The Beast of Cretacea (48 page)

Another settlement is being built on a nearby hill, and hundreds of yards below it, where the jungle ends at the water’s edge, construction has begun on what appears to be a dock, flanked by the framework of several large, low buildings. The clanging sound is coming from a tall machine on a barge that is driving pilings into the shallows offshore.

Gwen points farther up the hill, where a camp of white tents is nestled among the trees. “That’s where we live. There are about a hundred of us, including engineers and construction managers. It’s not nearly enough people to do all the work.”

Queequeg gazes down at the new construction. “My father used to say that in the entire history of the planet Earth, no other creature — not the dinosaurs, nor the apes, nor any other living thing — ever saw fit to radically change the environment to accommodate its whims. When you think about it, humans have been the most successful invasive species of all time. In the space of three thousand years — a mere blink on the cosmic time line — we destroyed a world that was four and a half
billion
years in the making. It’s what the Lectors have always said. This is the human legacy: the sixth and final mass extinction event. Complete ecocide.”

Now, in addition to the
clang! clang! clang!
of the pile driver comes a distant crashing from somewhere in the valley.

Queequeg points to a spot where three large machines are slowly plowing through the jungle, knocking down and scraping away all the trees and vegetation before them, leaving a ribbon of brown road behind. “It’s going to be the same thing all over again. These people will always live under a shroud, if not of darkness and pollution then of greed and selfishness. They’ll take everything they can to make themselves rich and comfortable while they ruin the world around them. How long will it take them to destroy Earth in this epoch? Two thousand years? A thousand? And you know what they’ll do then?”

The question is rhetorical, but Gwen answers anyway: “Go back even farther into the past and do it all over again.”

That night, Ishmael is kept awake not only by the booming thunder and flashing lightning of a storm, but by his mounting concern over Bildad’s plans. He may barely be able to remember his mother, but he’s certain she would have stood up to the executive board and fought for the rights of
all
people — islanders, the non-Gilded, and Gilded alike. But what can he do with only Gwen, Queequeg, and, maybe, Pip on his side?

He’s barely slept when he feels a hand gently shake him. In the dim predawn light, he finds Pip crouched beside his cot. “Get up, we have to go.”

“Where?” Ishmael yawns.

“Just come. I’ll explain later.” Pip holds up a robe to show there’s no time for Ishmael to dress. Ishmael grabs his cane, and they leave the tent. The gray air is heavy with warm mist.

“What happened to the guards?” Ishmael asks.

“Don’t worry about that,” Pip whispers. “Hurry.”

Leaning heavily on the cane, Ishmael hobbles down the walkway, still slick from last night’s rains. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll see in a moment.”

But suddenly feeling apprehensive, Ishmael stops on the wet walkway. “Where are you taking me, Pip?”

Pip stops and looks back at him. “Don’t you realize what’s at stake? The future of the planet could hinge on what happens
here,
right now, between us.”

Despite all he’s been through in the past twenty-four hours, Ishmael can’t help eyeing Pip with wary amusement. “Sounds kind of grandiose, don’t you think? I mean, we’re just two people who —”

“Suppose I tell Bildad that you’re plotting to warn the islanders of his attack?” Pip challenges him. “Don’t bother denying it; there’s no way you’d sit idly by while the island is invaded and its people are taken into slavery.”

Ishmael tenses and grips the head of his cane, his thoughts galloping. Has Gwen been right about Pip all along? Is he just like the other Gilded — concerned only about those with privilege?

“And why shouldn’t I tell Bildad?” Pip goes on. “I mean, look how Gwen acts even after everything I went through to save the three of you? Maybe my fellow Gilded are right when they say you people don’t appreciate anything we do for you.”

Ishmael looks over the walkway. It’s a long way down. If it comes to a choice, can he do what has to be done to stop Pip from telling Bildad?

A crooked smile inches across Pip’s lips. “Always worrying about other people, aren’t you.”

Ishmael isn’t sure how to respond. But it doesn’t seem to matter. Pip says, “That’s why I’m not going to tell Bildad anything. Because I admire you, Ishmael.”

Ishmael feels his forehead wrinkle.

“And I’m going to help you protect the islanders,” Pip adds.

“How?”

Pip’s smile turns impish. “You can’t attack something if you don’t know where it is.”

Ishmael blinks with astonishment. “The maps you were charting . . .”

“I might have missed an island.” Pip winks.

“But won’t that make it incredibly difficult for the Gilded to survive here?” Ishmael asks. “I mean, no offense, but those people have no concept of what work is.”

“I told you I came to Cretacea because I found that life boring,” Pip says. “Maybe if we can learn to be self-sufficient here, we won’t become what we used to be — an arrogant class of self-indulgent sycophants with nothing to do except entertain and play.”

Now Ishmael understands that Pip might not have been exaggerating: The future
could
hinge on this moment. If the Gilded are forced to relearn basic life skills of survival instead of simply bending the wills of the weaker and less fortunate to do their bidding . . . If the islanders are allowed to continue their way of life undisturbed . . . Perhaps some new kind of society could eventually evolve. One
not
based on greed and the old animal instincts of survival of the fittest but on shared industry, compassion, kindness, and respect for nature. A world that values the worth of all individuals equally and respects the great circle of life and death. If such thinking is spawned now and inherited by subsequent generations, then maybe the future history of Earth
could
be rewritten — perhaps the Anthropocene Extinction Event might never have to happen.

If
Pip is really to be believed about wanting to help him . . .

Wisps of mist drift across the elevated walkway. From somewhere below comes the sound of a creature scuttling through the underbrush.

“Come on, there isn’t much time,” Pip urges.

But Ishmael doesn’t move. Is this a trick? He already knows that some of the Gilded don’t want him around because of how much like his mother he appears to be. Or because his allegiance is so obviously with the islanders. Or because, despite his birthright, he is so obviously
not
of the Gilded.

Pip frowns, then shakes his head. “You
still
don’t trust me?” he ask. “All right, suppose I show you something that’ll convince you once and for all?”

Gwen and Queequeg are waiting in Chase Boat Four, which is anchored in the bay just off the beach. The clouds have thickened, and it’s begun to rain again. Pip helps Ishmael wade out to the boat.

“There’s food, water, and this.” Knee-deep in the water, Pip takes a small, thick tablet from inside his tunic. “You know what this is?”

“A tablet with memory?” Queequeg guesses.

Pip nods. “It’s got the only copy of the true map. Once you reach the island, I suggest you destroy it.”

“You could come with us,” Gwen says.

“If Ishmael and I both disappear, they’ll think he kidnapped me. They’ll never stop looking for me. You never know, they might accidentally stumble upon the island. I’m better off staying here and helping my aunt get this place up and running.” He pauses, then chuckles as if he’s had another thought. “Besides, could you really see me strolling around in those things the islanders wear?”

The rain’s begun to fall harder, matting down their hair and pocking the water all around them. A small green-and-yellow flyer with a bright-red head alights on the chase boat’s breasthook and shakes itself out.

“One more thing, Ishmael,” Pip says. “Your foster parents made it off Earth. They’re coming here.”

Ishmael feels his mouth fall open.

“They’re in the queue and probably won’t be up for destasis for another three hundred years. But they’ll make it.”

Ishmael sags with relief. He will never get to see them, but at least they’ll be able to live out their lives in a place with sunlight and fresh air. His gaze falls on the water, on the multitude of ever-widening rings caused by the rain. He has Old Ben to thank for what’s happened. That night in the storm back in Black Range, the old man had tried to save all of them — himself, Grace, and Ishmael’s family. He almost succeeded.

Gwen leans over the gunwale and hugs Pip. “I never thought I’d ever hear myself say this, but thank you.”

Queequeg rubs Pip on the head. “We’re grateful to you, friend.”

“You won’t tell them about the islanders farming terrafins?” Ishmael asks.

Pip shakes his head.

“Or the Great Terrafin?” asks Queequeg.

“Not unless I want them to think I’m as crazy as you three,” Pip replies with a wink.

Ishmael clasps Pip’s hand thankfully. “You’re a good person, Pippin Xing Al-Jahani Lopez-Makarova.”

“If that’s true, it’s only because of what I learned from all of you.” Pip pats the chase boat’s RTG. Ishmael presses the starter. The engine engages immediately — and hums smoothly.

“Almost forgot to tell you.” Pip grins. “That’s a brand-new RTG. No more stalling. Guess money and power do have some perks after all, huh? Now you’d better get out of here before anyone notices you’re gone.”

The crew wave and steer for the open ocean, raindrops stinging their faces as the chase boat picks up speed. Behind them the settlement grows small, then finally vanishes in the misty air.

The islanders — and Charity, Blank, and Billy — greeted the arrival of Chase Boat Four with jubilation and an hours-long celebration, despite the mixed news that Ishmael and the others bore: that no matter what Pip promised, the possibility remained that someday the Gilded might stumble upon them.

Gabriel said, “Should these Gilded ever find us, and should they mean us harm, we shall defend ourselves. ’Twill be okay, Ishmael. ’Twill be strong. ’Twill survive.”

“’Twill never,
ever
be a slave t’anyone,” Diana added.

“But . . .” Gabriel gave her a serious look. “We shall dismantle the barricade and have music again.”

Diana hesitated, then agreed. “For now.”

It’s very dark, and the fires are little more than glowing red embers. Almost everyone has climbed into a hammock or crawled into a hut, and Ishmael longs to do the same, but Fayaway is pulling him down a walkway.

“’Tis a thing ye must see,” she says.

At the edge of the village, she picks up a torch and leads him through the jungle and up the hill to the cave where the islanders’ ancestors first found shelter after being shipwrecked many generations ago. The great orb is full, and the night sky is awash with twinkling pinpricks, but the entrance to the cave is ominously dark. Torch in hand, Fayaway leads him inside. The air is stale, but thankfully not rancid like in the pirates’ cave. In the flickering orange light she shows him crude wall paintings.

“They tell a story.” She guides the torch along the wall.

It takes Ishmael’s eyes a moment to adjust — not only to the dim light but to the crude drawings. Gradually, he starts to make sense of what he’s seeing.

The first illustration is of a ship lying on its side while people wearing PFDs struggle and lifeboats row away through tall waves.

The next drawing is of an entrance to a cave like this, with small figures playing outside and larger ones carrying bows and game.

Next, people in waist-high water, using nets to catch scurry.

Next —

Ishmael’s heart jumps into his throat when Fayaway points out a figure with long dark hair, leaning on crutches, his thin legs dragging behind him, surrounded by children.

Can it possibly be?

He follows her torchlight to a larger drawing of the man on the crutches again. Rising above the figure like a halo is Archie’s favorite design — the circle with the tree inside, the tattoo that all the islanders have on their necks.