War Surf (33 page)

“Did you free up those cargo doors like I asked.”

“Not yet. I will,” he says without looking up.

“There’ll be some deliveries.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t put it off.”

He doesn’t answer. His labor is rhythmic and graceful, despite his impatience. I enjoy watching, but the longer he remains silent, the angrier I grow. Certain parting words would be appropriate. Haven’t I given him my beloved Sheeba, all my worldly possessions and soon my very life? Ye graven gods, I’ve made this punk my heir. At the very least, he could show gratitude. On impulse, I almost blurt an insult, but then he raises his blond head and gives me one of those rare, thoughtful smiles.

“I’ll be good to her.”

The insult clogs my mouth, and I have to chew and swallow before I can answer. “If you don’t, I’ll haunt you from my grave.”

His smile widens, and he leans on his rake. “Sheeba be happy here. She live a long time. We keep her safe.” Then he gestures at the foliage surrounding us. “You be here, too.”

I bark a laugh. “After you eat me and drink roe, I’ll be a risen god.”

Liam shrugs. “We respect you.”

He’s trying to comfort me. I should let him. What comes after death? I don’t know.

He pulls a sieve through the dark tank, stirring liquid gurgles. The smell is sour and vivid. “I love her,” he says, “as much as you.”

“Yes.”

I watch him prepare my tomb, the glass man’s cradle. Green liquid sloshes out of the white vat, and it’s so droll, it belongs on the Reel. Then a new idea occurs to me, brilliant and unexpected. It flashes outward in blinding epiphany. I see the glass man as a newborn, growing, learning. Who knows how he’ll mature? I imagine his sentinel NEMs migrating beyond the garden, patrolling Heaven’s hull and healing breaches, the same way he healed that rip in my space suit. I see him living inside the steel, deflecting radiation and superintending the production of electricity. Someday, my strange descendant may steer a new course through the void. It’s possible.

Minutes lengthen into shadows, and dappled sunbeams play through the vines as I sit beside my funeral vat watching Liam rake leaves. In my hand, Sheeba’s golden ankh sparkles. I polish it with my thumb. This surf is done. The bets are closed, and it’s time to re-zero the clock. I’ve arrived at a place without past or future, and I ride this moment with frightening agonies of hope. Now is here.