Science Fiction Short Story

Inspector O’Brian sat on the rock, with his head resting in his hands, watching the face in the ice. The small chamber existed in the permafrost. It was as old as the hills. Literally. In a place formed where the earth cracked at a point where geographies collided, the result: a cave. The ice had marched up from a source below, devouring—no, too melodramatic, concealing secrets from time.

Until last week, the iceman had always been a myth, a ghost story the locals told their children to stop misbehavior. The scientific explanation outlined how light caught a fracture in the ice, giving the illusion of a face.

But as the planet had heated and the ice had receded, science had to swallow its pride and admit the half-decayed flesh was indeed a face. A real face. Millions of years old.