The Platform

by J Noah Summerfield

  A few people huddled together in small clusters for warmth. Some groups sat on a mattress when they could, which at least provided a barrier to the water that flowed over the floors. The electrical systems flickered on and off. He would have been left in total darkness were it not for the dim glow of the bioluminescent strips. The occasional clang of a steel pipe groaned with the promise of heat and hot water. Some breathable air meekly flowed through the ventilation shafts, accompanied by the unmistakable drone.

  Drrr. Drrr. Drrr.

  It sounded different out here than in his pod. It was quieter and more percussive, more like a chorus of toads than the purring of a large cat.

  There were dozens upon dozens of pods shooting off from the main supports. They were outfitted shipping crates, split, curved and welded into place. The population was nearly a thousand when he was in charge, though that number dropped in recent years.

  Walter opened a hatchway to the surface. The Atlantic Ocean spread before him.

  After the continents became uninhabitable, large vertical structures like this became lifeboats for a small remnant of mankind. The Alpine and other oil platforms were retrofitted for permanent civilian settlement, outfitted with an array of equipment necessary for long-term survival on the ocean. The platform housed hydrokinetic turbines, desalination stills and large silos to collect and store fresh water—every imaginable resource available on land, knowing full well that mankind would not return for some time. The place stirred with human movement as people spilled out of doorways.

  Usually, after a storm, an energized murmur percolated among the Roughnecks with everyone eager to get back to work. But not now. Everyone was quiet. They moved at a languid pace. The Roughnecks shuffled about, carried equipment from one place to another.

  Walter grabbed hold of whatever piping was near him as he worked his way across the platform. He paced himself over the winding maze of steps and grated floors. When he reached an upper gangway, he stopped for a minute to watch the sun push away the last trace of darkness. From higher up, he could see the aftermath from the accident. It wasn't the worst accident that he had ever seen, but the usual signs of something bad were unmistakable: the exhausted people, the littered debris, the broken machinery.

  The whole derrick was a disaster. Spilled liquids and blown-out tanks. Some Roughnecks were soldering a tear in a steel tank. He couldn't believe that they were still on the derrick doing their jobs, making repairs. Somehow, the accident didn't drive them below. Walter inwardly applauded the loyalty that Buckminster managed to instill in the Roughnecks.

  And then there was the crane. Its massive hulk drooped over the derrick's center, dangling from tangled wires that had to be over a hundred years old. They could snap at any moment, sending the entire structure straight through the platform. There wasn't any doubt in Walter's mind. This was what woke him up.

  The surfaces bleached from exposure to the sun. A fetid urine smell emanated from every corner despite the constant wash from the ocean, as though the stench originated from within each pod. The entire structure swayed in the wind. Walter heard every movement as the rigging scraped against each other.

  Did they have the ability to fix this place? Did anyone on the platform even know how?

  Buckminster was good, but he was good at drilling. This was some other kind of engineering problem.

  Several Roughnecks circled around a body. It was a man, lying face down. He wore the same tough material as the other Roughnecks. Walter couldn't make out what they were doing. They appeared to just stand there, staring, as though they were in a boat floating past a ship with a crewman dangling from the mainmast.

  He didn't recognize most of the people, though that didn't come as much of a surprise. After all, he didn't spend that much time wandering the derrick these days. He was more of a “stay inside and eat” kind of guy. He stepped outside when he needed to, usually to buy fresh fish. He circled around to the bottom and took a closer look at the corpse. The Crane's face was smashed flat into the floor.

  “What happened here? “

  A few empty faces turned to Walter and then back to the body.

  “Someone has to know what happened here.”

  Still nothing. They didn’t seem to care that he was there to help. This wasn't going to get him anywhere. The answer was Buckminster Jackhammer. He knew what happened here. And he would also have some thoughts on how they were going to clean up this mess.

  And he was right there, kneeling over the Crane, a black crowbar clenched in his right hand.

  “Buckminster.”

  He didn't look up.

  Walter looked around. Dead faces. Dead eyes. So many people doing whatever it was that Buckminster wanted them to do. There was still one face he expected to see that felt strangely absent. It was Sycamore Johnston. What could be so pressing that he would just ignore this accident? What could he possibly be doing other than eating all of the platform’s tuna? If Walter could show up, then he was sure that nothing could stop Sycamore.

  Injured Roughnecks were splayed across the ground. Judging by their appearance, they weren’t in good shape. They would need to get their burns checked out by the doctor. All of them needed some help to counteract the damage done. He expected that all of these injured Roughnecks were going to keep the medical bay busy for some time.

  The few healthy Roughnecks maneuvered around the disoriented clusters of injured people. Two of them dragged one man into the platform on a stretcher. The stretcher turned a few degrees as they tried maneuvering it into the hatchway, and the man plopped to the ground with a thud.

  Walter laughed. No one else around him found the pratfall amusing.

  He liked it up on the derrick. The sounds were different. He didn't have to listen to that obnoxious drone from the air vents. Of course, it helped that no one expected him to do any manual labor anymore. That was left to more capable and much younger hands. Someone like him would only get in the way.

  Fine, Walter thought. Back to the problem I'm trying to solve here. Food. I don't have any. Hung over and no food. Not the best way to start a day.

  With the platform in this condition, they might not get their daily rations.

  Naamah wouldn't be too happy with him if he didn't return before her morning services started. Walter never understood why he needed to be up front during the services. No one could really see anyway. The space was too narrow. But she insisted. So, like a good husband, he was front and center in the congregation. Every weekend. For nearly forty years.

  So the plans—get food, get back in time for the morning service—should be easy.

  The Braided Woman set aside additional portions for anyone allocated to hard labor, but everyone else had to wait in line for theirs. What other alternatives were there? It was too soon for any fishing vessels to return after the storm, if any survived the storm in the first place. Most of them wouldn't reach the platform's docks for another two weeks. What did that leave? The platform didn't have its own fishing boats. But it did have a few longboats for whaling.

  Walter snapped his fingers. The Whalers! That was the answer.

  It’s possible that the storm wouldn't keep the whaling boat from going out. If he could reach the Whalers, then he might just manage to get a piece of today's catch. Some of them were undoubtedly on the derrick during the storm. Hopefully none of them were injured. In any event, this was the best bet. The Whalers.

  That meant Makrigga, the guy with the harpoon. He was nice enough, but kind of difficult to talk to. He should try Feret, the oarsman. He could be willing, if Walter had anything to trade. The only thing that Walter had which Feret ever wanted was alcohol, and Walter didn’t want to part with any of it if he could avoid it. That left Sage, the second harpoon. She was probably his best bet, the youngest and most easygoing of the bunch. He would try to find her before she went out.

  And if he didn't find any of those three, there was always Hani, the chum man. This was the least appealing of the alter
natives.

  Walter had his reasons.

  “Do you still have a bottle of that Spanish Port?” Buckminster asked over Sycamore's shoulder. “Never knew the old Walrus to take a stroll without something to keep him warm.”

  “Not as much as I would like. I do have to drink all of it before you toss me into the ocean.”

  “If you're not going to share what you have, then you shouldn't be up here.”

  “You've been using people up here that don't belong for some time now. What's one more after an explosion?”

  “I don't have anyone here doing anything they can't handle,” Buckminster retorted. Buckminster grabbed the collar of Walter's shirt. Even in his old age, Buckminster was a powerful figure. His hands tensed around the fabric at Walter's throat, and brought Walter's face close to his, elbows bent in at his chest. Saliva flew from Buckminster's mouth when he spoke. “Look. You have nothing to offer us anymore. What happened is what happened. If you interfere with how I deal with the problem, I'll make you wish you had gills.“

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SAGE

  It was early and the Earth continued its rotation around its axis. Sage pushed through the lower surface hatchway and hurried onto the docks across from the boatyard. The morning light and salted air shocked her eyes and made it difficult to focus. She rubbed them, anxious to clear her vision and eliminate the white flares that dazzled against the ocean as she scanned the waters beyond the Alpine.

  Barefooted, she soaked in the brisk unfiltered air that shrouded the platform. The wood and steel cantilevered platform slightly broke the surface as the tide gently pushed the ocean water over her exposed feet. The water was cold and numbed her toes. It was still winter in the Southern hemisphere. The water was always cold.

  She was gathering the rest of the Whalers. Makrigga. Feret. Hani. She would check their pods first, but after last night’s storm, they could be anywhere.

  The boatyard was empty. A storm that size, the platform couldn't risk having one the boats careen into the pylons. So, Sycamore sent all of them away. Sage wondered how many, if any, would find their way back over the next few days.

  Over her head, the corpse of a large whale dangled by its fin from a crane rusted over into a deep maroon. Sage knew the species. It was an Eschrichtius robustus. She was part of the whaling crew that caught it. She had vivid memories of the animal breaching the ocean’s surface while the whalers chased it. Now, the carcass was just a mess of flesh and bone. A puddle of shimmering water and blood formed beneath it as the sun warmed the cold flesh, melting the white frost across the carcass.

  A Hawksbill sea turtle rested and sprawled to one side, its head comfortably reclined on the dock, its leopard spots soaked in the momentary sun. The stout shell and elongated neck took Sage’s attention away from the interminable horizon and, for a brief moment, she considered trapping the reptile. She couldn’t recall the last time she saw one, an Eretmochelys imbricate. This was a rare event. The turtle half-opened its eyes and peered at Sage. It blew out its nostrils in a puff of mist and lazily shut its eyes, nestling its rough chin and curved beak onto a worn wooden slat. Formerly a resident of the coastlines, the dying planet forced many of its animal inhabitants to seek refuge elsewhere. In the case of the Hawksbill, it spent its days paddling around the deep sea.

  Sage raised her hand again to shield against the sun as she looked out over the ocean waters for her quarry. The breeze was like ice, biting through her clothes. A chill washed over her skin.

  She hopped over puddles of stale water and garbage.

  There was Makrigga’s shack. It was a shipping container, one of dozens, jerry-rigged for human habitation above sea level. She gave a cursory knock to her arrival and walked through the shack’s saloon doorway. She waved to Makrigga.

  The man was tall and trim. He kept his black hair short. Tattooed scrapings covered his torso. Like Sage, he was barefoot and wore a tight-fitting wet suit as pants.

  He was pouring himself a glass of goat’s milk from a tin canister. Hides of sea turtles and parts of small whales and sharks were nailed to the walls. Some of these were trophies. She even recognized a few from her own adventures. There were tanned hides placed to keep out wind and intrusions from their neighbors. Others were placed to capture rain water.

  They had a mattress, shielded in plastic casing, dry and stiff, positioned on a platform of steel rods. There was a girl on the mattress. Sage spotted her taking in the relative calm. She was a familiar sight, pretty, a fixture of Makrigga’s life.

  “Good morning, Melia,” Sage smiled.

  “Oh. Hi, Sage. I would get up and hug you, but you know, it is blistery cold outside of this blanket. And every part of me is either cold or sore.” Melia was nestled in a blanket pad stuffed with dried strips of braided seaweed. The material was rough but insulating.. Melia pushed her arms upwards in a long and indulgent extension, fingers lengthened outwards, an arch along her chest. She stretched her neck and scratched some gunk out of her eyes. “Blech. Eye gunk.”

  “I should put on a shirt.” She said with a raised index finger. “I might have one nearby. Please... spare... a moment.” Melia circled around until she spotted a suitable shirt littered on the floor, swinging a hand to the ground and scooping it up. The fabric fell easily across her neck and shoulders. It wasn’t a shirt as much as it was a thin blanket, loosely draped over her shoulders. “So, tell me, any news, Sage? Do you have a boyfriend yet? Or do I have to wait for another storm?” She rummaged through a small chest. Her clothes were worn, outfitted casually in thick sweat pants and a short-sleeve shirt.

  “You ask me that each and every time I see you.”

  Melia sighed. “There are only so many people your age on this platform. You are going to run out of time before every useful boy is taken. Most boys are about as charming as a honey badger and twice as scraggly. They even smell the same. Everyone here smells like pee. So don’t wait too long. All the good ones will disappear before long.”

  “Most of the boys here are idiots, and none of them are as interesting as a honey badger.” What I wouldn’t give to see a Mellivora capensis in person, Sage thought. “Twice as vicious even if they still smell like pee. This is not entirely up to me, you know.”

  “Oh, Sage. You have more say in this than you give yourself credit.” She smiled.

  Sage gestured to Makrigga, skulking in the corner. He put down the goat’s milk.

  “You came here to ask me something,” he said.

  Sage could see that the current subject bored him.

  “Cool your jets, cool boy,” Melia scolded.

  “I am talking about the future of the human race here!” Melia continued. “What will we do if girls like Sage do not leave any offspring?” She turned back to Sage. “You know the women that live on this contraption. Most of them are dingbats and whores, including the speaker of this house...” She gave a nod towards Sage. “I think the boys here are just waiting for you to seriously make yourself available. But be careful. Some of them might not care whether you are ready.”

  “Fine. Fine. Whatever you say. I will let the boys say “hi” without breaking their elbows.”

  “Luckily for you, my dear M.K. can keep an eye out. Make sure none of these smelly boys do anything they shouldn't.” Melia winked.

  Makrigga rubbed his eyes as his sweat dripped to the floor. “Sycamore expects us at the boats now?”

  “Well, the Braided Woman told me to get out there as soon as we could. But if she wants us to do something, I think Sycamore also wants us to get going. And if Sycamore wants us to do something, we should get it done.”

  “No rest for the weary, Makrigga,” Melia said.

  “We don’t have enough food. That’s why Sycamore needs us to get more,” Sage urged.

  “There are other foods,” Makrigga complained.

  “The Braided Woman said that there isn’t enough algae. And fish is better than algae. The fishermen won't return with fish for awhile. She s
ays that we need more. That leaves us.”

  “Is this why Sycamore keeps a portion of my catch?”

  “It just stopped raining. Don't turn this into a debate about Sycamore's redistribution policies,” Melia said. “What are we supposed to do when the algae fields don't produce? Or when the fishing boats are capsized by a hurricane?”

  “This platform will eat itself alive,” Makrigga answered.

  “I heard of Soylent Green. It’s gross,” Melia complained.

  “I don’t think that actually happened,” Sage said.

  “I don’t know. What if it did?”

  “There is enough food,” Makrigga insisted. “We don’t have to worry about that history.”

  “Not enough to last through another one of these storms,” Melia corrected.

  “I can't believe this. We finally get a break from working the oil rig, and Sycamore sends me out before the sun rises.” Makrigga rubbed his eyes. “It is too soon.”

  “I said the same thing, but he wants us to add more reserves. You can take a nap on the way out,” Sage told him. It was a lie.

  “Aww...the big strong Makrigga needs to take a nap,” Melia said, amused. “I'll be sure to pack your blankie.”

  Makrigga ignored the teasing. “That is Sycamore’s problem. Not mine.”

  “His solution to all of his problems is to make you take care of it,” Melia said as she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “He knows he needs you. He will give you a pod below the surface soon enough, a place where we won’t have the wind cutting through our bones every day. Maybe even next to Buckminster himself! Just keep making yourself necessary to this place.”

  Makrigga moved close to Sage, one face nearly pressed against the other. Sage felt the moisture of his sweat, the particulates of his body odor. She could smell the sweetness of the goat's milk on his breath. “We would hunt whales while we are out there? Or does Sycamore have something else in mind?”

  “I still want to solve the killer whale problem. That would be nice. But whatever we find, I suppose.” Sage wanted to tackle the orca whales. They were common enough in water that far south, but usually stuck to the continental shelf. They wouldn't have that kind of time today. And they would need a larger crew for the orcas. The whale pods cooperated and coordinated their movements to attack prey. She had even seen them force seals off ice bergs. They toyed with humans. Lead them on chases. This type of gaming made hunting problematic, once the whale realized it was the prey. Sage knew several other Whalers who set off to hunt killer whales and that she never saw again. It made the task all the more enticing.