The Beast of Cretacea (10 page)

Ishmael rouses to the sensation of dozens of liquid fingers tickling his skin. There’s a tightness around his chest and a loud hum in his ears. His jumbled thoughts slosh in a murky mist.

Water flows around his body as the ocean slides past.

Overhead the sky is deep blue. . . .

This could be a dream, but it’s not. He’s being pulled slowly through the hot sea. The hum is from the wave racer running just a fraction over idle. The tightness around his chest is Gwen’s arms holding him. When Ishmael tries to move, pain shoots through his shoulder. Still, he swivels just enough to see that behind Gwen is Queequeg, his arms around her waist. Billy, still sitting on the back of the wave racer, has a grip on Queequeg’s PFD.

Ishmael’s eyes meet Queequeg’s. His face and arms are bruised and scraped, but otherwise he appears unharmed. “You saved my life, friend.”

As he tows them back to the
Pequod,
Flask can’t stop grumbling. “Never seen anythin’ like it. Neither a’ ya has any right to be alive.” He looks back at Ishmael. “Especially you, sonny. That hump came up right beneath ya. Woulda thought you were a goner fer sure.”

“Did we get it?” Ishmael asks, despite the throbbing pain in his shoulder.

“Ha!” Flask laughs harshly. “
That’s
all ya want to know? We ain’t got him yet, but we will. He’s still got Queequeg’s stick in him and he’s draggin’ the float so’s we can track him. This time tomorrow they’ll be slicin’ and dicin’ him on the deck.”

“So we did good?” Gwen asks hopefully.

Flask frowns. “No! Ya did terrible — ignorin’ a direct order not to fire, gettin’ the float caught, and not cuttin’ yer line, practically destroyin’ yer stick boat! Mark my word, Red, when we get back to the
Pequod,
there’s gonna be bloody bilge to pay.”

Twenty minutes later, they’re lined up on the deck, their uniforms and PFDs dripping, while Starbuck demands, “What happened out there?”

“They stuck a hump, sir,” Flask answers weakly.

Starbuck stares incredulously at the four soggy nippers, then turns to the third mate. “You
let
them do that?”

Flask lowers his head. “Didn’t happen like that, sir.”

“Just how
did
it happen?”

“I told ’em not to fire, sir.”

“Forget the stick, Flask,” Starbuck snaps. “How’d you let them get close enough to do
anything
?”

“We wasn’t that close, sir. We was running thirty, maybe forty yards parallel. You know, just fer a thrill before the beast dove. But then the hump, he . . . changed direction.”

Just then, Stubb arrives breathless, adjusting his glasses and clutching his tablet. “I heard there was some kind of incident, Mr. Starbuck?”

Subtle shifts in Starbuck’s expression make it plain that he’s not happy to see the fussy second mate. Flask, on the other hand, perks up. “This new young team here stuck its first hump. A big ’un. Got to figure the crew’ll appreciate it, considerin’ how little’s in the pot.”

Behind them, cogs creak as a crane swings the dripping wreck of their chase boat overhead and lowers it to the deck.

Stubb inhales sharply. “Oh, my!”

The chase boat’s harpoon gun hangs loosely from its broken mount. One of the pontoons is gone, and seawater flows from the RTG compartment. While two sailors open the engine’s cover and douse it with fresh water, the crane angles back overboard and hauls up the missing pontoon. Stubb circles the wreckage, carefully recording the damage on his tablet before engaging in a hushed but heated discussion with Starbuck.

Finally, the second mate addresses Flask. “The estimated damages will be approximately one thousand, Mr. Flask.”

The third mate goes pale. “But, sir, with all due respect, the damages was incurred in the course a’ apprehendin’ a beast —”

“Reckless endangerment and irresponsible judgment, Mr. Flask,” Stubb states officiously.

Flask looks stricken. “I got kids back home, and I promised my wife this would be my last voyage.”

“Be that as it may —” Stubb begins, but is interrupted when Ishmael clears his throat.

“Excuse me, sir, but I don’t think it was Mr. Flask’s fault.”

“Stay out of this,” Starbuck warns.

“Seriously, sir,” Ishmael perseveres. “It really was an accident. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time. When the hump surfaced, it was so close that Queequeg could’ve reached out and touched it. Anyone would have fired a harpoon in that situation.”

“Just because anyone would have done it doesn’t mean it was the correct thing to do,” Stubb replies primly. “Company policy states that damage caused by reckless imprudence must be paid for by the guilty party.” Once again he turns to Flask. “As I was saying —”

“Then suppose I pay for it?” Ishmael asks.

Everyone goes quiet. Starbuck scowls. Flask looks at Ishmael in astonishment while Stubb quickly enters something on his tablet. “At your current pay rate, it will cost your entire year’s salary, young man. Even more if the pot doesn’t fill up soon.” The portly second mate fixes his eyes on Ishmael’s. “You’re aware that you won’t be permitted to return home till your debts to the company have been satisfied?”

“Yes,” Ishmael answers, wondering if there’ll still be a “home” to return to.

“You’re being crazy, friend,” Queequeg argues.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gwen adds.

“Don’t d-do it,” says Billy.

Even Flask protests. “I appreciate it, sonny, but there’s no way I can let you take the blame.”

Unswayed, Ishmael says to Starbuck, “I’ve heard that a productive stick-boat crew can easily make that up.”

“Indeed, boy, a
productive
stick-boat crew can.” Starbuck looks at the third mate. “Well, Flask, how did the nippers perform this morning? Would you say they showed promise?”

Flask starts to answer, then catches himself. He scrutinizes Ishmael for a long beat, then coughs into his fist. “I’d, ahem, say they was a mite rough around the edges, sir. But given more time to learn the ropes . . . they just might . . . make a good crew.”

By dinner, word of what happened has spread through the crew. Tables of sailors stop talking and marvel when Ishmael and the other nippers pass. Waiting at their table, Pip gives Ishmael a confounded look. “You gave up your
entire
year’s pay to save Flask’s neck?”

“To save
all
our necks is more like it,” Queequeg says.

“How?” Pip asks with a frown.

Queequeg drops his voice. “We totally bombed in practice, but genius over here”— he winks at Ishmael —“figured that if he took the cost of the chase boat off Flask’s shoulders, the third mate might feel obligated to give us another chance.”

Pip grins. “So much for the martyr act.”

“More l-like self-preservation,” says Billy.

Queequeg pokes Ishmael playfully. “I wonder if Starbuck was on to you.”

“I doubt much gets past him,” Ishmael says. He turns back to Pip. “Hopefully the thousand won’t matter once we start hunting for real — even if we make only half of what Fedallah’s crew makes.”

At that moment, Daggoo and Bunta come out of the galley, carrying trays heaped with food. When they see the nippers, they change direction and head toward them. “Enjoy your swim today, kiddies?” Daggoo asks archly.

Ishmael’s face hardens. He’d almost forgotten that Daggoo had nearly rammed them that morning.

The yellow-haired skipper leans in closer. “Congratulations on
accidentally
sticking your first hump,
nippers.
But don’t let it go to your heads. You’ve got a long way to go, and if you ever do make it to full stick-boat crew, which I strongly doubt, just remember this: Once you’re out of sight of this ship, the rules don’t apply. It’s every crew for itself.”

“At least we stuck a beast today,” Gwen shoots back. “What’d
you
add to the pot?”

Daggoo’s jaw muscles tighten. “Pure luck. And believe me, we would’ve gotten it without wrecking our boat.”

After dinner the guys return to the men’s berth to check the message lights on their VRgogs for word from home. Fretful about how — and where — Archie is, Ishmael has been anxiously waiting to hear from Joachim and Petra, but the entire month has passed in silence. Rumor has it that solar flares have been interfering with communications.

Tonight, the blue message lights are finally blinking. Pulling his VRgogs on, Ishmael feels the buds find their way to his ears while the dark lenses adjust to projection mode. For an instant he is in his gloomy kitchen at home, but the room keeps degrading into clouds of pixels, and the audio is broken up by buzzing distortion. Ishmael shuts off the optics, which improves the audio, but only slightly. It’s Joachim’s voice:

“Hello, Ishm . . . We . . . happy and re . . . hear you’ve made it . . . Cret . . . a ship. You’re . . . enjoying the experience . . . far. We wish . . . rchie, but . . . no news . . . solar interfere . . . very worried . . . Things here continue . . . difficult to breathe . . . sometimes isn’t . . . empty stores . . . but . . . hope that you . . . Love . . .”

Repeat plays don’t make the VR more intelligible. One thing is undeniable, though: There’s been no word from Archie.

When Ishmael slides off the VRgogs, Queequeg asks, “What did you hear?”

“Mostly buzz.” Ishmael is about to ask Queequeg the same when he notices that the broad-shouldered boy’s VRgogs are still hanging in his sleeper, untouched. Close by, Billy removes his VRgogs and shakes his head glumly. Only Pip is still wearing his HMD. And if the smile on his lips is any indication, he’s getting much better VR than anyone else.

On the other side of the room, Fedallah sits cross-legged on his sleeper, examining something that looks like the skeleton of a small flyer. Ishmael signals Queequeg, and they slip off their bunks to take a closer look. Fedallah is shirtless and as thin as any malnourished denizen of Black Range, but he has an unusually broad chest and rib cage, as if he possesses an inhumanly large pair of lungs.

Closer now, Ishmael can see that the skeleton has a thin tail. It’s not a flyer, after all, but the bony carcass of a miniature terrafin. With long, slim fingers, Fedallah gestures behind and above the terrafin’s head. “The eyes are far apart. Blind spots here, and here.”

“Is that its weakness?” Ishmael asks.

“Yes and no. It cannot see in those places, but it can feel: A propeller’s cavitation. Or if a man splashes when he swims. But here”— Fedallah touches a place on the skeleton just behind the head —“is the real weakness. A harpoon stuck like this”— he angles his finger in —“and the battle is over.”

“If you can get close enough,” Queequeg observes.

The great harpooner’s eyes are pools of fathomless black. “Yes, exactly.”

Ishmael touches one of the many long barbed spines that decorate Fedallah’s sleeper. “All from terrafins?”

“Yes.”

“Ones you caught?”

“No man captures a terrafin alone.” The harpooner looks up at them. “You show promise. You will be a good team.”

Ishmael hopes he’s right.

Something makes Fedallah glance up at the ceiling. Across the room, Billy sits up attentively, listening. At first Ishmael doesn’t hear anything, but then his ears perceive faint, distant drumming.

Fedallah points a finger upward. “Go see.”

Billy, Queequeg, Pip, and Ishmael make the three-stairways climb to the main deck. The drumming from above is growing louder. Soon it begins to sound like thousands of pebbles falling on a vast sheet of metal. They stop inside a hatch. From the other side comes a steady roar.

“Go on, take a look,” Queequeg urges eagerly.

When Ishmael opens the hatch just enough to look out, a warm mist blows in. Outside in the dark, liquid is pouring down, but not from some hose aimed upward. It appears to be water . . .
pouring out of the sky
!

Suddenly the hatch swings wide and Charity’s standing there, water running down her face, her uniform shirt a dark shade of green and hanging heavily off her frame.

“Not afraid of a little rain, are you?” She laughs and grabs Ishmael’s hand, pulling him out into this thing he’s never heard of. The rain is warm. Being on deck feels like taking a shower with clothes on. Charity lets go of Ishmael and twirls around, the ends of her hair spitting trails of water that cut horizontally through the air. By now Billy and Queequeg have stepped out and are barely more than shadows in the sheets of falling drops and mist. Queequeg tilts his face upward and opens his mouth wide. Billy’s curly blond hair hangs in limp wet spirals on his forehead, and for the first time since they arrived on the
Pequod,
he’s actually laughing.