The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 117
I shared Ariadne’s fears with Lazarus and Germanicus, and two tough-minded internees we had taken into our confidence, the Brazilian whaler Cavalobranco and a Russian refugee befriended by Otter Ransom, from eastern Africa—a giant called Gleb the Hewer. Lazarus counseled me to order the work on King James continued, and that I should have my sealers formulate a plan to take over one of the supply ships for escape. Germanicus and the other military men were incredulous at the thought of revolt, said it would be suicide: we were mostly unarmed, were starved to where we only had energy to hunt, could not match the Ice Cross’s guns. Yet I was persuaded, and so Lazarus prevailed, to surprising ends. As Lazarus intended, the fantasy of escape did hearten my people and the other wretches at Golgotha who had come to depend upon us. The rumors became wild and ebullient; however, with them, perversely, came conflict over who would go, who would be left behind. Lazarus assured me that it was worth the trouble, that we had to make them stronger than they were. There were fights, suspicious hangings, a sudden conversion of hundreds to the Brothers’ otherworldly futility. This is human nature, I understand now. As contrived and misconceived as our ambitions were, they were hopeful; as with bread, we gorged on them. Also as with bread, some hoarded, others gave away what was not truly theirs, and then succumbed.
My wolves determined my work at Golgotha. I was the best informed at how to handle sled teams, and so organized a transportation system over the glacier to the rookeries where my hunters ventured. It is also true that my wolves determined my fate. This sort of causality is very Norse. It reaches back to that burning cold night at the King’s castle, when Earle Littlejohn placed two pups in my arms, and, in that, seems to present an uninterrupted line over twelve years, leading me from the discovery of my father’s heart’s desire to the discovery of my grandfather’s heart’s desire, and mine.
I had not given up Grandfather. It was that I no longer felt free to desert my people as I would have at Mead’s Kiss. That dynamo of flesh had enclosed me. They gave me power and I feasted on their obedience, and more, since Lazarus saw to it that the whole of Golgotha knew the magical reach of Grim Fiddle. I was doubly captured, believed I could not turn my back on them.
I did covet a secret program. My guess was that Grandfather, whom I wholeheartedly believed alive, as the albatross had implied, was in one of the camps on Greenwich Island. I had made investigation of the possibility with Mosquite, and challenged Ariadne if there were lists of the camp’s internees. He did not laugh at me, “Quel cauchemar!” He said that he had come to the South Shetlands in search of his brother’s family, had found them, dead. He also astounded me by saying that there actually was a resettlement effort, that Golgotha was scheduled that summer for assessment and transportation. He said that his new commander-in-chief had ordered the resettlement program reinitiated in order to keep the camps in line. I asked him if there was rebellion in the camps. Ariadne shook his head. He said there was the warlord of the Hielistos, Jaguaquara. That was left mysterious. And yes, yes, there was one more revelation. It comes to me now as I think of myself on the quay before that monolithic wall of rock, Ariadne and his men ferrying new wretches ashore. Ariadne was trying to explain in bad Spanish why it was that the resettlement program could be delayed. He gave me the name of the new Ice Cross commander-in-chief; he said, “Lykantropovin first means to bend the Hielistos, and only then turn to the camps.”
(The Norse said, all names are names. I do not challenge the epigram, only addend that some names are warnings: Lykantropovin, the face of the wolf.)
Golgotha had a dozen huskies from the original supply by the Ice Cross. I added Iceberg and her large brood, took on apprentice dog-handlers, notably Gleb the Hewer, who had run dogs in the Ukraine as a boy. We built sleds from ship’s wreckage, fashioned cargo runs up the glacier, north and southwest, to the best rookeries.
It was on one of those sled runs, after the new year, that I should have discovered a clue to my heart’s desire, did not. There had been odd happenstance the day before on the route to the sea leopards on the southern shore. One of our men was missing. I told Germanicus to increase sentries on the near shore of Aurora Bay. Gleb the Hewer went up, sent back word that I should come for a look. I mistakenly let Mosquite know I was going out. He had come both to despise and rely upon my authority over the internees, and insisted one of his thugs accompany me as bodyguard. He sent the little one we called Pistole, a murderer and suspected torturer, who was frightened of me and did not concern me. I took one sled and four men, and after some delays due to slides, located Gleb the Hewer, sent his team back, and continued toward the rookery, where there was a gang of my sealers under Ugly Leghorn scrambling the beach of a nearly-played-out hunting ground.
It was a turbulent, ashen day, the sunlight turning the sea fog orange, the wind offshore, white caps covering the Bransfield Strait. My lead dog kept veering from the track, disturbed by the quaking. Iceberg stayed ahead with her huge son, Beow, as scouts. The mountain above us was ice-barren from the slides to about three