Doctor Silas Mills watched from a promontory near the Southern edge of Palmer Land as the last boat docked at Shackleton Port, disgorging its crates. Adjusting his CO2 filtration mask so he could speak clearly, he turned to his family and handed out three small envelopes, one to each of them.
“Keep these safe,” he said, “I’ll let you know when.”
His wife, Tricia, folded hers into the pocket of her raincoat and looked at him with desperate eyes.
“How long?” She reached out an arm to pull her eldest daughter close.
“I don’t know,” he said. “The phytoplankton is all dead. We probably have a few months’ oxygen left. A lot depends on how quickly the seas turn stagnant and start emitting hydrogen sulphide. January maybe.”
“What about the electrolysis project?”
“We can’t make enough oxygen from that. There are about two million people here. I estimate we can make enough for about three thousand, maybe four, if we can get the new plant in Port Lockroy online.”
He shuddered at the thought of the millions left stranded in the UK: gangs roaming the streets, killing and raping, bodies hanging from lampposts. No government, no law, no hope.
“Yeah,” she said, “and we know who they will be.”
“I’ve seen the list,” he said, “or at least A list. Harry gave it to me. The usual suspects.”
“But not us?”
“No, not us.”
“But you’re an important scientist,” she replied, her face reddening, “your work on genetically engineering a temperature resistant phytoplankton could be key to oxygenating the world again.”
“I’m on the list,” he said simply.
“But not us,” she waved her free hand around at the children.
“No, not us, but I’m not going into the Ark Project. I’m staying with you.”
She tore off her mask and started coughing. Her daughter reached for her, holding her up as she doubled over.
“Mum, put your mask back on,” she wailed.
“You know what, Silas,” she said, pushing her daughter away, “fuck this and fuck them.”
“Put your mask on, Tricia,” he whispered. “We have to make plans.”
“What plans?” Tricia shouted, “how are we going to find a way out of this?”
He pulled a small sheet of paper from his coat pocket.
“This is a speech given by Churchill to Harrow School ten months into the second world war. We stood alone; until now, it truly was our darkest hour. He told young men he knew would feed the war machine to ‘Never give up! Never give up!’ And I’m not giving up. Not now, not ever. There is always hope.”
“Silas, you’re a good man, but when it comes to hope, you don’t realise the most important thing.” There were tears in her eyes. “You are the personification of hope. Without you, humanity ends. And I will not allow that to happen.”
She swallowed the pill in the envelope and fell to her knees, saying, “If they want you, they’ll have to take the kids.”
