The Platform Page 10

  “Do you know why they haven’t started distributing the food yet?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe the storm has something to do with it.”

  “Why do you have an oar with you?”

  Feret looked around, as though he just noticed that he held an oar over his right shoulder.

  “It’s just one. Never know when you might need just one.”

  That didn’t make much sense. Why would he need an oar inside the platform? There weren't any boats inside. Maybe he planned on going back out after he picked up his rations. But then why just one? The only thing that one oar would do was allow him to row in a circle.

  Random gasps and shouts sounded loudly from some sort of scuffle. Sage couldn’t figure out where they were coming from. It seemed to come from the other end of the corridor, but then the commotion got louder. And closer. The crowd closed in around her. People shoved against her. What was happening?

  This was a bad time to be shorter than everyone else. Where did all of these people think they were going? Backwards or forwards? Shoving each other into a tighter crowd wasn't going to allow them to eat any faster. Up ahead, she saw someone stumbling, leaning on the side of the corridor.

  Sage pressed herself up against the wall. She was small and thin, and it was easy. Now she only had people hovering over her on three sides. Some of the others, the clustered groups, had a harder time making space.

  “What is happening up ahead?”

  “Move out of the way!”

  There was another scuffle behind her. She thought of getting out of the line entirely, sneaking behind some of the people and just returning to her pod. Whatever was happening, she was at least certain that she would not get a G today. It seemed easier to hide a portion of her fishing trips, even after Sycamore Johnston set aside his quota. The food tasted better, too.

  “Back off!”

  The person was shoved, tripped, and smacked into the wall. It was a large man, probably a Roughneck that came in from the main deck. He doubled over and vomited. His stomach contents came up brown and green and clear, like sludge and mud, stomach fluid and seaweed. He pressed one hand against the corridor wall to support himself. He fell to the floor and wretched again.

  Rations tumbled across the floor in front of her, from some lady, someone that was trying to snake her way back through the corridor.

  Then a scream. High pitched and blood curdling. Desperate.

  Once the cluster of green food stuffs fell, the line dissolved. Hands smeared across the ground as people grappled with each other in search of the green chunks. Some consumed the pellets immediately. Others stored the green in their shirts and pockets.

  Someone grabbed Sage's shoulder.

  “Did you get a ration? Did you get a G? Give it to me! Give it here!”

  She didn't recognize the voice. It was definitely one of the Squatters. Cheeks sunken into a pale face. Dressed in wet rags. His eyes had a frenzied look of desperation, as though he thought he might never eat again.

  Sage instinctively hid her face as he pulled at her pockets in his mad quest for food. When he found nothing, he pulled on her arms, as though some hidden storage compartment was in her sleeves or underneath her skin. Of course, there was nothing to find, so he shoved her aside and moved on to the next thing. Sage fell over but quickly jumped to her feet and stumbled backwards into the wall, searching for an escape, but all she saw were bodies groping at each other. The stench of fresh vomit was rank, like a corpse in a swamp.

  “They are taking away the food!” someone shouted. More people crowded into each other, barely able to support themselves.

  “The algae is rotten! Don’t eat it! The algae is rotten!” someone said, but the warning was ignored. Hands continued to grope at anything green. Every time someone fell over to vomit, they were ransacked for their food. The cycle continued up and down the corridors.

  Some elderly woman fell on top of Sage and chunks of dark sludge jerked out of the woman’s mouth. A slimy fluid dribbled down the side of the old lady’s mouth as she tumbled on top of Sage. Disgusted, Sage tried to squirm away, desperate to hold back her own impulse to puke. She looked around, trying to get a sense of how to get out of there. Everyone else was either doubled over puking on the floor, or on their hands and knees desperate to find a lost algae ration. People clawed at each other’s hands and faces for food, hands bracing mouths completely ajar to dig out some uneaten scrap of green food.

  Feret barged into the middle of the fray. His lumbering bear of a figure ate the corridor’s entire width, and he seemed determined to obtain some food. At first, he seemed to inject himself into the crowd to separate the mass of bodies, to dissipate the aggression, but once he obtained the position of strength over the surrounding people, he made his own reckless grab for the food. He succeeded in stuffing his face with several handfuls of dried algae before the nearest person caught on to the act and rushed him. They threw themselves onto his arms and clung to his warped flesh like a monkey to the vine, knocking him off balance, but not before he could thrust his face into a half-empty sack and emerge with green crumbs coating his face and his mouth.

  He forced his mass through the raving crowd like a charging rhino. He toppled people over and smashed their faces in the ground. He shoved Sage under some copper piping, knocking the wind out of her. The rusty piping grazed the top of her head.

  It’s a good thing I don’t take up that much space, she thought.

  Sage was still hungry, and covered with filth. The brawls continued through the corridor, the shouts of the security officers, the tumbling bodies, and the expulsion of rotten algae from greedy mouths. She felt disturbingly small. The screams echoed through her head, suffocated her thoughts. Looking around, she wished someone would tell her what she should do, how she might escape.

  Feret Ferrero stood high over the crowd. He swung his oar in wide arcs at anyone that approached, high above and into their faces.

  “Stay away from me oar, you sniveling swine!” he exclaimed as he smacked a person's head, sending a spray of blood into the gray walls. “Didn’t any of you think these had any use outside of a boat? I can bash your faces in for hours. Nothing would give me more pleasure,” Feret shouted.

  He continued to swing his wooden oar in sharp, angular motions. The blade created gashes wherever it met flesh, and sent people tripping and toppling over each other. He thrust the handle into anyone who got within arm’s length.

  Several black-suited security officers came upon the degenerated crowd. With broad shields that stretched to the ground, they created a blockade and bifurcated the crowd into two separate gangs of decrepit lunatics. The security teams moved outwards to separate the two cells of violence.

  “You have G!”

  “Give us the rations!”

  Pushed tighter and tighter against each other, some of the people dissipated, fled through openings, corridors and ladders. Others, however, were too weak, or too trapped. They were trampled upon and beaten to the ground. A pile of bodies was crammed into a dead end, a mound that nearly reached the ceiling. The people on top threw themselves over the security team’s wall to evade the mess.

  Sage, for her part, managed to squeeze her way into an access duct. The aluminum piping kept her arms hugged in around her chest, but she could still maneuver her shoulders and scrape with her feet to push forwards. Echoing through the pipes, the battle outside felt louder than before. She crawled for nearly twenty feet before the sound dissipated.

  The pipe shifted downwards, and with its change in direction, Sage lost her grip on the aluminum. The change was gradual at first, but seemed to fall out from under her. She pressed herself outwards to stop the decline.

  There had to be a better way to escape that jumble of raving barracudas, Sage thought. She was not even sure she would be able to maneuver herself out of this piping when she came across a vent. She had no way of knowing if she could open the next vent when she reached it, or if any of the other access way
s were open.

  She was inside the ventilation system itself.

  The drone was even louder.

  Drrr! Drrr! Drrr!

  The ducts seemed to tighten down around her, constricting her movements. It hurt to expand her lungs. The air felt too thin. She sucked air in through her mouth, but her lungs grabbed nothing. The ducts were too tight. She tried to worm her arms forward but they would not budge. Her feet scraped against the aluminum behind her to no avail, sliding uselessly against the smooth surface. She stopped for a moment.

  Do not panic, she told herself. No one ever survived anything by panicking.

  She was inside the very system designed to distribute air throughout the platform, and she couldn’t breathe.

  You are not stuck. she repeated in an attempt to reassure herself that she would be fine. You can get out of this. You just think you are because you are panicked. So stop panicking. Stop panicking. Stop panicking. Let your body loosen. Just rest your head on the duct for a moment to relax. Just relax. You moved this far, you can keep going. The duct is not getting smaller as you move. It’s just curving downwards. That’s all. It’s just the curve which is changing your movements. Once you get to a vent, you can call for help. You don’t even have to get to the vent. You just have to see it. Then someone can locate you, and they will get you out.

  Her gnarled muscles ached from the hunt. Exhaustion was settling in. This was not worth one lousy scoop of dried algae.

  Somewhere up ahead, she could escape. She just needed to crawl. To crawl, and to breathe. That’s what she had to do. Crawl and breathe. Crawl and breathe. Don’t stop breathing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WALTER “THE WALRUS” TURPENTINE

  Walter tried to scramble off as soon as he heard the scream.

  Screams are bad. And this one was close. Definitely from someone in the corridors waiting for their rations. Go the opposite direction, he told himself. A scream can mean any number of things, none of them good.

  Walter freed himself from the suffocating mass of bodies and stepped onto the nearest ladder. As he descended the stairwell, he realized that no one had the sense to follow suit. Most of the people simply looked confused.

  He didn’t fare that much better. The headache from earlier that morning had returned. But it was worse this time. It was like having a whale shark gnaw on his head. Maybe he should forget his pod. The medical bay would be a better destination.

  He passed through two levels that were nearly deserted. There was the occasional stray occupant who was too weak to huddle with the other lepers and nomads, but they really weren't any concern. He flicked a few nuggets of dried rations in front of one that was at least strong enough to sit upright. Walter supposed that he was feeling generous since he managed to escape whatever was going on upstairs. The screams and the banging echoed through the corridors.

  A trembling hand reached out and accepted the gift. The slight movement set the Walrus's hair on end. His neck was covered in cold sweat. He half expected the food to sit on the floor untouched. The stray man mumbled something unintelligible between nibbles.

  At least the food wouldn't go to waste.

  Three levels down were columns of occupants on their knees. They seemed to be praying, their heads pressed close to the ground and their hands outstretched. They wore little more than rough and worn potato sacks, the harsh material grating on their knees.

  They were flagellating themselves. In penance? To learn discipline? For pleasure? He wasn’t sure. Walter saw flayed skin on their bare backs. The blood would not dry in the dank atmosphere. The smell made him gag. Numerous whips lay on the floor around them. It looked like there was one for each observer.

  They must convene on occasion. He imagined how weak they must be after spending all of this time malnourished and subjected to their own constant flogging. It was no wonder then that, even with the dim bioluminescence from the algae, he could see that some of them weren’t breathing. They were either dead or passed out from exhaustion.

  Even the dead gathered to pray.

  The ones that were awake seemed to feel Walter’s presence, as though he was a disruptive force interfering with their calm.

  A few heads turned. Their hands seemed to rotate and fix on his position in the corridor. They seemed to orient themselves to where he was standing.

  Walter tip-toed through the group. He took care to avoid stepping on a knee or a foot, but the people were so tightly packed. He couldn't avoid nudging against someone's leg or stepping on the hem of a woman's dress. He paused when he reach an especially dense cluster of individuals. This was the way to his pod, but he would have to turn around and take another route. Otherwise, he would interrupt the prayers, which didn't seem like the best option.

  For his own part, he didn't like it when people interrupted Naamah's services. It was rude. And it made them drag on even longer than necessary. That's not a nice thing to think, he was ashamed to admit. But the thought did cue him in to the fact that it was exactly what he was doing, interrupting their service. He should be more respectful.

  “Do you pray?”

  “When I am called to it,” Walter responded. The voice came from behind him. He circled around, trying to place the voice.

  “Are you called to it now?”

  “I doubt it. Am I?” That came out cheekier than he expected. “I can offer some rations for your congregation,” he said to hopefully appease whoever was speaking. “They were from before the accident. Untouched by the storm water. Clean.”

  “Why do you offer us platform food? Is there something that you hope to buy?”

  “No.” It occurred to him that if he tried to buy safe passage, then they would hold that selfish act against him, and for that he would pay more dearly than he would like. “Well, not for myself, but I... can I ask something?”

  “Of me or of all of us?”

  “Of anyone.”

  “I suppose that you have no wish to join us.”

  “I have other things to attend to.”

  “Like the child?”

  One of them knew. One of them already knew how he acquired his tuna steaks.

  “Like the child.” It was a statement this time. Insistent. Needing.

  “Yes. I am looking for the girl.”

  “Do you belong to the Administrator?”

  “Sycamore?” What did he have to do with it? “No. I don't have anything to do with Sycamore.”

  “Not so loud!”

  The Walrus involuntarily raised his index finger to his mouth to show that he understood that he should be quiet.

  “Then why are you helping?”

  The Walrus barely heard the question. Whoever it was sounded like they were on the far end of the corridor. He circled around again to try to identify the speaker. Most of the people were still on the floor. A few were standing off to the side. They seemed to be watching, not participating. But they also didn't appear to be engaged in what was happening around them. They were just watching. They definitely weren't talking to anyone. Maybe they were standing watch.

  “Because I should.”

  “You will never catch her.”

  “Catch her? What do you mean, catch her?” It was an odd choice of words. Find her might have made some sense. He was trying to find Sage. She had his steaks, for crying out loud! He bent down to try to speak directly to someone. Anyone.

  One girl, her face partially obscured by long black hair, shut her eyes when Walter positioned himself into her field of view. Another turned her head. One man lowered his head to the floor to avoid making eye contact.

  “You shouldn't interrupt us.”

  “I'm sorry. Again. I'm just passing through.”

  “You shouldn't interrupt our prayers with your lies.”

  Walter just nodded, unsure of how to respond. This was getting tedious. He didn't even want to be in the middle of this group in the first place. Maybe this guy was throwing his voice somehow. Maybe there were multiple speaker
s. It was like he was standing in the center of a merry-go-round. Either way, every time he turned around, no one made eye contact. All of them appeared to be engrossed in their prayers.

  “Go away.” There was urgency in the command. Now he was tempted to escape. Some of the larger men on the far end appeared closer than they were just a moment ago. These ones weren't diverting their eyes.

  “You should be gone.”

  “I tend to agree.”

  “You have done this before.”

  “Done what?”

  “Did you come from the world below us?”

  “Literally or figuratively?”

  Still no eye contact. Walter was annoyed.

  “Screw you.” He smirked, satisfied with his sense of humor, all while realizing that he should limit his attitude. The prayers shifted from something discernible to a more guttural noise. The sound trembled in his belly. He reached behind himself to make sure he wouldn't bump into anyone if he turned around. He tip-toed towards the wall.

  They didn’t appear to have the slightest notion that a mad brawl was taking place just three levels above them, but they knew quite well that he almost walked right through their congregation.

  He heard the echoed tapping of steel against steel from the corridor’s far end. One of the larger members definitely woke up. He straightened himself from his resting state on the corridor wall and proceeded to walk through the gathering with a curved kilij sword in hand. The blade was dull, chipped.

  It was a Swordsman, Walter realized, someone to stand watch while they prayed, and he intruded enough to get their attention. This Swordsman was walking straight towards him, skillfully avoiding anyone in the congregation. Maybe the occupants pressed themselves to the corridor walls to create a foot path, but Walter couldn't see any discernible movement.

  They may be oblivious to the brawl that was taking place just below their feet, but they seemed to know full well that divisions were forming among the occupants. They were banding together along all sorts of imagined types, from corridor to profession, to religion and race. There was a limited segment of the population that any one occupant could trust would not eat them alive. Some people did not even have that much. Walter imagined that these are the ones that remained locked within their pods. The cooperative and survivalist character of the collective platform was deteriorating into something more tribal, more primitive. The slightest scrap of food made any occupant a target. And there was no clear limit to the inhuman indecency necessary to retrieve that food. Perhaps they had been harassed by some other foragers. Perhaps the Swordsman was supposed to retrieve rations from any occupants that passed through this corridor.