The Platform

by J Noah Summerfield

  The twins had very obviously lashed out at these creatures. Or at least one of the twins. It was unlikely that either of them had enough sense to remove the leeches properly, and here was the proof. This could just be the aftermath of some ridiculous prank. She wouldn’t put it past either of them. Flecks of blood and mucus spread across the pod.

  Sage smiled, imagining Hector and Vector stomping around the pod, cursing at each other while they yanked leeches off their skin and chucked them at each other.

  Sage lifted her foot to see if she’d inadvertently stepped on any.

  Of course, she had. She’d been so relieved to escape the vents that she hadn’t even noticed. She scraped the mucus and flesh off her foot on the desk corner. Now that she knew it was there, she couldn’t stop feeling the sticky remnants.

  Gross.

  Well, no reason to spend any more time in this den of death.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BEATRICE PLANTAIN,

  THE “BRAIDED WOMAN”

  The pain from several rough fingers woke Beatrice up. No. Not fingers. Fingernails. The thin keratin dug into her biceps. The calloused skin was dry and rough against her skin.

  At least two people were dragging her across the floor, and quickly. The dorsal edge of her feet trailed along the floor. The people carrying her wore the thick material that was characteristic of Buckminster’s Roughnecks. That gave her some comfort. If they were Buckminster’s people, then they were also Sycamore’s people. Like her. But where were they taking her? Why had she been asleep?

  She remembered. She was caught in the middle of a mob, people demanding their rations. Their stupid rations. Please sir, a little more G for me? It never stopped. The plea echoed in her head. Everything about this place. Continuous and unceasing torment.

  “Hold on.”

  The Roughnecks continued to drag her through the corridor. They didn’t hear her.

  “Hold on,” Beatrice repeated, more forcefully this time.

  The one to her right spoke. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  The Roughnecks gave Beatrice a moment to get to her feet. “Then hurry. They are still beating each other in the corridor behind us. Buckminster is sending more of us to contain the fighting. But before that, we need to get out of there.”

  Beatrice nodded, prompting the Roughnecks to keep going. Beatrice kept pace with the Roughnecks. The movement helped her shake off the delirium from being momentarily knocked out, “What happened to the rest of my security team?”

  “They joined with some of us.”

  Beatrice stopped short. “Then I have to go back there.”

  “Sorry,” the Roughneck to her right gently placed his hand around her arm. “We have orders to keep you out of there.”

  Beatrice tried to pull her arm away, to go back to the fighting.

  “Please, Sycamore Johnston wants you assigned to something else.”

  ‘What do you mean? He’s taking my people away?”

  “He just said that we were to bring you to his quarters, if you were still alive, and that there was an urgent matter he needed you to look into.”

  What could Sycamore want with her? What could have happened that was more urgent than in-fighting throughout the lower corridors? Her people were overwhelmed. She had to help.

  The pit in Beatrice’s stomach dropped.

  Davie.

  The last time she saw him, the crowd was swarming him. Trampling him beneath their feet. Before she was knocked out, she knew that the crowd killed him. She saw his body. His face. Once he went down, the people around him didn’t even care that he was there. She counted him among her few friends.

  Davie was dead.

  Were those bland flecks of green shit really worth someone’s life?

  Poor fool.

  Stick this many desperate men in this confined space and someone’s life becomes expendable for any number of reasons. This she believed. It was partially why Sycamore assigned her to the security detail on the platform. But with these people, it wasn’t just what they did. It was the baseless instinct on which they functioned. They tore each other apart like rabid dogs, and they weren’t even sure why. Their actions were unprincipled and undisciplined.

  It was infuriating.

  If you’re going to do something disgusting, then you should at least have enough conviction to articulate why, especially in a place like this. The people on this planet had to make hard choices every day. They functioned without any guidance or moral compass. Perhaps that was why a mere handful had to do all of the work for them.

  Behind her, squads of Security and Roughnecks spread out through the Alpine’s levels. They blocked the pathways that provided access to each surface and sub-surface level. Shouts and yells resonated through the platform. Each cluster of the mob raised its volume to a shrill and visceral point. The noise even blocked out the drone from the air vents.

  Thank God for small favors, she thought with a tiny grin.

  The Roughnecks were particularly vocal about their presence as they were swept into the fray. They were armed with equipment customarily used on the main derrick. Their thick attire made them particularly useful as human shields.

  Beatrice couldn’t see all of this, but she could hear it. She could hear all of it.

  “Please, we must go. The Roughnecks are assisting the remaining members of your security teams. We have the fighting contained within each corridor.”

  Beatrice walked hesitantly with the Roughnecks. She didn’t like the idea of leaving her people to contain the idiots on this platform without her, but if Buckminster’s people were also helping, then how much could she really contribute? It wasn’t as though her sudden appearance in some corridor would bring Davie back.

  And if Sycamore wanted her to see him, for any reason, she needed a really good reason to refuse.

  So she conceded. She wound her way through the upper corridors with the two Roughnecks, heading towards Sycamore Johnston’s captain’s quarters.

  “What does he want with me?”

  “There was a murder. Something about a child.”

  “A child?” Eventually, something would work to their advantage, but this wasn’t that time.

  When they ascended, the tiniest of birds, a grey-headed albatross, abandoned its perch on the vertical gardens and flew overhead. It circled and doubled over on its path above Beatrice’s head. Its amplified fluttering stirred the palpable concoction of boiling blood and blistering moods. Fickle occupants were distracted by the wildlife, almost in awe of its disjointed patterns. Evidently, it was not any happier with its surroundings than she was, and wanted desperately to flee its rigid square surrounds. Reckless hand-waving coaxed the albatross back over the deck and it blended back into the vines.

  Beatrice stood before Sycamore Johnston, arms crossed, head lowered in defeat. She had failed to keep the ration distribution under control. All of Sycamore’s people were around her. Even Buckminster, the notorious brute, stood off to one side. No one dared stand next to him. That was Caribou’s spot. The Mousy Girl. and the Farmers were also there to witness her humiliation.

  Buckminster Jackhammer turned to Beatrice. “Are you going to move forward with the investigation?”

  “You know the answer to that, Mr. Jackhammer, unless you think the boy was a random victim.” So, Sycamore wants her to investigate a child’s murder?

  “No. I'm fairly certain that the boy is the only person on this facility that isn't a random victim,” Sycamore interjected.

  “Right. Right. You know, Sycamore, I do want to live through this. My men want to live through this.”

  “So do I.”

  “Will we? Live through this?”

  “I think that we will.”

  “I lost a good man this morning,” Buckminster said. “I needed him on the rig. This platform needed him. He knew how all of the systems worked with each other, better than me. Now all of the responsibility is on my shoulders. I also l
ost a few during your food problem, a problem which still doesn't have a solution. Keep that in mind. How are you going to replace the spoiled food? What will happen to us when you don't? Will we starve while drilling up your oil? You have more than one problem here. These are problems that will persist if you don't address them now.”

  The Mousy Girl spoke up. “If the occupants’ hidden reserves are as large as I suspect, then yes, this population will survive. We will use those reserves while I double the workers in the algae fields. There are many variables. The most pressing is the food. We had to eliminate three dozen cubits of dried goods due to a fungal growth from storm water contamination…”

  Sycamore cut her off. “The people on this platform are resourceful. They will find a way, whether we like it or not.”

  “Only some,” Buckminster said, “as long as the people that break their backs on the main deck are on your short list.”

  “And I hope that you are among them, because I enjoy these little talks of ours. I would hate to see them come to an end. We still need you to run the rig. Don’t think that I have forgotten. That is still an important function, however little oil is left below our feet.”

  “Enough to last through my lifetime. I’m going to get some rest. I’ll forget this bit about you giving our food to some starving fungus.” Buckminster said. “Solve that problem before I remember. And figure out who is ripping the eyes out of our kids.”

  “I’m on it,” Beatrice said.

  “Then I hope it’s not too soon. I would hate to be in a position where I would have to find a suitable replacement,” Sycamore whispered. Beatrice wondered if he meant for her to hear that. She watched through lowered lids as he settled into his seat, nestling his elbows into the table. She doubted he’d had a moment of peace since the fights broke out in the corridors. Since the dead child was found, He was clearly agitated. Damage control would be the only thing he could think about.

  “Do you want me to assume control over the food held in the individual pods and have it turned over to the common stores?” the Mousy Girl asked. She picked up her notepad.

  “No.” Sycamore nodded, obviously pleased with her brutal efficiency. “The food the occupants hide from me is one of the more useful games they play to survive. Take that away, and they will eat each other alive.”

  “We need to reinforce those ration stores somehow. I can radio one of the military ships or one of the cruise liners for assistance.”

  “No cruise liners,” Sycamore insisted.

  “These occupants will look to us if we don’t feed them.”

  “That might happen whether or not you invade their cupboards,” Buckminster warned.

  “That’s the supplies of every pod on the platform.”

  “How long will that last divided among four hundred starving people?”

  “We won’t know until we find out how much they’re hiding.”

  “However much that is, it’s a temporary solution. The problem isn’t replacing the lost food. The problem is creating more food where there was none. Unfortunately, this facility isn’t known for its abundance of farmland. The more we deteriorate, the more likely that the people here will come up with their own solutions. Tomorrow morning, we will use every boat in our waters to fish. We will pull every calorie that we need from the ocean until the algae fields can replenish our supplies.”

  “That's not easy. We don't have the equipment to manage that kind of catch, to preserve it over the time period needed for the algae fields to produce enough food. And there is also not enough fish in these waters for that kind of catch. There has never been enough fish around here to sustain us.”

  The Mousy Girl stepped closer to Sycamore. “The people won't stop fighting each other anytime soon. Not with everything that is happening around here. So what do you want me to do? Sit and watch like some bottom dwelling ambush fish? If we need time, the individual pods can give us that.”

  “Are your people the pigs, or the trough? I expect you to do your job.” The bags under Sycamore’s eyes looked heavy.

  “What about the Whalers?”

  “They returned today with two sand tiger sharks.”

  “Is that it?”

  “It is.”

  “We can’t feed four hundred people with two sand tigers.”

  “No we can’t.”

  “And there isn’t any guarantee that tomorrow will be better.”

  “There is some good news, however. The Whalers indicated that the algae fields were unscathed. We can start replacing our lost rations on schedule.”

  “If we survive that long.”

  “This is terrible,” Sycamore said, cursing softly. “Completely unacceptable.”

  Beatrice frowned as she realized that the room had gone quiet. The Roughnecks must have gained some control over the platform, or at least the upper corridors, and she figured he would turn his attention to the next big problem on the platform.

  “I understand that the body is with the medical examiner,” Beatrice said. She stood still. The question felt automatic. She was still mourning Davie. She doubted that Sycamore even knew that he was dead. Trampled to death by the people she was trying to feed.

  “Did Dr. Gossamer have anything to offer?”

  “I expect that she placed the body in a freezer, but I haven’t had a chance to speak to her. Buckminster’s people brought me here first, to report to you.”

  “Beatrice, find out who did this, as quickly as possible. Do whatever it takes.” The leather in his lounge chair crackled distinctly with every movement.

  “Sir…I am not a detective.”

  “No one here is. But you are the Head of Security. I already have the rest of your security team and Buckminster’s Roughnecks patrolling the corridors to minimize any further disturbances. You are therefore free to tackle this problem.” Sycamore paused. “Did anyone tell you anything strange about the boy?”

  “No one told me any of the details. How he died. Who he is. Nothing.”

  “I see. Start with Dr. Gossamer. See if she has anything to say about what happened to the boy, and see if she can find anything in his blood. She might let you know how to proceed.

  “And Beatrice, if you find out anything about the explosion that Buckminster doesn’t know…”

  “Like who caused it?”

  “We know who caused it.” Sycamore paused.

  Beatrice chided herself for her carelessness. Sycamore doesn’t like being interrupted.

  “Hani Katharda neglected his station when the explosion happened. He disappeared when the Whalers returned from their hunt. I expect that he went down below to find some place to hide. If he was smart, he would have stayed at the algae fields. If you find out anything, then report immediately to Buckminster. In the midst of this bullshit, we still have to keep the rig in working order. You have the authority to place people in confinement. Contain them for however long you need. But Buckminster will want to punish whoever it was that put this place in jeopardy, to avenge whatever happened to his rig, he and his Roughnecks. They feel some personal responsibility to this place, and I wouldn’t be the one that gets in his way.”

  “Yes sir.” Beatrice acknowledged his command and marched out of his office to speak to Dr. Gossamer.

  Natural light beamed through large glass panels on the far wall. The light shimmered off the stainless steel surfaces, all of them well-maintained for fear of the inevitable decay that came with time. There was even a clean air filter on the vents which had the fortunate side effect of muting the irritating drone. Throughout the medical bay, the injured and infirm occupied a succession of beds and chairs. Some of them were Roughnecks, injured from the night before. They were a priority for the platform. This meant that they were a priority for Dr. Gossamer. As a result, they got the beds. The others, the simple residents and Squatters, had to settle for the chairs. Others were stuck with the floor, taking up an empty corner. Even more lined up in the corridor outside of the medical bay. Under no
rmal conditions, Dr. Gossamer wouldn't tolerate the disarray, but the riots kept the patients flowing in faster than she could kick them out. It was all she could do to keep the influx under control.

  The doctor hunched over some Roughneck, threading a needle through a gash in his leg. Wet gauze littered the floor around her.

  Beatrice stood just outside the door, hesitant to interrupt the procedure.

  A nurse shuffled from patient to patient. Her white gown was smeared with red and brown. She didn't seem to notice or care that Beatrice stood expectantly in the doorway. The nurse was young, even younger than Beatrice. Maybe the nurse was afraid to make eye contact. Her complexion was pale, but not the ghostly pallor that most of the people had below the surface. Hers was a healthier, milkier glow, undoubtedly a result of a healthy dose of vitamin D and choice access to medicine while avoiding hard labor. She had the right idea, Beatrice thought.

  The doctor looked up from her patient's partially sutured leg, let out a deep exhale, as though she had forgotten to breathe. She shut her eyes for an extended blink and gestured for Beatrice to enter. At the invitation, the Braided Woman shut the door behind her. A loud click interrupted the pained mumbling from the patients.

  Beatrice inhaled a tangy mixture of sterile equipment and chemical burns.

  “My time is usually spent on the living, Beatrice,” the doctor said as she moved to the far wall. “We have enough problems with the living.”

  The doctor pulled a long drawer from the wall, which contained four freezer slabs, the ship's unofficial morgue. Hector’s body lay flat in the mortuary drawer. Frost covered the outer edges of the boy’s sunken eyes. His face was a pale blue. Beatrice and Dr. Gossamer stood over the body.

  A few patients raised their heads to peer onto the table.

  Beatrice had to suppress a gag reflex when she saw the boy’s face. She knew that his eyes were missing. What she didn’t expect was something so rough, almost reckless. Naively, she expected a clean wound. But this was different. Haphazard. She saw scratch marks around the sockets, maybe from a small knife, maybe from some sharp nails. Beatrice imagined Squatters clawing at the ground as they tried to grab a few more handfuls of algae rations. She saw that same frenzied movement on the boy’s face. What could Sycamore expect her to do about this?