The Beast of Cretacea

  Contents

  Cast of Characters

  1

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  End note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Abdul • Chase-boat skipper

  Ahab • Ship’s captain

  Archie • Ishmael’s foster brother

  Bartleby • Special adviser, United North America Trust

  Ben • Friend of Ishmael’s foster family

  Mr. Bildad • High-ranking executive, United North America Trust

  Blank • Pirate

  Dr. Bunger • Ship’s surgeon

  Bunta • Lineman and brute

  Charity • Ship’s stasis tech

  Daggoo • Yellow-haired chase-boat skipper

  Diana • Islander

  Fayaway • Islander; daughter of Gabriel

  Fedallah • Harpooner

  Flask • Third mate

  Fleece • Ship’s cook

  Gabriel • Informal leader of the islanders; father of Fayaway and Thistle

  Glock • Pirate

  Grace • Trawler captain

  Ms. Hussey • In charge of foundling home

  Joachim • Ishmael and Archie’s foster father

  Kalashnikov • Pirate leader

  Marion • Green-haired chase-boat lineman

  Mikal • Islander

  Nazik • Medic

  Perth • Ship’s engineer

  Petra • Ishmael and Archie’s foster mother

  Starbuck • First mate

  Stubb • Second mate

  Tarnmoor • Blind old sailor

  Tashtego • Harpooner

  Thistle • Fayaway’s younger sister

  Valente • Chief compliance officer, United North America Trust

  Wesson • Pirate

  Winchester • Pirate

  “Wake up.”

  It’s dark and gelatinous. Ishmael floats in a breathable syrup. Is this a dream? he wonders before soft, warm tendrils reach out and draw him back into a black, foamy haze.

  “Come on, everyone. Rise and shine.”

  Ishmael makes a fist; the gel is gone. He opens his eyes and sees hues: a woman’s copper face with an unusual sheen accentuated with serpentine tattoos. Dark-brown hair, blue eyes, a gentle smile.

  “Are we there?” he asks. He is lying on his back. The foamy haze has lifted, but he’s still woozy and surprised by how tight his jaw feels. As if it’s rusty, in need of oil. He starts to push himself up.

  “Easy, honey.” The woman places her fingertips on his collarbone to keep him from rising. “You’re here, but you’ve been in deep stasis. Take it slow.” She gently pushes him back into the molded foam. “I’ll tell you when.”

  Ishmael allows himself to be eased down into the soft cushioning, but when the woman moves to the next pod, he peeks over the edge and watches while she tells the person inside it the same thing she told him. In this dimly lit chamber, there are five green oval pods, each containing a new arrival. Ishmael saw some of them the day they left Earth. Strangely, right now, that and his name are the only things he remembers.

  Moments later, having awakened all of them, the woman steps into the middle of the chamber. She is wearing blue shorts and a blue shirt with the sleeves torn off, exposing arms covered with tattoos. “Listen up. My name is Charity, and I’m going to guide you through reentry. I know you’re eager to get out and look around, but unless you want to do serious damage to yourselves, I recommend that you do exactly as I say. Raise your right hands.”

  Ishmael does as he’s told. Like his jaw, his elbow and shoulder feel tight and stiff.

  “That’s your left hand, Billy.”

  A high-pitched voice flutters. “S-sorry, ma’am.”

  “Now raise your left hands.”

  Charity leads them through the process of moving their limbs and flexing their joints. Ishmael has never felt so stiff or feeble. Just lifting one leg leaves him momentarily breathless.

  “Don’t worry about feeling weak or tired,” she tells them. “Just before destasis, you were infused with a biologic that’ll help you regain your strength and balance. We’re going to start the process of getting vertical. Most of you won’t succeed on your first attempt. That’s expected. When you start to feel light-headed, let yourself fall back into the pod. That’s why it’s got all that nice soft cushioning. What you don’t want to do is fall forward and crack your skulls on the floor. Everyone got that?”

  Muted affirmative replies.

  “Okay, try to sit up.”

  Slowly propping himself up on his elbows, Ishmael feels his heart begin to pump harder. From this angle he can see into some of the other pods. He doesn’t remember putting on the stiff brown uniform he and the other new arrivals are wearing. Across from him, a girl with a tangle of unkempt red hair manages to sit partway up before her eyes roll and she flops back with a soft thump.

  Once his heartbeat feels steady, Ishmael lifts his torso more. Someone else tries to sit straight, loses consciousness, and falls back. Ishmael waits until his heartbeat feels normal again, then inches up.

  Charity glances his way and nods approvingly.

  The others adopt the gradual approach. Still in the pods, they eye one another curiously. Next to the girl with the red hair is a tall fellow with broad shoulders, and a frail-looking kid with short, curly blond hair who Ishmael suspects is the one named Billy. They are all thin and bony and have dull, ashen skin.

  The next step will be to get out of the pods and stand. “Make sure you hold on to the handrail,” Charity tells them. “Don’t try to walk. If you straighten up gradually, you shouldn’t feel dizzy, but if you do, bend your knees and lower yourself to the floor.”

  The pods slowly tilt forward. Grasping handrails, Ishmael and the other new arrivals place their feet unsteadily on the floor. The tall fellow is the first to stand, but then he starts to sway. As his knees begin to buckle, Charity scoots behind him, sliding her arms under his shoulders and easing him down.

  “Don�
�t anyone else faint, please. There’s only one of me to catch you.” She squats before the tall fellow, who is now sitting on the floor with his head between his knees. “You okay, Queequeg?”

  He places his hands flat on the floor. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks.”

  “That was a little too fast,” she says, helping him up. “Let’s try it more slowly this time.”

  By now, Ishmael and the others are standing unsteadily, still gripping the handrails. The floor gradually tilts beneath them.

  “Feels like a ship,” says a boy Ishmael hadn’t noticed before. He is short and chubby with neatly cut black hair and evenly trimmed fingernails. For a moment, Ishmael stares, unable to remember the last time he saw anyone with so much as an extra ounce on them.

  “That’s because this is a ship, Mr. Lopez-Makarova,” Charity replies.

  “You may address me as Pip,” the boy says.

  “W-where are we?” asks the frail-looking blond kid, his high-pitched voice quavering.

  “You’ll hear about that later, Billy. If I told you now, you’d just forget. Memory loss is a side effect of deep stasis, but it will pass. Right now just concentrate on keeping your balance. Oh, and one more piece of business. Hold out your left wrists.”

  They do as they’re told, and she scans their wrists with a tablet, starting with Billy, whose slim forearm reflects his delicate features. Ishmael focuses on the strange symbol tattooed on the inside of his own wrist. The one-inch square resembles circuitry, with clear and copper-colored filaments woven through a black matrix code. A registry, he remembers.

  Illuminating the red-haired girl’s wrist with purple light, Charity gives her a curious look.

  “Got a problem?” the girl growls.

  “Attitude won’t help you here, Gwendolyn.”

  “Nobody calls me that,” the girl snaps. “It’s Gwen.”

  Charity moves to Queequeg, who holds up an unmarked wrist. “Sorry, don’t have one.”

  That catches Ishmael by surprise. Despite his addled memory, he’s certain that back in Black Range everyone had a registry — it was the law. But Charity accepts the boy’s answer and moves to Ishmael. As the purple light passes over his wrist, he catches a glimpse of gold filigree he never knew was there. Charity gazes at him with an expression he can’t quite decipher, then turns away.

  Ishmael wonders if any of the others noticed that she didn’t even try to scan the wrist of the boy named Pip.

  It’s not long before the new arrivals take their first steps. Feeling as shaky as a toddler, Ishmael finds it hard to separate his own unsteadiness from the mild sway of the ship. Charity is both gentle and demanding, directing them through each stage of movement. Finally she hands out goggles. “We’re going up on deck. Be careful with these. They’re delicate and in short supply. Once we’re up top, under no circumstances are you to take them off. To do so will mean risking severe macular damage.”

  “Then maybe we shouldn’t go up on deck.” Gwen tosses her goggles back.

  Charity lurches to catch them before they hit the floor. “Did you hear anything I just said? They’re delicate. You can’t toss them around. And you are going up.”

  When the redheaded girl crosses her arms and juts out her chin defiantly, Charity steps close, then lowers her voice. “Don’t be stupid, Gwen. You’re here to make money, and to do that you’ll have to cooperate and take orders.” She holds out the goggles. “Unless you’d rather spend the voyage in a stinking hot cell next to the reactor.”

  Gwen snorts but does as she’s told. Charity turns to the others. “Okay, everyone, let’s go meet your new world.”

  Eager to see what’s out there, Ishmael puts on the goggles. They’re different from VRgogs, which are always dark for virtual reality. These stay clear while Charity leads them out of the chamber and up several ladderways. At the end of a long passageway, she pushes open a hatch. Through it comes a blinding glare far brighter than anything Ishmael ever experienced on Earth. Hot air wafts in.

  “One at a time,” Charity orders.

  Queequeg goes first and seems to melt into the powerful brightness outside. He’s followed by Gwen, then Pip. Ishmael shuffles closer, his pulse revving with excitement. As he steps through the hatch, a blast of torrid air hits him and the top of his head begins to feel hot, as though he’s standing under a heat cell. From the very edge of his peripheral vision he perceives that the source of the intense warmth and incandescence is a glowing yellow disk in the sky above. Even with the goggles darkening automatically, he has to squint in the painfully bright whiteout. Meanwhile, he’s bombarded with a host of bewildering sounds, smells, and sensations.

  But there is one thing he knows for certain: For the first time in his life, he is standing in a place with no Shroud.

  “Wh-what is it?” asks Billy, who’s shielding his forehead with his hand.

  “We call it the sun,” Charity answers.

  Ishmael takes a deep breath, and his lungs fill with nearly stifling hot air. The goggles are meant to protect eyes made sensitive by a life spent living in perpetual gloom, so the view they provide is muted and blocked at the edges. But Charity wears only a visored cap, which gives Ishmael hope that sooner or later the new arrivals won’t need the goggles either.

  For now he can see that they’re on the deck of a large ship that looks nothing like the vessels he saw in the VR walk-through at the Mission Office when he enlisted. Those were sleek, polished craft with streamlined superstructures. In contrast, this old tub is rust stained and battered: black paint peeling, long streaks of reddish brown everywhere. Looming overhead are the dark shapes of cranes, and amidships juts a superstructure lined with windows — some broken — and lifeboats hanging by frayed ropes at careless angles.

  But Ishmael doesn’t dwell on that. Not when there’s an ocean surrounding them. Until now he has never seen more water in one place than could fill a small bucket. But this ship floats on a vast glittering blue-green sea that stretches away in all directions to the horizon. And above it, for the first time in his life, he sees endless blue sky dotted by small white clouds.

  So this is what an unspoiled world looks like. . . .

  A sudden commotion on the deck interrupts his reverie. Several sailors rush past, and from overhead comes the high-pitched whine of a drone landing. More crewmen are hurrying toward the port side of the ship, and the new arrivals can hear excited chatter from across the deck.

  “What’s going on?” Queequeg asks.

  Charity grabs a passing sailor and gets an excited reply: “Fedallah’s stuck a terrafin!”

  With Charity in the lead, they traverse the deck to join the sailors crowded against the ship’s port bulwark. When Ishmael touches the bulwark rail, it burns, and he yanks his hand back from the sun-cooked paint. Around him others splash buckets of seawater on the rail to cool it, so he does the same. Sunlight glints off the smooth, rolling ocean, and the strange scent of salt breeze fills his nostrils.

  Sailors are pointing at two specks on the blue-green horizon.

  “What are they?” Queequeg asks, using his sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead.

  “Chase boats,” Charity explains. “Towing the terrafin in.”

  “Terrafin?” Pip repeats.

  “You’ll see.”

  Gradually the specks become boats, still tiny in the distance. Ishmael estimates that they’re about two hundred yards apart, each towing a heavy red line. Perhaps a quarter mile behind, the space between the lines narrows to a roiling, frothing dot.

  “It’s a terrafin, all right!” a sailor near him shouts. “Nothing else puts up a fight like that!”

  “Ain’t a big one, but it’ll do!” shouts another.

  “This’ll help fill the pot!” cheers a third.

  While everyone else watches the frenzied commotion in the distance, Ishmael leans against the rail and gazes down — then catches his breath. On a blood-soaked deck below, half a dozen sailors with long blades attached to poles stand
on and around a huge greenish-gray creature lying on its side. The beast has an enormous head, a long snout filled with pointed teeth, flat, stubby flippers, and a long tail. With his elbow, Ishmael nudges Queequeg, who looks down and gasps.

  “A hump,” Charity says when she notices what they’re looking at. “Just brought in this morning.”

  Ishmael and Queequeg watch in astonished silence while the sailors slice the creature apart, stacking slabs of meat the size of mattresses off to one side. Other than some insects back on Earth, this is the first nonhuman creature either of them has ever seen.

  Meanwhile, the sailors around them are growing louder and more excited. The long, narrow chase boats are closer now, and the terrafin’s resistance is so fierce that it looks like they are towing a small typhoon behind them. At last the boats reach the ship, and the red lines are transferred to enormous aft winches, one on either side of the slipway, which is a broad ramp that slants down into the sea at the vessel’s stern.

  “Here’s where it gets dicey,” Charity cautions. The deck shivers as the ship comes to life, slowly towing the terrafin to keep the lines from going slack and tangling. A cargo rope is thrown over the rail, and several sailors in yellow immersion suits climb down to help the chase-boat crews clamber up the side of the hull.

  The appearance of the first crew is startling. They are all big, with dark glossy skin and brightly dyed hair. Their uniforms are torn away at the sleeves, displaying muscular, tattooed arms.

  “That’s Tashtego’s crew,” Charity says. “Doesn’t look like they were there for the actual capture. Probably showed up later to help tow the beast in.”

  “How can you tell?” Pip asks.

  “They’re not shaken up enough.”

  The words have hardly left her lips when the second crew starts to appear over the rail. The first is a green-haired woman, blinking rapidly and taking unsteady steps. She’s followed by a dazed-looking sailor with bushy yellow hair, a matching yellow goatee, and orange and red tattoo flames rising from yellow eyebrows. His forehead is wrapped in a red-stained bandage, and his orange personal flotation device is spattered with blood.

  When the next member of the chase-boat crew is hoisted up in a basket stretcher, Charity bites her lip. “Someone’s in a bad way.”

  A couple of sailors grab the stretcher and lower it gently to the deck. Lying in it is a big brute of a man with a shaved head. Deep-set eyes squeezed shut, he’s cradling his left arm, his face contorted with pain. A short, round man with an eye patch quickly squats beside him, opens a black medical bag, and fumbles for a moment with a derma-jet infuser filled with a watery green liquid. He injects the injured sailor, who exhales with relief and goes limp.