“I thought Hani was the Fisherman that wanted to spare people when he could,” she said.
“Hani spare people?” Sycamore sounded inquisitive. He was inviting her to elaborate.
“I read that there was a mother. A Fisherman. A Fisherman voted against killing her.” The swirling in her head slowed down as she put the pieces together. Her right foot was numb. She kicked it out to remove the kinks. To her surprise, she took a few steps towards Sycamore to hear what he had to say.
“No. Makrigga was the Fisherman.”
“Makrigga?” That was the missing piece. Makrigga was the one. And he was lying unconscious in the medical bay, possibly poisoned, part of his leg torn off, near death. Somewhere in all of this, he followed a different path.
Beatrice closed the gap between herself and Sycamore a little more. The silhouette took on some detail. The eyes were empty. Beatrice was used to that. But the smile. Sycamore actually had a kind smile.
She had spent the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out why Sycamore wanted to nab Hani. She just assumed that he wanted to blame Hani for something that he didn't do just because he opposed him twenty years ago. She had assumed that the accident with the Crane merely presented a rare opportunity to make a move on someone that she understood to spend his days keeping to himself and doing his job. No. That wasn't it at all.
It was Hani.
Sycamore was attacking Hani because, in Sycamore's mind, Hani was the person that was most likely to convince himself that he should inflict harm on another, even a child. And from where he was standing, the morning's accident was precisely the type of incident to show that the disciplined, hard-working fisherman that Hani was supposed to be was slipping away.
Beatrice saw the reasoning. If this man was a man who didn’t have any qualms with harming the mother of a newborn child, then he was also a man who wouldn’t object to harming a child.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WALTER “THE WALRUS” TURPENTINE
Walter wondered if Naamah should accompany him to Sycamore’s chambers. Some moral support couldn’t hurt. He broached the subject, but she had other things to deal with.
This left Walter alone to speak with Sycamore. He walked across the helipad and hobbled up a thin ladder that reached to an open air balcony, its railing broken, the platform posting little more than rusted pipe stumps as railings. A gust of heavy wind pressed against him, threatening to blow him off the balcony and back onto the main deck, and he lowered to his knees. A touch of vertigo set in. Walter breathed through the nausea and the ringing in his ears as he worked to avoid the same fate as Caribou “Crane” West. Walter took care to lower his center of gravity as he worked his way towards the door.
He wondered of the Braided Woman was still there, if she still wanted him to talk Sycamore down from his manhunt.
A sign nailed above the door read: “The world is falling! Look up!”
He turned the knob and peered inside.
In a cantilevered space seemingly disconnected from the derrick, Sycamore Johnston stood next to a small reflecting telescope, a meter or so in diameter, its circular basin on a platform only waist high, with a pipe that stretched upwards towards the night sky. The room, however, was closed, and the telescope only looked out at steel and concrete. Some books on the far shelf were disturbed, in the space where Walter used to keep his personal records. Sycamore could have easily reorganized the small library, though to what end was a mystery. But Walter knew what occupied that space on the shelves. How could he forget? Why would Sycamore rummage through those papers now?
Sycamore wasn’t actually reading anything at the moment. Rather, he was fiddling with some gears, aimlessly flipping through the pages of a black binder of text and schematics.
This was the first time Walter was inside his old office in twenty odd years.
A large cylindrical pipe occupied a good portion of the oddly placed room. Walter never quite understood why such a thing was on the Alpine, much less situated in the Administrator’s chambers. The telescope was a gift from the earliest stages of the migrations. Astronomers were the first to fully appreciate the enormous strains on the Earth’s atmosphere. Through their space-based observations, the Astronomers predicted the onset of the Second Plagues and the High Fires. First the Second Plagues would destroy our civilization. Of course, no one listened, but many astronomers found the means and the sense to transport important equipment for continued research and observation on ocean-based sites like the Alpine. So it was that the ocean provided a final refuge for such machinery. They couldn’t save the Earth, but they could save this telescope, even if it was just a decoration.
The office also housed a small library with a few hard copies of ancient books, a trove of astronomy, geology, physics and oceanography. Many books were waterlogged beyond repair while others were thrown into the ocean as refuse. Even the ones in the best condition had yellowed and warped pages. The bulk of miscellaneous material was in the realm of science, comparative planetology, astrophysics, celestial mechanics, astro-dynamics, subjects that related to the operations and observations of a telescope and a few oddballs that weren’t waterlogged like a catalog of the world’s great wines, a map of the Himalayas and a travel guide to Phoenix, Arizona.
Walter considered taking the book on wine for himself.
This library could have used a few more textbooks on marine biology and engineering.
None of the people on the platform were as interested in the past as they should have been. He didn't blame them. They were preoccupied with living, with simply staying alive, and it was a time consuming preoccupation. When he was Administrator, Walter did what he could to encourage some awareness, particularly among those that he thought would appreciate it. But for the most part, he didn't think anyone cared, so he didn't bother.
When he was the Administrator, Walter had considered keeping a few of these volumes for himself, but that would be selfish. The library also kept the platform’s records, at least from when there was still paper for paper records. Sycamore controlled who accessed those records now, and there he was, reading some document.
Sycamore did not bother to look up from his perusing. “Men used to read, volumes of material. They shared it, and added to the knowledge of mankind through periodic contributions to vast libraries. This room is a reminder of that dedication, of the libraries of Alexandria, of the American Congress. But there truthfully is no comparison. We do not read anymore. So much information…lost.”
Sycamore pointed to a page. “Walter, my vision is fading. Please, what does this say?”
Walter walked over to the Administrator and studied the paper. “This section is about the rotational shift of the offset foci, and adjustments to the telescope’s aperture.” Walter didn’t understand what any of that meant. “Why?”
“Indulge me for a moment. I have a rather keen interest in the multitude of technological marvels currently situated on this facility, particularly the ones which are not in active use. Let me tell you about a device I read about in these papers.”
Walter didn’t say anything while Sycamore rummaged through more papers. Sycamore settled on a large pile of sheets bound between two heavy pieces of dark wood.
“There are blueprints in this room—I can show them to you if you like—of a train system. Have you heard of a train?”
“Actually, yes I have. I even had the displeasure of seeing the mangled remnants of ancient train tracks and derailed cars.”
“Yes. I recall that you were part of our last expedition to the continents. Well, the first that I ever heard of such a fanciful thing was when I came to this room, rummaging through these piles and drawers of papers. These blueprints showed how to devise a train network. That much may be unremarkable. I understand that trains were common enough before the Second Plagues. But this network was unique and highly experimental. This train could operate on water and without rails.”
“You mean float, like a boat? It woul
d treat the ocean like a bridge?” Walter imagined this other mechanism as a sleek edition.
“Not quite. Boats cut through the ocean. The best designs attempt to coast along the surface, minimize drag and such. Our boats still do this. Instead of fighting against the ocean, the train would glide along the surface at high speeds as though it wasn’t even touching the surface. Something incomprehensible along a chain of electric currents, tide manipulation with superconductors and an evaporating air curtain. High speed horizontal movements by long tubes that stretched across vast oceanic plains. I beseech you to imagine my astonishment when I viewed these blueprints and they revealed a means of traversing on the water. Entire cities on the ocean, all connected by high speed shinkansen. Their vision was fantastic. I wonder that if this world did not turn itself on its ignorant broadside, then maybe these trains could connect the few platforms that still function. Or, if I could magnify these squiggles, then perhaps I could decipher the meaning of these blueprints and we could build one for ourselves.”
“I don’t follow you. You’re talking about trains because no one actually built them? What? You know that we don’t have the resources for that kind of a project. No one does.”
“It appears that the Japanese almost had the network in place. You see, their country consisted of a series of disconnected islands, and this geographic reality gave them the greatest incentive and need to develop the technology, to connect their vast network of remote islands and ocean communities, but the Second Plagues tore through the Pacific too quickly. They never went beyond a prototype stage. They couldn’t bring the train online before the High Fires took over the continent.”
“You want to execute Hani because you want to ride a floating Japanese train?”
“The world collapsed too far before the system was implemented.”
“Why do you care about what the Japanese did not do in waters on the far side of the world? How does their unfinished work affect what we do now?” I walked into this room hoping that maybe you knew what you were doing, but instead, I discover the ravings of an impassioned zealot.
Sycamore appeared unfazed. “The Japanese engineers had vision, my friend. This was a technology that could have altered how humans communicated with each other after the High Fires drove us off the continents. Instead of patiently pacing about in flimsy sailboats and antiquated oil rigs, we could travel between platforms and territories as quickly as we could during the twenty-first century, when we traveled the skies like the noble albatross. Mankind’s progress could continue unimpeded by the oceans. With this type of innovation, the Second Plagues would be little more than a slight misstep in human progress, a fictional fable in the annals of human history. We could ship goods, communicate over important issues, see the world, encourage the exchange of ideas, cultivate opportunities for discovery...”
“But why? To what end? You’re losing your barnacles. Grand ideas. Yes. But you forget that the shortcoming that caused the Second Plagues was that the progress was aimless and shortsighted. It wasn’t a lack of time, or the means to achieve our goals. That is why the High Fires persist.”
“You forget that while we have the benefit of hindsight, we also lack the means to act on it, as humans live off scraps in a shadow of our greater selves.” Sycamore failed to answer Walter’s question. “We must dream, my friend, for without dreams we are but rabid beasts tearing each other apart.”
“The beasts had the place well-kept until humans came along.”
“Here, let me pour you an aperitif.”
Walter was momentarily silenced by the show of gentlemanly civility as Sycamore pulled out two crystal glasses. Sycamore poured a thick liquid into the two small glasses and handed one to Walter. “Tell me,” Walter said. “How does all of this relate to Hani?”
“Hani? He lost it, lost focus. The platform suffered, and so the platform has to respond.”
“Is that what you told Beatrice?”
“The condemnation of peers would then curse him and alienate him for his carelessness. No. That looming stain is our problem. If we do not exact retribution from a man who attracts death to our environment, the occupants will succumb to the friction that permeates through this facility. They will lose faith in the delicate balance we struggle to maintain. The repercussions are severe and unknowable.”
“The people here will lose faith in you?”
“And everything this entire population believes.”
“Which is?”
“I would rather you declined to play the idealist here. It is a naïve position. You spend too much time yourself in the bowels of this castle barking at your upper-level neighbors. What do you think it is that we are trying to accomplish here? Hmm…? At a bare minimum, we are trying to survive. But there is more. We do aspire. If we did not, the platforms would become our species’ deathbed. But to what do we aspire?”
Sycamore had more questions than answers.
“Look at this telescope. It is a cylinder used to make precise observations and measurements of stellar objects far beyond the limits of the human eye. In its prime, the information gleaned from this object was shared among and throughout the planet. Look through the records and data here. Our ancestors sent vehicles to other planets. Other planets! Maybe even other stars! As our ancestors quibbled over cash and oil, as they ripped apart their planet, they also built vehicles that at this very moment are traveling across the vast landscapes of other planets. Sights that no human will ever witness. All of it was based on the exchange of and debate around information gathered by large cylinders such as this device here. It is incredible! Look at what we could accomplish. We come from people that were engaged in a determined struggle to realize truths about the stars. And yet, we here struggle to harness enough resources and the sheer will to handle the future well-being of the young people here. The Braided Woman. That young whaling girl. We must resign ourselves to the limited opportunities that we can create.”
Sycamore took a moment to replace the blueprints still firmly held in his hands.
Walter shifted, taking a few steps closer to the door. He was still not sure why he was there. This was a lost cause. Sycamore’s penchant for endless pontificating left Walter in the dark, and he was fidgeting. “This is just gibberish, you know. Fancy gibberish. But gibberish.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“How can you try to convince me that Hani should die with this hogwash?”
“That is exactly the point, is it not? Without Hani’s death, we are without aspirations.”
“What?”
“Imagine the things that our species could have accomplished. There was very little holding us together before the Second Plagues. Now, except for a unifying fear of the horrors brought by the land, we are scattered and aimless. We must know that we cannot do these things anymore. We thought that we could before, but we cannot anymore. We do not have those freedoms. Most of the people here may not care one sloppy sardine how they live their lives, what experiences they share, what sights they behold. But I do. And you do as well. I will not wander around as a weak little pawn and allow us to aspire to less, forgiving apathy and carelessness. We know how to keep this platform running, but we could not recreate the technology if we tried, we could not rebuild it if it were crumbling beneath our own feet. We are helpless. And we do not care. We are little more than blight upon the Earth. That is a reality that I will not abide. We must remind ourselves that we are responsible to each other and to those that follow. What we decide as group holds, even if the reality is grim.”
Sycamore reached for Walter’s hand.
“Hani represents the worst of that blight.”
That was Walter’s cue. “Are you sure that this is the right way to uphold that standard? You are manipulating the impact of this achievement. We created a life here out of nothing but thin air and hard steel, and you use it to make the occupants feel horrified by their own existence.”
“Horrified? Alas, no. This is perfect
ly within the realm of their imaginations, even within a life that they know all too well. What better way to impart some perspective than with a justified execution? Our species indulged in summary execution for millennia. Our ancestors did not respect that power, and so they continued on. This is how the occupants on this structure solve their problems, and how humans solved their problems before our exile, and we will continue on.”
“That is exactly it, right there. You say that you are setting out on a course of action which, you admit, did not work for occupants that came before us. That’s just a slap in the face to everything that was worth doing,” Walter retorted.
“The accident with Caribou was a reflection of a system-wide failure. Our ancestors stopped communicating with each other even before the scarring of the planet, much as we rarely communicate with others outside this rig now. Our predecessors stopped communicating and sharing their problems and their solutions and their discoveries. Hani is only one man, and no one man can cause the collapse of an entire civilization.”
“Then why pick him out of everyone else?”
“A civilization, a real civilization, can absorb the mania of any one occupant. But that same civilization is not immune to its own systemic faults. Hani Katharda is a symptom of our faults. In the last millennium, such faults were abused by the intellectual and moral failures of a few, the effects of which were exacerbated by the apathy and ineffectual pleadings of too many. There is no sense of discovery left for us in this place. Even if we have forgotten the world, and must rediscover all of its mysteries, we are not in a position to embark on such folly and adventure. Through Hani, I am revealing the Alpine’s own faults, and he will be like a vaccine to the disease.”
“What disease? I’m not sure if that works the way you describe it.”
“This approach is our history, and it is a reminder as to why we exist at all. The occupants of this platform are severely alienated from the remnants of what is left of the world, from their own history, and from anything to which they can aspire. This trial was not an inquisition. It was an alarm bell. ”
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