Dead Space Martyr

by B. K. Evenson

  something was wrong. But when the door finally opened, he was close to hysteria. He started toward her, ready to berate her, when he saw she wasn't alone. She had somebody with her. A young boy. The boy was holding her hand delicately. He started to ask her where she'd been, but she silenced him with a look. "Michael," she said, "I'd like you to meet Chava." Altman looked down at the boy. He was young, either not yet or just barely a teenager. He was barefoot, wearing a threadbare but clean T-shirt and a pair of shorts hanging barely together. He was very thin. He had deep brown eyes and a slightly apprehensive look. "Chava," Altman said. "What sort of name is that?" "It's a nickname for Salvador," said Ada quickly. When Altman gave her a look, she nodded. "I know it doesn't sound like it, but it's true," she said. "Really?" he said, and turned to the boy. The boy nodded, but said nothing. Altman looked to Ada for help, for some clue as to what was going on. "I thought you might like to talk to him," she said. "Would you like to sit down?" he asked Chava. The boy hesitated and then nodded. Altman pulled out a chair for him, and he climbed onto it. "Would you like something to eat?" Altman asked. The boy nodded again. Altman opened the fridge and started to look through it, then changed his mind. "Come on," he said to the boy. "Look in here. Take anything you want." The boy approached the fridge as if it were a trap. He carefully bent his head around the door and looked in, then looked up at Altman. "Anything?" he asked. "Anything," said Altman. A few minutes later he had most of the contents of the fridge piled on the table in front of him. He was tasting everything. He'd take a small bite of something, move it around in his mouth, swallow it, and then move on to the next item. "What would you like to talk about?" asked Altman once he was done. The boy shook his finger at him. "The lady," he said. "She is the one who said you wanted to speak with me." "Do you think you could tell him the same story you told me?" asked Ada. "This is not a story," Chava said with a frown. "It happened for real." "Yes, of course, Chava," said Ada quickly. "That's what I meant." "Okay, I will tell it," the boy said. "I was walking on the beach, very early morning. This was a day when in my head I thought, I will walk on the beach and turn to go to town and then I will see if there is anyone who needs messages delivered. Sometimes you, the scientists, will give me a little money to deliver messages. Sometimes, after two or three messages it is enough to buy a polvor�n or an oreja at the pasteler�a. "But this day, my feet wanted to go the other way. I could not stop them. So, instead of going in to the town, we went together out farther along the deserted beach. That is when I found something." "What did you find?" asked Altman. "I do not know," said the boy. "What do you mean you don't know?" "I mean that there is not a name for what I found. It was like a man but it was not a man. It was also like a balloon but it was not a balloon." "How can it be like both a man and a balloon?" asked Altman. "Yes," said the boy, and smiled. "This is exactly what I asked myself. I can see that you understand my story. The lady was good to bring me to tell it to you. It made a noise, too. Like this." The boy leaned over the table and began to make a strange wheezing sound. "The bruja told me to burn it, that it was a flea from the tail of the devil. Chicxulub." He crossed his middle and index fingers over each other and held his hand up for them to see. "But later . . . I found out she was dead." "How could she tell you if she was dead?" asked Altman. "It is like you are inside my head and seeing what I was asking myself," said the boy gleefully. Altman waited for the boy to go on, but he didn't say anything further. "You burned it?" he said. "Yes," said the boy. "It burned very nice." "What part of it was like a balloon?" asked Altman. "Its back," said the boy without hesitation. "There were the gray sacks." He touched a cucumber on the table that he had taken a bite of. "May this come with me?" he asked. "Yes," said Altman. The cucumber disappeared into his clothes. He touched an onion and made a face. "Can I ask you something?" asked Altman. Chava nodded. "Would you take us there, to the place where you found it?" The boy looked at him thoughtfully. "Do you promise me that if you see me and you have a message to send that you will choose me to send it?" "What?" asked Altman, startled. "Yes, of course." "This is good," said the boy. "And may I take three more things from the table, but not the onion?" Altman nodded, trying to hide his smile. Chava slipped three things into his shirt so quickly that Altman was not entirely sure what he had. "Now I will take you there," the boy said firmly.

  28 Tanner poured himself a glass of whiskey and fell back against the pillows. Finally he was going to get a good night's sleep on a good bed. Between setting up the Chicxulub office, the arrangements to get the bathyscaphe and Hennessy and Dantec to Mexico, the time spent on the freighter, the agonizing hours trying to figure out what was going on inside the bathyscaphe and all the worry afterward, it seemed like it had been months since he had had a decent night's sleep. He sipped his whiskey. The key, he told himself, was not to think about it. The key was to relax. It was all over now. The press conference was done. The next stages of the operation had not yet begun. His personal phone rang. He looked at it. If it was his wife, her name would come up. No name came up. Which meant it could be President Small or maybe Terry, Tim, and Tom. They were the only ones who had his number, except for Dantec. And Dantec was dead. "Hello?" he said. "William Tanner?" said a mellifluous voice. "I have a few questions for you about Dr. Hennessy's death." "How did you get this number?" asked Tanner. "This is a private number." The man ignored him. "Was there really no sign of instability before the descent? Didn't DredgerCorp's safety procedures fail you in this case? Or should I say failed Hennessy and the late Mr. Dantec?" Tanner clicked off. After a few seconds, the phone rang again. "Hello!" said Tanner. "Please don't hang up, Mr. Tanner. There are important ethical issues at--" He disconnected. He turned the telephone all the way off, left it sitting on his bedside table. If Small or the Colonel wanted to get in touch, they'd have to contact him by vid. He took a big sip, felt the whiskey burn down his throat. He tried to relax, to empty his mind, to let himself go. He could relax now, he told himself. The phone was off; the door was locked. Finally, he could relax. But he couldn't relax. His head was throbbing and something was gnawing at him. He got up and swallowed three sleeping pills, washing them down with whiskey. He stared at his face for a long moment in the mirror and then climbed back into the bed. The problem was that he agreed with the reporter. There were ethical issues at stake, things that had been done that, despite everything else he had done at DredgerCorp over the years, he was having difficulty living with. He'd been on operations where people had died before. He'd even been on operations when they'd died as a direct result of choices he had made. Not to mention the trauma of the moon skirmishes, where everyone had done terrible things and where on more than one occasion he'd felt less than human. But these two had died and he still didn't understand why. Was it because instead of corpses that he could see and make sense of, all he had were brief, staticky images? Did he just need a little more finality? Or was it more than that? There had been no sign of instability in Hennessy before the descent. He ran over their interactions in his head again. In his mind, if anybody had been in danger of becoming unstable, it was Dantec. Was it possible that Dantec had snapped first and that had made Hennessy snap? The whiskey and the sleeping pills were finally starting to take effect. Things had begun to blur. Maybe there would be answers when they brought the bathyscaphe back to the surface, he thought. Maybe that would explain everything. He was startled awake by the telephone ringing. He groped it off the nightstand and looked at the display. The name that came up was Dantec. His heart leapt into his throat and he was suddenly wide awake. Dantec was dead; he couldn't be the one calling. He stared at the display: it still read Dantec. He sat up in bed, put his feet on the floor. "Hello?" he said, facing the wall. "Who is this?" But there was only static on the other end of the line. He waited, feeling like he might pass out. "Dantec," he said tentatively. "Are you alive?" He stayed with the receiver pressed to his ear, listening. At some point he realized there wasn't even static. The phone wasn't even turned on. He put the phone b
ack on the nightstand. Immediately, even though it wasn't on, it rang again. Dantec's name came up on the display. "Hello?" Tanner said. There was only silence. He put the phone back down again. When it rang this time, he just stayed there, watching it ring. It's off, he tried to tell himself. It can't be ringing. But the damned thing kept ringing. Aren't you going to answer it? said a voice from behind him, a voice he recognized. He felt the hairs bristle on the back of his neck. Very slowly, he turned. There was a vague shape in the bed with him that, as he looked at it, slowly became human. Crude and awkward features became more and more refined until it was, at last, Dantec. His skin was very white, almost bloodless. His lips had turned blue. "You're not real," said Tanner. Aren't I? said Dantec. Then why are you seeing me? "But you died, in the bathyscaphe." Are you sure it was me? asked Dantec. Are you sure I was even in the bathyscaphe? Tanner hesitated. "Are you still alive?" he asked. I'm here, aren't I? Tanner just shook his head. Go ahead and touch me, said Dantec. If I'm not real, you wouldn't be able to touch me. Tanner closed his eyes and reached out. At first he felt only the bed, the blanket. Then he reached a little farther and felt something different, something that moved, something alive. "It is you," said Tanner, smiling. "I can't believe it. How did you survive? What are you doing here?" I've come to see you, said Dantec. Can't a guy stop by to see an old friend? "Sure," said Tanner. Also. . . . "What is it, Dantec? You can tell me." I hate to ask, Tanner, but I need your help. I need something from you. "Anything," said Tanner. "What's mine is yours." I'm having a hard time breathing, said Dantec. I need you to share your oxygen tank with me. "How can I do that?" Just make a slit in the breathing tube, said Dantec. I'll cut mine off a few feet down and then we'll splice them together. Then we can both breathe. "I don't--" I don't have a breathing tube, he had started to say. But then he reached up and felt it; there it was. I don't have much longer, said Dantec. Indeed his lips looked even bluer than they had looked just a few moments before. "I need something sharp," Tanner said. "Where can I find something sharp?" There's a pocketknife in the drawer of the nightstand, said Dantec. "How do you know what's in my nightstand?" I'm full of surprises, said Dantec, and smiled, his blue lips stretching and turning white. Tanner got the pocketknife out and unfolded the biggest blade. "Where should I cut it?" he asked. Anywhere, said Dantec, as long as the cut's long enough. Remember, make it long. Tanner nodded. "Ready?" he asked. Ready, said Dantec. He made a long horizontal cut, almost cutting the tube right in half. "All right," Tanner said, "quickly, hand it to me." His voice sounded strange, something wrong with his vocal cords. He coughed, spat blood. The blanket in front of him seemed covered in a pink mist. He looked down, saw that his chest was coursing with rivulets of blood. You should have left it down there where it was safe, he heard Dantec say, his voice distant now. You shouldn't have tried to understand it. "Quickly," he said, holding out his hand. "Dantec? Understand what?" But Dantec was nowhere to be seen. The air kept hissing out of the breathing tube and out into space. He tried to close the gap with his hand, but it was too deep--air kept leaking out. His hands were sticky, his chest, too, the hair on it all matted with blood. He tried to call out for Dantec again, but something was wrong with his throat. He could make only a gurgling sound. He tried to get out of the bed, but everything seemed to be moving too slowly, as if he were underwater. Very slowly, he moved one foot and slid it to the edge and over, letting it fall to the ground. There was only the other foot to worry about now. And then he would stand up and go to the mirror and take a good hard look at himself and try to figure out where he had gone wrong.

  29 The boy led the way confidently, despite the darkness. He had to stop several times, waiting impatiently for Altman and Ada to catch up. As they got closer, Chava began chattering away, saying things difficult for Altman to interpret. "The bruja, he said, "she was dead but she helped us anyway. I went to find her and she came with me and spoke to me, and told me what to do. If she did not come, how was I to know what to do?" He looked at Altman, apparently expecting a response. "I don't know," said Altman, slightly out of breath from tramping through the sand in his shoes. This seemed to satisfy the boy. "But she did come. And she showed us what to do. A circle," he said, and nodded at Altman. "What do you mean, `a circle'?" asked Altman. The boy looked at him; then he stopped and traced something in the sand. Altman shone the flashlight on it, saw a circle. "This is what I mean," the boy said, and then started walking again. Altman shook his head. The boy's way of thinking was so different that it was like communicating with someone from another world. Suddenly the boy stopped. He made the sign of the devil's tail with his intertwined fingers and pointed. Altman raised the flashlight. There had been a fire there, its remains half-buried in the sand. He waited for the boy to move forward, but the boy just stayed where he was. So Altman stepped around him to take a closer look. Carefully he pushed the sand aside with his foot. There were lots of half-burnt pieces of driftwood and char and ash. Then he realized that some of what he thought had been driftwood were in fact bones. They were human, or at least human-sized, but there was something wrong with them. They were oddly twisted and deformed. There were, too, leathery bits of something--skin or seaweed, he first thought, but as he looked closer, he was less sure. The texture was wrong. "Do you think fire could have done that to those bones?" he asked Ada. "I don't know," she said. He shook his head. Why was it that he kept on running up against things he didn't understand? Was it a problem with him or a problem with the world? He dug through ash and driftwood and bone until his foot unearthed the skull. It was blackened throughout, missing the jawbone. All the teeth were missing, though it seemed less like they'd fallen out than as if they'd never been there: the bottom edge of the maxilla was smooth, socketless. "It looked like a cross between a balloon and a man?" asked Ada. Chava nodded. "How was it sitting?" Chava thought for a moment and then kneeled in the sand, hunched over, hands near his sides. "Its arms were becoming its legs," he said. "What do you mean by that?" "The skin was the same skin, the flesh the same flesh." Maybe some sort of hideously deformed man, thought Altman. There was probably a logical explanation. But if it was a hideously deformed man, how had he managed to live for this long? He suddenly thought of something. "Where was the balloon?" he asked. Chava, still hunched, put his hands up by his neck and waved his fingers. "How big was it?" asked Ada. "Very big." "Bigger than my arm?" asked Altman. Chava nodded. "Bigger than my body?" He nodded again. "As big as a house?" Chava hesitated, then nodded. "Sometimes it was smaller," he said, "but in the end, yes, I believe it was as big as a house." "Can you make any sense of this?" Altman asked Ada after they had walked with the boy back to the edge of the shantytown and left him there. "Not any more than you can," she said. "You think it really happened?" "I think something happened," said Ada. "Whether it was exactly as Chava says is anybody's guess. It sounds impossible. But, then again, a lot of weird things have been happening lately. I don't know what to think anymore." "What about the others?" asked Altman. "Have they been telling you the same story?" "They still won't talk about it with me," said Ada. "I don't know why." "I was really worried about you," Altman confessed. "Once the boy started talking, I had to keep going," she said. "Any interruption might have spooked him." Altman nodded. They walked a little farther, their footsteps soft in the dust of the road. "You know that guy I talked to? At the bar?" "Yes," she said. "What about him?" "He's dead." She stopped. "Dead?" she said. "What happened?" "His throat was slit." She grabbed his arm, jerked it until he looked at her. "You see," she said, "I told you it was dangerous! And now somebody's dead." "It's probably nothing," he said. "Probably just a mugging." He saw a flicker of hope pass through her eyes, and quickly fade. "But what if it's not? You should give this up. You should stop your game of spying and do the job you were sent down here to do." He didn't say anything, just tried to tug his arm away. "Promise me, Michael," she said. "Promise me." "I can't," he said. "Why not?" "Look," he said, taking her by the shoulders. "You were the one who brought Chava to
me. I didn't ask you to do that. But every new thing I hear makes it seem stranger and stranger. I need to figure out what's going on." At first she was very angry. She started walking, fast, staying out in front of him and wouldn't look back. He followed her, calling her name. Gradually she slowed down a little, finally let him take her hand, but still wouldn't look at him. He pulled her close and held her while she tried to push him away, very gradually giving in. "You don't love me enough to do this for me," she tried. "I do love you," he said. "That's not what this is about." She pouted. Finally she put her arms around his neck. "I don't want to lose you, Michael," she said. "You won't lose me," he said. "I promise." They walked slowly down the street. They passed an open door, a makeshift wooden sign hanging over it reading BAR DE PRIMERA CATEGOR�A , another sign beside it, this one cardboard, reading BEBIDAS, MUY BARATAS. They were already twenty feet past when Altman stopped and doubled back. "Where are you going now?" asked Ada. "I need a drink," he said. "I need to raise a glass to Hammond." He pushed open the door. The patrons, all locals, looked up, fell immediately silent. He went up to the counter, which consisted of a stack of old crates, and ordered a beer for himself, one for Ada. When the beers came, he looked around for a place to sit. There was nowhere. All the tables were full and people were leaning against the wall. He paid the bartender and then carried their drinks outside. They sat on the edge of the dusty street before the makeshift bar, in the light coming through the half-open door, backs against the rickety wall, and drank their beers. "It worries me," he said, putting his beer down. "What?" "This," he said. "All of it. The things going on in Chicxulub, the pulse, the submarine, the stories you're hearing, the dreams everyone has been having, the thing we just saw on the beach. I think we're in trouble." "You and I?" "Everybody," he said. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid." "All the more reason to leave it alone," she mumbled. He ignored her. He groped for his beer but suddenly couldn't find it. He turned and looked for it, but it was gone. He turned on the flashlight and shone it into the shadows on the edge of the building, a little farther away from the door. There was a man there, his shirt and clothes filthy. He was obviously very drunk. He was holding Altman's bottle to his lips, rapidly emptying it. "That drunk just took my beer," he said to Ada, a little astonished. The man finished the beer, smacked his lips, and tossed the bottle off into the darkness. Then he looked at them, squinting into the beam of the flashlight. Altman lowered it a little bit. The man held out his hand, snapped his fingers. Altman grinned. "I think he wants your beer, too," he said. Ada spoke to him softly in Spanish and the man nodded. She held out her beer and the man took it eagerly and upended it, quickly downed it. He tossed the bottle away then leaned back against the wall. "Hello," said Altman. The man carefully smoothed his filthy shirt. "Mucho gusto," he said. His accent and cadence were surprisingly formal. He redirected his gaze toward Ada, inclined his head slightly. "Encantado," he said. "We've met before," said Ada. "You've told me your stories. Don't you remember?" The man looked at her with his watery eyes but did not answer. After a long moment, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for long enough that Altman wondered if he hadn't fallen asleep. Suddenly he asked in Spanish, "What are your names?" "Michael Altman," said Altman. "This is my girlfriend, Ada Cortez. What is your name?" The man ignored the question. "Thank you for the drinks," he said, his Spanish excessively polite. He turned to Ada. "Cortez, a good, vigorous Spanish name, but not one my people care for, for reasons that you must know. We have a very long memory. You must not hold it against us." Ada nodded. "Ada, from Hebrew, meaning `adornment.' It is a lovely name for a woman as beautiful as you. Centuries ago, it was the name of the daughter of a notorious and handsome club-footed poet. And, a century or more later, the name, too, of a book by a famous writer." "How do you know this?" asked Ada. "Names were a hobby of mine," the man said. "Before drinking became my only hobby." He turned back to Altman. "Michael, the name of the archangel on God's right hand. Are you a religious man, Michael?" "No," said Altman. "I am not." "Then we shall refer to you not as Michael but as Altman. The name Altman, it is German, is it not?" "Yes," said Altman. "But I'm from the North American sector." "You do not have a German face," the man said. "I hope it does not offend you that I say this. What places are there in you?" "I'm a mongrel," said Altman evasively. "A mix of everything." "I can see from your face that you are one of us as well," said the drunk. "The devil thinks he knows you, but he does not know all of you." "My mother was part Indian," Altman admitted. "I don't know what tribe." "I would say she was of our tribe," said the drunk. "I don't know," said Altman. "What?" said Ada. "Your mother was part Indian? You've never told me that before." "She didn't like to talk about it," said Altman. "I don't know why. I don't think about it often." "You are here for a reason," the man said. "I came here with Ada," said Altman. "That may very well be," said the man. "But that is not the reason." "And what is the reason?" The man smiled. "Your name," he said. "Altman. Alt meaning `old,' mann, with two n's, meaning `man.' You are not an old man. You are a young man. Can you explain this to me?" "It's just a name," said Altman. "You understand the importance of a name only once you have lost yours. As I have." He leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes. "There is perhaps another meaning," he said. Alt could mean `ancient,' but that is not so different from `old.' Altman might be an `old man' or an `old servant' or, if I am not taking too many liberties, a `wise man.' " He opened his eyes again, gave Altman an intense stare, his eyes glittering in the crosslight from the flash beam. "Which one shall it be for you?"