Ancient Ice

The Antarctic wind was playing dice on the cold desert floor, rattling the lone prefabricated hut hunched on the ice. Inside, two Americans—Sarah and Luke—sat in a cramped, dimly lit room, sipping some festive gin and waiting for the satellite message that would tell them the 2024 American presidential election results. They’d been stationed here for weeks, working on a government climate-monitoring project at the edge of Thwaites Glacier. They would be in here all winter. Their mission was to record changes in ice flow, ocean salinity, and temperature, tracking the shifting glacier that scientists warned could reshape the world’s coastlines if it collapsed.  As the walls banged in the cold, they waited.

Sarah shifted in her seat, watching the small screen. She was tall and lean, with sun-bleached blond hair that was often messily tucked under a woolen cap, and sharp, observant eyes. She had a quiet intensity that most people underestimated at first; beneath her slender frame was a strength hardened by years of free climbing, a skill she pursued with fierce dedication. Her past was filled with expeditions, both scientific and personal, that had left her with not a few scars and a knack for solitude. In this hut, she felt too close to her companion. She tugged at the collar of her fleece jacket, eyes eventually finding the bearded figure across from her.

Luke was stocky, with broad shoulders and hands that seemed just slightly too large for the delicate equipment he managed and repaired. His fingers were calloused, and he moved with a slow, careful deliberation that hinted at some underlying stiffness, an old injury that made him wince every so often. His hair was dark, cropped short, and he had a way of rubbing his left temple when he was thinking, a habit he tried to hide but that gave him away. In another life, he’d been a high school football star.  A bad knee and a few tough years had brought him here. He still looked like he could lift a mountain, even though he walked with a faint limp.

Neither of them had spoken for the last hour, the silence filled with the mechanical hum of the equipment and the wind making some kind of jazz with the metal walls. Then, finally, the results came through on the screen.  Sarah leaned forward, her heart quickening as she read.

“Well,” she said finally, struggling to keep her voice steady, “a free and fair election. And one that even Trump supports.”

Luke raised his eyebrows and gave her a crooked smile. “Haha. Guess that’s something.”

She reached for the gin bottle, uncapping it and pouring a large shot into her cup. She held it up in a small toast, watching him carefully. “To the process, then?”

He met her eyes, his expression unreadable, and raised his own glass. “To the process,” he echoed.

They drank in the gin, their eyes never quite leaving each other. For a while, they stayed in this forced camaraderie, the bitter cold outside pressing in on them. With the drink, Sarah felt her pulse rising, her frustration simmering just below the surface.

Finally, she broke the silence. “So, you’re . . . celebrating this?”

Luke’s face tightened slightly, and he shifted in his seat. “Yeah,” he admitted slowly. “Look, it’s complicated. I didn’t always vote Republican, you know.”

She looked at him skeptically, her fingers tapping on the edge of her cup. “Really?  And why not?”  She was ready to talk.

“Yeah, really.” His voice had a hint of defensiveness, but he continued. “I voted for Obama once. Thought maybe he’d change things. But somewhere along the line . . .” He shrugged, and the motion seemed to cost him, as if he were lowering his guard. “Somewhere along the line, I started seeing value in my family’s way of doing things—their routines, the tradition. Maybe it’s small, but it’s stable.”

She took this in, a bit surprised. Beneath his rough, pragmatic exterior, Luke was a man who clung to what he knew. The strength in his broad frame, the set of his jaw, all spoke of a man who found purpose in familiar things, routines that kept him grounded. But there was a tension, too, a reluctance, as if he himself wasn’t entirely convinced.

“That’s the problem,” she said quietly, her voice trembling with frustration. “We don’t have time for stability. Luke, look around—look at the glacier outside! We’re losing ground every day, and administrations that deny climate change are only going to make it worse. This is my life’s work,  and all of it could be lost from plans to cut the government.”

The words spilled out, and she felt a rawness in her throat, a vulnerability she wasn’t used to showing to anyone. Her life had been built on exacting scientific rigor, yet here she was, fighting for something that felt deeply personal and obviously universal.  Her gaze turned sharp, her intensity palpable in the confined space.

Luke listened, his face softening, but his response was measured, his voice low. “Sarah, do you think Republicans just . . . ignore reality?”

“Yes, I do!”  She held his gaze, struggling to find an explanation with the right words. She continued. “No.  It’s not that simple. I think  Republicans see reality in a different way. More subjectively, maybe. The things people feel in their own lives—that’s what guides them, and that’s what’s real to them. But as a scientist, I’m trained to see things more . . . objectively. I have to look beyond myself.  We all have to look beyond ourselves.  Of course, many of the religious voters will say they see beyond themselves to the supposed next life.  That’s not what I’m talking about.  God, democracy is a fucking insult to reason.”

He looked away, jaw clenched, a flicker of pain in his expression. “You think we don’t get objectivity?” he asked, his voice tight. “That we’re somehow detached or lost in strange beliefs?”

She bit her lip, hesitating. “I think . . . ok . . . maybe Democrats try to focus on the facts, the third-person reality. It’s not about what feels right; it’s about what’s true. But for Republicans, it’s more like . . . it’s the first-person experience, the things that feel real right now. So when Trump says he can end the Ukraine war in a day, or turn on the economy overnight—it works, because it feels real to his supporters. But it’s fake. It’s a temporary illusion. We both know that.”

“Isn’t the economy real?”  Luke looked at her, his eyes dark, the vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior rising to the surface. “You think we’re just naïve, don’t you?” he asked softly. “Just . . . following our feelings?”

She started to respond, but something in his gaze stopped her. She thought of all the hours she’d put into her work, the late nights and the long expeditions, how she’d sacrificed relationships for her research. And for the first time, she wondered if he was right—if she’d let her own life become little more than a series of facts.  At the same time she could see part of her mind gearing up already to stay strong in her work, to accomplish the present mission, to fight for her results whatever they were.

“I don’t think you’re naïve, Luke,” she said finally, her voice softening as she felt a new wave of confidence in science and in humanity.  “But I think that science—objective reality—is the best hope we have. One breakthrough can shatter generations of misconceptions.  Have people already forgotten COVID and Trump’s telling them to drink bleach?  I mean, come on.”  She took another drink of her own disinfectant.

He smiled and took a deep breath, nodding slowly, a quiet respect growing in his eyes. But he didn’t let her off the hook. “Maybe,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “But I’ve known a lot of scientists out here who pour everything into their work. They’re brilliant. But their lives . . . They can seem so empty, Sarah. Just facts and theories. No meaning.  I’ve wondered about you."

Her chest tightened, his words hitting a nerve. She looked down, then met his eyes, and in that moment, they shared something raw, unspoken. She wanted to tell him that her work gave her meaning, but part of her feared he was right—that there was something she’d lost along the way.

The wind battered the hut, rattling the walls as they sat in silence. The ice stretched endlessly beyond them, the glacier a slow quiet witness to the ancient debate.

Sarah felt a calmness come as she contemplated the big arch of evolution. Evolution of humans and of civilization. So far things have always worked out toward science, progress, and knowledge of the world. Eventually conservatives come around after we take two steps backward.

“Maybe we need both,” he said finally, his voice rough but sincere. “The here and now, and the long-term view. Maybe there’s something to both.”

She let his words settle, feeling the weight of them, and a tentative but genuine smile came to her lips. “Maybe you’re right,” she murmured, feeling some warmth spread through her legs.

They looked at each other, the horrible tension softened now. They lifted their glasses.

“To needing both,” he said.

“To needing both,” she echoed.  The clink of the glasses sounded loud in that fragile, intimate silence, the vast, unyielding ice lying beyond the walls like an unspoken promise and a quiet threat.