Viator

From the shingle, Viator’s hull was a brutish thing, black and blunt and patchy with ice, given a strangely delicate accent by the two crumpled screws with their defining crusts of snow, like two sugar flowers popping out from the belly of an unsodded grave; and there was an odd thing, as well, on the shore, a length of seaweed, iron in color, bulky, roughly man-sized, uncovered by the snow. Wilander’s path led away from it, but he let his feet stray him near and found that it was not seaweed as it had appeared, but rust; a man made of rust. On peering closer, he recognized that man to be Arnsparger. Fright drove him back a step. He had a second look. The body was fully clothed, the clothes cunningly fashioned of rust; arranged lying on its stomach, its arms held close, face to the side, gaping—it might have fallen from the stern. Arnsparger must have put it there to be found, a grisly piece of art, but artful nonetheless. Wilander knelt by the body. The detail was exquisite. All of ozim. Here was Arnsparger’s pen protruding from his trouser pocket; here the bulge of his wallet, the buttons on his shirt collar. He had not believed him capable of such. Beery, bluff Arnsparger, born in tavern light to a crowbar and keg of beer…he had done this? This miracle? How had he managed to fix the surface? Or did he, like the purest of artists, intend his work to be sacrificed, victimized by wind and weather? Wilander positioned his finger over Arnsparger’s jowly, stupefied face, then thought, no, not the face, he wouldn’t be the one to spoil the face, and, choosing an area near the belt, where the damage would not be so noticeable, he pushed in his finger. To his dismay, it went in easily. Ah, well. He withdrew it. Sheathed in rust, tipped in blood. He stared. Delicate flakes of red and black coated the finger from the knuckle to the first joint, giving way to glistening red. The fact of it sank in, as did the fact of a red leakage from the hole he had made. Something inside the figure settled, some imbalance registered, and its cheek caved in, rust leaked from an eyesocket. He jumped up and ran, nearly running up the rope, a mad scramble, flung himself over the rail, and made for the cabins, calling to Mortensen, to Halmus, wanting to alert them to a danger, but what was the danger? You couldn’t yell, Arnsparger’s turned into rust! and expect the same reaction you got by yelling, Fire! You would leave yourself open to ridicule, and rightly so. Mortensen wasn’t in his cabin; he must be down in the hold and he could rot there, because Wilander wasn’t poking his nose in the hold, no sir, not on his life, and he burst into Halmus’ cabin, noticing the glass had been knocked out of the port just as his feet skidded out from under him—he squawked, flailed, slammed down, knocking the back of his head painfully, not losing consciousness, squeezing his eyes against the pain. After the pain subsided he saw that the port glass was littering the floor and one of the crumbs, a chunk the size of a marble, held part of a brown eye. He thought it was reflecting his eye until he remembered his eyes were blue. Groggily, he sat up, bracing against the bottom of Halmus’ bunk. Turned the piece over in his hand. It showed the same from every angle, as if the eye were turning with it, interested in him. Wilander was too exhausted to register much of a reaction. Another chunk held the corner of a sneering mouth, and another a section of neatly trimmed beard. He had gone a ways toward assembling Halmus’ face before deciding he did not want to see the expression he had worn at the moment of death. Scattering the death mask on the floor, crunching the pieces underfoot, he walked along the passageway to his cabin and lay down on his bunk. Something dug into his back. The cell phone. He switched the thing on. Lots of messages, but he didn’t have a lot to say, just he wished this trip was over, Sayonara, and like that. He was tired, too full of angles for which there were no…The thought tailed off, uncompleted. He couldn’t count, he couldn’t think. His phone rang. Watching the little dingus vibrating on his chest made for a fun few seconds, but soon grew tiresome. It stopped. Seconds later it rang again. He picked it up, said, Hello.

—Thomas? I’ve been trying to reach you. Where’ve you been?

Around the world and back again.

—Hey…Arlene! He was genuinely happy to hear her voice.

—Listen, she said. That friend of mine, the hacker? I sent him what you told me…

—How are you? Are you okay?

—Thomas! You have to get off the ship! There’s a chance…

—I’ve really missed you.

She spoke to someone, her conversation muted, then said, The Fat Allie out of Mayorkiq. You remember? The fishing boat that Lunde told you about. There is no Mayorkiq, not anymore. The…

—Do you miss me?

—Yes. Yes, I miss you. The people in Mayorkiq, they went crazy, they all died except for two or three. They sent a…

—I love you.