Fucking Eriksen and his fool's errand.
Four kilometers out. Another six to the ridge. Strøm's arm already aches from gripping the sled's handlebar. The dogs pull steady: Freya sets pace, the others fall in, and the runners hiss over snow that's more ice than powder this far from the coast.
His breath fogs the scarf wrapped across his face. He pulls it down, spits, watches the saliva freeze before it lands. Minus forty, maybe worse with wind. Cold that demands attention every moment outside the base.
He'd done enough winters to rotate out. Most did. Eriksen wouldn't serve another winter. That fucker would be warm behind a desk in Tromsø by next summer, for sure.
Strøm had stopped counting his nights. The dark suited him. Out here you could go days without speaking to anyone but the dogs, who asked things of you, but not in words.
Freya knows the route, has run it a dozen times since summer. Her pace is metronomic: faster and she'd burn out, slower and the deadly cold would settle in. Behind her, Birk runs with his head low, eyes fixed on nothing. Then Halvard, who'd lick your face off given half a chance, and Petter, the youngest, still acting like mushing is a game instead of work.
They're good dogs. A small team, but that's the point: fast, light, efficient. Strøm trusts them like he trusts his hands. They are a team in the way that four fingers and a thumb are a team. They work together now with the sparsest of commands. The long night pares everything down.
The ridge is up ahead somewhere. He can't see it yet, just white on white on white, his headlamp cutting a cone of visibility that ends three meters out. Beyond that: nothing. The polar night doesn't give you horizons. Doesn't give you depth. Just here, and then void.
The sensors are up there. Radar, seismographs, magnetometers. Hundreds of thousands of krone of equipment across hundreds of kilometers of the ice, all to give Tromsø an extra few minutes if the missiles fly. Washington a few more.
Don't think about Tromsø, because then you'll think of the icy road and the stupid kid out in the snow without his parents and then you'll need a drink, and the flask is buried in the pack.
Three sensors down in a week. Different systems, failing in different ways. No big weather surprises. No maintenance fuck-ups. He'd serviced them himself.
Eriksen- station chief, the kind who saw shadows everywhere even in all this white- decided it needed checking. Personally. Physically. Now.
"Could be sabotage," he'd said, face drawn tight. "Could be they're testing something new. Could be—"
"Could be the cold," Strøm had said. "Metal fatigue. Ice expansion. The usual. Nothing lasts here, you know this."
"Could be cold." Eriksen hadn't looked convinced. "But you'll check."
So here he is. Fucking Eriksen.
— — —
The sled jolts: Freya's navigating around something, a pressure ridge maybe, hard to tell. Strøm shifts weight, trusts her judgment. She's been running this route since she was two. Knows every dip, every rise, every place the ice lies.
The wind shifts. Comes from the side now, cutting across the path. The dogs lean into it without breaking stride. Strøm pulls his scarf back up, tucks his chin. His beard is ice by now, frozen solid from his breath. His eyelashes want to stick together when he blinks.
He blinks less.
Six more kilometers. Check the array. Ten back. Easy.
The headlamp flickers. Strøm taps it with a gloved fist against the battery pack on his belt. It steadies. The batteries hate the cold as much as he does, drain faster, die harder. He's got spares, but changing them out here means stopping, means exposing his hands, means time he'd rather not spend.
The dogs pull. The runners hiss. The wind pushes. The world reduces to forward motion, managed cold, and the rhythm of work. So far so good, he thinks. "Flink hunde."
— — —
Freya stops abruptly: a full halt, mid-stride, like she hit a wall.
The sled glides forward on momentum, nearly runs into her before Strøm hits the brake. The other dogs bunch up, confused, tangling slightly before sorting themselves.
Strøm waits. Counts to ten. Lets Freya work through whatever she's working through—scent, sound, something in the ice he can't make out.
She doesn't move. Her head is up, ears forward. She is reading something, but when Strøm looks where she's looking, he sees only the great white dark. Beyond the reach of his headlamp he might as well be blind.
"Hei," he says. "I see you stopped, lady. What is it?"
Freya's ears twitch. She shifts her weight, looks back at him. Her eyes catch the light—gold flash, then dark again.
The other dogs are restless. Petter whines. Halvard presses close to Birk, who stands perfectly still, staring into nothing with that unnerving focus he gets sometimes. Like he's listening to something no one else can hear.
Strøm gets off the sled. Knees stiff. Walks forward, stops next to Freya. Puts a hand on her head.
"What is it, girl?"
Staring into the blank, she doesn't acknowledge him.
Strøm follows her gaze. Sweeps the headlamp across the white. Sees: snow, ice, maybe the faint rise of the ridge a kilometer out. Nothing unusual. Nothing there. Until—just once, in the corner of his eye as he turns—a small figure alone on the ice. Fuck. No. Not this far out.
He checks the wind: steady. Checks the ice: solid. Checks his compass: fine. He turns around on the spot. Laughs briefly. Nothing.
He crouches next to Freya. "Talk to me."
She is tense as a wire. The pack waits on her. Even Petter's whining has stopped. Birk's hum begins—a soft, low vibration, like something small and mechanical winding up.
Strøm stands. One more look around. Still nothing.
"All right," he says. "All right."
He returns to the sled. Stands on the runners. "Freya. Fram."
Nothing.
"FRAM."
Nothing.
He pulls the lead line—he is insistent now. This cannot go on forever, not out here.
Freya takes one step. Then another. He tugs again. She looks to be fighting something. She shakes, begins to trot. Yes, professional, thinks Strøm.
The pack follows, uneasy. Petter's whining edges toward something else—tension pointed ahead now, not back. Birk's hum continues, audible through wind and layers. Halvard presses so close to Birk their flanks touch.
They move forward. Just a couple of kilometers before the ridge emerges from the white. The sensor array: skeletal shapes against the dark.
Strøm brakes, dismounts, anchors the sled with the screw.
— — —
He is several paces from the seismograph housing when he sees: the first sensor is sheared off. It is a clean cut through the mounting bracket, metal bright where it snapped. A quarter inch of steel. The sensor itself is ten meters down the slope, half-buried in snow.
Strøm crouches. Runs his glove over the break. What did this? Metal fatigue or wind damage he has seen before—there's a pinched-off edge to the break. The ends stretched out like taffy before the break. This is sliced.
He stands, looks at the other sensors. Both are tilted wrong. Cables hanging loose, connections broken. This isn't weather.
He walks to the junction box. The door hangs open. Impossible. This thing is double-locked and insulated. As he walks around it, he sees it is disembowelled. Wires trail out into a tangle. Components warped and slumped, but no burn marks, no fire smell. Why would they do it like this?
Freya barks sharply from the sled and he startles, turns to them. As the cone of light from the headlamp moves, it catches the small figure again out at the edge of the ridge. Strøm cries out suddenly then feels stupid for it. This is too much drink or too little—either way the cure's in the flask.
His hands shake as he seals the box as best he can. He is breathing hard and checks over both shoulders. Bastard Soviets. Not ghosts.
Strøm turns back toward the dogs. Forty meters away, Freya is sitting now, but fixes him with her stare. The others are bunched too close, pressed together even though they should be fine in this cold. He checks the others: Halvard's tail is low. He waits for Strøm, ears up, ready.
Birk faces outwards, blank. As Strøm approaches he hears the dog humming again. Fucking whine if you're going to whine, he thinks.
And Petter—now he's closer, Strøm sees Petter is destroying his harness. He's chewed almost through the leather, head thrashing, making whines, growls, something desperate and angry and scared.
Strøm walks toward him. "Petter." The dog doesn't stop.
Strøm reaches the sled. Moves closer. "Knock it off—"
He grabs the harness. Shakes hard, tries to snap him out of it.
Petter lunges.
Strøm gets his arm up- instinct, but too slow- and Petter's teeth close on his forearm through the parka, through the layers, into skin. The pain is white-hot. Strøm shouts, tries to pull back, but Petter's locked on, shaking his head. "You bastard-" Pain cracks his voice. What will I do, out here?
Then Freya slams into Petter. She makes no sound other than the contact. They go down, tangled, snarling. Freya's jaws are at Petter's throat. No pressure. She holds. Petter goes still. Whines. Submits.
Freya holds Petter until he stops moving entirely. Then she releases. Steps back. Stands over him. Petter stays down, trembling.
Strøm is on the ground. He doesn't remember falling. His arm throbs and he grunts as he moves it. He can feel blood, wet inside his sleeve, already starting to freeze.
He looks at Petter. At the blood. At his arm.
Gets to his feet.
Kicks.
His boot catches Petter in the ribs- it's not full force, but he's thrown backwards. The dog yelps, scrambles up.
And every dog growls. All of them. Low. Unified. A sound Strøm has never heard from them.
All except Freya. She steps between him and Petter. Silent. Head low. Her hackles are up.
Birk's hum drops to a rumble. Halvard shows teeth.
Even Petter, low and trembling, watching Strøm. No, you bastards. Not here.
Strøm freezes.
His hand goes to the rifle on the sled. Slowly.
The growling intensifies. He takes the flare as well, why not.
Freya doesn't move. Just stands there. Between him and the rest of them.
Strøm takes a step back.
The growling continues.
Another step.
He weighs the weight of the rifle, of shooting it. They'll scatter or they'll rush me, he thinks. Either way...
His arm throbs. Blood drips into the snow and in the corner of his eye he sees a boy, in parka and mittens, running.
Strøm turns but doesn't catch him. He's always too late, too slow. You're losing it old man. Then he hears a child's laughter and there's no mistaking it and he shoulders the rifle and follows.
Into the white.
— — —
His headlamp cuts three meters. Beyond that: nothing.
He walks. Ten meters. Twenty.
Come on, what the fuck are you? The boy died, I read it in the papers. Some little Soviet shit you are, I know it. You've fucked my team. I'll fuck you. We'll see who's dying in the cold-.
He takes his next step and something's wrong with the space. Not visually. Spatially. Like depth perception failing, like being pushed forward into nothing.
He takes another step.
His stomach lurches. He puts a hand out to steady himself on nothing. For a second, he can't tell which way is up.
The wind sounds wrong. Not louder. Just: wrong. The steady howl has gone and instead it sounds like... breathing.
Something at the edge of the light. Small. Still.
He doesn't turn his head.
He knows the size of it without looking. Has measured it every night for six years, in the space between waking and sleep, in the bottom of whatever bottle was closest. The road outside Tromsø. The shape in the headlights. The moment he didn't stop.
Run.
Behind him: the dogs scream.
Strøm runs. Back toward the sound. Back toward the pack. His boots slip on ice. He catches himself. Keeps running.
The dogs are pulling backward, all of them, lines taut, the sled moving even though the brake is set.
Freya is pulling so hard the harness is choking her.
Strøm reaches the sled. Grabs the handlebar. "Snu!" Turn around.
Freya doesn't wait. She wheels, and the pack follows, and they run.
Freya flat-out, pace she's never set before. The others match it. Even Petter. Head down, pulling hard.
Strøm crouches low, bad arm tucked against his chest. The blood has stopped, freezing solid in his sleeve. He loops a pack-strap around the handlebar and ties it twice around his good arm. In case.
His head's swimming now and he turns back. Freya, you know the way, please. There up on the ridge by the array, the child. Unsure now if he's dreaming, Strøm fires off a flare over the sensors. For a moment the boy is lit orange against the white, and he raises his hand- a wave, small, familiar- and the flare dies.
The sled jolts sharply and for a second there's only pain. When he rights himself the light is out and there's only ice, a three metre cone of it in the headlamp, receding as the dogs pull.
— — —
The cold settles in without the work of mushing. Into his joints. His lungs. His bones. Every jolt of the sled sends pain through his arm.
He doesn't look back.
The dogs are silent now. No whining. No play. Just: run.
Birk's hum has stopped. Or Strøm can't hear it.
Halvard runs with ears flat, head low.
Freya doesn't falter. Pace perfect. Line perfect. She knows where they're going even when Strøm can't see five meters ahead.
Time stops meaning anything. Could be an hour. Could be twenty minutes.
His arm throbs. His face is numb. His feet. Everything numb except the cold burning in his core.
Take me home pleasehe thinks, and it's hard to know if his eyes are still open.
— — —
The station appears out of the white.
Orange hatchlight cuts through the dark, real and familiar. Strøm smiles at the thought of seeing Eriksen and the others, then smiles at that.
Freya slows the team to a stop twenty meters out.
Strøm stumbles off the sled. His legs don't work right. Nearly goes down but catches himself.
The dogs pant. Exhausted.
He anchors the sled with the snow hook. He moves along the gangline. His bad arm useless, he fumbles with frozen fingers to unsnap the tug lines.
Freya first. She's free, and immediately runs to the station door. Barks. Loud. Sharp. Help here. Humans. Now.
Nothing.
Birk is next. Strøm unclips him and the dog immediately runs in the opposite direction, scanning the horizon. Looking back toward the ridge.
Halvard presses close to Strøm while he works. Won't leave his side.
Then Petter.
Strøm's hands shake as he reaches for the clip. The dog watches him. Still trembling. Still submissive.
"Good. I should shoot you. Tomorrow." Strøm mutters.
But his hands unclip the line anyway.
Petter doesn't run. Just stands there. Waiting.
Freya barks again at the station door. Still nothing.
Strøm looks at the door. At the orange light. Eriksen you fuck, get out here.He bangs the door, kicks. He is reaching good arm and bad towards the heavy handle before he sees: the handle is broken off at the fulcrum. Sheared. Sliced.
He knows, then, They're not coming.
He turns to the dog kennels. Twenty meters to the left. Low structures, half-buried in snow, but accessible. I'm not dying out here shouting Eriksen's name. It will have to do.
He walks toward them. Freya sees, abandons the door, trots after him.
"Sammen," Strøm says. "Min flokk."
Together. My pack.
Halvard follows immediately. Petter hesitates, then comes.
But Birk-
Birk is still out there, staring toward the ridge. Hackles up.
"Sammen!" Strøm calls. Firmer.
Birk looks back. Reluctant. Still reading the dark.
Freya barks once. Sharp. Now.
Birk trots in.
— — —
The kennel is cramped. It stinks. But it's shelter. Strøm crawls in first, the dogs following. They press against him- even Petter- bodies warm, breath visible in the small space.
Freya settles by his injured arm. Halvard curls against his side. Petter at his feet. Birk by the door, still watching, but in.
His arm has stopped hurting. That's not good.
The flask is still on the sled. Buried in the pack. He should go get it. Should do a lot of things.
Faen. Faen. Faen.
Outside, the snow falls soft. The wind dies. The dark settles.
The dogs press close.
Strøm closes his eyes.
Sammen.
