She swam around the sea-mount often enough where it hardly mattered whether or not she bathed. But considering the filth on her skin and clothes, Sage decided to look past the mocking and take a real bath.
The Alpine in general had to manufacture its clean water. The structure maintained a few large boilers for heating, filtering and dispersing grey water. That water insulated the Alpine’s interior from the frigid temperatures outside—the water was enriched with minerals, but the minerals came from the assortment of chemicals that eked their way into every corner of the platform. The water spider-webbed throughout the rig. The process allowed the ocean to cool the waters as it traveled through the Alpine’s lower pipes before reaching the baths, and, in its final stages, as nourishment to the vertical gardens.
A small porthole carved out of the side revealed coming darkness. An ocean mist smeared down the thick plastic.
This place isn’t as empty as I hoped, Sage thought. Certainly she wasn’t the only one to see the baths as an escape from everything that had been happening, but she thought that it would take them longer to find their way there.
There were times when the place was filled with people like the baths of ancient Rome, if the Walrus’s books were to be believed. Because apparently the engineers from the Roman Empire had nothing better to do than clean themselves - to hear it from the Walrus’s mouth.
Small ledges of moss on ruined stone stretched along the wet walls. A young mother struggled to wash the hair of her child, who jumped and twisted around any shut faucet at eye-level. An old man let his wrinkly skin wrinkle some more. He was not in the least affected by the child’s frenetic meanderings. An elderly woman dunked her head into a large pool of chilled water energized with a mild electric current. She smacked the tiles, browned and mildewed, and let loose a little yelp. She seemed to enjoy the jolt a little too much. None of them acknowledged Sage’s entrance. They had other things to think about.
A few girls, older than Sage, were settled along a bench soaked in the pervasive moisture. Their eyes were half shut. Sage suspected that this was so that they could watch for anyone that tempted to abuse civility and succumb to their base and animalistic impulses. But for the most part, they fell into that habit to keep an eye out for clients. The platform’s occupants still paid attention to such things, as was often lamented by many of the other residents.
Sage saw more than she would have liked, their bare bosoms barely hidden by the undulations of water vapor, their waists lilted in lazy luxury. Maybe they were bathing. Maybe they were advertising themselves as a lure for the weary people on the platform. Like Sirens. Her grasp of the ancient myths was limited, but that’s what Melia called them. In any event, they were certainly busy once the storm reached the platform, but they probably spent that morning lounging and without anything to do, hungry like everyone else. She doubted they even knew about the mess with the algae rations.
Some of the Sirens whispered to each other and giggled. If there were more people in the baths, then these Sirens wouldn't be so idle.
A large man walked into the baths behind Sage. He was a Roughneck, from the looks of him. Burns were visible across his arms and upper back. His eyes looked weary, not from starvation, but from exhaustion. He looked around the baths, spotted Sage and quickly turned away. He lowered his head as though that would hide his presence. Then he spotted the Sirens and bee-lined towards their section of the baths. They smiled as he approached. They giggled about something. One of them took a glance at Sage and nodded in her direction before returning to the conversation with the Roughneck.
Sage didn’t like this. She hoped that they would leave. Maybe it would be better if she was the one that left, but then she would never get the stink and filth off her body. One whiff set her resolve to take a bath. A splash of water on her face was not enough.
The Sirens giggled behind her.
Sage walked to the opposite corner of the baths. She had other things to think about, other things to forget. She sat behind a standalone faucet where she could hide. The dim lighting and steam made it easy. She turned on the water. Nothing came out. The pumps weren’t on. Of course. There wasn’t any water running through the place. They diverted the water from the pumps to the surface after the accident. No wonder the place was empty. They only had pools of standing water. That and the hand pump.
She moved to a hand-crank that was near the bath pumps. She would have to pass in front of the Sirens and the Roughneck again and risk the ire of their gossip, but it was that or walk out of there smelling like vomit. Just get it over with, Sage thought. Through the rising steam, they probably didn’t even know that she was there. She put a bucket under a large copper pipe and gave the crank a few heaves. A heavy jet of water ejected from the pipe and fell into the plastic bucket.
Excess spray flew out of the bucket and into Sage’s face.
Still more chattering from the Siren’s corner.
The water was cold. Freezing, actually. Without the pumps, the water just sat in the tanks and never passed trough the water heaters. She held her hands under the pipe and felt the water run over and through her fingers. It didn’t get any warmer. She stopped pulling the crank and stared at her bucket full of cold water.
The Siren’s giggled behind her, but it didn't sound quite the same. They clucked at each other. The Roughneck that walked in would keep them busy for awhile.
Sage gave them another glance. Some of them were scarred with chemical burns. One girl had a yellowed face, another had missing fingers. They were Roughnecks once. Now they passed the time sitting on tiles. They returned her glance with a smile.
They weren’t going to bother her, which was fine by Sage. It meant that she could wash the stink off in peace. She carried the bucket back to her hiding spot behind a high porcelain column with a brass spout. Some water splashed over the rim of the bucket. A plastic step stool served as a chair, worn and grimy with decades of use. Sage splashed some soap and cold water on the chair so she could at least create the appearance that it was clean. The water didn't wash away any of the mildew.
Sage frowned. There was another stool a few faucets away. She would see if it was any cleaner.
A few ratty and frayed towels were intermittently stranded along the faucet’s ledges, free to use, if anyone was so inclined. Sage took one, churned up the water with the soap and generated some suds in the bucket.
A southern foam-nest tree frog nestled on a ledge in front of her. These were among her favorites. Chiromantis xerampelina. Sage suspected that someone farmed them for food, but a few apparently found their way into the Alpine’s corridors and survived. If you were attentive, you could spot them.
The frog appeared to be happy to take advantage of the moisture content in the room. Its legs curled up under its body. Its pasty skin camouflaged it against the discoloration on the tiles.
“Tell me. How have you managed to survive all this time?” she asked aloud.
The frog didn’t answer. Rude frog.
“I could turn you into a soup, you know.”
Still no response.
“Have you ever had frog leg soup?”
The frog blinked. At least that was something. Sage wondered if it was one blink for yes or one blink for no.
“Was it good?”
That question didn't merit a blink. Maybe it was one blink for no. Or no blinks for maybe.
“Have it your way then, just don’t expect to get any crickets from me.”
The joke was on the frog. She didn't have any crickets to offer either way.
It adjusted its pudgy limbs and stared at her.
She smelled her hands and arms. They still stunk of vomit. She scrubbed and scrubbed. The smell grabbed her. She gagged.
This stench was probably why the frog wasn't very talkative, Sage thought. Would the Sirens still show such enthusiasm for her if they knew what she smelled like?
If this bath didn’t get rid of the stench, she was going to march straight to t
he surface and take a long swim in the ocean. A full hour soaking in salt water would either clean what soap and suds would not, or at the very least mask the stench.
Not long after Sage sat down, Naamah entered the bath. She did not look covered in vomit. Maybe she came directly from her pod. It was possible. The Walrus and Naamah’s pod was well stocked. They probably didn’t care much about waiting in ration lines, at least not yet. Most likely, she just needed to get away from the Walrus for a few minutes.
Naamah slipped out of her dress. She let the material moisten in the thin layer of water that settled on the tiles, seemingly unaware that her clothes were wet. The reds and greens in the material darkened from their faded versions. She sauntered to a stool and sat down, hunched over a faucet, clinging to a small towel. It wasn’t one of the rough and ratty disasters strewn about the baths. It was clearly one of her own, a piece of cloth like the shawl that she used to wrap around her shoulders. The old highlights of black and red were visible through the mist.
She was so close that Sage could see the goose bumps along Naamah’s exposed skin. Even so, Naamah didn’t seem to realize the Sage was even there.
“Hi,” Sage said.
Naamah didn’t look up.
“Hello?”
First the frog, and now Naamah. Apparently the stench was that bad. No one wanted to talk to her. Except the flock of Sirens, but they didn't count. Sage wanted to ask her if the Walrus escaped the fighting in the corridors, but what if he didn’t? Could that be why she was so somber? Maybe she shouldn’t bring it up. Then again, Naamah might feel the need to talk to someone if she didn’t know what happened to the Walrus. She didn’t look like she was in the middle of the fighting. No bruises. Her hair was neatly tied up. Why would she be here if it didn’t involve the Walrus?
“Did you hear about what happened with the rations?”
Still ignoring her.
When nothing came out of the faucet, Naamah moved next to the vat with the electrified water. She hunched next to another lady. They took turns dunking their head and limbs into the small pool. First one, then the other. When it wasn’t her turn, she dragged some of the water into her towel and scraped the material over her dark skin.
Eventually, Naamah brought a splash of water to her face. Her eyes shut, she remained oblivious to the people around her. Sage thought it was better if she let Naamah have the time to herself. She had no idea how the morning's accident affected her, never mind the problem with the food. If Naamah was part of the ration line, she probably felt the same way. But Sage gave the Walrus and Naamah all sorts of goodies from her hunts. She even risked her life to complete some of those catches. But for some reason, Naamah didn’t seem to care that Sage was right next to her. Naamah didn’t even appear to recognize her.
Cold water spread across the floor.
Sage didn’t like that Naamah didn’t seem to acknowledge that Sage was also in the room.
Maybe it would help if I spoke to her about her sermon.
Sage inhaled. She still stunk. Her nose twisted in disgust as she took another attempt at soaping and scrubbing her body. She scrubbed even after her skin turned red. She took special care to ensure that the leech bite didn’t show any signs of infection. She slowly massaged soap around the bite.
Naamah just sat there. She wasn’t soaping herself. She didn't even bother to pump water into a bucket. If she was on the ration line, then at least no one puked on her.
Sage turned her head to the side and inhaled. She let the cold water flow over her head and through her hair. It was refreshing. The bites weren’t as bad as they could have been. She managed to remove them and they didn’t appear to be a risk of infection. That let her relax a little.
After all of this nonsense, she could use a nap.
When she finished with her bath, she saw Naamah on her way out. She was still there, hunched over on her stool, her mind seemingly elsewhere.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BEATRICE PLANTAIN,
THE “BRAIDED WOMAN”
A Straggler, visibly drunk and in a groggy stupor, moaned in the middle of the hall. Beatrice Plantain kicked him aside and knocked on a nearby steel door. She covered her face to escape the Straggler’s stench of grime, sweat and shit. There was a moment of silence after the knocks stopped echoing through the corridor.
Apparently, the other twin wasn’t inside the pod.
She gave the handle a little nudge. Unlocked.
She looked inside. “Well what the hell happened here?”
She expected a murder scene. Blood. Signs of violence. Wreckage. Smashed furniture. Maybe a murder weapon. At best, she expected to find the other twin.
She took in the room around her. The place was a sty. The sheets on the beds were unkempt. Dozens of plastic toys littered the floor. The squashed remains of dozens of dead leeches littered the floor. She couldn’t move her feet anywhere inside the pod without sliding through some gooey remnant. None of the leeches were dried up. These monsters were still moist. Whatever happened here must have been within the past twenty-four hours, maybe even more recent. She carefully selected the one spot on the floor that wasn't spoiled by leech gunk and sat cross-legged in the center of the boys’ pod. Wherever the surviving twin was, he wasn’t here. That was fine. It would have been too much to hope for him to be right where he was supposed to be. So, the question was how to explain what happened in this pod?
There wasn't any noticeable sign that an adult also lived in the pod. She wondered if the boys' parents were still alive. She should have asked the doctor if she knew. That was the type of mistake a child would make. She would have to be more thorough in the future.
Beatrice picked up some of the objects that were strewn about the pod, along with some of the objects on the boys’ beds. They were oriented as bunk beds, with a table and a sink. The layout was straightforward. She saw some of their junk spread across the table, mostly toys or other trinkets. She picked up some plastic object with a skeleton for a face. The left leg looked charred. The right arm looked like it came from a completely different toy. She stepped around some scraps of food and stomped leeches. She wasn’t going to learn anything from this.
A dead child and a missing brother. No one to mourn their disappearance. If Walter hadn't stumbled upon the body, they might not have even known about it until the smell became intolerable. She knew how the Squatters smelled. They wouldn’t have noticed. It made her sick to her stomach. In that darkness, it could have taken days before anyone that lived in that corridor did something about it.
While it was possible that the other twin would have hidden in the pod, debating whether it was worth the trip for a ration, he obviously left at some point. The question was whether it was during or after the riots. Maybe this twin was wandering around the platform, goofing off with his friends, completely oblivious to the tragedy his brother suffered. Beatrice supposed that was the best of all possibilities.
And the twins had apparently dislodged the grill to the air vents. Maybe they were hoping it would improve that obnoxious drone. They must have been pissed when they discovered that it didn’t help. Now the grill hung lopsided from the aluminum column. Its tiny screws were lost in this sea of leech carcasses.
What if they removed the grill to hide something?
Beatrice jumped up and gripped the edge of the opening, pulling herself up to peer into the shaft. The lighting was dim, but it was obvious that there wasn’t anything there. She let herself fall back to the floor.
Why would the twins remove the grill?
Beatrice wondered if Sycamore allowed the boys’ parents to occupy a different pod. No, that was too unlikely. Too many people clamored for their own pod, their own space. Sycamore wouldn’t let one family occupy two pods while hundreds of people slept on the Alpine’s steel floors. Odds were they died years ago. Maybe they were Roughnecks. Maybe Farmers.
Shrill screams vibrated through the air ducts. The sound disrupted the otherwise continuous drone
. People were still fighting in the platform.
The raised lip on the air duct dug into her fingers. She let go and dropped to the floor.
She looked around the pod, unsure what to make of what she saw. It didn’t look like anything was stolen, but it was hard to be sure from the general clutter and the dead leeches.
What happened in here? Where did the leeches come from?
She hadn’t expected to be so lucky that she would find the boy’s brother peacefully sleeping. But she also hadn’t expected the place to look like some sort of leech massacre. They were all over the floor, stuck to the sides of the wall, smeared against the few pieces of furniture.
No parents either. That was its own mystery.
The question was whether it had anything to do with Hector’s death, or whether it could explain why Vector was missing. That was just too weird. Or maybe the leeches were connected to the eye gouging. She didn’t see how it was possible, but there had to be some connection between something this odd and the whereabouts of the missing twin.
How long had she been up by then? It had been nearly twenty straight hours since yesterday morning. Except for when she was knocked out in the corridors. She already felt like she was in over her head with this investigation, but how on Earth did this madness fit into everything?
Explosions. Riots. Murder.
Murder and leeches.
Beatrice cringed at the thought of one of those things attached to one of her blood vessels.
Maybe if she got some sleep, she could piece this together with fresh eyes. Maybe Dr. Gossamer would have found something useful. She probably shouldn’t try to piece together everything now. Right now, she should focus on simply gathering what information she could.
It probably made sense to bring some samples of the leeches to Dr. Gossamer, but to do what, exactly? Confirm that these leeches were leeches? It might be something if someone on the platform could identify what type of leeches these were. That might suggest why they were here in the first place. That is a taxonomy problem and no more within Dr. Gossamer’s area of expertise than an autopsy on a corpse.
The Platform Page 15
