Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales (17 page)

I must be quick. There isn’t much time. Linden, I fear, is far from well—one look at his puffy countenance when I found him on the boat yesterday morning was all I needed to tell me that. Distended and jaundiced, he seemed to be oozing a brownish pus as one might excrete sweat. It dripped off him, yet he remained hunched, ignorant of it and of me as he scoured my papers, his hands groping for something—perhaps some clue as to the whereabouts of what I had found in that deep ocean vent. When he realized I was there, he turned and started at me with his milky unapologetic eyes, and I was certain then more than ever that the security of my research was in doubt.

At first I could not allow myself to believe my most trusted student would betray me, but I fear the illness has twisted his thinking, just as it seems to have twisted his tongue, slurring his words. Was he working in concert with the old man? It couldn’t be possible, and yet Linden’s actions were troubling, to say the least. He paid me an unexpected and strangely timed visit here last night while I was swabbing the glass rock and transferring the samples to a more portable container. He told me he felt there was something wrong with him, something that had occurred during his accident. He couldn’t remember it well, but he hadn’t felt right since. “If only,” he said, “we still had our research. Perhaps then I could find an answer.” His eyes implored me to reveal that I had managed to rescue everything safely, but I would not. I could trust no one in Zihuatanejo any longer, not even Linden. It took some doing to get him to leave my doorway, but thankfully I eventually succeeded and sent him back to his room. The entire episode unnerved me, and it was clear I would not be so lucky a second time.

I cannot take any chances. My work—it’s been so long, too long, for me to allow it to be ruined. Immortality is within reach, and I will not allow my legacy to be stolen from me. I have to send the samples where neither Linden nor that crazy old man will ever find them. I have already packed everything in a crate and asked the front desk to ship it back to the university for me. It will be there waiting by the time I arrive, safe in Randal and Olivia’s hands and away from prying untrustworthy eyes. With the samples gone from here, maintaining the ruse that they were lost with the submersible will be much easier, but I cannot risk this journal or any of my notes being found. I shall include them with the crate before I leave to meet Linden. This way, at least they will remain safe.

I will use today’s trip to monitor the
Oregon’
s security while docked at the marina and gauge Linden’s health. Perhaps I can assess just what’s been happening to destroy my research, and take further steps to neutralize it. I pray I’m wrong about it all, but if I’m not, I hope with all my heart it does not involve Linden. But I can no longer be sure. His behavior is erratic, and I cannot convince him it would be best he see the doctor once again. I shall take another trip with him on the water today, searching again near the continental shelf, but I fear no good will come of it. I dearly miss my old friend.

It was clear to Randal that any sanity Dr. Markowitz possessed at the expedition’s outset had faded the longer he and Linden were on the water. The last entry was nearly incomprehensible—as through written in great haste, tangled letters doggedly unwilling to reveal their truths. The delusional and paranoid imaginings depressed Randal to no end—watching the slow deterioration of his mentor was incredibly difficult. For the sake of Dr. Markowitz’s legacy, and any lingering associations in the eyes of others that might exist between them, he gathered all the pages of the journal and hid them at the top of his apartment bookshelf, out of reach of anyone who might come looking for them.

As the weeks progressed, the buzz about Markowitz’s disappearance continued to intensify, culminating in Randal’s inability to pass between buildings without another student or faculty member stopping him to ask questions. It was the greatest mystery of the school year, and somehow Randal had managed to land right at its epicenter. Initially, he craved the attention. Any notice or recognition at all would help augment his status as someone of importance, a figure to watch. He hoped it might be enough to cement his standing with the administration. After his discussions with the dean, he wanted nothing more than to finish his dissertation and be taken on by the school as a junior professor. It was certainly within the realm of possibility—Dean Coxwell had nearly come out and said so during a private meeting where it was suggested that Dr. Markowitz’s position might not need to be filled quite yet. Randal was asked to continue teaching the class for the interim and was offered full use of Dr. Markowitz’s office while he did so. There were other plans afoot, the dean explained, and it might be easiest for all if Randal moved himself in sooner rather than later. He didn’t elaborate, but it was clear the tragedy with Markowitz might be a blessing for Randal. The idea filled him with excitement and no small amount of pride, but also a palpable fear of how tenuous it would be. Randal knew the university would be foolish not to grant someone of his intellect the position, but the dean’s hints made it clear Randal would be best served finding some way of solidifying his credentials to ensure the posting was made permanent.

Perhaps Dr. Markowitz and Linden and the future of humanity could help him with that.

The dean appeared more often in the lab during the start of the school year than he had all summer long. He spent his time scrutinizing Randal both teaching and running the lab. What exactly he was looking for remained unclear, but Randal continued to work hard to prove his worth and ignore the sidelong glances he felt emanating from Olivia’s prep station.

The dean, to his credit, did not meddle during his visits. All he wanted to do was observe—which made examining the contents of Markowitz’s crate harder to hide. Randal and Olivia still needed to read through Markowitz’s boating charts and determine where he and Linden were and the conditions there. It required finesse, especially as it could only be done in the evenings and outside the laboratory. Olivia happily took that job on, as it allowed her to find some distance from her thoughts by becoming absorbed with work; that left Randal free to examine Markowitz’s journal safely in the depths of his campus apartment. He read and re-read it voraciously, looking for answers that he might have overlooked. Instead, the journal only raised new questions about what Dr. Markowitz had discovered, what had happened to Linden out on the
Oregon,
and why such pains were taken to prevent the completion of their research. Randal knew he would have to make sense of it, just as he knew that Olivia could not be allowed to see the journal. Not then, perhaps not ever. He feared her reaction if she did. When she asked, and at the beginning she asked often, he merely feigned how dry and unimportant the thing was, how it was devoid of many entries at all, and those that were there touched on little but the innocuous. Randal could not think of a better tactic. All he would reveal to Olivia were the basics of what Markowitz and Linden were searching for, and the raw data that qualified their findings. It was all she required. The journal was, at best, a map of his former hero’s slow descent into senile madness—a madness whose cost was both his life and Linden’s. And, by extension, Olivia’s. Only Randal could see the opportunities lining up, and he intended to act upon them. If he played his cards right, he could use Markowitz’s research to make a name for himself. And Olivia, too, he supposed. But he had to be careful.

Classes do not make time for missing professors—students must find their purpose as early as possible if they are to succeed, and their success was important to no one more than Randal. Their success would mean his own. But he needed Olivia’s help in doing so. He was anxious as she to probe the secrets of Markowitz’s discovery, but there were day-to-day tasks that needed to be accomplished in the lab, preparing modules for students and marking their performance. Yet Olivia’s attention continued to be divided and consumed further and further by the grey crate Dr. Markowitz shipped back, and the contents therein.

“I hope you aren’t showing these to anyone else,” Randal said when he discovered her at the bench working into the night.

“I thought you’d left for the day,” she said. Her eyes red from being rubbed.

“I did. I was actually walking by the building when I saw the light on and you in the window.”

“This is the only time I can get any peace to inspect these things. The days are so busy. . . . I kind of like the quiet. My head’s been killing me lately.”

He leaned forward to inspect her pale complexion.

“Maybe you should go home. You’re no use run ragged.”

“Aren’t you the one who said the sooner we piece together this research, the sooner we can get that paper done? Linden and Dr. Markowitz deserve their final success.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice his pause. He had yet to tell her of his intention to leave Markowitz and Linden out of the paper altogether. After all, the final in-depth analysis would be done primarily by him and Olivia. All Markowitz and Linden had done was collect the samples. It was Randal who would be doing the hard work of making sense of them.

Olivia coughed. It was wet, and though she covered her mouth Randal still felt a twinge of repulsion.

“Really, Olivia. Go home. I’ll put the crate away.”

She sniffled. Then gave the materials in front of her a queer look.

“No, I’ll do it. You were on your way out anyway.”

“Well, at least let me help.” He reached out, but she quickly turned her back on him. So quickly it was as though he’d been slapped.

“I told you I’d do it. Now go.”

“Okay,” he said, hands raised in defeat. “I was just trying to help.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as he was leaving, but he got the distinct impression that wasn’t exactly true. Nor was what she said next: “I’m leaving in a minute.”

Thus it was no surprise that, when he arrived at the laboratory the next morning, he found her face down on the lab desk sleeping, contents of Markowitz’s crate all around her. Lab classes weren’t until later in the day, but he still felt uncomfortable having such sensitive material exposed. He hesitated, then put his hand on Olivia to nudge her awake. Her flesh was softer than he’d imagined—and warmer. Unexpectedly so. For a few seconds she did not move, did not react in any way—long enough for Randal to wonder if she was all right. Then she jumped, scaring him as much as he had her. She turned and looked at him, her hand on her chest, white creases in her face that blood had yet to fill.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Have you been here all night?”

She rubbed her damp face with her hands. Blinked her watering eyes excessively.

“I think so.”

“Olivia, you don’t look well. Worse than yesterday.”

She nodded, yawned, and stretched. As she did so, the hem of her shirt rose just enough to show a sliver of abdominal flesh. He stared at it, trying to burn the image into his memory.

“I think it’s these samples. I can’t stand looking at them anymore. They keep reminding me of what happened.”

Randal nodded and looked over at them. He didn’t think of Linden, but of Markowitz. But she was right: they made him feel as though he were looking at a dead man. They certainly
smelled
like a dead man.

“Have you figured anything out?”

“Look at this,” she said, and hunched over one of the fluorescent microscopes. In a small tray beneath the lens was a piece of the glass rock Markowitz had found—the one mentioned in the journal. He found his heart speeding up with anticipation, yet kept it to himself. As excited as he was, part of him was irritated Olivia had started inspecting the crate without him. As long as he got to lead the paper, it wasn’t a complete loss, but some victory still felt snatched from his hands. Randal bent and looked through the eyepiece. He saw nothing of note. At the same time, his stomach flipped over, and he was nearly overwhelmed by a feeling of illness—so much so he had to sit down. Olivia looked at him, and he wondered if he looked as pale as she did. When the blood returned to his face he said, with only the hint of a slur: “There’s nothing there, Olivia.”

She pushed him aside and looked again. Those white creases still had not filled, and were replaced with the multitude that hung there after her face scrunched. It was as though her flesh had lost its elasticity.

“It’s faint, but there are markings there. At first I thought it was simply acid and enzymes from the micro-organic growths etching the glass rock, but that’s not the case. I mean, it
looks
like it’s the case. But it’s too ordered, too purposeful. I haven’t figured out what’s going on yet.”

Randal bent over the eyepiece again and did his best to ignore his churning gut. He was overheating, even under the cool fluorescent lights, and before he suffocated he loosened his shirt’s collar.

“It looks random enough to me. I think you were right the first time.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s something. I need to take some photographs of this.” She thought for a moment. “Do you know if the electron microscope is free? I’d like some time on it to get a good look at these striations. Maybe at the fungus, too.”

“Olivia,” Randal said, then realized he didn’t have a response. She was looking at him with her dark, red eyes, heavy bags beneath them, and still he was unnerved. He couldn’t imagine ever being needed before.

“I guess I could ask Dean Coxwell. But we can’t let him know what it’s for. We’ll have to make something up.”

Unexpectedly, she jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. Her flesh was hot and soft and despite how she smelled he became aroused. He simultaneously tried to ignore what was happening and enjoy it.

Booking the electron microscope was easier than he’d thought—almost disappointingly so. Dean Coxwell didn’t ask him what he needed it for, despite all Randal’s preparation beforehand should the question be raised. Instead, the dean nodded and picked up his telephone to place a call to Nehls, the lab steward.