Antarctica is having something of a moment under the midnight sun this year, with writers of all stripes turning their pens south for inspiration. Two local examples include Charlotte McConaghy’s Wild Dark Shore, which in March drew audiences the world over into its Macquarie Island-inspired swell, and, this month, Bri Lee’s latest offering, Seed, is part locked-door mystery, part ecological dirge, and wholly unique from her previous work.

Miles from any other outpost, scientists Mitchell and Frances are entering their final summer as custodians of a highly secretive seed vault, a vanguard against rapidly accelerating climate change. But unlike their idle dog days of years past, this summer’s sojourn is cloaked in secrets – from Mitchell, Frances, and the ice itself. A series of bizarre events strain their fragile relationship and drive Mitchell to the edge of reason as the past casts a long shadow over their increasingly perilous present. Is someone – or something – watching them, as Frances begins to suspect? Or is it the consequences of their own actions stalking them across the valley, waiting for the right moment to swallow them whole?

From McMurdo Station to the Dry Valleys, Lee’s descriptions of Antarctic landscapes are simultaneously intimate and isolating, propelling the novel’s twisting plot even when its protagonist’s personality may repel. In a shade over 300 pages, Seed tackles an ambitious number of climate fiction’s most polarising questions, offering a polemical meditation on collective greed, reproductive futures, and what we owe to each other and the planet. Written with her signature candour, fans of Bri Lee are certain to find themselves hooked on this tale till the final jaw-dropping page.