Brian Evenson - Dead Space - Martyr

“He’s dead.”

She stopped. “Dead?” she said. “What happened?”

“His throat was slit.”

She grabbed his arm, jerked it until he looked at her. “You see,” she said, “I told you it was dangerous! And now somebody’s dead.”

“It’s probably nothing,” he said. “Probably just a mugging.”

He saw a flicker of hope pass through her eyes, and quickly fade. “But what if it’s not? You should give this up. You should stop your game of spying and do the job you were sent down here to do.”

He didn’t say anything, just tried to tug his arm away.

“Promise me, Michael,” she said. “Promise me.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Look,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “You were the one who brought Chava to me. I didn’t ask you to do that. But every new thing I hear makes it seem stranger and stranger. I need to figure out what’s going on.”

At first she was very angry. She started walking, fast, staying out in front of him and wouldn’t look back. He followed her, calling her name. Gradually she slowed down a little, finally let him take her hand, but still wouldn’t look at him. He pulled her close and held her while she tried to push him away, very gradually giving in.

“You don’t love me enough to do this for me,” she tried.

“I do love you,” he said. “That’s not what this is about.”

She pouted. Finally she put her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to lose you, Michael,” she said.

“You won’t lose me,” he said. “I promise.”

They walked slowly down the street. They passed an open door, a makeshift wooden sign hanging over it reading BAR DE PRIMERA CATEGORÍA, another sign beside it, this one cardboard, reading BEBIDAS, MUY BARATAS.

They were already twenty feet past when Altman stopped and doubled back.

“Where are you going now?” asked Ada.

“I need a drink,” he said. “I need to raise a glass to Hammond.”

He pushed open the door. The patrons, all locals, looked up, fell immediately silent. He went up to the counter, which consisted of a stack of old crates, and ordered a beer for himself, one for Ada.

When the beers came, he looked around for a place to sit. There was nowhere. All the tables were full and people were leaning against the wall. He paid the bartender and then carried their drinks outside.

They sat on the edge of the dusty street before the makeshift bar, in the light coming through the half-open door, backs against the rickety wall, and drank their beers.

“It worries me,” he said, putting his beer down.

“What?”

“This,” he said. “All of it. The things going on in Chicxulub, the pulse, the submarine, the stories you’re hearing, the dreams everyone has been having, the thing we just saw on the beach. I think we’re in trouble.”

“You and I?”

“Everybody,” he said. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

“All the more reason to leave it alone,” she mumbled.

He ignored her. He groped for his beer but suddenly couldn’t find it. He turned and looked for it, but it was gone.

He turned on the flashlight and shone it into the shadows on the edge of the building, a little farther away from the door. There was a man there, his shirt and clothes filthy. He was obviously very drunk. He was holding Altman’s bottle to his lips, rapidly emptying it.

“That drunk just took my beer,” he said to Ada, a little astonished.

The man finished the beer, smacked his lips, and tossed the bottle off into the darkness. Then he looked at them, squinting into the beam of the flashlight.

Altman lowered it a little bit. The man held out his hand, snapped his fingers.

Altman grinned. “I think he wants your beer, too,” he said.

Ada spoke to him softly in Spanish and the man nodded. She held out her beer and the man took it eagerly and upended it, quickly downed it. He tossed the bottle away then leaned back against the wall.

“Hello,” said Altman.

The man carefully smoothed his filthy shirt. “Mucho gusto,” he said. His accent and cadence were surprisingly formal. He redirected his gaze toward Ada, inclined his head slightly. “Encantado,” he said.

“We’ve met before,” said Ada. “You’ve told me your stories. Don’t you remember?”

The man looked at her with his watery eyes but did not answer. After a long moment, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for long enough that Altman wondered if he hadn’t fallen asleep.

Suddenly he asked in Spanish, “What are your names?”

“Michael Altman,” said Altman. “This is my girlfriend, Ada Cortez. What is your name?”

The man ignored the question. “Thank you for the drinks,” he said, his Spanish excessively polite. He turned to Ada. “Cortez, a good, vigorous Spanish name, but not one my people care for, for reasons that you must know. We have a very long memory. You must not hold it against us.”

Ada nodded.

“Ada, from Hebrew, meaning ‘adornment.’ It is a lovely name for a woman as beautiful as you. Centuries ago, it was the name of the daughter of a notorious and handsome club-footed poet. And, a century or more later, the name, too, of a book by a famous writer.”

“How do you know this?” asked Ada.

“Names were a hobby of mine,” the man said. “Before drinking became my only hobby.”

He turned back to Altman. “Michael, the name of the archangel on God’s right hand. Are you a religious man, Michael?”

“No,” said Altman. “I am not.”

“Then we shall refer to you not as Michael but as Altman. The name Altman, it is German, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Altman. “But I’m from the North American sector.”

“You do not have a German face,” the man said. “I hope it does not offend you that I say this. What places are there in you?”

“I’m a mongrel,” said Altman evasively. “A mix of everything.”

“I can see from your face that you are one of us as well,” said the drunk. “The devil thinks he knows you, but he does not know all of you.”

“My mother was part Indian,” Altman admitted. “I don’t know what tribe.”

“I would say she was of our tribe,” said the drunk.

“I don’t know,” said Altman.

“What?” said Ada. “Your mother was part Indian? You’ve never told me that before.”

“She didn’t like to talk about it,” said Altman. “I don’t know why. I don’t think about it often.”

“You are here for a reason,” the man said.

“I came here with Ada,” said Altman.

“That may very well be,” said the man. “But that is not the reason.”

“And what is the reason?”

The man smiled. “Your name,” he said. “Altman. Alt meaning ‘old,’ mann, with two n ’s, meaning ‘man.’ You are not an old man. You are a young man. Can you explain this to me?”

“It’s just a name,” said Altman.

“You understand the importance of a name only once you have lost yours. As I have.” He leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes.

“There is perhaps another meaning,” he said. Alt could mean ‘ancient,’ but that is not so different from ‘old.’ Altman might be an ‘old man’ or an ‘old servant’ or, if I am not taking too many liberties, a ‘wise man.’ ” He opened his eyes again, gave Altman an intense stare, his eyes glittering in the crosslight from the flash beam. “Which one shall it be for you?”

They sat in silence. Again, Altman thought the drunk had fallen asleep.

“Ready to go?” he asked Ada.

“If you buy me another drink,” said the drunk quietly. “I will tell you what I know.”