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François Leclerc had been drowning for years now.
Eva Stratt, the siren, the mavka, the melusine, beckoned him into the freezing ocean water.
"The world is ending." She told him all those years ago.
Her tone did not quite match her appearance, he thought then. Her long hair like oak leaves in autumn against the light blue sky. Every feature of her face was soft and rounded. The river blue of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the dusk pink of her cheeks. He could not picture a gentler face even if he tried. She wore a deep blue sweater. Wool, he noted, not polyester. We are alike, you and I, her presence told him, we are children of this Earth who wish to protect it.
"What else is new?" He asked her. François already knew that. He had been trying to make people understand that since he was a child.
Tone as cold as the Mistral wind. "I am Eva Stratt, the Director of the Petrova Taskforce. It is my job to prevent as much of that as possible."
"You want to stop the sun from dimming."
"Yes. You will assist me in making sure the Earth will survive until we find a solution. Come with me, please."
He quickly learned that the polite ending of the phrase meant nothing. He had no choice in going. He argued against it. He had other plans, they caught him on his way to the train station to go to Lyon. It had been so long since he last saw his childhood home. The Director and her companion did not care about his tickets and requested time off. They sat him down in the car and drove off. Where to? He wasn't sure. All he could think about were the tickets to his goddaughter's puppet play tomorrow. He'd have to miss her debut. How could he explain to her why? Getting kidnapped was a proper excuse, but he doubted that it would elicit a calm response.
"Why could this not be done through the proper channels? You could have emailed me or called my office."
"We don't have time to go through proper channels." As if to punctuate the point, she took a tablet from her bag and started looking at something. There weren’t any scratches, Leclerc couldn't help but notice. It was brand new. Did she know how much blood was on her hands at that very moment? Modern technology was a necessity to a productive survival in these digital times, but it did not mean they had to succumb to the newest, the most exploitative, trends.
"So you and your associate–"
"Carl." The man from the driver's seat said.
"You and Carl just kidnap people?"
"Scientists, primarily." She responded without looking up. "The best in their respective fields."
"And you consider me to be–"
"You are. Let's not waste time listing your accomplishments." She turned her tablet, showing him a logo on the screen.
"Doctor Leclerc, welcome to the Petrova Taskforce."
François wasn't sure what to expect of what most called Stratt's Vat. Too large to be comforting, too small to cohabit easily with others. Hundreds of meters of steel that stretched on and on and kept him from the waterfalls and forests just east of home. He even started to miss the light and sound pollution of Paris. Sometimes, on a particularly foggy morning, he would stare out into the distance and imagine the eyesore tower.
He didn't particularly fit in with the rest of the science team. Grace was too busy following the Director like thunderstorms followed a heatwave., Lamai was focused on her task, Hatch, Komorov, and Sood spoke a language of engineers that he barely understood, and Lokken just didn't seem to like him.
"I have friends working on sustainable options for lab equipment." He mentioned to her once.
"I remember the push for methanesulfonic acid to be used in labs." She didn't bother looking up from her experiment. "Was that your work?"
"Oh, no, but I know the people who worked on that too. I am a climatologist, most of my activism focuses on the bigger picture. I try to stay aware of what is happening across different industries, but there are only so many hours in a day."
He leaned forward on the lab table. He had often found himself wandering through these labs when running calculations in his tiny office got too repetitive or staring at a screen started hurting his eyes. He liked observing what work he was supporting, even if he didn't know what most of it did. Stratt didn't lie when she told him that she got those who were the best in their respective fields. It was one thing to watch lab assistants run around when he was visiting his friends' labs back home, it was another to watch professionals do exactly what they were good at.
"Being surrounded by scientists at all times now, though, makes me think a lot about it. So much gets disposed of without a second thought."
As if on cue, Doctor Lokken took a tray out of a machine she was testing. A hundred glass vials shook against the plastic holder as she moved it over a trashcan.
"There isn't really time or space for sustainability right now." She flipped the tray over and let every glass vial and its blue plastic lid fall into the can. "Stratt wants equipment that has been tried and tested for a while. A lot of the more sustainable stuff is relatively new, so…" She shrugged and set the tray back inside the machine. "Trash is currently the least of our priorities."
"Isn't it always?" He asked, and offered her a tight lipped smile.
He didn't spend much time with the astronauts either. They were too busy, which was expected. He thanked them for their sacrifice, as everyone seemed to do. Ilyukhina laughed, offering her star bright smile to him. She made some joke about how she had the easy job in all of this, it was everyone on earth that would have to play the waiting game. Doctor DuBois shook his hand and politely mentioned how he looked forward to working alongside him on the Vat. His conversation with Commander Yáo stayed with him the longest.
Yáo told him that he was not a scientist, he was a military man. Most of the conversations about Astrophage and rising sea level, unfortunately, made very little sense to him at the time. Leclerc invited him into the prison cell that Stratt dared to call an office.
"My family," the commander started, "they say the weather is getting worse. They say it's unpredictable. The weather forecasters mentioned a potential snow storm. Doctor Leclerc, is that what waits for them in the future?"
Leclerc considered how to answer. The world was ending, of course there would be disasters. Even if Stratt didn't destroy the Sahara desert, the cooling temperatures would cause unprecedented storms.
"It is too early to say anything concrete." He walked behind his desk to a map. "If we let Astrophage take its course, then the lowering temperatures would..." He went over the basics as clearly as he could. For a brief time, he felt like he was back in a lecture hall at Sorbonne University. It hurt to admit how pleasant it was. The commander watched him, his eyes, the color of Monazite, following every move and line that Leclerc drew across the map. No where on Earth would be safe. It did not matter if Stratt destroyed biomes to keep Earth warm. No matter what, disasters would spread and destroy the world as everyone on this Vat knew. As wrong as it sounded, the safest place to be would be aboard the Hail Mary. Warm, fed, and safe from governmental corruption, the time of death would be their own decision. How nice it was to have a choice.
"It is my job to ensure as many people as possible survive, Commander. I intend to do my job well."
More often than not, François found himself in the company of those with lower ranks. There was a woman who worked in the mess hall. With her wrinkled hand that made him think of ripples in water, she'd put another bread roll on his plate. "I know how much the French like their bread, and here you are, all skin and bones."
After her shifts, she told him about her grandson, a fisherman and skilled sailor. She told him how worried he was about his job, how much even the smallest shift in temperature changed the behavior of fish. It's why she asked to be transferred to this carrier, she explained, to help however she could. He'd take the roll and break it in half, and offer it to her. He understood the worry. Hell, he understood the fish. Was he not also changing with the weather? His partners in the past had called him seasonal. His shifts in mood and temper were defined so much by the world around him.
He couldn't help it, could not prevent his heart from bleeding. His joy, as bright as sunshine, when things went right. His melancholy, as a blanket of snow, covered him completely when things did not.
He could not prevent the water at his feet from rising.
Eva Stratt, the bright-eyed, the tireless one, the hope of soldiers, had beckoned him closer to the deep end.
"The solution lies with Antarctica." He told her after countless sleepless nights of deliberation. He knew the solution as soon as she told him what she needed him to do, but he could not accept that cruel act so easily. So he went back, he ran the calculations, he drew the maps. Again, and again, and again.
"Then we do it within the week." She told him and got up from her seat as soon as he was done.
"A week? Stratt, you can't possibly think that's enough time—"
"I can have them hand over the nuclear codes to me in a matter of hours."
"But what about organizing evacuations? We know what areas will be the most affected. You cannot just nuke Antarctica and expect nothing to go wrong. People will die."
"And more will die the longer that we wait. It is a calculated risk that we have to take. Isn't that what your math says?"
She flipped through the pages of his report and he hesitated. If they were going purely based on numbers, then she was right, but it wasn't that simple. The rising tides would not bring havoc to her homeland or his first. The global south would suffer, again, by the hands of the Petrova Taskforce. Her hands were steeped in so much blood. So would his in a week.
She took his silence as an answer.
He knew that the hand on his shoulder was supposed to be an attempt at comfort, but it could not be further from the truth.
Eva Stratt, the partner of greatness, the fair and noble hostess, the fiend-like queen, pushed him under the surface. He felt the saltwater fill his mouth. What could he do but drink it down?
"My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white." He imagined her ice cold tone when he woke up to a post-it note on his door. In Stratt's clean handwriting, he was allotted: a three day break as long as he remained on the Vat, his presence was no longer required at any meetings scheduled for those days, his report deadlines were delayed. In smaller text, Stratt told him to turn off his work phone.
François spent first two of those three days curled up in bed. The saltwater filled his stomach, churned, and made him want to hurl. How many people did he kill? When he closed his eyes, all he could see were the maps he drew and the disappearing coast lines. Chile, Argentina, Namibia, South Africa, Mozambique, Madagascar, Australia. Those countries would experience irreversible disaster. He knew that no matter how much he asked Stratt to ensure evacuation efforts, he knew that very little was being done. She was keeping her focus on the bigger picture.
The thought of secured future generations barely did much to calm him down. On the evening of the second day, there was a knock on his door. He wanted to ignore it. He was on a break. Still, he opened the door.
"You haven't come to eat in days," said the woman from the kitchen, "I was getting worried about you." She pushed a box into his hands. A glass container, not plastic.
François thanked her for her kindness and mentioned vaguely that he wasn't feeling well. Perhaps it was just a cold. In response, she pat the container, now in his hands.
"Food is nourishment not just for the body, but also for the soul."
He tried to eat. The warmth emanating from the box was pleasant, but his mind would not let him take a bite. There would be millions who would lose access to stable food within the upcoming year. More as time went on. Who was he to sit here, in a bed, dressed, and guarded to eat a meal that, if carefully portioned, could feed at least three? He, who could not look at himself in the mirror anymore. He, who had betrayed his past self. Stratt told him that it was for the greater good, but how many present lives did the greater good cost? The saltwater, as bile, started coming up, but he pushed it down. He forced himself to eat. To let a meal go to waste would make him feel even worse.
For a few minutes, before falling asleep, he found himself feeling better. He called his goddaughter.
He spent the third day writing.
After the nuking of Antarctica, it felt like the Director took pity on him. Either that, or she no longer found him useful. He was scheduled for fewer meetings and Stratt asked for fewer reports. He supposed it was fair, her focus had completely shifted to the ship. The Hail Mary.
He could hear and feel the jet landing somewhere on the deck behind him, but didn't bother to turn and look. The Director and her lapdog took the jet to whatever meeting was scheduled and did not think twice about the carbon dioxide that every trip filled the atmosphere with. Though, that had been her goal, hadn't it? Perhaps these trips were simply another way for her to contribute to the Project.
He kept his eyes on the horizon. The saltwater in his stomach had subsided for the most part. There were still nights when it would swirl and rise as a tide. It pushed against his stomach, to his esophagus, threatening to spill out of his mouth.
Eva Stratt, the tracker, the well-counseling, the savior, did not keep pushing him underwater. She simply watched. What was she waiting for?
François took another drag of his cigarette. The smoke went up into the sky. That was his contribution to the Project. The thought is so absurd that he could barely keep himself from laughing. No, it wasn't the soul that Stratt sold to buy Earth more time, it wasn't the lost hours of rest, it wasn't the hair that changed to grey much faster than before. Those were nothing. It was this self-destructive vice that was his final offering to the Petrova Taskforce and the Hail Mary Project. Laughter bubbled in his chest against the water in a layer of sea foam. He watched another puff of dark smoke fade into the air above him.
"I'm walking up behind you, Doctor Leclerc!" He hears the second-in-command's voice some distance behind him. "Please be careful, you are so close to the edge."
Leclerc looked down. He did not even realize that the toe of his shoes were pressed against the very edge. If he really wanted to, he could just take a step forward, let the salt water take him. It would be just a step. Would he dissolve into water and foam? He stepped back, and turned to look at Doctor Grace.
"It's good to see you out and about again." The astrobiologist with hair of beach sand offered him a lopsided smile that didn't quite reach his eyes the color of a jay's wing. Was that Doctor Grace the teacher, and not Doctor Grace the Dictator's yes-man?
"Has it been that long? I haven't been keeping track," he replied noncommittally. It wasn't a lie. He did not know how much time he had spent below the deck. Days and nights had blurred together in his office, interrupted only briefly by meetings.
"A bit," Grace let out a strained chuckle. "What's on your mind?" The blond took another step closer, glancing over to the edge of the deck.
"Hm?"
"You've just— You seem so deep in thought. At meetings, too. I was curious what you're thinking about." Grace was circling him and the topic, a predator and its prey. Though, he doubted that Grace's intent was to cause harm.
"Is my productivity down so much that the Director is concerned?" He arched an eyebrow.
"No, it's just–" Grace stammered, taking a step back.
"Joking." Leclerc watched as Grace's shoulders relaxed and then turned back to face the ocean waves.
"I've been arrested before, you know." He took another drag from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke away from Grace. "Never stayed in jail for long, never even been to prison. At every protest and demonstration, I knew that it was a possibility. I also knew that at some point, something could go wrong. I would have been happy to give my life and freedom up for that which I believe in. Not…"
Again, the saltwater started pushing up through his body, the foam filled his throat. Before he could stop it, a soft, guttural noise escaped from him.
"I didn't expect to go to prison for destroying the Earth."
Leclerc sat in Stratt's office for the first time in a long time.
"Let me go to Lyon. Let me go home," he said after a long stretch of silence.
"No." She didn't bother to look up at him from her work. "The launch is in a little over a month. Once the Hail Mary is on its way to an answer, you are free to do whatever it is you want."
He knew that. He saw the planes and carriers leave. He saw the population on the Stratt Vat diminish. Everyone was moving to Baikonur.
"You do not need me here."
"Your work is still invaluable."
"You have your answer to the cooling problem. You have your blanket. Just let me go." There was a traitorous tremble in his voice.
"No, and that is final. You are dismissed."
François wasn't planning on crying, nor was he planning on begging. It wasn't the salt water, it wasn't the foam. What was it then that caused his voice to break?
"Eva, please."
He crossed an unspoken boundary. She looked up at him, and he dared to notice that her eyes had a glassy sheen to them.
"I can't. You know that. If I let you go back to France, then there is nothing and no one that can protect you from those in your previous circles. Who knows what they would do to you? What of those with more violent intentions? I can't just– I cannot risk your life for nothing."
He held her gaze for a minute. Then, he got up, and left.
Eva Stratt, the unseen, the leader of the people, she who provides for the productive, had decided to keep him underwater. She kept him in her steel prison.
So, here he stands, the toes of his shoes pressing against the edge of the vat.
François Leclerc had been drowning for years now.
His soul died in the South Ocean. He thinks it's time to let his body do the same.
It's just a step, he thinks.
The letter is on top of his fiction books where he keeps dried flowers. It has been there for weeks now.
Just a step and he can be one with the salt water and foam.
If it were up to him, he'd do it somewhere prettier. A lush forest or a waterfall where nature can take its course, where his body can be used for energy and sustenance of living creatures there.
Just a step.
It was Dante, he thinks, who said that those who took their own life would turn to trees in hell. How awfully nice that sounds, to become one with nature. To see the woods again.
Just a step.
"Leclerc?" Behind him, a tone of melting ice caps.
No. She will not take this away from him. She took his freedom, she took his choice, she took his soul. She cannot take this. This will be as he wants it to be.
"François?" The voice of snowdrops in the early spring.
He takes a step.