The Flicker Men by Ted Kosmatka Page B

Don’t die
    Later, when I was twelve, I checked his lists again, looking for that last item, and it wasn’t there. Somewhere along the line, it had fallen off the list.
    Since he never drank when he drove or worked or sailed with crew, he did all these things less often as time went by. Our excursions beyond the harbor grew fewer. And then there was that last time. That last time we ventured out into deep water.
    I guided the ship by pointing. “There!” I shouted. “Let’s go there!” Pointing to a bit of blue no different from all the other bits of blue, the rise and fall of dark waves, and I handled the ropes while we tacked, and the great sail above us shifted as he steered into a beam reach. The canvas filled and the lines creaked, while the whole large and mysterious machine leaned over on its side, and we were off.
    The ocean is vast. A tiny vessel against the expanse of a world. And he loved that point where you couldn’t see land anymore. Seventeen miles on a clear day. Sometimes sixteen or fourteen or ten, depending on the weather. He’d stare out over the horizon. “There,” he’d say. And I’d look. And I’d see he was right. There was no land. Only the ocean. And no point going farther. Beyond here, everything was the same. The ocean was one thing. And the ship would rise and fall like breathing. A spaceship in the darkness as we moved across the waves.
    When the wind comes from the east, the storms can sneak up on you. Catch you unaware. The way life can catch you unaware.
    *   *   *
    I watched the unnamed marina in the distance as the airport shuttle rounded the curve. I looked past Point Machine’s shoulder while he dozed, black hair against the glass. I could see the sailboats and the masts swaying. The highway curved again as we approached the city, driving parallel to the water. Buildings loomed. I nudged him. “We’re almost at the hotel.” But he did not wake.
    I looked out through the glass at the small slice of ocean. Never forgetting the water was cold and the water was deep, and the things you love most can hurt you.
    I could smell the salt when I climbed off the shuttle. Point Machine and I grabbed our bags as we stood beneath the front awning of the conclave hotel, a plush Ramada not far from the water. We decided to make a pass through the commons before checking in.
    Already, the crowds were gathering.
    â€œQuite a turnout,” Point Machine said.
    I switched the strap of my duffle bag to my other shoulder. “Now I remember why I don’t come to these.”
    The trip was mandatory, a decree handed down from bosses whom even Jeremy was afraid to disappoint. I’d refused to help with Robbins, so this was the alternative. The lesser of two evils. Still, I’d dragged my feet until higher-ups were invoked. In the end, I did it for Jeremy. “They want a representative from Hansen to attend,” he told me. “Preferably someone high-profile, and right now, that’s you guys. Satvik is already committed elsewhere.”
    That “elsewhere,” of course, being Robbins.
    So when the date arrived, I’d packed my bags and met Point Machine at the airport.
    In truth, it was the last place I wanted to be. Three days earlier, the first threatening letter had arrived at the lab. The police were called.
    When I’d asked, Jeremy said only, “You don’t want to read it.”
    Eventually, he showed me the xeroxed copy. Ten words in black magic marker. Enough to remind me that the world was a dangerous place.
    Marble gave way to thick carpet as we entered the central commons, weaving our way through the flow of bodies, and I was struck by the aural wave of a hundred simultaneous conversations. It had been a long time since I’d been to one of these, but you never really forget them. The milling crowds, both postgrad and undergrad. The never-grads and PhDs. The science