Happenings At Station 426, or Some Sort of Stellar Violence

I: March 28th

Thomas Blackwall was the first person to see something strange. He had kept expeditions functional and successful on Antarctica for over fifteen years, knowing every piece of machinery and equipment inside and out, as well as how to maintain and operate most. Though many had simply called him a mechanic, he had more degrees and wit than most. So it was with a respected weight his frenzied words were received.

"I saw it clear as day."

He was not a man predisposed to being frantic. No one on the station could even recall having ever seen Thomas as anything more than stoic, friendly, and amenable to anyone.

"A massive structure, spinning on the horizon."

"Which direction?" Someone had asked.

"South," Thomas answered. "Just over the ridge."

Except there was nothing south of the station. If you went any further south from Station 426, you'd find nothing until you ran into the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station. Everything between was snow and ice. But Thomas insisted they go out and, if no one else would go, he would do so alone.

Emma Barlow, the expedition leader, had been quick to object. "I won't have it," she commanded. "You're not going out there alone."

Emma rarely had to command anything. Her crew were some of the best people in their fields. They were not a democracy, they were a group of scientists, engineers, and explorers who would make the most informed decision with the data they had. If one of their best had seen something he believed should be investigated, she would trust his judgment.

"Wind's're too bad, take one of the sno-cats," Emma had relented. "And Callahan, I want you to go with him. If there's a shelf breaking apart, or whatever is happening, we need to know."

Emma hoped her casual explanation of the potential phenomena as something natural in Antarctica's environment might calm Thomas, but she didn't think such things would placate him when they did nothing for even her.

June Callahan was the second person to see something strange.

She had driven herself and Thomas south, heading up the ridge as quick as she thought would satisfy his unease. June was curious, but uninvested. But as both pilot and driver for the expedition, she had worked with Thomas more closely than the others and the longer she sat beside him, the more worried she had started to become.

June shifted in her seat, massaging the steering wheel.

When they neared the crest of the southern ridge Thomas exhaled, breathing deep as if seeing the thing had vindicated his concern.

Like falchion blades they rose above the Antarctic wastes, some three or four hundred feet tall each, spinning slowly but perceptibly. At any given time you could see three, maybe four of the blades turning above the ice, with the rest continuing to spin beneath it. They could see the wind around the tips of the blade, wisps of white as the snow was cut from the air. But that was not the strange thing June had seen. No, the strange thing she had seen was off to the west, a singular building a mile or two adjacent the blades.

"There shouldn't be anything here," June insisted. "Nothing, not for over two-hundred miles."

The building—a name for which the structure barely justified itself as—was a gray and decrepit thing, filled with a few frozen furnishings, a cast iron oven, cheap metal cups and one rifle at least a hundred years old. When Thomas tried operating the lever-action, it moved only a hair's width before getting stuck in place, frozen solid. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and continued the search.