The Platform Read online

  A small ceramic jug wrapped in coils of copper strands stood next to a wide basin with clear water in front of Naamah. Sage was entranced as Naamah poured some water over her hands.

  Naamah’s manner appeared unaffected by the storm. The water poured over and through her fingers several times, and she passed the jug from one hand to the other before returning it to its resting place on a thin ledge overhanging the corner’s stainless steel sink.

  A stranger tapped Sage’s shoulder, jolting her out of her trance. “Excuse me. Are you here for the service?”

  Sage turned and found an enthusiastic girl, plump and wide eyed, with a discolored complexion that shuddered at the outdoors. Sage almost feared what would happen if she accidentally spilled some liquid on her body.

  The enthusiastic girl gestured to her hands, holding out a small pamphlet with a script Sage did not understand.

  “Sorry. I am just passing through. Thanks.”

  “There is no reason to be shy. Really. Truly. You can stay and listen if you like.” The girl pulled other religious paraphernalia from a wood crate. The crate was pressed into her thigh, braced with her free arm. “And we will have wine later...out of real wine glasses.”

  Sage was momentarily tempted and then realized that they could not possibly have any wine, and if they somehow did, they would not give it away freely. “No. Thanks again. I have to go.”

  “If you do not know the prayers, then you can just hum along. No one will mind. I like humming.”

  Sage slowly back-pedaled away but she was too slow. She tried to come up with something clever to say in response to drive this girl away, hopefully a notch above, “Sorry. Hunting you know. Have to hunt.” But she failed. Eventually she gave up, mumbled some nonsense, and fled with all of her might. It was a shame she had to leave with such abruptness. She thought that she was learning something about the platform’s history, but she was not in the mood for proselytizing.

  She tried to work her way through the crowd. Before she was out of sight, someone else caught her shoulder. Sage turned, hoped it wasn’t another zealot peddling paper and promises of wine. Instead it was Walter. The Walrus.

  “I hear that you are going out to hunt killer whales,” he said.

  “Maybe. We don’t know what’s out there. Maybe whales. Maybe tuna.”

  “Would you mind saving me a fatty piece of belly or hunk of shark? I am craving some real food. Usual payment?”

  “If we manage the catch, not a problem.”

  “I do like some steaks. You know where to find me. Excuse me. Wife hoots and hollers a storm later if I disappear for too long, and if that happens, I would rather deal with the chaos upstairs than the chaos in my pod. Lesser of two evils and such. But what does it matter as long as I have tuna belly?”

  Sage secured the frayed tarp over the skiff's whaling gear. Like everything else, the tarp’s color faded from the original bright blue. On the platform, a family of bustards fluttered around in joyful tweeting. The birds had built a nest in the platform's underbelly, deep enough to shield them from the wind. She was impressed that some rogue wave didn't just wash it away.

  She wondered how long it would take for someone on the platform to harvest the entire family.

  Feret Ferrero, the Oarsman, waddled along the docks, fetching additional rope lines and tackle. Grumbling but ever dutiful, he methodically brought his gear to the boat, a bottle of fermented algae in hand.

  The Hawksbill sea turtle returned, apparently unfazed by the morning’s turmoil, content and dozing.

  “You shouldn't stay here, Hawksbill,” Sage warned.

  Above her, Roughnecks shuffled back onto the Alpine’s surface. They were wide-eyed, breathing heavily, and clogging the walkways. Sage stowed a few gallons of fresh water.

  Feret secured the small mainsail to its lines. He took another sip from his flask. Then he checked the oars—it was really the only thing he worried about.

  Sage fiddled with the placement of equipment, of spears and ropes. She was getting impatient.

  Makrigga walked through the dock hatchway. “I apologize for my delay.”

  “Why did you take so long?” Sage asked.

  Feret smiled. “Melia know why you are late?”

  Makrigga ignored the joke. “Where is Hani?”

  “He is coming,” Sage said. “I think.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Couldn't find him.” Sage’s expression soured in a way that both apologized for her failure to find Hani and showed that she didn’t doubt Hani would find his way to the docks.

  “He’s probably hiding from Buckminster. We should give him a minute to stop hiding his face from the Jackhammer,” Feret said. “You hear about Crane?”

  “Yes. I was there. I saw him fall,” Makrigga said as he threw his equipment into the boat.

  “Sad news.”

  “Buckminster had both of them on the derrick,” Makrigga confirmed. “Why he didn’t have you on deck working as well is a mystery.”

  “No one gets anywhere in this life by pretending to be hotter than he really is,” Feret said. “That’s why I still have all of my working limbs. That much I know. Now, Buckminster Jackhammer wants anyone still standing on the main deck. If Hani were smart, he would get on this boat as fast as he could before Buckminster finds him. He will show up on the off chance that we are heading out and he can get off this rig.”

  Sage nodded in agreement.

  “Until then, we are short a man,” Makrigga said. “You didn’t spend on all night putting out hail-fire on your clothes. I would rather get some sleep than go on this hunt, but every minute we waste here is another minute that Buckminster has to get a hold of us, I think we should we leave without him?”

  “Please don't,” Hani shouted as he came barreling through the corridor, supplies trailing behind him. A bucket of chum, spears and ropes, and a bag of algae rations. Brown liquid splashed onto the floor. He wore his long blue rain coat and a thick wool cap with flaps over his ears.

  “I thought that Buckminster Jackhammer…”

  “Curse Buckminster and his sticky black goo. I aim to get off this wreck before something else goes wrong. They don’t need me to secure hatchways and stow away equipment I can’t use. And they can't blame me for when shit goes wrong if I'm not even here. Maybe I can pitch a tent at the fields and wait for a cruise ship to float by.”

  “Maybe you could grow some gills on our way there,” Feret said as he fixed the oars into the oar locks and pressed the handles into his lap.

  “Easier than surviving another day in this Hellish place.”

  “Anyway, my arms were already sore from this morning. Good to have another set of hands,” Feret said, nodding to the sails.

  “With one of yours wrapped around a flask, you certainly could,” Hani retorted. “Let's get out of here before riots break out over our heads.”

  “Sounds good. You up for some more hard labor?”

  “As long as it’s not here,” Hani said.

  Sage, Feret Ferrero, Makrigga and Hani pushed the boat away from the dock. Feret Ferrero started easy on the oars. “Always rowing,” he mumbled through his thick moustache. “They never give me anything better around here. It’s because of my moustache. I know it. Sycamore doesn’t trust me.” Hani joined him as they pushed themselves past the Alpine. Once they passed the turbulence around the platform, they raised the sail.

  The Whalers sailed north, beyond the visible horizon, and further still. Once they broke that initial barrier, they were free from the Alpine’s limiting hold on their daily lives, the wind in their hair and the sun on their faces, taught sails and straight bows. The sky was a crystalline blue, well preserved. It was a stretch of the southern atmosphere that was insulated from the northern jet-stream and from the chemicals that scarred the skies closer to the equator, where the sky turned red. The air was crisp, the wind steady, and they moved with ease. They expected to reach the fields well before noon. From there,
the task was a true fishing expedition as they hoped to fortuitously stumble upon their prey shortly after they arrived. Otherwise, they might not return to the Alpine before nightfall.

  The algae fields were approximately two-hundred kilometers north of the Alpine, grown on acres of artificial reefs moored to a relatively shallow stretch of land on a sea-mount.

  The shallow sea-mount abruptly rose from the ocean floor. It was known as the Discovery Sea-mount once, but not anymore. The water was green and filled with swaths of algae, choral and kelp, rich and expansive. It was an underwater jungle that teemed with life, life that flourished in the aftermath of the Second Plagues and the High Fires. A memory from before the surface turned to ruin and waste.

  The High Fires did not touch this place.

  They passed a rich array of marine flora and fauna—the outer edge of the algae fields. Sage and Feret lowered the sail and rowed, skimming over the waters. The fields were emptied of farmers, all of them still at the Alpine, but the place brimmed with oceanic life. There were thick mounds of reeds and grass, jungles of kelp and seaweed. Sage thought the Laminaria pallida added a vivid yellow in the water. Scattered through the grasses were spindly Cape sea urchins and sea cucumbers, giant red spiny lobsters and Tasmanian crab, and hundreds of other species that populated the southern Atlantic waters.

  Sage knew all of the traditional species- Parechinus angulosus, Synallactes laguardai, Panulirus interruptus, Pseudocarcinus gigas. She was probably the only person on the Alpine that bothered to learn these things. It helped that she encountered different plants and animals during her whaling expeditions. This information was useful to her. She enjoyed watching the crustaceans scuttle along the shallows, watching the current pick them up and deposit them elsewhere on the sea-mount.

  The occasional mutation tripped her up. They didn’t always have a settled name, much less a scientific classification. Occasionally, she had to make one up.

  Sometimes they caught the animals for themselves, but never for the platform. They were too rare and too small to make any dent in the rations.

  Makrigga bent over the side and speared a lobster, lifting the body high over the boat. Its limbs grasped for some foothold but only found air.

  “Open the cooler.”

  Sage pulled up the plastic lid. Makrigga pressed the lobster's body on the edge and removed his spear as the lobster fell to the bottom with a thud.

  Around them, entire shoals of sardines shifted in unison around the boat’s path, all bounty for the Alpine’s fishing vessels. The place was a vaudevillian circus of aquatic acts, bowler hats, tin cans and piano jams. Sage wondered how rare this place must be. She thought how odd it was that, with each excursion she made to the algae fields, she saw some new species of fish, or a plant that did not originally grow in the fields’ waters.

  I’ll never learn the scientific name for all of them, Sage thought.

  “Start scanning the surface for our prey. Ignore the slimy crawlies,” Hani ordered as he started with the chum.

  “We should decide what it is that we are searching for,” Feret said.

  “We search for whatever Sycamore Johnston wants us to search for. We hunt whatever we find,” Makrigga said as he primed his spear.

  “He wants a whale,” Sage offered. “Something big. And this is a whaling vessel.”

  “This is a vessel for whatever we find,” Makrigga corrected. “Besides, orcas are smart. It will know how to toy with us, maybe treat us as prey, and we will have a real chase. We don't have time for that.”

  “He just wants to go back to the Alpine to see Melia,” Hani said. “But do I blame him? I’d want to go back to that unnatural beast if Melia was there waiting for me.”

  “Keep your comments to yourself, Shark Bait,” Makrigga barked.

  “Give it a rest, Queequeg.”

  “I would not stay around here any more than I had to,” Feret said. “At least not with the bare bones equipment we brought.”

  “We might not see one at all,” Hani said. “What are we likely to see after a storm like that?”

  “Mermaids,” Sage joked.

  “And you among them, webbed feet and all,” Feret said. “Keep rowing. Just keep rowing.”

  “It’s a good way to shake off the grime from weeks in that puke-filled sauna,” Makrigga said.

  “I would like a good chase,” Sage offered, eager to see some action. She peered over the side of the boat, wishing she would find a whale right there. She lowered her hand into the water. The liquid pressed against her palm as the boat skimmed across the surface.

  “And you are still young. Imagine how we old lumps feel! I want to leap off the boat and tackle a killer whale, head-butt it, then harpoon it and eat it. Of course, that bit about the harpoon is your job,” Feret nodded to Makrigga. “My job is to row your boat.”

  Makrigga played the hard line. “Quit this madness about head-butting whales in leaps and bounds. We are in the algae fields. This place is our lifeline. Focus on the sailing. We need to stay on point once we make a sighting. Keep a sharp eye through to the horizon. Go blind if you have to, but spot something big so we can go home.”

  “Row, row, row your boat,” Feret hummed.

  They continued their gliding run over the fields. Hani noticed an irregularity in the water. “Do you see that? Something shifted in the current.”

  Sage lifted her hand up from the side and shook off the excess water.

  Everyone turned to investigate the odd disturbance. It was a regular wave motion, solid running, but against the current, and swift.

  Sage was excited. “Hack! Is that a snake? There, slithering in the waters?” She couldn’t recall the last time she saw a snake in the algae fields. “Is it charging the boat?” She peered closely, trying to gauge whether its travel path was innocent and a coincidence, or whether it was the intentional consequence of a more aggressive intention.

  The possibility raised Makrigga to alarm. “It is charging the boat.” He tightened his goggles and handed Sage a net. “If it comes at you, trap it.” For his part, he loosened a strap around his waist that held the blade from a bone dagger.

  Hani realized what it was. “It is a hydro-adder. Change our trajectory. We do not want it in the boat.”

  Sage had never seen one, but she had heard of them- Bitis aquarius, one of those mutations that didn’t have a historic name. She jumped at the opportunity to see one in person. Sage maneuvered around a sail to go portside towards the adder while Feret heaved with his right arm. The adder changed direction and followed in its pursuit.

  “Hand me the machete,” Hani ordered Sage. “If that demon tries to leap into the boat, I am going to leave part of it in the ocean, I say.”

  Saber-toothed hydro-adders were known for their curved protruding fangs, a vicious demeanor, a penchant for attacking creatures far greater in size than themselves, and an affinity for leaping out of the water. The venom induced inhuman renderings of pain, nausea, and vomiting. The bite itself formed into fist-sized contusions of puss and blood, like exploding balloons, restricting blood flow to entire limbs and organs. An internal and painful agony. They were feared, not only for the unique and unusual torture their bites inflicted on hapless victims, but because their sinuous and slender frames were exceptionally difficult to pinpoint.

  Sharks, on the other hand, were substantially larger targets, if at least bearing their own set of difficulties, and bearing them very well. Even the bravest on the Alpine preferred to avoid the adder’s poisons.

  The white slivers of fangs were visible in the water as it approached. Makrigga’s breathing was calm as he watched the creature and scanned its movements, its shifting, and the pattern of its gyrations. The adder neared the starboard bow.

  Hani readied his machete arm to strike. “Come to me, slithering beastie.”

  The hydro-adder came alongside the bow, and it made to leap out of the water. Makrigga slid his right hand into the ocean and let it push against the curr
ent. The moment the hydro-adder moved to strike, Makrigga pulled his hand out of the water like a geyser, firmly gripping the adder by its back and tail. It lashed out, buckling over onto itself to swipe at its captor. Makrigga made to throw the creature overboard, but held on tightly, and with a wide arc smacked the adder’s head into the boat’s wooden hull.

  The creature, fearsome and resilient as it was, was neither dead nor knocked out. It kept on fighting, its tail and body jerking in Makrigga’s hand. But its fangs were deeply lodged into the boat’s bow like a pair of curved nails, and it was unable to gain enough momentum to set itself free. It was stuck. Imprisoned by its own teeth.

  With a violent pulse, Makrigga gripped the creature closer to its head, gained some leverage, and yanked sharply upwards. With a crack, the adder’s head freed itself from the bow, deprived of the protection of its fangs. The two white fangs stuck out of the boat’s broadside like splinters on an elephant’s hide. Blood and venom oozed out of the snake’s mouth in red saliva bubbles. It bit, coiled and panicked. It writhed in pain and chomped its gums against each other. It wrapped its body around Makrigga’s arm and tried to squeeze like a constrictor, but it was too weak for that tactic. Tiny flecks of blood and venom continued to eject from the adder’s mouth.

  Makrigga motioned to Sage. “Here. Hold this.” Sage took hold of the creature’s tail. Makrigga unsheathed his bone knife and slit the saber-toothed hydro-adder lengthwise, revealing a flush red artery, and let the heart pump the thick contents into a small bucket. Once the red gush slowed and the adder’s body was drained of its life, he tossed the carcass into the cooler. Inside, the lobster's claws still grasped for an ocean that wasn't there. It eagerly clamped its claws around the hydro-adder’s body.

  Makrigga picked up the bucket and poured himself a small cup of fresh hydro-adder blood.

  “Share?” Sage asked.

  Makrigga wordlessly passed her the bucket.

  Hani made a toast. “I spittle to boat the skittish frown here to boast the reddish drown.”

  “I don’t think that means what you think it does,” Makrigga said.