Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales

by Simon Strantzas

  “Shouldn’t we wait until Dr. Markowitz and Linden get here?”

  “They can’t possibly be much longer, and the sooner we begin the sooner everything will be ready.”

  The two of them pried the lid off the grey crate easily, placing the loose board against the wall. The smell was horrible—the rotting odor of briny seaweed. Inside the crate were dozens of sample jars, all carefully wrapped in newspaper, and as Olivia unwrapped them, lining the jars up along the counter, Randal couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “Dr. Markowitz must have expected there would be trouble,” Olivia said, “so he shipped all bacterial specimens ahead to make sure no one intercepted them.”

  “We don’t know he ran into trouble. It sounds—”

  “I don’t care how it sounds, Randal. I don’t believe they’re just late and I don’t think you do either. Why else would Markowitz have shipped this stuff first? Why wouldn’t he and Linden have just brought it back?”

  “For the same reason anyone ships anything to themselves: to get it home without having to carry it. Makes sense to me.” Randal continued to hold up items from the crate, inspecting each as it was withdrawn. Other than the odor, which not only persisted but radiated outward, he found six vials containing microbial swabs, a block of what looked like a rock of glass inside a sealed transparent container, and Markowitz’s coiled field notebook. It was that last discovery that most surprised him.

  “He never would have shipped that separately,” she said, as Randal inspected the notebook. “Not unless he was worried about who might see it.”

  He didn’t argue. Dr. Markowitz wouldn’t have let go of his research, or entrusted it to anyone. There was something strange about the crate’s contents, something that did not bode well. Everyone, including Dean Coxwell, had been so sure that Dr. Markowitz and Linden would be returning soon. Everyone but Olivia. Suddenly, Randal found himself agreeing something might be wrong. He looked at the coiled notebook in his hand, then decided it was safest in his pocket instead of Olivia’s hands. He did not expect her to argue with him.

  And she didn’t. She didn’t even offer him a reason why. But Randal already knew the reason. It was a six-foot-tall reason, with broad shoulders and a deep tan. It was the sort of reason Randal hated.

  “I’ll ask Dean Coxwell. He must know where Dr. Markowitz really is.”

  But Dean Coxwell did not know. He was as in the dark as anyone. Randal learned this when Coxwell arrived at the lab the next day, unannounced, his knit vest twisted and left uncorrected. Olivia had already left for the evening.

  Dean Coxwell hovered around the room conspicuously as Randal worked, clearly contemplating what he should say. Randal feigned nonchalance, but the man’s presence left him uneasy. He and Olivia had decided to wait before mentioning the arrival of the crate and its contents, in case the reason for Markowitz’s subterfuge was larger than either of them thought. Randal made her swear to keep everything a secret for as long as possible. At least, until they had a better idea of what was happening.

  With Dean Coxwell there, out of the blue, Randal was worried the dean might discover the crate and be unable to contain his curiosity. He did his best to act as if nothing were different and simply waited. Coxwell glanced at the crate only once, and in that one look it was clear he had no idea it had been delivered, and Randal was in no rush to tell him. Not until he and Olivia had a chance to itemize its contents fully.

  “I’ve spoken to the other department heads,” Dean Coxwell finally said, “and no one has heard a single thing on the whereabouts of Dr. Markowitz. I even dispatched one of the secretaries to his home on two separate occasions, but all she was able to discover was a stack of unread mail and periodicals clogging the entrance. Unfortunately, we must plan for the very real eventuality that the doctor will not be here for the commencement of classes this semester. Do you have his curriculum and lesson plans available to you?”

  “I may have last year’s. Who should I forward them to? Please, don’t say Dr. Eisenhower—that man’s an idiot.”

  The dean laughed and adjusted his glasses. “In fact, I came to relate that this year we seem to have a deficit of professors. With Markowitz’s return still nebulous, it was my hope that you, with the help of the young Ms. Marshall, could maintain some semblance of order in the lectures. You and she are the most familiar with Markowitz’s work and teaching style, and seem most qualified to assume his duties. At least in the short term. Should it be required. We must have contingency plans, after all.”

  Randal was in disbelief.

  “You want me to teach the class?”

  “Until Markowitz’s return, of course.”

  But Randal could not hear him clearly, his head clouded with the idea of leading Dr. Markowitz’s lectures. He’d heard so many already, the sound of them played on a loop in the chambers of his mind. And suddenly an opportunity had presented itself to step into the man’s shoes and bask in the glory of being idolized by the undergraduate student body. He could not believe it was a position Dean Coxwell would trust to simply anyone.

  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Dean Coxwell looked at him nervously, pulled at his ill-fitting vest, and blinked repeatedly. Randal did not wonder what that look might have meant. His head was too full of dreams. The mystery of Dr. Markowitz and Linden’s disappearance temporarily forgotten.

  Randal had not yet found the right time to tell Olivia of his conversation with the dean before news of the Oregon erupted on campus. The local television stations did not air much about the event, choosing instead to focus on the latest political scandal, thereby fanning the flames of misinformation whispered between buildings and dormitory rooms. From what Randal could gather, there were reports of a research vessel sinking just off the continental shelf, though no one yet understood how or where. All the Coast Guard had were a number of garbled short-wave radio calls and some GPS coordinates relayed from a local satellite. Both these discoveries seemed dubious to Randal, but they were reported as gospel by one of the junior professors who had heard it from a school administrator—who was sure she had heard it reported somewhere. All Randal knew for certain was what Dean Coxwell had been told by the Coast Guard in response to the university’s inquiry: There was nothing out of the ordinary in the unintelligible radio transmissions from the boat, only that there was some engine trouble and a request for assistance had been sent. When the Coast Guard arrived at the coordinates given, however, they found no sign of the Oregon. Both Dr. Markowitz and Linden Cain were presumed dead.

  Olivia did not return to the lab for three days despite Randal’s repeated calls. Students were already arriving on campus, and the preparation of both the laboratories and lectures was overwhelming. Randal prided himself on how well he coped with the added work—something at which he was certain the late Linden would have failed, if not worse. It was nearly insurmountable, but he appreciated both the challenge, and the distraction.

  When Olivia finally returned, it was with dark sunken eyes and an air of unrest about her. She was jittery, her mind unfocused, and had he not needed her so badly he might have sent her away for a little while longer. But she was needed, and not only for her technical skills. Over the summer Randal had grown accustomed to the smell of her strawberry shampoo in the room with him, how a solitary glance from her was enough to invigorate him, even when the doldrums and the irritating summer students worked to grind him down. He couldn’t fill Markowitz’s shoes without her by his side, nor did he want to. He wondered if perhaps it was Linden’s death that reinvigorated his feelings.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” Randal said, trying to find the line between supporting her grief while wanting to move beyond it.

  “I’m sorry I was gone so long, I just—I need some time.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I understand. Still, I really missed you. I mean, your help. I really missed your help.”

  She smiled weakly and put her lab coat on over her
clothes. Randal tried to keep his eyes on his laboratory prep work.

  “So you’re doing the lectures now?” She wasn’t looking at him when she asked.

  “The dean asked me. It’s only for a week or two. He has another professor coming in to take over, but he can’t begin until then.”

  She nodded her head, still gazing at her shoes. He didn’t know if he wanted to hug her or try and shake her to her senses. She looked up at him, and her eyes were already steamed.

  “What would pirates want with a research boat?”

  “Pirates? I don’t think it was—I mean, there’s no reason to assume it was. It’s not like the microscopes were worth taking. Maybe some of the equipment would be worth something but—but I don’t think it was pirates.”

  “What do you think it was, then?”

  Randal shrugged, uncomfortable.

  “Olivia, I’m not sure what to tell you. I’m not sure what happened, no one is, but we can’t let it rule our lives. We have to keep moving. Dean Coxwell is working on getting me another doctoral advisor, but in the interim we have to put this material together for class. There are students already here, drinking and getting ready for the new semester. We have to be ready for them, too.”

  “Drinking sounds like the perfect idea lately.”

  Randal turned around and looked at her. She seemed so helpless, so ruined by what had happened. Meanwhile his heart was racing faster than he ever thought possible. So fast his head was beginning to swim. When her glance moved to his face, his eyes locking with hers, the words just came tumbling from his mouth.

  “Do—did you want to go get a drink? Tonight? With me, I mean?”

  She continued to look into his eyes, her own face not changing at all, as though she hadn’t heard his question, or was disgusted by the timing. He wished he could simply lean forward and grab the words right out of the air, stop them from ever being spoken. All Randal could think about was the sound his own heart, throbbing loudly in his head.

  She nodded, then turned back to filling the petri dishes.

  2

  Randal waited for Olivia at The Brass Keg for two hours, his stare transfixed on the entrance the entire time, and when it was clear Olivia would not show nor answer her cell phone, he followed the only logical course of action and drank until he could no longer remember her name.

  When he awoke the following morning, he felt far worse than he had ever imagined possible—far worse, he wagered, than anyone had ever felt and remained alive. His head throbbed as though his brain had been torn apart and stitched back together incorrectly, and his mouth was covered in a thick white layer of paste. In the back of his mind he realized there was nothing abnormal about the bacteria, but their presence left him feeling sick all the same.

  It took him an hour longer than usual to reach the laboratory, the impact of each step reverberating through his body until they invaded his aching head, and the three stops he made to vomit in the bushes around campus did not help his mood at all. Once he finally arrived, he immediately dry-heaved; the stench in the lab was horrendous. Olivia sat there working, seemingly oblivious to the odor.

  “What is that? Did something die in here?”

  She turned and, when she saw him, the look of shock on her face almost convinced Randal it was sincere.

  “What happened to you?”

  Despite all the speeches he had practiced, he couldn’t bring himself to mention what she’d done.

  “Late night. But what happened in here?”

  “That smell? I don’t even notice it anymore. It’s coming from this.” She held up one of the specimen jars from the Markowitz expedition labeled ‘Hydrothermal Plume—Day Fourteen.’ Immediately, Randal snapped awake.

  “Put that away. Do you want everyone to find out?”

  “It’s okay, Randal. No one is supposed to be here for hours yet. Besides, I needed the equipment to figure out what these samples are.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Doing this helps keep me distracted. If I don’t keep busy, I’m going to lose my mind. I had to leave my cell phone turned off just to keep from checking it every five minutes, hoping Linden would call.”

  Randal nodded his head. It was the second most painful thing he’d been faced with that day. He almost asked her if she’d had it off the night before, hoping for some legitimate reason she hadn’t come to The Brass Keg. Then it occurred to him she might be bringing it up purposely to dissuade him from mentioning it. It was too early, and he was still too hung over, to properly assess the intricacies of the situation.

  He sank his hands into the pockets of his jacket, hoping to hide their jittering from Olivia. As he did, he found something there he hadn’t been expecting. A hard rectangle. He immediately knew what it was.

  “Randal, did you hear me?”

  He looked up. Olivia stared at him.

  “Pardon?”

  “Did you speak to the dean? Who’s your new advisor now that . . . now that Dr. Markowitz isn’t here?”

  “He didn’t say. Not yet. I’ll ask soon.”

  “You’d better. You’re too smart to let it all slip away.”

  He nodded again, but he was distracted by what was in his pocket, by what he’d somehow managed to forget he had.

  Olivia yawned. Rubbed her eyes until they turned red.

  “I think you’re right. I’ve been at this too long.”

  “Listen, do you mind cleaning up without me? I have to . . . I forgot something in my room.”

  “You? You forgot something?”

  He chuckled. He hoped it was meant as a joke. Olivia did not seem to be laughing, but after the news of Markowitz and Linden, he wasn’t sure if either of them would laugh again.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. “Make sure you hide the crate in the back room again before someone sees it.”

  Olivia shrugged and turned back to what she’d been doing before he interrupted.

  When Randal was sure he was alone, he pulled the half-sized notebook from his pocket and rolled it over in his fingers, feeling its grit and texture. Dr. Markowitz had written his name in large block letters across the cover in an act of either personal affirmation or pride, and inside his tiny cramped handwriting filled the pages edge-to-edge until they were near solid black, any free space filled with errant notes, diagrams, and calculations. The coil-bound book had weight, filled with secrets for Randal alone to discover. Olivia would find no solace inside, discover nothing about Linden she didn’t already know. At best, it would prolong the mourning and pain she had already suffered. In a sense, Randal was protecting her—keeping her focused on the immediate, and letting her past fall away.

  Some of the pages of Markowitz’s notebook were wrinkled from exposure to sea air and water, creating soft haloes where letters should have been. Thankfully, little of importance had been affected, and Randal was still able to read the bulk of what Markowitz had written, albeit with a small amount of difficulty.

  August 2nd

  What a fantastic day to start the search! The sun was shining brightly, and there was a slight cool breeze coming in off the water. But it was a good breeze, a dry breeze, not strong enough to move a cloud were there even one in the sky. It was a day made for boating, and blissfully that’s exactly what I came to do!

  Linden and I loaded the equipment on the Oregon for most of the morning. The grant money has been enough to rent the boat for a month, as well as to build the computer equipment we need on her. A month. It still seems so short a time, but we have a good idea where the Onkoul Vent is, so all we need to do is find it. Linden was in great spirits today, and I think that may have had an influence on my own bliss. He’s long been one of my most trusted doctoral students, and luckily for me a good enough boatman that between the two of us we can manage the ship on our own. I’m lucky to have him, and I think the greatest reward I could give him for his years of work is a co-author on the paper. It could change everything.

  I must admit, I need this paper more now than ever.
Certainly, my tenure at the university is assured, but the same can’t be said for my ability to continue exploring this strange world. I’m older than I’ve ever been—my legs no longer work the way they once did, the skin of my neck hangs lower than it ought. It came on so suddenly, age. So suddenly I wasn’t even paying attention when it arrived. I thought I had all the time in the world, but it’s clear now I was deluding myself. The folly of youth! I may be older, but alas not wiser. Nevertheless, I endeavor to make up for lost time, now before its too late. One last paper, one last exploration into the greatest mystery of our world—the depth of the ocean. Should I find the organisms I hope to find, a new paradigm will emerge.

  I know they think me crazy, back at the university. Dean Coxwell, I suspect, would rather be rid of me altogether, but my tenure, thankfully, guarantees me some room to maneuver. I’ll be the first to admit it: my star has fallen, but in some ways this too is a blessing. Being left alone, I’m free to focus on those projects that interest me most, and what interests this old coot more than anything now is the future, and the multiplication of humanity. Much like the bacterium, man will spread until he consumes all his resources. The only place left to go is the stars.

  Beneath the sea, on the vent of the earth, the extreme life forms live. If we can harness that power, that ability to thrive in previously unlivable conditions . . . It’s the key, I think, to life. To the future. We have only to tap the potential of this world so we might find another.

  Oh, I mustn’t continue this! I’ll need some sleep to keep my wits about me on our maiden voyage tomorrow!

  August 4th

  I take a few moments to write in this journal because I have nothing else to show for the day, other than mindless driving. The rooms Linden and I rented are next door to each other in a small motel close to the marina. This way, we needn’t worry about travelling too long or far to reach the boat. Even a few minutes could prove vital.