Below 40 degrees South there is no law. Below 50 degrees there is no God - An old sailor's proverb.
Bishop's Island appeared on the horizon like a tarnished jewel sitting on the blue blanket of the Antarctic Ocean. For the men and women on board the little research plane, the sight brought relief and a knot of anxiety in their bellies; relief for the end of a grueling and uncomfortable flight from Tasmania via Melbourne and Canberra and anxiety because Bishop's Island had gone silent.
For three months, the island had been staffed by a small crew of eight scientists tasked with researching the flora and fauna of the desolate and forgotten land - mostly the colony of unusual Zetec Penguins - but mere hours before their replacement could arrive, the study site had gone silent. Automated systems kept sending data and a satellite fly-over had revealed no damage from the notorious Antarctic weather, but nobody had answered the radio to respond. A debate was held whether to recall the scientists already en-route but by the time the call was made, the plane was already over the point of no return.
The captain called back from the cockpit that they were starting their final descent and the plane lurched uncomfortably as flaps deployed and the little craft dropped through the churning turbulence. hydraulics groaned as landing gear deployed, outside, crashing waves spoilt the gentle image of the ocean as a blue blanket, the glittering green of the island became a cluster of grey rocks, moss the colour of seasickness, the green of scrubby plants stubbornly holding on for survival, and what were those streaks of red? They flashed by too quickly for any of the scientists on board to get a good look, but one thought flashed through all of their minds.
Blood.
They were coming in too quickly, they all knew it, but there was nothing to be done, the turbulent flight had drained their fuel reserves and if they didn't land soon then they never would. The captain called out to brace for impact as the little aircraft threw itself at the landing strip.
The first bump tore off the landing gear, unbeknownst to the pilot, somebody had strewn rocks along the landing strip in a last-ditch effort to prevent others from landing. The plane lifted, then smashed into the ground, sending shards of wing pinwheeling across the landing strip. When the plane hit the ground one final time, the impact was violent enough to knock out everyone on board.
Only the colony of zetec penguins saw the plane come to a smoking, battered halt not far from the hangar. If anyone on board had been conscious, they would have seen two of the waddling birds break away from their huddle and make their way to the wreck of the aircraft. Seeing an opening gashed along the edge of the plane, they looked at one another as if discussing the strange sight. One by one, their features began to change, legs lengthened, beaks receded, until two humans replaced the mysterious birds and climbed into the stricken craft. They plucked clothes from the bags spilled out on the cabin floor and eased themselves into the spare seats.
When they awoke, the dazed and confused scientists would not remember which of them had been on board in Melbourne or Canberra, but the penguins would know.
The penguins
always knew.
[Game to start on Wednesday]