The Platform

by J Noah Summerfield

  That’s the question he should have asked when he could speak. Why was she letting this happen?

  He had no more time to think about it, though, because the next thing he knew, he’d been knocked on the side of the head and had dropped to the floor. His hands and feet were bound with duct tape. He tried to claw at his face with his bound hands. They weren’t even going to let him fall into the ocean on his own terms.

  He wasn't going to reach Buckminster. He wouldn't get his chance. He couldn't say anything. If he managed to get to his feet and escape, he couldn't even open a hatchway to reenter the platform. He would end up right back in this spot.

  The wretched man would just stand there smiling while he died.

  “Throw him over,” the Braided Woman ordered.

  Two guards picked Hani up and tossed him over the railing. The sudden shock of the freezing water terrified him, and he screamed.

  He tried to kick out, hoping to make it to the surface, but the duct tape binding his ankles prevented him from getting enough movement to stay afloat. At first, he could see the platform’s columns and cables suspended in the water. But that didn’t last very long. Eventually, he couldn’t even see his feet in the darkness. Scared, alone and abandoned, Hani saw the silhouette of the platform’s hulking figure above him disappear as he sank deeper into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WALTER “THE WALRUS” TURPENTINE

  Walter pulled on the rotating clasps and cranked the door to his pod open. The metal squeaked. He made a note to oil the rods. A wonderful scent filled his nostrils and he felt a bit of pride when he thought of how jealous the smell of Naamah’s cooking made everyone else.

  After taking a moment to relish the aroma, he stormed into the pod, frustrated. This wasn't the world to which he was accustomed. It wasn't the world that he had spent so many yeas building around him. It was different, primordial. This was a world built by other men, a world without the morals and the principles to which he so eagerly clung. This was a world built by Sycamore Johnston.

  The Administrator. That stupid idiot.

  He’d done this evil thing to this cursed place. He brought the Braided Girl into his life, forced that aimless drive that pushed her to question everything around her except the word from the Administrator himself. Walter remembered with a knot in his stomach of the time when he could wield that kind of power. He could not recall ever shaping someone to the world he wanted, though he was guilty of encouraging those around him to do what he thought was right. Maybe there isn't any difference. One is the role of a tyrant. The other a priest. The end result, the opportunity to build a better world, was the same. And he did it. When he was in charge, he built that better world. He kept on building that better world until Sycamore Johnston tore this place from him and altered this place until it was nothing but the droning sound in his ears. That was the only constant any of them knew now. It was only the part of this place he could rely on.

  At least he could rely on Naamah. His heart and soul, his very calm rested with her. She was something that he had that no one else could share and that no one else could take away. This much he knew. Where the platform was the nagging drone that picked away at his head like the cackling of a crow, Naamah was the soothing rhythm of the ocean. She had never done him wrong, over the troubles that surrounded them. He knew that she would listen, that she would understand. She was his wife, after all.

  “That stupid Sycamore! And Buckminster with him! They’re going to execute Hani over their own stupidity! That Captain Nemo imitator! That misguided, manipulative…” He stopped short, his hand falling limply on the pod door’s handle.

  Naamah was standing over Sage’s body. Her posture lacked her usual grace. She was slightly hunched over, her arms stretched out over the girl.

  Walter was dumbstruck. His stomach lurched into his lungs and he nearly lost control of his bladder.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  Naamah straightened her dress, adjusted some of the furniture, and clung to the edges of her shawl. A hand carefully clasped the tip of a nearby cup as she had a sip of hot tea.

  “This tea really is horrible,” she said. “Have I made you drink the tea from this batch?”

  “Why is Sage unconscious?”

  “Things did not go well with Hani?”

  Walter felt like he was wading through toxic sludge. He was trying to sort his thoughts, his speech slow and deliberate “No, it did not go well. I couldn’t talk Sycamore out of it.”

  “Sit down and tell me about it. I’ll make you something to eat.”

  Walter remained standing. “I don’t want anything to eat, at least not anything that you might have to offer. What happened to Sage? Is she okay?”

  “Of course you do. You always want something to eat.”

  “Not now. Tell me, is she alive?”

  “Yes, she is alive.” Naamah recovered some of her usual dignity as she straightened her posture. Her confidence frightened Walter. She had the same beauty about her, the same soulfulness. She sauntered to the end table to place the tea cup on an empty saucer. A slight high-pitched scraping of china grated against his ears. The sound was more painful than the pounding in his head.

  Naamah rushed towards him, flailing her arms. He tried to retreat, stepping backwards, but the pod was too small. Naamah thundered into him, sending him crashing into the wall. His brain couldn't process what was happening as his feet fell out from under him. His hands reached out for the armrests on the couch but found only empty space. He slammed his chest on the front table and tumbled to the ground.

  “Someone will come,” he groaned. He must have fractured one of his ribs. He couldn’t breathe without feeling the pain in his chest, or move without feeling the strain.

  “Who? Sycamore Johnston? Buckminster Jackhammer? All of his people are dealing with the Chum Man. The useless hag with the clogs that lives above us? She would just tell you to stop stomping around. In any event, she has been dead for weeks now, but you know that better than anyone else on this facility.” The strain from her lunge at him left a greasy pallor on her forehead. She dipped the tips of her fingers in the tea and patted the liquid on her face.

  The furniture, the pod, the lighting, felt suddenly very suffocating. The Walrus forced himself to breathe. He sucked the stale air into his lungs. Naamah stood over him, making him feel small. “You killed the old lady above us?”

  “Not quite. I’m not the only person to face reality in this place.”

  “Others?”

  “More than you care to admit.” She circled around the pod slowly, letting her thin dress drag along the floor behind her with each step. A delicate shadow of red and purple followed her.

  A sharp pain went through his chest, and he grimaced. His lips felt parched. He swallowed to let some saliva flow to his mouth. He wet his lips with his tongue.

  “No.” He shook his head vehemently. “You are my wife. My wife couldn’t do these things.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No one is anyone’s anything out here. And you have been complicit in all of this since the start of the storm.”

  “That young boy? Him as well?”

  “Oh, you are so dramatic. Yes, the twins as well. No one in this place cares as long as they get their rations.”

  Walter trembled. What is happening? How could this be a part of his life, he thought. How could he have been so wrong about someone that was so dear to his heart? His eyes looked past Naamah to Sage, still passed out on the ground.

  “The right thing for you to do here is to fight me,” Naamah ordered. She bunched up her toes around a thick patch in her rug. Strands of green stroked the sides of her bare feet. “How can you reclaim the dignity of this species if you can’t even stand up to a frail old woman?”

  “Please don’t hurt the girl,” he pleaded. He pressed his back up against the wall and it took everything he had to keep from crying out. Naamah didn’t restrain him, but it didn’t matter be
cause he was too weary to bring himself to his feet. Gosh, what a horrific situation, he thought. Horns and cloven feet? Chains and black eyes? What could make this worse? He had used so much of his energy to help, and the answer was a truth that he lived with every day of his life. Now it was just him and his wife, the two of them, as it always was. They would never see the continents reclaimed as green lands. They would only know the black impenetrable depths of the ocean, and the grey walls that protected them.

  “What, her?” Naamah gestured at Sage’s body. “I will give all credit to her, that she is still alive. She put up more of a fight than those twins.”

  “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Do you think that she can replace my little girl? Care for this one, and our pain just disappears? Idiot. Nothing can drown the hurt I feel every day. Every word I speak in this cursed steel box falls on deaf ears. Every word about responsibility and accountability and sacrifice is a waste of time. So why should I listen to the words that you have to say? What makes you any different, dear husband? Why should we starve to spare this girl? Why? Is she your daughter? Because she’s not mine. If she means so much to you, then I should just kill both of you right now.” Naamah’s face turned sour.

  Walter was still sitting upright on the floor, trying to focus, cradling his ribs. His chest was warm and there was a copper taste in his mouth. He was probably bleeding internally. He would have really enjoyed a tall glass of fermented algae right then. Or better yet, a thick salmon steak, lightly seared with crispy skin and some herbs from the hanging gardens. Life gets hard and you think about food, you idiot, he thought. Deal with the problem.

  Whether or not he got the steak, he needed that drink.

  “Or maybe you think that you can sleep with the girl one day, you slovenly fat sack of pond scum. Is that it? No amount of madness would spread her legs for your fat butt and shriveled manhood.”

  He could not believe what he was hearing. First Makrigga loses his mind. Buckminster turns out to be a vindictive radical. Then his own wife turns out be worse than either of them. He had only himself to blame. Maybe he could reach her, talk to her. She would listen. He was sure of it.

  “Makrigga?”

  “Is he still alive?”

  Walter nodded.

  “That man is smarter than I thought. Always struck me as the tall, dark and handsome type. But nothing gets past him. Would have been a problem if part of his leg wasn’t already missing.”

  “You are not human,” he said. Those words came too easily.

  “Come now. Our species gave that up decades ago. Even though your own humanity has long since disappeared, of course you cling to the old ways. Delusional. This marriage to a sniveling, pompous, self-righteous glutton is a thankless curse.”

  Naamah lifted her foot and placed it on his throat.. She twisted it around as she pressed his throat into the wall.

  Maybe he wouldn't be able to talk to her after all.

  “Would you like to live, dear husband? Maybe you can build a better world with me, your wife, after this storm? Or are you happy to waste your short amount of time on this planet letting the world rot around you? Are you willing to do what you must to survive?”

  Naamah pressed on his throat a little harder. He was choking. An unintelligible wince and a cough gurgled from his mouth.

  “If you are going to insist on remaining the same fat ineffectual bore that you have always been, then I don’t want any part of it.”

  She pressed harder.

  “I’m going to kill you and that naïve girl, and your flesh is going to get me through this rioting, just as Vector’s body got me this far. Could have made good use of his brother, but he wasn’t very cooperative. I think that I will make you into a stew, but I will save the best cuts for a steak. You were always so fond of steak. I don’t know why.”

  My wife killed Hector. He couldn’t believe it. But why?

  The pod was silent, except for the incessant drone that emanated from the air ducts. Perfect. He was going to die, and the last sound that he would hear was the obnoxious whir of those stupid air ducts. He would happily listen to another one of Sycamore Johnston’s interminable speeches instead of that mechanistic hum. He tried to move his head so he could grab some air.

  The world around him quickly faded as Naamah cut off the oxygen to his brain. Flashes of sparkling light impaired his vision. He tried to grab Naamah’s foot and pull it off his throat, but he had taken two beatings that evening, and his efforts were meek. She pressed harder and he gagged. He managed to look up, to see the face of his wife, focused, calm and vicious. He thought about how he always looked at his beautiful wife’s face before he went to bed in case he didn’t wake up, and he wanted her face to be the last thing he saw.

  The world went dark. Somewhere, barely audible, there was a dull sort of thud.

  Naamah collapsed.

  Air flooded into his lungs, and he rolled over onto his hands and knees and coughed several times. It was a slow process as he tried to minimize how much his fractured ribs expanded and contracted. The world came back to him.

  He stared at his wife, her eyes wide open. Something protruded out of the left side of her head. It looked like a wooden handle attached to stainless steel. Blood poured out, spread out across the floor in a thick layer of deep red that shimmered in the iridescent glow of the pod’s bioluminescence. Sage was still unconscious in the rear of the pod. He looked towards the doorway and saw Beatrice Plantain.

  Beatrice walked over to Sage and felt for a pulse. She picked her up and slung the girl over her shoulder.

  “When you can, follow me to the medical bay. I will bring the girl.”

  Walter nodded.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  Walter looked at his feet and tried to rub the compression out of his throat.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked again, insistent this time.

  He shook his head, though it wasn’t true. The pain in his ribs made it difficult for him to even speak. At least he could assure himself that he would live. All he really wanted was a moment to look at his wife. To speak to her. To share a cup of tea with her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE GOOD DOCTOR

  Dr. Gossamer checked the vital markers on Makrigga. She took a second blood sample from his arm. The first one didn't produce any of the usual markers for toxicity. Of course, she only tested for the chemicals that were associated with the derrick.

  The negative results weren't a surprise. Makrigga's symptoms were unlike those normally associated with these compounds. But they were the most obvious candidates all the same. Perhaps he was experiencing an unusual reaction to a particular blend. Different compounds in different ratios could cause unique results among some people.

  When the Braided Woman carried Sage into the medical bay, everything changed. She told the doctor everything that she witnessed with Naamah. Now she knew what to look for. Naamah’s cannibalism gave her a very specific set of possibilities.

  It also meant that she could look into whether there was a connection between all of this and the leeches from the twins’ room.

  After spending so many hours accomplishing nothing, she felt almost giddy at the possibility of settling all of this.

  Melia was in the chair next to her, the woman’s head resting at the foot of Makrigga's bed. She was exhausted, but otherwise healthy. Her black hair spread loosely on the white sheets. If this was a traditional hospital, then Beatrice would have sent her home, but this was the medical bay on the Alpine. This was the doctor’s show. There aren't any rules in here that she didn't make up herself. So she let Melia stay as long as she didn’t interfere with anything else that she had to do.

  Then the Walrus stumbled into the medical bay. They expected him since the Braided Woman was already there. Both Dr. Gossamer and the Braided Woman were standing over Sage, who was lying down on a bed with some clean sheets.

  The Walrus was in a daze. The bags under his eyes suggested th
at he just finished crying before arriving here. Dr. Gossamer directed him to sit down in the nearest chair and rolled up his sleeve.

  “Walter, can you understand me?”

  “He looked fairly beaten down when I saw him. He may have a concussion,” the Braided Woman said.

  “Walter, if you can understand me, nod once.”

  He did as she requested.

  “Walter, your wife, Naamah, she injected Sage with a high dose of a serotonin neurotoxin. I’m going to draw some blood to see if she did the same thing to you.”

  The Walrus nodded in meek agreement. The doctor wasn’t sure if his delirium was medical or emotional. It was probably a mix of both. She was sure that if she just found out that her spouse was wandering around the platform killing children, then she would be very distraught.

  The results from Sage defied everything she understood about the platform. No one on the platform should have access to this. She checked and rechecked the results. It was likely that she was misreading what was in front of her that for this to be the truth. Where would someone possibly obtain such a compound on the platform? The serotonin levels were too high. How would they distill its components? Who had the equipment necessary to do that kind of work outside of her lab?

  Dr. Gossamer was unsure how she should proceed. How would she even convey what all of this meant to the likes of Sycamore Johnston? The deteriorative properties were nothing short of shocking.

  She was familiar enough with the common medicinal leeches. They were a wholly ineffective treatment, but it made people think that they should feel better. The concentration of the compound that she found in Sage’s blood was well above what she could produce from medicinal leeches. And she was the only one on the platform with the lab equipment needed to even come close to what this was.