A girl about Beatrice’s age reclined on the other end of the corridor, drinking a hot cup of tea. She cradled the cup in her hands for warmth and carefully sipped at the liquid. It was Sage, one of the Whalers, and just the person Beatrice wanted to see.
Sage wore a dark blue wetsuit characteristic of people who spent most of their time in the ocean—the Farmers and the handful of Fishermen. The pants were snug on Sage’s legs. She let the top half hang behind her with the sleeves loosely tied around her waist. She wore an orange long sleeve shirt that hung looser than the form fitting shape of the wetsuit. She was barefoot.
Beatrice could see how Sage would opt for the more comfortable form when she wasn’t on a boat, but was still always ready to dive into the ocean on a moment’s notice, which was good because that was exactly what Beatrice wanted the Whalers to do.
“Whaler!”
Sage looked up from her drink.
“I need a moment of your time.”
Sage stared at Beatrice.
“You need to take a boat out to the Algae Fields. We need to know if they were damaged by the storm. We also need you to get Makrigga and hunt. Something big like a whale, if you can spot one. Don’t stop at a single tuna or swordfish. There was an accident with the food. We will need as much as you can find out there.”
“Sure. That’s what I planned on doing anyway. Can’t wait to get out of this steel cage, especially since the storm kept us trapped inside here for what…two weeks? Three?” Sage seemed pleased that the request was already in her comfort zone, maybe even relieved that Beatrice didn’t ask her to do some work on the oil rig.
“Good. Then come back with something big. We will need it.”
“If we spot something. I don’t have any control over what we see.”
“Fine. Just don’t stop at one medium-sized tuna. We need all the help we can get.”
“Understood.”
Beatrice walked off to leave the girl with cradling her cup of tea. She was pleased that she didn’t have to deal with that problem anymore. With any luck, the Whalers would return with an adult Grey Whale. A Grey Whale would last awhile. She wouldn’t know until they returned. In the meantime, duty compelled her to push onward to the next thing, to make her way to Chief Administrator Sycamore Johnston.
Yet, Sage lingered, evidently ignoring the urgency of Beatrice’s commands. The girl appeared more interested in her tea than her obligations to the platform.
There was a large cut on Beatrice’s left forearm. When did that get there? she wondered. Blood seeped through the nylon and polyester in her yellow raincoat, the sleeve stained to a dark purple. On top of everything else, she would need to get the ship's doctor to look at her arm, but not yet. She had other responsibilities right then.
The corridors were miraculously empty. Everyone was either on the surface dealing with the explosion, or hiding away in their pods. It allowed her to move freely. A ladder brought her up towards the captain's quarters. Higher up, the corridors had windows. The space brightened with fires from the surface, giving the steel a yellow-orange tint. Her steps splashed in shallow puddles of rainwater.
The door to Sycamore Johnston's office was in front of her. She had mixed feelings about all of this. On the one hand, she felt like she was plunging onward, without any control over the situation. But bringing this message to Sycamore Johnston was part of her duty. No. Not duty. Responsibility. Certain parts of this place, the people on it, were her responsibility.
Sycamore Johnston was a meticulous man, a prominent figure of responsibility and precision who ran this platform for two decades. She would have to tell him that one of the oil tanks exploded, damaging most of the equipment on the eastern face. She would also have to tell him that the explosion killed Crane. Odds were that Sycamore already knew all of this. She didn’t see Buckminster omitting those details. But he wouldn’t know that the explosions caused dirty water to pour over the food.
The ration distribution was going to happen despite everything that happened earlier in the day, but that was probably the least of Beatrice’s problems.
Beatrice walked into Sycamore Johnston's office without knocking and approached his desk. She never knocked. No matter what the consequences might be.
CHAPTER TWO
SYCAMORE JOHNSTON
Sycamore Johnston's office was larger than most, a captain’s quarters. He reclined in a heavy leather chair, old and crinkled as he shifted his weight. A glass of sherry sat untouched on the oak table before him. The table’s deep red stain nearly matched the sherry. His own personal store of the liquor was running low, and though he feared that this was the last of the sherry the platform would ever see, at the very least, he was going to be the one to drink the last drop.
It was an elegant space, decorated with brass fixtures and dark wood. It didn't have the cluttered feel that most of the other pods had, with decades of junk piled on top of more junk, regardless of how nice the objects might be. The space was deliberate. Everything had a designated space. The bookshelves had bookends made of stone and marble.
A globe stood on a pedestal with a brass fixture allowing it to rotate on its axis. All of the continents were a bright red. Maps used to identify land with shades of browns, but were changed to red after the fires.
Sycamore heard the explosion and the rumble. Luckily, the facility was still afloat. He didn't need to do anything yet, unless someone told him otherwise. He hoped that the Braided Woman was there to assure him that the damage was limited, that everything was fine. Considering how aggressively she marched into his office, it was a slim hope.
He was accustomed to the straightforward nature of the Braided Woman's actions. She lacked interest in maintaining formalities between apparent ranks. She was Sycamore’s head of safety and security on the platform, an often trifle position, so he tolerated the woman’s blunt efficiency. The job required her to be blunt. Her work allowed him to think about other things.
Sycamore could see it. The Braided Woman had something on her mind.
“Do you have something to report?”
“Water breached our food silos.” The Braided Woman paused, waiting for a prompt.
“Breached?”
“It appears that the explosion on the surface allowed rainwater to travel through the air vents. I assigned several officers to moving the untouched rations to a dry room.”
“How much is clean?”
“I don’t know. Not much. The water flooded most of the supplies.”
Shit.
This was not an encouraging report. Their food was gone. How fast could they replace those stores? The algae fields can't produce that kind of output. Not for over four hundred people. Not before they depleted whatever survived the explosion untouched. Maybe the Fishermen could pull more from the fisheries, at least enough for them to get by. He didn't want to trade oil for food with other platforms, but if it came to it, that's exactly the type of decision he needed to make. That was the job. The hard decisions.
“How much is left?”
“Two barrels.”
That got his attention.
Sycamore’s fingertips dug into the leather, scraped at the worn edges. He caught himself and lightened his hands. Bits of leather and grime caked in his fingernails.
What was he going to do when everyone else found out? He turned to the Braided Woman. “Beatrice.”
She nodded in attention.
“How are your security teams?”
“Twenty trained guards.”
“Only twenty?” Twenty. Against four hundred.
Beatrice appeared to stiffen her posture. “There isn’t anything the occupants can do for which I am unprepared.”
“My concern is that they might do something terrible before you can respond.”
“My response time has not been a concern in the past.”
“I expect that you and your officers will be stretched thin.” Sycamore twirled a bronze dagger around his fingers. His predecessor
called it a ‘letter opener,’ whatever those were. Sycamore never understood why someone would need to stab a letter.
“My officers know how to control the corridors.”
“Of course...” Sycamore Johnston lost himself in his own thoughts, his own past, recalling some of the terrible things that happened in the corridors below his feet. He also knew how little time it took to do something you might regret later, and that with enough time, isolated, trapped, and starving, the temptation to do something terrible would become irresistible. With a little spark of curiosity, he wondered what atrocity this generation of occupants would conceive before the storm ended, and whether the Alpine would remain intact at that time. “I want you to be ready to maintain control over the corridors.”
“The corridors create a natural bottleneck, which inhibits what anyone can do. With that, we can control the people easily enough.”
“The future of this platform will rely on the discipline of your officers.”
“What is it that you think we will do to each other? What are we supposed to prevent?”
Sycamore Johnston did not answer her. He hoped that he would never have to. He silently placed the bronze dagger on his desk.
They were still pulling oil from the field below, but it would not last forever. The only reason the well hadn’t run dry already was because the platform only drilled for what they needed to trade and to function. The platforms that weren’t as disciplined tore each other apart. Would they follow a similar fate when the electricity goes out? There would not be any water, any heat, any air or any oil. Would it be easier if he just let the system break down?
CHAPTER THREE
WALTER “THE WALRUS” TURPENTINE
His back ached every time he tried to sit up. Hell, his back ached all the time. Why narrow the field? It didn’t matter what he was doing. It’s the headache that was new. It was the kind of pounding that felt like a wrecking ball bashing the inside of his skull. Walter pressed the outside of his temples to reduce the throbbing. Unsettling music played through the crackly speakers. It wasn’t helping.
Just his luck to live in a time that didn't have pain killers.
The filtered air left his throat dry. Walter tried to get some saliva into his throat, but it didn’t take. Instead, he coughed into his shirt sleeve.
He would have preferred to continue lying down on the mangy couch, but the massive tremor from the surface forced him out of his complacency. The shock nearly tossed him to the floor. The platform didn't feel like it was sinking. Everything in the pod, the books and other junk, was still upright, if somewhat jostled from the shock. At least that was something.
Walter Turpentine felt like complaining, if only there was someone who would hear him out. How come the bones in his back were never in the right place? He tried to stretch out the kinks, arching his left arm over his right shoulder, and then his right arm over his left shoulder. Blood rushed from his head. An audible crack resonated through his lower spine, a few vertebrate above his pelvis. He let out a groan and almost fell backwards. He grabbed the couch's armrest for support. He steadied himself, stood up straight.
He didn’t feel any better. If only there was someone on this platform that could fix the aches in his back. But of course there wasn't. Every time he mentioned the pain to the ship’s doctor, all he got was grief. He doubted that he could find a spine person anywhere on the whole damn planet.
Walter felt a strong temptation to sit back down on his couch. He pressed his palms on the steel wall. Why did he always have to hurt? He was stuck on this couch for far too long. That was it. The sedentary lifestyle wasn't doing any wonders for his health. The couch was well worn from decades of use. His backside left a visible impression in the cushion.
Walter frowned. The indentation left in the couch definitely broadened over time. This wasn't encouraging. Maybe I am gaining weight, he thought.
If he was up, then he might as well get something to eat. But first things first. He poured himself a deep glass of alcohol. The chalky liquid, distilled from algae and choral, numbed the pain in his head.
The dry pallor of stale air sent Walter into a coughing fit.
Overhead, a single air vent emitted a monotonous drone. The ventilation had been installed long before he came to the platform. The system was part of the initial expansion to the residential areas below the surface. But no engineer could be so incompetent as to install a system that clacked away like this every hour of the day. Yet there it was. That drone. It wasn’t there from the beginning. It showed up over time.
Drrr. Drrr. Drrr.
“Drrr. Drrr. Drrr. Drrr,” he muttered mockingly. He waived his hand in the air in a sort of neglectful complaisance. “Shut up. I heard you.”
Ordinary wear and tear on the machinery, he supposed. Not much they could do about it. After twenty years of listening to it, he gave up trying to fix whatever caused the noise.
He heard some slight clatter from his wife, Naamah, in the adjoining pod. The second pod served as both a kitchen and storage space. She was undoubtedly preparing some semi-edible concoction for the evening’s repast. He conceded that he would have to pick up some provisions, and decent provisions, not just whatever scraps of food Naamah would let him have.
He craved some fish, something with oils and salt and real protein. He could practically taste the supple meat. If only it wasn't all in his head.
There was some commotion outside his pod, a mix of echoes and footsteps. If he was going to endure another platform-wide investigation with nothing but algae rations and overused tea leaves, then he might as well jump into the ocean right then and there. He wanted food, real food, something to nourish the brain—tuna steaks and salted liquors, fried sardines and maybe even something with sugar.
If he was going to get some food, now was the time to act. Any later and the place would go into lock-down. He needed to claim the going while the going was happening. It was that kind of day. He had spent the last hundred and thirty-six hours just sitting around getting fatter and lazier. Sometimes, enough is enough. Even against his better judgment, he wanted to find out what happened up there.
Walter stretched out his hand and reached for the last dregs of dried algae from a bowl on the corner table.
And now the bowl is empty, he lamented.
It was plain algae. He preferred the spiced versions that Naamah sometimes prepared, but this would do. It didn't have anything to mask the bare saltiness. His mouth watered with thirst. He would have to ask her why she didn’t bother to prepare any. It’s not as though she’d been busy working over the past several days. Perhaps they ran out of the usual spices, which would be a real tragedy, and Naamah just didn’t have the heart to tell him. Well, he would deal with that in due course.
No. The real tragedy was the ventilation system.
Drrr. Drrr. Drrr.
I think those pipes know exactly how annoying they are. This is intentional. All of it is intentional, Walter thought, scowling. They say these pipes are filled with clean air, but all I can see is spite from the crusty pipes of ancient heathens.
Walter pressed against the steel doorway of his pod. The clean stainless steel sent a warped reflection of his face back at him. He saddened at the smeared wrinkles and rounded features, pale from years spent inside the platform.
He opened the door and peered down the corridor. It was dimly lit, illuminated only by the faint green-yellow glow of bioluminescent strips. He could make out several figures, some sitting upright, others lying prostrate. The ones lying prostrate were invariably blocking the corridor. He would have to either step over them, or kick them just to be sure that they were still alive. But more importantly, the corridor was quiet. No riots. No screaming. No bodies. That was encouraging.
There were so many people. Hundreds. The platform was built up to survive. The structure could not reach any further into the sky without becoming too top-heavy, but it could hold more mass underwater. Hundreds of pods welded around th
e platform’s four circular legs, massive pylons that thrust downwards and raped the ocean. They were shipping crates, torn and split, curved and welded into place. The bulk of the platform’s population lived in these pods.
If there was one positive thing about the corridors, it was that a drone from the Squatters supplemented the drone from the air ducts. At least that was different. It gave the sound a unique rhythm.
Drrr. Drrr. Ugh. Drrr. Drrr. Ugh.
On the other hand, the smell wasn't an improvement. Didn't anyone clean up the place? Walter lifted his plaid dress shirt over his nose and tip-toed through the corridor. Splotches of copper wiring were exposed in the walls and ceilings. Sheets of growing mold encompassed swaths of the exterior, along with pockets of the interior. Every corner seemed to emanate with a fetid urine smell. Girders and beams stretched from end to end. It looked like the place had a case of the rickets.
There used to be a janitorial staff when I was in charge, Walter muttered. When all was said and done, he didn't smell any better than his surroundings. Naamah was going to make him take a bath sooner rather than later, but the bathing facilities were shut down during the storm to route the fresh water to the surface. It seemed unlikely that anyone turned on the inner boilers and pumps. It was too soon, and the people on this platform had more pressing concerns.
Like what to eat.
Frigid water moved past his feet. Overflows from the surface. The cold water stung his toes.
Behind him, he heard a woman wake up from her stupor. She cursed as the water passed under where she was sitting, leaving a giant wet splotch on her ass. She tried to pat them dry, but quickly gave up and sat back down on the wet floor.
He hopped over puddles of stale water and garbage. Each storm should clean the place, he thought, with each spillover of water from the surface. Instead, the whole platform maintained a fetid aroma of rusted copper, rotted plants and wet dog.
That didn't make any sense. There weren't any dogs on the oil platform. How could the place smell like wet dog?
The Platform Page 3