profiles and restaurant openings. Congratulations, Golding. You got it.

She wished she could text Annie. Just a single line: I'm here. I'm scared. I'm trying. But the satphones were locked down for official use, and even if they weren't, she wasn't sure how to explain the way her chest ached--not from cold, but from wanting to prove she belonged to more than the version of herself everyone else believed in.

Outside, Antarctica breathed cold against the thin walls. Somewhere in this frozen expanse was a structure under the ice that shouldn't exist.

Somewhere between here and there, she'd have to find a way to be more than the girl who'd always felt one step behind in her own life.

She stood, shoved her gloves into her pocket, and headed for the cafeteria. If the universe was going to throw strange voices and impossible ice at her, she was at least going to meet them with a mug of something hot in her hands.

And, apparently, with a glaciologist who didn't sugar-coat anything.

That part, she wasn't sure whether to be afraid of... or grateful for.