SSSD - Alison

The blinding sea of white is endless and the thudding of the helicopter’s rotors is almost painfully loud, even with a headset on. Alison did her research and tried to be practical, but consumer-grade cold weather gear purchased in Florida isn’t going to cut it in Antarctica. Fortunately, it sounds as though the Norwegians are accustomed to this and will provide proper PPE.

She keeps looking out the window, hoping for a glimpse of a penguin, but the white hurts her eyes.

Seated across from her in the rear of the large helicopter is the girl from the airport: Alison didn’t realize it at the time, but this girl who calls herself Ro is also doing the internship. It never occurred to Alison that she would encounter someone from a different program on this trip.

It looks like Ro isn’t a very good flyer. Alison can’t blame her; the ride is rough. The little redhead grips the arms of her seat tightly, keeping her eyes squeezed shut. Alison feels for her, but she can’t be any help. It’s best to let her be. Now that she knows who Ro is, she knows her reputation: she’s an all-star student, on every honors list there is.

But she’s also intense, and that intensity has nothing to do with schoolwork. Ro isn’t enjoying the flight, but she’s glad to be here. So is Alison, but she has a hunch that it’s for different reasons. Alison is here to see Antarctica. Ro seems to be here to get away from Florida.

Alison smiles and goes back to looking out the window. Understandable.

“Make sure you’re strapped in,” the pilot warns her.

Five minutes later, the chopper is setting down with a bump. Alison’s heart is beating out of her chest with excitement. This is incredible. She feels like she did when she left home for college, only more so. She’s always been better at quietly fantasizing about adventurous things than at going out and doing them. That’s about to change.

She unstraps and grabs her gear. Ro is doing the same, looking relieved.

The air that floods the helicopter is beyond icy. It’s negative forty here on a good day, although Alison is going to have to get spun up quickly on Celsius and metric.

As Ro follows Alison down the ramp, they get their first view of the Outpost. It’s a humble compound that doesn’t look like much. Barrels, snow vehicles covered in tarps, a smaller helicopter… several structures that must be garages and a few larger buildings. Nothing is more than a single story tall.

A large Norwegian flag flutters cheerfully.

Alison has never been happier. A figure emerges from the main building, making its way toward them through the snow. She wears a white suit of snow camo with a high-visibility orange safety vest. She’s not bundled up nearly as much as Alison and Ro are.

“Hello,” she calls out in thickly accented English, sounding friendly enough. She waves.

Alison waves back, moving to meet her. The snow is a foot deep.

The woman is close enough to see her face, which is red from the cold: she’s at least ten years older than Alison, and ordinary-enough looking. Her light hair is in a businesslike bun underneath a cute little beret. Her vest has a nametag: HANSEN.

“Show me your passports please,” she says cheerfully.

Teeth chattering, Alison and Ro move to comply only to be hit in the back with strong wind. The chopper is already taking off. The engine roars to life and they stop searching their bags to shield their faces from the stinging snow being blown around by the rotors.

“What’s their hurry?” Alison shouts at Hansen.

“Storm coming,” Hansen replies.

Fair enough. The chopper glides sedately away, and the quiet closes in. There’s a distant moan of wind underneath every sound, but this quiet is like nothing that Alison has ever experienced.

Ro has her passport out, and Alison hurries to get hers.

Hansen looks them both over briefly, then hands them back.

“Americans,” she says.

Alison nods.

“Welcome. Come inside. My name is Niv.”

She’s more or less relaxed, and largely unbothered by the cold. It’s clear that she’s in the Royal Norwegian Navy, but this is not a military outpost.

Alison and Ro gratefully follow her. Alison isn’t about to let herself be disappointed. All right, so she had expectations for a Norwegian outpost. But this place is neither modern nor luxurious. It’s old, somewhat dingy, and thoroughly utilitarian. Chipped paint covers plain walls and ancient tiles make up a few floors, but most of it is just concrete. The furniture is old, ugly pressed wood and industrial metal. Nothing in this place looks like it came from IKEA or anything like an IKEA.

Even the appliances, like lamps and coffee makers look like they come from the early eighties. Light fixtures include colored glass that wouldn’t look out of place in a Detroit suburb built in the seventies.

It’s rough.

But it’s also warm, and Alison walks into plenty of noise: music plays inside, and people are speaking Norwegian.

Niv hardly gets the door shut before a noisy bang against a nearby wall makes everyone jump.

“Fuck!” a youthful voice shouts with an even thicker accent than Niv’s. It’s slightly muffled by the wall. “Fuck!” the unseen girl shouts again.

Alison and Ro look worriedly at Niv, who smiles patiently. She opens her mouth.

“Fuck!”

“It is OK,” Niv assures the two Americans. Alison realizes that it’s time to revise her expectations for Norwegian women as well as Norwegian accommodations.

“Americans!”

Alison looks up to see a tall figure enter the junction ahead. The woman wears snug jeans and an adorable winter sweater. She’s six feet tall, easily, and Alison has never seen anything like her. She has the face of a supermodel, but on the body of some kind of action figure. She’s not heavy exactly, and neither is she a ripped bodybuilder. She’s just powerful, and her thighs are bigger around than Ro is. She approaches, towering over the three of them. Her blonde hair is loose and glossy.

She’s beaming with positive energy.

“This is Dr. Nordrum,” Niv says graciously.

“Hello,” the tall woman greets them both with a firm, slightly terrifying handshake, but she doesn’t crush their bones like toothpicks. “Which one is mine?” she asks, looking delighted.

“What?” Ro is lost.

“Which of you will be working under Dr. Nordrum? And which will be working under Dr. Gretland?” Niv asks, all smiles.

Dr. Nordrum says something, and Niv replies to her. Norwegian is interesting to listen to.

“Dr. Dagnall does not require an intern at this time,” Niv says, sounding a bit apologetic.

“Uh, we just thought you’d tell us what to do,” Alison says, stealing a glance at Ro, who doesn’t want to speak up, clearly.

“That is not fun,” Dr. Nordrum retorts, then calls out in Norwegian.

After a moment, another woman replies from some other part of the Outpost.

Dr. Nordrum shouts back.

Seconds pass.

A woman appears around the corner, closer to Alison in size, although slightly slimmer. Alison feels a touch of relief; this delicate flower is much closer to her fantasies, and she’s even wearing a lab coat. Her pale hair is in a sensible ponytail.

“Hello,” she greets them politely. She’s not exactly unfriendly, but she lacks the warmth of Dr. Nordrum and Niv. She’s distracted. The arrival of two Americans means nothing to her. There’s somewhere that she would rather be.

She’s pretty, though.

“Hi,” Alison replies.

“Hi,” Ro echoes.

The three Norwegians look expectantly at both Americans. Alison has a feeling that Ro isn’t going to speak up and would appreciate a rescue. Personally, Alison thinks it would make more sense to simply assign them to whoever, but arguing with these people minutes after arriving doesn’t seem practical.

Should Alison volunteer to work under Dr. Julie Gretland?

Or Dr. Signe Nordrum?