The Platform

by J Noah Summerfield

  Was there anyone on the platform that knew enough about leeches that she could ask? The place was stocked with Farmers and oil rig workers, not marine biologists.

  She could at least store the samples in Dr. Gossamer’s lab.

  Was there anything else she could learn from this place? She wasn’t going to get any information from a missing boy, or a pig sty of a room. That left who, exactly? Did they have any friends? She didn't know who to ask. Apparently they didn't have any parents. Sycamore might know that much. Or the Mousy Girl. She might have even kept records of who they were. She had no idea if this was an old problem or if the parents' disappearance was related to the other twin. The more she looked into this situation, the more convoluted it became.

  She didn’t expect to get much information from this chaotic room. Who else could she speak to? Was there anyone else that might know something about what happened here? She didn’t have many options.

  Walter “The Walrus” Turpentine. He found the boy’s body in the first place. He was the one that took the initiative to move it and he was the one that reported it to Sycamore. She should find the Walrus.

  Only a fool of the Walrus’s caliber could intertwine himself so completely into her life and a situation Sycamore assigned her. What was that fat goon doing wandering around the platform all this time? It appeared that he had been running around all day looking for something to eat, something to drink, but what if his presence wasn’t an accident? He was the one that found the twin's mutilated body. He was caught in the middle of the riots. He had the Whalers setting aside shark steaks for him. What if he’d already known then that the storm had spoiled the food? Beatrice figured that, at a minimum, he could have used the riots to get away with the murder. That suspicion alone justified her trip to his pod. She was going to get some answers.

  Walter didn’t seem like the type that would kill a child. Even so, if he didn't kill the boy, he must know something that could help with her investigation. Sycamore assigned this to her. For this reason alone she needed to keep the Walrus in check. He was overzealous. He could easily overstep his boundaries, fall into the old patterns from all of those years he spent as the Administrator of this place before Sycamore took over. He wouldn’t be able to keep himself from meddling with something that was no longer his responsibility.

  She knocked on the Walrus’s door.

  She wasn’t even speaking to him yet and he found a way to frustrate her.

  No sounds came from inside his pod. What if he wasn't there? She knocked again. That fool was sending her on a wild goose chase. She was determined to question Walter before Sycamore took that initiative himself.

  “Walter, open up!” Beatrice banged on the pod door. Waited a moment.

  “Open the door,” she insisted. The Straggler at her feet moaned in complaint, feebly trying to push her feet aside. He appeared to be feverish. His outstretched hand was moist with sweat.

  The Walrus had an extra room to his pod. It was a luxury he maintained from when he was the Administrator. While he had more space than most, two pods is still a small amount of ground, no more than fifteen cubic meters altogether. You could whisper in that kind of space and still annoy anyone else inside.

  She shouldn't have to wait. Yet there she was, waiting. One moment, and then another. Her temper turned sour at the delay.

  The click of a knob turning came from inside the pod.

  Finally, the Walrus mustered the courage to face his problems, Beatrice thought. She was taken aback when it wasn't the Walrus that answered the door. It was Naamah, his wife.

  “Hello, Beatrice. I would wish you a good morning, or a good evening, but it really is hard to tell the difference down here. Why the racket?” Naamah had an ethereal air about her, but still grounded in functionality. Beatrice immediately saw how this person could be devoted to religion over some of the more practical and urgent matters that kept the platform operating.

  “Yes, of course. Good evening, Naamah…”

  “So it’s evening.”

  “Last time I checked. Is Walter inside?”

  “Ha. Believe me, if he was inside, you couldn’t miss him.”

  Beatrice wasn’t sure if that was a joke.

  “Because he’s fat. He drinks his way through problems. And in these pods, he takes up all the space.” Naamah puffed out her arms and cheeks. The woman apparently intended to mock her husband, but Beatrice was not interested in this pleasantry. “So you can’t miss him.” Naamah gave a little shrug and motioned her hands to replicate the shape of her husband’s belly. “Anyway, maybe I can help you?”

  This woman needs to work on her delivery, Beatrice thought. Shifting to business, she straightened her posture. “Perhaps. Could you tell me where your husband was this morning?”

  “You mean he wasn’t in here?”

  “You tell me. As you say, you can’t miss him.”

  “Well, it is hard to say, really. How many hours ago was this morning?”

  “About twenty.”

  “Where was Walter twenty hours ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I was sleeping. Do you know where he was?

  Beatrice glowered at Naamah. “Too many people seem to know where he could have been.”

  Naamah turned the question back at her. “Such as?” Beatrice wondered if it was a tactical maneuver to evade the question or innocent manifestation of curiosity.

  “Too many. May I come inside?”

  “Certainly.”

  Beatrice absorbed the sight of Naamah’s furnishings as she passed through the entrance. The room was a museum. She noted the artifacts that covered the walls, the books that were carefully placed on shelves, the cabinet with glass doors, filled with a large scroll. A worn brass pot collected condensation in the near corner. A wood chest occupied the center of the room on a strip of faded carpet, its once intricate filigree of gold and red no longer discernible. It served as storage and a coffee table. A ceramic cup and a frayed book were on top. A large shroud hung on the far wall, bright with gold and blue strands.

  All of it was surprisingly clean of any moisture damage.

  The pod was more welcoming than any other pod on the platform. It was a space that could be used to entertain guests, to lounge and discuss matters that affected the platform. Beatrice imagined that in another time, this space would have been a vast parlor for Naamah and Walter.

  In her experience, people kept one of two types of pods—cluttered or functional. They were either overflowing with rotting possessions or were nearly empty because the people inside preferred to throw away the useless junk.

  This pod didn’t fit either model. It was different. It was comfortable. Cozy. She didn't think anyone could preserve books and wood and cloth after this much time. The Walrus didn't strike her as someone that really cared. Beatrice was impressed with Naamah. It was apparent to her that Naamah took great care in maintaining the condition of these artifacts. She wondered what would happen to these pieces once Naamah died.

  The entrance to the second pod was at the rear of the first. There was no doubt that the second pod was the more functional space.

  “What are you cooking?” Beatrice asked, noticeably distracted by the aroma that wafted over her from the second pod.

  “It’s just a meal that I’m preparing.”

  Beatrice took a few deep whiffs. “Is that meat?”

  “It is.”

  “Not fish?”

  “It’s not easy to come by.”

  “It smells good.”

  “Thank you.” Naamah smiled. “I still have some powdered garlic, some curry, some cumin. I use it sparingly, but sometimes these little things help remind us of the joys in life.”

  “And you can cook?” Beatrice knew that some people had electric tea kettles that could boil water. Some people even had working microwaves and toasters in their pods. But she couldn't think of anyone that had a working kitchen to themselves.

  “Walter ins
talled an electric stove years ago.”

  “You have a stove?” Beatrice was genuinely surprised. Was this a big secret that she stumbled upon? Some of the boats had built-in stoves, but no one on the platform had one. Occasionally, someone would grill a piece of meat they pulled from the ocean. But that was it. Even Sycamore didn't have his own stove. Of course, Sycamore didn't cook, so perhaps he just didn't care. Even the kitchens were restricted in their use of the gas stoves since propane production was severely limited.

  Naamah smiled. “It will take some time to finish stewing. Perhaps I can invite you over for dinner.”

  “Yes. That would be wonderful.” It was as though these two were completely unaffected by everything that is happening. It was possible that they actually felt at home in this place. “How is it that you have meat after all this time? Sycamore hasn’t authorized anyone to slaughter any of the goats in months.”

  “Glad to hear that the goats are still alive. It would be a shame to slaughter our only source of non-human dairy.” Naamah said. “I was saving it. I also have a small freezer that allows me to store food. Eventually, even we’ll have to dip into some of the nicer things. Once you use up the consumables, all that’s left are what we set aside for rainy days. And every day is rainy around here.”

  There was a stove and a freezer. Beatrice had to see them for herself. This pod was a shrine, not in the way a church or a mosque might hold religious artifacts, but a monument to a way of life. Everything about it represented a time that predated the migration from the continents. Beatrice tried to remain calm, despite the fact that she had not even seen the stove. The mere smell of cooked food was enough to distract her.

  “Have you collected your rations with each distribution?”

  “Not all of them. But have you seen my husband? Sycamore’s rations can’t support all of that weight. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t distribute the rations without inciting starving people into mutiny.”

  Beatrice didn’t like that. Naamah must know that the ration distribution was her responsibility. That last comment was definitely a cold jab at Beatrice herself. “You are not starving.”

  “Unlike some, I don’t rely on Sycamore Johnston for my survival. Never did. Never will.” Naamah took on a surprisingly stern tone on the subject. Beatrice must have hit a nerve with Sycamore. She wondered if Naamah was resentful that Sycamore took the Walrus's position as Administrator. Who knows what other luxuries Naamah enjoyed while the Walrus was in charge, luxuries that she can't access anymore now that Walter doesn't have the sway that he once did.

  At the same time, Beatrice found it amusing that even the great Walrus of the Alpine couldn’t escape the nagging drone that spewed out of the ventilation system. Beatrice bet that Naamah held this over the Walrus’s head every day of their lives.

  Beatrice turned her attention to the rest of the pod. She wanted to discuss the other objects before moving to the kitchen, and whatever other wonders were in the second pod. “You possess a large amount of Old World relics.”

  Naamah shut the pod door and sauntered to the glass cabinet. “Most of these are religious objects, used in services.”

  “As part of your function as a Speaker.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Walter use any of these objects?” Beatrice fiddled with a stainless steel pointer that lazily hung over some faded fabric and a large scroll.

  “Only when I ask him to assist me in something,” Naamah replied. “But usually, he doesn’t bother.”

  “What does he do when he is not in this pod?”

  “Besides eat?”

  Beatrice turned away from the large scroll. “Is that a joke?”

  “Eh. It’s the same joke. You’ll find it funny soon enough. Spend enough time with Walter and you’ll call it dark comedy.”

  Beatrice was as unmoved as solid bedrock.

  “He talks to the other occupants,” Naamah answered.

  “Any occupants in particular?”

  “Not particularly. Anyone that will listen.”

  “Who has he spoken to since the storm started?”

  “Beatrice, can you please tell me why you are in my home?”

  “I am here to enquire about your husband,” Beatrice answered. She noted the outright deflection of her question about her husband.

  “I can see that. Why?”

  “Because a child was reported dead a few hours ago and I believe that another is missing. Your husband was the one that found the child’s body.”

  “A child? Who?”

  “Hector and Vector. Hector is dead. Vector is missing.”

  “Both of the twins?”

  “Yes. The twins. You know them?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Why would you have the occasion to know the twins? Are they are a part of your congregation?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would you know who they are?”

  “Because I should. There are only so many of us on this platform. Someone has to keep track of the young ones. One day they will run this place, if we are lucky enough.”

  “Do you know what happened to their parents?”

  “They drowned years ago.”

  So, Naamah knew what happened to them. At least this meeting was productive for that. Beatrice felt some measure of relief. “Farmers?”

  “Sycamore assigned them to the algae farms. They were harvesting algae to shore up our reserves and were overwhelmed by a rogue wave. The sea-mount interrupts the ocean’s currents like any other land mass. Take a strong enough current and it will drive the ocean straight up the side, dropping a mass of water on whichever unlucky souls Sycamore assigned to work the fields at the time. I’m told that the currents get stronger every year. Of course, I haven’t seen it for myself.”

  “That’s why Sycamore let them keep their pod, because their parents died on the algae fields?”

  “What do I know about what goes on in Sycamore’s head. You would think a lifetime spent with Walter would grant some insight into the mind of our administrator, but no.” Naamah sighed. It appeared that she didn’t like talking about the dead. “What about all of the others that don’t have a pod? Wouldn’t they be in the hallways as well? And the riots? Anyone that was in the corridors could have done these things. I’m afraid for what might happen if I left. I feel like I’m safer here in my pod, dipping into my own reserves of food.”

  Sycamore’s instinct on this was right. The people with the pods would find a way to survive, if they were so inclined. Naamah was proof. All of them might not manage it, but enough of them would find a way. “I haven’t ruled anyone out, but Walter is the one that seems to take a prominent role in all of this.”

  “Well, as I said, when he returns I will send him to you. In the meantime, I think you should spend more time suppressing the fighting that is occurring all over this platform instead of knocking on my door.”

  “My Security teams and Buckminster’s Roughnecks are patrolling the corridors. They are actively keeping the peace. Nothing else will happen. This place is as safe as it could be.”

  “As you say.”

  “Unfortunately, some of us can’t spend all of our time cooking…whatever it is that you’re cooking.”

  “Curry.”

  “Well, it smells enticing.” Beatrice passed to the pod door, hoping that Naamah would offer a taste of the meal that was just beyond the door to the second pod. It was so close. And it smelled so good. Unlike anything Beatrice ever had. “Does Walter often disappear for hours at a time?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  Naamah squirmed slightly. Beatrice noticed.

  Like nearly everyone else, Beatrice was born on the platform. She grew up surrounded by water and encased in steel. She had never even gone as far as the algae fields on the sea-mount.

  She didn't have a pod below the surface like most of the others. Instead, hers was situated on the upper levels on the rig, an outcropping that jutted off of the platform's w
estern face. She watched the sun set each evening. The cascade of colors took her breath away each time. She fell asleep to the sound of the surf breaking against the large pylons that formed the platform's base. Sycamore granted her a pod of her choice her when she took over the platform's security.

  The best part was that the space wasn't connected to the ventilation system, which meant that she didn't have to listen to that obnoxious drone all the time. She found a little peace and calm on the platform that she knew few others could manage.

  Beatrice remained on her outcropping for as long as she could. She watched as the last shades of red and orange faded away into dark shades of blue and black. She wondered if other people on other platforms saw this as she did. She wondered what the sunset looked like for the platforms that could see the continents on the horizon. What did a sunset look like when the foreground was always on fire? Did ash and smoke block the sunlight, or did the steady stream of chemicals into the air create different color combinations that she couldn't even imagine?

  When she was growing up, they told her that the sunsets were caused by the scattering of light by atmospheric particulates. She liked to think that the sunsets she saw were more beautiful than those from before the poisoning of the continents. She imagined that the poisoning sent particulates into the air specifically to make the reds more vivid, the oranges even brighter, and purples more intense. All of the devastation on the continents made this a time and place for her. It was perhaps the only good thing to come from when people abandoned the land. She wondered if the people back then would have been comforted if they could see the sunsets that she saw. Maybe these sunsets were worth polluting the entire world.

  She undid each braid in her hair, letting the bundles of thick black hair tumble loose to the side. It felt good to let her hair down. The anxiety from the day wore on her. She slowly accepted that she nearly died. Pure chance saved her from the mob.

  Strangely enough, she felt blessed with the life that she had. She could only imagine what poverty stricken hell she would have to live in if the world had not collapsed. Her ancestors weren't wealthy people. That much she knew. They were actually quite poor. But they also happened to work on a container ship when the continents were covered with fire. For this chance reason alone, they escaped with their lives, so that one day, she could watch these beautiful sunsets.