The Beast of Cretacea (16 page)

Sensing that something interesting is happening, other children collect to watch. The boys are on opposite sides of the tablet now, faces contorted with effort, using all their strength, and then
—

Clang!

A hatch bangs. Ishmael’s eyes burst open. Footsteps are coming down the passageway. Starbuck appears on the other side of the cell’s bars and studies Ishmael through his dark glasses. “Do you have any idea how stupid that was? When Daggoo fell, his head missed the stern of his stick boat by inches.
Inches,
boy.”

Ishmael props himself up on his elbow. “I wasn’t trying to kill him, sir, just teach him a lesson.”

“A lesson?” Starbuck repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been on this ship for, what, four months? Daggoo’s been here almost three years. He’s a foot taller than you and probably weighs a good sixty pounds more.”

“I couldn’t let him take advantage of my crew like that, sir. We’re in it for the money just as much as everyone else.”

Starbuck sucks his lips pensively and wraps his gnarled fingers around the cell’s bars. “Listen, boy, you keep trying to teach thugs like Daggoo lessons, you’re liable to spend the rest of your life dead, understand?”

Ishmael gazes at the tangle of pipes in the ceiling, knowing he’d do it again if he had to.

“I mean it, boy. I’ve seen men die for a lot less.” When Starbuck starts to back away from the bars, Ishmael realizes the first mate intends to leave him locked up a while longer.

He sits up. “With all due respect, sir, as long as you keep me down here, my crew can’t do the ship’s pot any good.”

Starbuck gives him an appraising look. “You think I’m keeping you here as punishment? Think again, boy. You’re here for your own protection until Daggoo calms down. If I were you, I’d spend less time worrying about the pot and more time thinking about how to avoid getting your throat slit.”

Another day passes and another night falls. At the back of the cell is a porthole no larger than a man’s head, and through it Ishmael can see the bright stars that fill the black night sky. He lies on the metal slab and does what Starbuck told him to do — sort of. He doesn’t think about the pot, but nor does he think about Daggoo. Instead his mind wanders: What kind of deal was made to get Charity back from the pirates, and who could have made it? How could Old Ben possibly have known that he would be sent to Cretacea? If the person named Grace isn’t aboard the
Pequod,
then where is she, and how is he supposed to stop her from rendezvousing with them? Why hasn’t he heard from his foster parents recently? And where in the universe is Archie?

Archie presses a thin green wire against the exposed copper circuitry of the holoset, and the ghostly image of a spacecraft appears in the air. The image is so diaphanous that Ishmael can see his best friend’s dark eyes through it. Nonetheless, it is a triumph: the first time they have ever gotten something broken to work.

A hand reaches in and grabs the holoset. It’s Ronith, the biggest boy in the foundling home. Ishmael leaps to his feet and grabs the boy’s arm. Ronith hits him hard in the face with his free fist. Blood flows from Ishmael’s nose, but he holds tight, punching and fighting to get the holoset back.

Grown-up hands try to pull him off the bigger boy, but Ishmael refuses to let go. Someone shouts his name.

“Ishmael?” The whisper of his name rouses him. Three figures stand outside the cell in the dark. He sits up and rubs his eyes. “How’d you guys get in here?”

Queequeg grins in the dimness. “Gwen made friends with the jail keeper.”

“He should wake up again in an hour or so.” Gwen twirls a key ring on her finger.

“Just w-wanted to see how they’re tr-treating you,” Billy says.

“They’re treating me to solitary confinement.” Ishmael stretches. “And if they find you down here, you’ll be in serious trouble.”

“With who? Starbuck?” Queequeg scoffs. “He’s got far bigger problems. No one’s caught anything in the past three days.”

“You sh-should see Daggoo,” Billy adds in a whisper. “N-nose broken, and both eyes black and blue and n-nearly swollen shut.”

“He hasn’t been giving you guys any trouble, has he?” Ishmael asks.

“Naw,” Queequeg answers. “He and Bunta talk big, but they both keep their distance.”

“Good.”

“That engineer, Perth, took another look at our RTG,” Queequeg says. “He thinks the seawater might’ve done more damage than anyone thought, but it’s working okay now.”

Ishmael nods. “Any word from home?”

“N-nothing’s come through,” Billy answers. “They say the s-solar flares are worse than ever.”

Not for the first time, Ishmael wonders if solar disturbances are truly to blame, or if the worsening situation back home is causing Earth’s communications systems to fail. “I’m sure that’s it,” he lies. “We’ve all probably got half a dozen Z-packs waiting to come through.”

“How long’s Starbuck planning to keep you down here?” Gwen asks.

“Until Daggoo calms down,” Ishmael says. “Who knows what that means?”

They chat a little longer, and then Queequeg and Billy head back up. Gwen lingers, waiting until the guys have disappeared down the passageway. Then she leans close to the bars. “Every day you’re down here is a day Chase Boat Four hangs on its davits and we don’t make money. I didn’t sign up for this voyage to see justice served on this ship. I signed up to get rich and never worry about money again. So the next time you’re tempted to punch someone, for once try acting smarter than you look and think of our crew instead, okay? Because you’re not doing us any favors.”

Ishmael knows she’s right. That’s why he signed up for this mission, too. It’s just hard to remember it when he stares into that yellow-haired joker’s face.

In the morning the sounds of trudging footsteps, creaking wheels, and sloshing water come down the passageway. Old Tarnmoor parks his bucket outside the cell and takes a deep sniff. “That be Ishmael? Aye? Aye?”

“You’re good, Tarnmoor,” Ishmael says with a yawn.

“Ears and nose for eyes I gots. Heared you was down here for puttin’ Big Bad Daggoo in his place. You gots spunk, lad. But kindness, too, puttin’ me in that nice soft sleeper afters that stormy night. All my years no one’s dones that.”

Ishmael likes this strange old man. “How many years has it been?”

“Many, many.”

“How many voyages?”

“One perilous and long voyage ends, only begins a second; and a second ends, only begins a third, and so ons.”

“What about Starbuck? How long’s he been on the
Pequod
?”

Tarnmoor gives a little shiver. The empty sockets that once held eyes twitch. “Don’t knows, don’t knows.”

“I thought I heard him say this is his sixth voyage,” Ishmael prompts.

“Sixth? Aye, aboards the
Pequod.
That sounds about rights.”

“‘Aboard the
Pequod
?’” Ishmael repeats. “You saying you know him from somewhere else? Some other ship?”

The old man goes quiet.

“What about the captain? Known him long?”

Silence.

“Why’re Ahab and Starbuck so eager to catch the white terrafin?”

Tarnmoor leans against his mop’s handle. “What makes you think I knows anything ’bout that?”

“I think you hear things. People are so used to you being around that they don’t take notice. I bet you probably know more about the goings-on aboard this ship than just about anyone.”

The bent old blind man grins, flashing pink gums. “Yer a smart lad, alls right. Knowed it the first times I smelled you.” He tilts his head to one side, perhaps listening to make sure they’re alone. “Only one other ship Ahab ever commanded. Called the
Essex.
A vessel likes this, it were. He was a young’un backs then. Full a’ bluster and dreams a’ riches. A handsome rake, too, but a hellion likes all you young’uns is. Wells, one day a new batch a’ nippers arrives, amongs them a creature a’ beauty the likes a’ which never setted foots on Cretacea afore. The mens was beside theyselves. Some a’ the womens, too. The cap’n, he kept a eye on her, makin’ sures nothin’ untowards happened on his watch. A’ course, somes whispered it were because he had designs on her hisself, but I knowed that weren’t true.”

“How?” Ishmael asks.

“Because Ahab wassed a hard, greedy one, that’s how. Only thing that mades his heart race were the sound a’ coins in the till. But there’s the irony a’ it, lad. Slowly, withouts even realizin’ it, he falled for her. A year later she comed to the end a’ her mission and were makin’ to return to Earth, and the only way he could prevent that were by askin’ her to wed. Just stay with him for ones more voyage, he promised, and they’d returns to Earth together. Well, she’ d falled for him, too, so that were that.

“Off they sailed for one more voyage ons the
Essex
and lets me tell you, lad, you never seened a fella so changed as Ahab was. ’Specially after his son was borned. From night to day, I tell you. But love’ll do thats to a man. He doted over those two like a —”

“Tarnmoor,” Ishmael interrupts gently. “You’re supposed to be telling me why he wants the white terrafin so badly.”

The old man screws up his face. “Ain’t I? Ain’t I? Now pays attention, lad. So Ahab knowed it were his last voyage, and his last chance to makes some real coin for him and his new young family afore they wents back to that Earth-forsaken coal bin a’ a planet. He heared abouts the monster from other sailors and knewed it were the greatest prize on all a’ Cretacea. And as much as he loved his beautiful wife and son, he wanted that beast, he did. But his wife, she were dead set against it. Said they had coin enough — more’n enough. But Ahab, he couldn’t resist. That old money love were strong and he couldn’t let go.”

“What happened?” Ishmael asks. “Did he ever find the white terrafin?”

Tarnmoor parts his cracked lips as if to continue the story, then freezes. He cocks his head, then reaches for his bucket. “Times to sail, lad. Times to sail.” He starts to pull the bucket away.

“Wait!” Ishmael whispers urgently, pressing his face to the cell’s bars. “If you lost your sight looking at the sun when you first came here, how’d you know she was that beautiful? And that Ahab was handsome?”

But Tarnmoor has vanished, the splashing of his bucket echoing behind him.

That night, shortly after lights-out, Starbuck appears and unlocks the cell. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Yes, sir.” Ishmael steps out. “Thank you, sir.” He starts down the passageway.

“Just one thing, boy,” the first mate calls behind him.

Ishmael turns. “Sir?”

“Watch your back.”

Ishmael climbs the ladderways to the men’s berth. The room is dark and the others are asleep. He stops beside his sleeper and is about to strip out of the clothes he’s been wearing for days when he notices that the blue light on his VRgogs is blinking. He slips them on and finds two Z-packs, both storms of random pixels until he switches to audio only:

Awash with emotions, Ishmael slides off the VRgogs. It sounds like things are getting worse on Earth; Joachim and Petra aren’t the sort of people who’d want to worry him if they could avoid it.

But if he’s understood correctly, there’s also fantastic news: Archie’s on Cretacea, aboard a ship called the
Jeroboam
!

The ocean is a ghostly, glowing white. Ishmael stands at the ship’s rail in the dark. Tonight the sea reminds him of the surface of an old baclum table back home.
Home . . .
He closes his hands around the warm metal rail, wishing he could have deciphered more of the Z-packs so that he knew the specifics, but one thing seems certain: Ben needs that money for Petra and Joachim as soon as possible.

“Don’t tell me you broke out.” It’s Gwen, traversing the deck.

“Starbuck let me go.”

She joins him at the rail, catching her breath when she sees the glowing white ocean. “What in the stars?”

“Not sure. I think maybe it’s like what illuminates the baclum back home.”

They take it in. An entire ocean, the color of scurry flesh, white and luminescent.

“Trouble sleeping?” Ishmael asks.

“Always. I heard some messages came through tonight?”

Ishmael nods. “Sounds like things are bad back on Earth.”

“So what else is new?”

“No, I mean worse than before. Maybe worse than ever. The end could be near.”

Gwen regards him uncertainly. “Seriously?”

“Someone I know — and trust — warned me about it before I left. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him at the time, but . . .” Ishmael pauses for a moment. “He says he can help my foster parents, but it’s going to take a huge amount of money. Thousands.”