Thrust: A Novel

At dusk, the habitats glow indigo, then black as the sun sets. From the windows of the surface habitats, depending on the tides, you can see the tips of the statue’s torch poking up from the waves. At other times, the torch remains submerged. By now limpets and mussels, anemones and urchins, likely adorn her standard. Fish and octopuses make homes around her oxidized body. Who knows what other forms of life have emerged near her. Mikael has watched Laisvė stare out in that direction. But there is something more important to be seen.

Sometimes he watches her watch water for hours.

“Dolphins, sea turtles, seals, manatees, and whales all have an arc of bones in their front flippers,” Laisvė says, staring at the fingers she has stretched in front of her.

When Laisvė steps from the ledge of the habitat back into the water, the motion no longer concerns Mikael. He knows she will carry an object with her, and he knows she’ll bring a different object back. He knows she will bring other people back with her or take them to an otherwhere. He knows that the word future does not mean “away from us,” but something more like “in us.” Like everything that lives inside her imagination and dreams.

Once a month, a barge brings them supplies. The inhabitants of nearby habitats provide mutual aid in the form of food grown to share with inlanders, who are busy rewilding land from coast to coast, or sky folk, who feed all manner of birds. The man who steers the barge is an old old comma of a man. The old ship’s bridge bears a blue letter P over the helm. When the old old comma of a man arrives, he always sits down for a visit with the water girl who has become a grown woman.

“Do you have a good trade in hand?”

“I believe I do,” Laisvė says.

His eyes have receded into wrinkles and age. She thought he was old in the past, but that was because she was a child, she can see that now. She has her hair pulled back, woven into a braid as sturdy as a rope. They sit close together on crates on the barge. She holds her fisted hand toward him, then opens it. Inside her hand is an oxidized coin.

He carefully takes the coin into his hand, holds it up in front of him. “Ah. You are ready to part with it, are you?” The Flowing Hair cent.

“Yes, I believe I’ve carried this one long enough.”

He nods his head. Closes his eyes. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a box turtle.

“Bertrand?”

The turtle stretches his head out and nods. Makes a little croak, almost a burp.

The comma of a man says, “He’s grown old enough for both of us, and he could use some extra care. One of his legs doesn’t work quite right—” But before he can finish, Bertrand interrupts.

“Just hold on a minute here,” he says. “I’m not here for pity. I’m here to make sure you two idiots from your species properly introduce yourselves! My god. The weirdness of you people. Your great, grand humanity! Your idiotic egos, all that individualism — what a crock! Now tell each other your names.”

“Victor,” the old man says quietly. “Isn’t that a funny name? My mother was from what used to be Hong Kong China, but my father was Siberian! Apparently, my mother — who was a poet — wanted to name me Lìshĭ. But my father said, ‘What kind of name is that? That’s not a name! Not for a boy!’ And so he gave me a boy’s name, one that has never fit my face or my life. I’m no warrior!”

When he laughed, the crinkles around his eyes danced.

“In my heart, I carry Lìshĭ. I’m told it means ‘history.’ ”

For just a moment, Laisvė looked at him in quiet wonder. Then she spoke. “I’m not Liza, the name you know. My mother chose my real name. My father wanted me to hide it to keep me safe. But I carry my real name in my heart too. My mother was a linguist. Mine is Laisvė. It means ‘liberty.’ But no one’s name is Liberty.”

Victor bowed. “History and Liberty sat on crates talking… while a cranky little turtle ordered them around.” Victor’s laugh filled the space between their bodies with light.

“Well, thank oceans that’s done.” Bertrand harrumphed. “Now show me where I can eat. You know — roots, mushrooms, flowers, berries, eggs, insects, that sort of thing. I’ve got all the drinking, soaking, and wading water I need around here. What I’ve got to do is burrow. You can’t expect me not to burrow. Where is the nearest wild grass?”

“He’s kind of bossy,” Victor said.

Laisvė smiled and took Bertrand into her hands, held him close to her chest.

“Watch the leg, lady,” Bertrand grumbled.

—