The Beast of Cretacea (31 page)

The battle turns bloody and furious, the audience howling with delight while the two men stand toe-to-toe, trading ferocious blows.

But the goal of the fighters isn’t merely to pummel each other. As they slug and grapple, it appears that each is trying to throw the other onto the glowing red coals in the fire pit. This, Ishmael realizes, probably accounts for the horrible scars that mark Winchester’s torso.

Sure enough, the fight ends in an explosion of sparks when Winchester wraps his arms around his opponent and hurls him, screaming, into the pit. In a flash his opponent launches himself out of the fire and frantically rolls on the ground, trying to dislodge the sizzling red-hot coals stuck to his skin. Winchester raises his fist triumphantly, and pirates cheer and chant his name again and again.

When the sickening scent of scorched flesh reaches the storage container, Pip whimpers, “I have to get out of here!”

Ishmael and Queequeg share a grim look. It’s hard to foresee how that will happen.

In the almost-complete dark, Ishmael sits by the shipping container’s chained door. Near him, Pip and Queequeg are curled on the filthy floor, asleep. Several sticks the length of men’s arms lie close by. Each is bare of tree bark and blunted at the ends, apparently smoothed by years of use. Ishmael wonders what they are for. Meanwhile, the camp never becomes completely quiet. A constant, hypnotic humming — reminiscent of small RTGs — makes his eyelids grow heavy. . . .

“Ah!” Pip’s cry pierces the night.

Ishmael’s eyes burst open. Pip is shimmying backward toward the door while pointing at a large, shadowy creature on the floor. It’s big — about the size and shape of a man’s leg — and Ishmael can hear the tapping and scraping of hundreds of tiny legs as it wriggles toward them.

Now he knows what the blunted sticks are for. He grabs one and pokes at the crawling thing until it retreats into the dark depths at the back of the container.

“Wh-what was that?” Pip stammers.

“Not a clue,” Ishmael answers, keeping the club close in case he needs it again.

“What’s going to stop it from returning?” Pip whispers fearfully.

Ishmael suppresses a weary sigh. “I’ll stay up and watch for it.”

At the first gray hint of dawn, Ishmael listens to the hoots and howls of jungle creatures, the grating snores of pirates, and that constant humming sound. A light film of dew covers the rusty lock and chain that secure the container door, and he can smell the tart scent of damp coals from last night’s fire. Ghostly wisps of smoke rise from the dying gray ash while small brown four-legged animals with white-striped tails sniff around the edges of the fire pit, searching for leftover bits of food.

As the world outside gradually brightens and angled light seeps in through the gap in the doorway, Ishmael sees that the back half of the shipping container is filled with gauzy webs on which rest nasty-looking, furry red-and-gray creatures the size of treestones, each with eight spindly legs. On the floor below them crawl long, thick invertebrates with hard, segmented bodies and hundreds of short legs. One of these, Ishmael thinks, is what he poked with the stick last night.

Lovely company to share a cell with.

The sun starts to rise above the trees, and the container grows hot and steamy. Thin shafts of light come through rusty holes in the ceiling, and insects fly in and out.

“Anyone thirsty?” Queequeg croaks hoarsely.

Ishmael’s mouth is dust-dry, and he feels parched. If they don’t get something to drink soon, will they end up a meal for the creatures in the back of the container?

A motley, haggard, and bleary-eyed group of pirates approach the container. In their midst is one Ishmael didn’t notice the night before. Like the others’, his black clothes are tattered and patched, and a pistol and knife hang from his belt. His face is gaunt and his hair spiked, but unlike the others’, his hair is pure white. By the deferential way the men treat him, Ishmael assumes that he is their leader.

With fiery-red eyes he stares in at the captives. “What quantity of juice has he acquired thus far on this voyage?”

“Juice?” Ishmael repeats.

“Neurotoxin. From terrafins.”

“Ahab?” Ishmael guesses.

“No, King Neptune. Of course I’m referring to Ahab, you dithering dimwit.”

Pip squeezes beside Ishmael and presses his face into the gap. “Excuse me. My name is Pippin Xing Al-Jahani Lopez-Makarova.” He waits, apparently believing this should mean something to the pirate. “Do you understand?”

But the white-haired pirate keeps his reddened eyes on Ishmael. “If you’re unable to estimate the extent of his cache, perhaps you’ll enlighten me as to the number of terrafins he’s corralled in the past six months?”

“Please, sir, I can tell from your diction that you’re an enlightened man,” Pip says anxiously. “I’m of the Gilded. Surely you know what that means. If you send out word that I’m here, I promise you’ll be amply rewarded.”

This time, the white-haired pirate takes notice of him.

The container feels like a furnace. Ishmael knows that they won’t last much longer without water, but it appears that the pirates couldn’t care less. The oppressive heat and thirst make even the good-natured Queequeg edgy. “You really think the Gilded’s authority extends all the way to this planet and these pirates?” he asks Pip. “Like that white-haired pirate’s on some kind of two-way right now checking out your story?”

“You have no comprehension of how powerful the Gilded are,” Pip replies crossly.

Queequeg scratches the sparse beard along his jaw. “If they had any influence here on Cretacea, why haven’t they gotten rid of these pirates?”

“And exactly how would you suggest they accomplish that?” Pip asks with a condescending tone. “Transport a force of specially trained mercenaries all the way here just to eliminate a minor nuisance? A complete waste of resources.”

“It’s got to cost them money each time these pirates attack one of their ships,” Ishmael points out.

For a moment Pip gives him an odd look. He parts his lips. “You should . . .” he begins, then changes his mind. “A pittance. Easily factored into the cost of doing business.”

“Right,” Queequeg agrees emphatically. “That’s how it always is with you people. It’s all about business.”

Rather than take offense, Pip seems amused. “Ah, the Lector expounds. Don’t you ever tire of this absurd dream of destabilizing the world order?”

“Not
the
world order,” Queequeg counters. “
Your
world order, which works really well for the Gilded and really badly for everyone else.”

“If it weren’t for the Gilded, there’d be no order, period,” Pip snaps.

Queequeg smirks disdainfully. “At least, that’s what you’d like everyone to believe.”

Pip rolls his eyes. “Who constructed the Zirconia Electrolysis stations to provide the planet with oxygen? And the Natrient factories? Who pays for these missions that bring resources back to Earth?”

“Don’t the Gilded have to breathe and eat as well?” Queequeg asks scornfully.

“Like we’d
ever
eat Natrient,” Pip scoffs, then catches himself. His face turns red.

Queequeg chuckles bitterly. “Oh, right, I forgot. That’s only for us menial laborers.”

By midday, Ishmael’s throat is so parched he can barely swallow. Queequeg’s and Pip’s faces and arms are smeared with dirt, and he’s sure he doesn’t look any better. They would definitely be sweating were there any moisture left in their bodies to sweat.

“Can I ask you a question, friend?” Queequeg starts in again with Pip.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“What are you doing here? In all seriousness. If you’re of the Gilded, you sure don’t need the money. So why are you on this planet?”

“
This planet,”
Pip repeats in a snarky tone, then shrugs like he knows it’s stupid to be antagonistic. “You truly want to know? I was bored.”

Ishmael cocks his head curiously. Of all the answers he might have predicted Pip giving, that wasn’t one of them.

“You have no idea how dull that life is,” Pip goes on. “The same people doing and saying the same things all the time. Wearing the same clothes and acting in the same ways. I was going crazy. It got to the point where I said I would run away. Not that I had the faintest idea where I’d go. It was an empty threat, but it worked, and it just so happened that there was something useful I could do here.”

“Be a drone op?” Queequeg frowns.

“Cartography, if you must know. Gathering imagery to map Cretacea.”

Ishmael eyes Pip curiously. “When the pirates caught you, they complimented you on your swimming. Where did you learn to swim?”

Pip looks away without answering. But in a way, that is the answer.

“Shocking, isn’t it?” Queequeg says bitterly. “While the rest of us didn’t have enough water to wash in, he and his type were swimming in pools of it. So Pip, bet you’re sorry you’re not in your nice comfortable boring world now.”

Pip snorts. “You Lectors think you’re so smart, so smugly righteous and morally superior.” He pauses and looks at Ishmael, then appears to make up his mind about something. “Suppose I told you that your close friend here is of the Gilded, too?”

Queequeg laughs. “That’s a good one.”

“Tell him,” Pip says to Ishmael.

Queequeg’s grin fades, and he gives Ishmael an uncertain look.

“How could I be of the Gilded?” Ishmael asks. “I’m from Black Range, the armpit of the coal region. My foster parents work at a Zirconia Electrolysis station, like everyone else in Black Range who is lucky enough to have a job.”

“Hold out your registry,” Pip says knowingly.

Ishmael hesitates, then tells Queequeg, “Something strange is going to happen. I don’t understand why, but —”

“Just do it,” Pip cajoles, then says to Queequeg, “Watch closely.” He crosses his left wrist over Ishmael’s. In the dim light of the shipping container, there’s the faintest blue spark, and once again Ishmael feels a shock.

Queequeg gives him an astonished look. Ishmael rubs his wrist and thinks back to his last night on Earth, when Old Ben’s registry greeted his the same way. Old Ben was the last person Ishmael would have imagined being of the Gilded, but there were certain things about him that now make Ishmael wonder. How could such an old, broken-down, benzo-swilling husk of a man be the
manager
of the Zirconia Electrolysis station? And back at the foundling home, the way he spoke to the haughty Ms. Hussey and she listened without argument . . .

In a voice rife with misgivings, Queequeg asks, “What . . . what was that spark?”

But before the discussion can continue, the tall, toothless pirate and the scrawny one appear at the container door.

“Now whish of you gentlefellers ish Lopesh-Makaroba?” lisps the toothless one.

Pip gets to his feet. The tall, thin pirate smiles — a grisly sight. “Well, if it ain’t ol’ Pudgy himshelf !” He takes out his gun and aims it at Queequeg and Ishmael while he unlocks the shipping container door. “Come wish us.”

Pip pauses and gives Ishmael an apologetic look.

“See if they’ll give us water,” Ishmael reminds him, then watches as the Gilded boy goes.

“Think they’ll let us die?” Queequeg rasps. Hours have passed since Pip was taken away. During that time, Ishmael explained that he has no idea how he could be of the Gilded, since he’ d never even heard of them until he arrived on the
Pequod.
Queequeg believes him, saying it wouldn’t matter now, anyway; he knows what Ishmael is made of, Gilded or not.

Ishmael cannot recall ever being so thirsty. He can’t bear the idea that he might perish here in this shipping container, not knowing what happened to his foster parents or having found Archie.
Is there truly no justice in the universe?

“Hey.” The scrawny pirate with the hooked fingers looks in at them. His left cheek and eye are red and puffy, like he’s recently been on the losing end of a fight. From under his shirt he pulls an animal-skin bag that sloshes. The sound is enough to drive Ishmael mad. He’s stunned when the pirate offers the bag through the gap to Queequeg and him.

They pass the animal skin back and forth, drinking quickly. At the same time, the scrawny pirate appears to be keeping an eye out for anyone coming. Suddenly he reaches in, snatches the empty bag, and slides it back under his shirt. Then, with feigned gruffness, he loudly demands, “Come on, you gotta know how many terrafins they’ve landed in the past six months.”