They passed through a common area that looked like it had been decorated for a luau—according to Koos, the decorations were leftover from the party to celebrate the summer crew’s last night on the white continent.
“I assume there’s adequate WiFi?” Camille asked, examining her surroundings with thinly veiled distaste. “And please tell me there’s a decent wine selection. I brought several bottles, but they’ll need proper storage.”
“We’re not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, ma’am,” Koos replied good-naturedly. “WiFi’s patchy at best. And we have a fridge for your booze.” He motioned to the battered stainless steel fridge that had to be nearly as old as Elliot. “Though I’d recommend rationing any alcohol you have for the winter season.”
“Winter season?” Camille’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched. “We’re here for the summer session. Only three weeks.”
“Late summer,” Koos corrected. “Season’s changing. Storms come faster now, and we’ll start seeing some actual nighttime hours here soon. Three weeks can turn into four or five real quick this time of year.”
Camille seemed unbothered by the news, but Elliot filed it away. Storms and shortened daylight hours meant more risk if they needed to make a quick exit.
Meanwhile, Dr. Keene was oblivious to the tension, practically skipping as he followed Koos through the facility. “Marvelous setup! Simply marvelous! The proximity to the ice field is perfect for our core samples. And there’s a direct access point to the subglacial water system?”
“About five kilometers north of here,” Koos confirmed. “But the weather hasn’t been cooperative lately. Ice shifting more than usual.”
Fuck. Unstable terrain was a death trap out here.
Nothing about this place or expedition felt right. The unexplained summer crew, the mysterious Russians with their biometrically secured lab, the excessive surveillance…
It all felt like walking into a trap with the door slowly closing behind them.
And if Rue hadn’t called him, she’d be here alone. The thought had terror-laced bile rising in his throat.
They reached the sleeping quarters, a narrow corridor lined with doors that looked like they belonged on a submarine. Each room barely qualified as a closet—just wide enough for bunk beds and a small storage locker.
“Home sweet home,” Koos announced, opening the first door with a flourish. “Dr. Keene, you and your students are in here. Three bunks, cozy as promised.”
Tyler peered into the cramped space and let out a low whistle. “It’s like a really expensive coffin.”
“Ugh, Tyler, don’t be morbid,” Mia said and shouldered past him, claiming one of the bottom bunks for herself.
“Bathrooms and showers are to the left,” Koos added, motioning to where the corridor split into a T. “To the right is Lab A, where you can set up for your research. There’s also storage down there—food, cleaning supplies, and all that. You make a mess, you clean it up, and we take turns with dinner prep. Those are the station rules.”
Dr. Volkova had been silently observing until now, her pale eyes taking in every detail of the station. “Is there a medical bay?”
“Yes,” Koos replied. “Down the hall past the kitchen. Fully stocked, though we’re not equipped for major surgeries.”
“I’ll need to familiarize myself with the equipment,” Dr. Volkova said, her tone clinical and detached. “And everyone will need a physical before beginning fieldwork. Antarctic conditions can exacerbate pre-existing conditions.”
Elliot watched Noah Braddock shift at the mention of physicals, a slight tensing of his shoulders that would’ve been imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t trained to notice such things. Interesting. What was Braddock hiding that a medical exam made him nervous?
“This way, Ms. Middleton,” Koos said, moving down the corridor to the next door. “You’ll be in here.”
Camille hovered at the threshold, not entering the room. Her expression morphed from expectant to horrified as she stared into the tiny space.
“This is a joke, right?” She turned to Koos, then to Rue. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake,” Koos said cheerfully. “Standard quarters for everyone.”
Elliot shifted the weight of her ridiculous bag, his shoulder muscles burning from carrying it through the station. The thing had to weigh at least sixty pounds.
Camille took one step into the room and made a sound like she’d just discovered a dead rat in her designer purse. “This is... this is unacceptable. It’s barely larger than a prison cell.”
“Actually,” Elliot said, unable to help himself, “prison cells are typically larger.”
Rue shot him a look that was half warning, half amusement.
“I was promised adequate accommodations,” Camille continued, her voice climbing higher. “This is hardly adequate for someone of my position.”
