World Enough (And Time)

by Edmund Jorgensen

  “I fixed it,” Jeremiah shouted back. “I just pushed stop. Did you not try pushing stop?”

  “Turn it back on immediately!” Mr. Wendstrom shouted.

  “Wait, what?” said Jeremiah at a normal volume.

  “Turn it back on! Give it to me!”

  Mr. Wendstrom finally dropped his hands as well, but only because he needed them to wrest the PED from Jeremiah’s grasp. He stabbed at the screen and the music exploded again.

  Jeremiah took advantage of Mr. Wendstrom’s involuntary blocking of his ears to snatch the PED back and turn the music off. This time he put the PED behind his back and held it there, receding defensively as Mr. Wendstrom advanced on him.

  “Give it back!” Mr. Wendstrom shouted. “He’s out there in the hall! He’ll spoil everything!”

  “Calm down,” said Jeremiah. “No one is in the hall, I promise you.”

  “Then why didn’t you circle ‘Yes’ on the note I sent you asking just that?”

  “Because I didn’t have a pen,” said Jeremiah.

  “I specifically asked you if you had a pen.”

  “True,” said Jeremiah, “but—”

  Now that he had a moment to absorb Mr. Wendstrom’s appearance, Jeremiah realized that further appeals to logic were not perhaps indicated. Mr. Wendstrom’s eyes were bloodshot and ringed by dark circles. His hair was crazed and dull as if it had not been washed since Jeremiah last saw him, and his face was drawn and pale after many hours of what seemed near-existential terror. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth, as if he’d been biting his tongue in near-constant anger management.

  “My fault,” said Jeremiah. “But I promise, there’s no one in the hall. Now, what’s going on?”

  “It’s Porter,” Mr. Wendstrom said, whispering for some reason now that it had been confirmed they were alone. “He thinks I cheated him in backgammon, and now he’s going to get his revenge by telling me who Andwen Longtail’s real father is. But I’ve outsmarted him again! He can’t tell me anything if I can’t hear him!”

  Mr. Wendstrom lunged for the PED, but Jeremiah dodged in time.

  “Andwen Longtail?” Jeremiah asked. “From your book?”

  “Porter had someone wave him Penultimate Battle Royale and Last Battle Royale from Earth and he’s read them and now he’s going to spoil them for me.”

  “Can’t you just get them waved to you as well and read them before he can spoil them?” said Jeremiah.

  “Without Carolus the Bold?” Mr. Wendstrom said. “After all the time he’s waited, sharing the anticipation with me, the fear that Michael L. L. Gregory might not even live long enough to finish? What a welcome home that would be—if you ever get off your ass and actually find him. ‘Good to see you, Carolus—by the way, while you were lost I read the last two books.’”

  Jeremiah was happy to note that, in his current state, Wendstrom seemed to have forgotten about today’s deadline—or, possibly, lost track of time entirely. In either case, Jeremiah was not about to remind him.

  “Maybe you could read them secretly,” he said, “and then pretend to be reading them for the first time once we find Carolus.”

  “Jeremiah, you’re not thinking like a winner. Winners don’t miss the forest for the trees. You need to fix the problem with Porter.”

  “Why can’t you go to Mr. Porter and explain that you didn’t cheat at backgammon?”

  “Because I did cheat at backgammon,” Mr. Wendstrom said. “I’ve been cheating him at backgammon every day for the last two years.”

  “Then have you considered returning Mr. Porter’s credit and apologizing?”

  “We never played for credit.”

  “Just apologizing, then?” said Jeremiah.

  “You want me to apologize for winning?”

  “I was thinking more for cheating.”

  “Cheating is just winning by different rules, Jeremiah.”

  “I think most people would consider it ‘no’ rules rather than—”

  Jeremiah caught himself—this was another one of those avenues that was probably not worth pursuing.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  “Good,” said Mr. Wendstrom, reaching out his hands for the PED.

  Jeremiah stopped just short of giving it to him.

  “Will you wait to hit play again until I’m gone?”

  “What if Porter’s in the hall, just waiting for me to open the door so he can pounce and scream out the name of Andwen Longtail’s father?”

  “There’s no one in the hall, Mr. Wendstrom.”

  Mr. Wendstrom nodded reluctantly, and Jeremiah handed over the PED.

  “Jeremiah!” said Mr. Wendstrom, when he was already halfway out the door. “Wait! With this latest crisis I almost forgot.”

  Jeremiah turned around and put his hand against the doorway to keep the door from reactivating and sliding shut.

  “I haven’t been entirely fair to you,” Mr. Wendstrom continued, searching for something in the desk. “Asking you to match intellects with Carolus the Bold like that. I nearly named him Waldred the Clever, did you know? ‘Bold’ just edged it out. The point is that I sent you into battle with nothing but your own wits, basically unarmed. I haven’t set you up for success, Jeremiah—but that changes now. Ah, here it is: Aunt Mildred’s Organic Iguana Treats. The smell alone drives Carolus wild. Just make sure he gets a whiff and he’ll come running to you like—”

  At just that moment Jack stepped around the corner of the hall with a deliberation that suggested his presence was neither accidental or recent. He looked at Jeremiah, then at Mr. Wendstrom, then at the dark green pellets that the latter was pouring from a canister into the former’s hand, and finally at Jeremiah again. His eyes narrowed.

  “There is someone in the hall!” shouted Mr. Wendstrom. “You lied to me, Jeremiah!”

  “Get in line,” said Jack, with the dry edge of a spy-hunter who has finally trapped a slippery double agent.

  Mr. Wendstrom pushed Jeremiah from the doorway into the hall and shut the door behind him. The music started up again immediately.

  “Jack,” said Jeremiah, “this isn’t what it looks like. These are iguana treats.”

  They faced each other, gazes locked, for a good 30 seconds, waiting to see who would break first. Jack broke first.

  “Give me those drugs!” he roared, and broke into a dead run. Jeremiah turned and fled.

  No one would have confused Jeremiah with a sprinter. Even before the synth ham diet, he had always been on the skinny side, but with that twigginess that indicates as little muscle as fat has been hung on one’s frame. Still, if a few minutes ago someone had offered Jeremiah the chance to wager on his performance in a foot race with a man who had seen at least 70 winters, and who—there was good reason to believe—had spent a good number of all his 280 seasons ingesting impressive quantities of various intoxicants, Jeremiah would have suppressed a smile and asked to double the stakes. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, he might have requested a cocktail of whatever substances Jack had been taking all these years.

  Speaking of hindsight, Jack was not gaining, but he was not losing ground either, and was showing signs of an endurance that Jeremiah could not help but admire. Each time Jeremiah risked a glance over his shoulder, he saw a portrait of senior cross-country health, a seasoned competitor well on the way to winning his age bracket by a margin as healthy as he was. Jack’s cheeks glowed pink but not red above his silver and orange beard, his mouth alternating between a smaller and larger circle as he breathed evenly and regularly, remembering to inhale through his nose.

  It was not clear how long the contest would have gone on, or who would have emerged the victor, if Jeremiah had not rounded a corner and collided with Mrs. Abdurov. They tumbled together to the ground.

  “Mrs. Abdurov,” said Jeremiah, trying to pull himself to his feet and Mrs. Abdurov to hers and accomplishing neither, “are you all right?”

  “Jeremiah? What is your big idea? Y
ou don’t look where you are going?”

  “Hold him!” shouted Jack, coming around the corner. “Don’t let him go!”

  “What is this?” Mrs. Abdurov said, squinting at one of the treats that had dropped from Jeremiah’s hand in the collision. “You have found Marya Jana?”

  “You bet he found Marya Jana,” said Jack. “And now he doesn’t want to share. Get his arms!”

  Jeremiah paused his desperate efforts to collect the iguana treats from the floor long enough to bat away Jack’s first attempt to pin his arms, but he didn’t relish either the prospect of engaging in a physical altercation with one of the passengers or discovering whether in his youth Jack had been a champion wrestler as well as apparent track star. Mrs. Abdurov, meanwhile, did not seem to have decided what was actually going on, or whether she was willing to accept instructions from Jack. She leaned in to get a closer look at the iguana treats littering the floor, and in that moment Jeremiah, following a bolt of inspiration, struck—reaching out under pretext of resisting the citizen’s arrest being conducted on his person and clicking the clip of Mrs. Abdurov’s pen, just as he had seen her do.

  You bet he found Marya Jana. The recorded voice was tinny and not free from static, but unmistakably Jack’s. And now he doesn’t want to share.

  The voice stopped as Mrs. Abdurov clicked the pen again. Jack stood in shock, still holding Jeremiah’s arm in some martial twist, but no longer applying any force. His eyes—wide with betrayal and disbelief—held Jeremiah’s for a moment, and then he turned to flee, returning only long enough to lean towards Mrs. Abdurov’s breast pocket and shout, “I did not consent to any recordings, audio or video!”

  “What is the deal of him?” said Mrs. Abdurov when Jack had gone.

  “He thinks this is marijuana,” Jeremiah said, picking up the last few iguana treats, “that you’re the police, and that I’m working with you.”

  “Sad, how the drugs can ruin a man.” Mrs. Abdurov fixed her blouse and hair. “I saw it many times. But now we get to real point: that is not marijuana, but Aunt Mildred’s Organic Iguana Treats—Marya Jana’s favorite brand. Yes or no?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Which Vor Drinkwater sent to you, no? As a message. Like sending boots of man you have killed.”

  “No, Mrs. Abdurov, Mr. Drinkwater had nothing to do with these.”

  “Then where did you get them?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Jeremiah, “because of issues of guest privacy.” Which was true to a certain extent, if not quite complete, as it did not include Jeremiah’s desire to avoid self-incrimination.

  “No problem you tell me Jack is junkie, but you cannot tell me who gives you iguana treats because issue of guest privacy?”

  “I never said Jack was a junkie.”

  “My birthday was not yesterday, Jeremiah. You are protecting someone. I do not blame you—you are good boy, but stupid, and you are trying to keep peace. But with men like Vor Drinkwater, there can be no peace. You have broken his safe deposit box? No? Then you do it tomorrow, yes? Or I am Highly Dissatisfy. Time grows short, and Marya Jana’s dead eyes must witness her revenge.”

  “What revenge?” said Jeremiah.

  “Is better you don’t know,” Mrs. Abdurov said. “Not good boy like you.”

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  * * *

  Given his increasingly pessimistic understanding of the law of averages, Jeremiah half expected Mrs. Mayflower to be lying in wait back at the office. When he did not find her there, he three quarters expected the insidious law of averages to cause her to sneak through the door at any moment. So his first visitor of the afternoon was doubly welcome—both in that he was not Mrs. Mayflower, and that he was who he was.

  “Mr. Chapin!” said Jeremiah. “Don’t bother with the stupid numbers, just sit down. Can I synth you a coffee? Tea?”

  Mr. Chapin made himself comfortable in the chair.

  “For starters you can call me Henry, as you have for the last two years.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but if Grubel heard me, I’d be done for.”

  “Fair enough,” said Mr. Chapin. “But there is something else that I hope you can do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Roof,” said Mr. Chapin.

  “What about him?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “The same as you, I suspect, if not less.”

  “Do you know why he’s on the E4?” Mr. Chapin asked.

  “No,” said Jeremiah.

  “Do you know if he’s dying?”

  “What? No.”

  “Do you know if he’s sick?”

  “No idea.”

  “Would you enter his room and find out for me?”

  “I’m sorry?” said Jeremiah.

  “If I keep him busy during lunch tomorrow, will you take the master keycard I assume you have in your new post, enter Roof’s room, have a look around, and report back to me anything you find that provides a clue as to why he’s on this cruise?”

  “Can’t you just ask him yourself?”

  Mr. Chapin shook his head.

  “You know the unwritten rules, Jeremiah. Passengers don’t talk about that sort of thing directly—we find out in other ways. Or have you ever asked me about my Fitzsimmon’s Disease?”

  “Touché,” said Jeremiah, blushing slightly.

  “And that’s just me. You know how Roof is when it comes to matters of decorum. If I asked him he would lift his nose and spin on his heel, maybe with a pointed remark about American manners.”

  “Can you at least tell me why you want to know?”

  “I would much rather not,” Mr. Chapin said.

  “And I suppose that if I refuse that you won’t be Highly Satisfied with my service?” said Jeremiah.

  “Don’t give me that extortion garbage. I offered to pay for your ticket—an offer which still stands.”

  “I don’t want your credit,” said Jeremiah. Though the sentiment was just as true as it had been the first time he said it, Jeremiah’s voice held considerably less conviction. He still didn’t want Chapin’s credit, but he wanted to want it.

  “I’m asking this as your friend,” Mr. Chapin said. “If you can do it, I’ll be eternally grateful. If you can’t, we’re still friends.”

  Jeremiah considered for a moment.

  “What the hell,” he said. “I’ve already broken into two passengers’ rooms in the last two days—no, don’t ask, you don’t want to know. But if it’s for a good cause, why not make it three? It is for a good cause?”

  “It is,” said Mr. Chapin, standing up and offering Jeremiah his hand. “And you’re a good man to do this. I’ll make sure that Roof doesn’t leave the dining room tomorrow between 12 o’clock and 1. I guess that means you’ll miss your own lunch.”

  Of the many downsides this mission might entail, the prospect of missing the eternal ham’s next incarnation did not exactly leave Jeremiah desolate.

  “By the way,” said Mr. Chapin, when he was almost at the door, “I saw someone strange out in the hall when I was arriving. She looked like a passenger—older, very fashionably dressed—but I’ve never seen her before. She seemed to be headed here, but I think I spooked her—as soon as she saw me she ran away. I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble there.”

  Jeremiah took pleasure in assuring Mr. Chapin that quite the opposite was the case, and that in fact—despite the favor he had just agreed to do for Mr. Chapin—Jeremiah was now very much in his debt.

  * * *

  Jeremiah was sitting on his sofa-bed, about to test the glue-for-wood job on the bandora, when Katherine returned from her dinner shift. The awkwardness he had felt that morning was still very much in the air as she came through the door—she hardly glanced in his direction, and her jaw looked tense. He needed to say something—something smooth and icebreaking and a little funny.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Did it work?” asked Katherine
.

  “The bandora? I was just about to try it. Can we talk about last night for a minute? All that crazy ‘you’re engaged’ stuff?”

  “I’d rather not,” said Katherine.

  “It’s just that—”

  “I’d really rather not.”

  “All right,” Jeremiah said. “Whatever you say.”

  “Katherine?” he said some 30 seconds later.

  “Yeah?”

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, why are you still standing there looking at me?”

  “I want to see what happens when you try the tacky ukulele,” she said.

  “Ah.”

  Jeremiah readied himself, cracked his knuckles, and took a deep breath. Then he strummed the bandora gently—so gently that he was not sure that his fingers had even brushed the strings.

  “Damn,” Jeremiah said. He held the wreckage of the bandora by the neck, letting the body dangle.

  “Yeah,” said Katherine. “I’m going to go to bed. You want me to get the light?”

  “No,” said Jeremiah, “I’m going to channel my inner grizzled veteran and try gluing this damn thing together again.”

  “Which glue are you going to use this time?”

  “Both,” he said. “Lots and lots of both.”

  20

  Very, Very Engaged

  Thursday (3 days until arrival)

  Jeremiah knew from his own days as a passenger that Mr. Porter was an early riser, a caffeine addict, and enough of a gourmand that—the aforementioned addiction notwithstanding—he utterly rejected the very concept of synthed coffee and insisted on brewed. So Jeremiah woke early the next morning and stalked Mr. Porter like a deer, laying in wait by the giant silver urn that the kitchen staff left on the table outside the dining room at six o’clock every morning for those who could not delay java consumption until full service began at eight o’clock. Jeremiah did not lay in wait long.

  Mr. Porter stumbled up to the table like a man who had spent so long in the desert he was now surviving on the memory of water. He rubbed his eyes a few times, as if he had just been spelunking through millennia of accumulated cobwebs, and finally his vision seemed to clear enough that he could spot and retrieve a cup from the porcelain tower on the table. Then, with an unsteadiness and speed that made Jeremiah’s breath catch, Mr. Porter began repeatedly to fill the cup from the urn and empty it into his mouth, tossing the coffee back and hardly swallowing.