The Beast of Cretacea Page 11

  “What’re they doing?” Gwen asks.

  The answer comes quickly. Chase Boat Three pulls close to the beast and Daggoo aims his harpoon gun. Bang!

  Ishmael doesn’t get it. What Daggoo’s done makes no sense. There was no reason to fire another harpoon. It’s not a terrafin or even a big hump that might require two chase boats to tow it in.

  But no sooner has Daggoo put a stick in the creature than his skipper guns Chase Boat Three around to the other side of the beast. A knife blade flashes in the sunlight and Chase Boat Four’s line goes slack.

  “They c-cut our line!” Billy yells.

  “They’re stealing our basher!” Queequeg cries as Chase Boat Three begins to tow the exhausted beast away.

  “No Earthly way,” Ishmael growls through gritted teeth, angrier than he’s felt in years. But before he can take action, Gwen and Billy must haul in fifty yards of slack line. While the linemen pull as fast as they can, Queequeg joins Ishmael behind the controls.

  “What’re you planning?” he asks quietly.

  “Not to let them get away with it,” Ishmael replies tightly.

  “Careful,” Queequeg cautions. “Daggoo’s not stupid. He’s got to know what you’re thinking.”

  As soon as the slack line is in, Ishmael guns the engine, but Chase Boat Four’s RTG suddenly quits, leaving them adrift under the bright sun. Ishmael tries to restart the RTG, and again it quits. For a moment Ishmael wonders if Daggoo has somehow disabled his boat. He tries once more. This time, the engine starts and they take off.

  Moments later they catch up to Daggoo, who’s been slowed by the task of towing the basher. But when Chase Boat Four nears, Daggoo calmly steps behind the machine gun in the stern of his boat and trains it on Ishmael and his crew. Ishmael can’t believe it. This whole incident has become bizarre. Twenty-five yards from Chase Boat Three he shifts into neutral and idles.

  “That’s our basher!” he yells.

  “Not anymore!” Daggoo replies, still behind the machine gun.

  “What are you gonna do?” Gwen shouts. “Shoot us if we try to take it back?”

  “I might.”

  “And exactly how would you explain that to Starbuck?” Queequeg yells.

  “Pirates.”

  Ishmael and his crew watch in disbelief while Chase Boat Three continues to tow the basher. Billy looks upward, probably hoping there’s a drone around to record what happened, but the sky is an empty azure. Ishmael guns Chase Boat Four back toward the Pequod.

  Forty-five minutes later, his crew and chase boat back on the Pequod’s deck, Ishmael climbs the ladderways to the B level and raps on the first mate’s door.

  “Who is it?” Starbuck calls from inside.

  “Ishmael, sir.”

  “Go away.”

  “It’s important, sir.”

  “Are you deaf ? I said go.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I really have to speak to you.”

  “I don’t think I heard you correctly, boy.”

  “You did, sir. I’m not going away.”

  From inside the cabin comes shuffling sounds, mumbling, and a woman’s voice saying something Ishmael can’t decipher. Thudding footsteps grow loud, and then the door swings open. Buttoning his uniform, his glasses askew, Starbuck glowers at him. “This better be good.”

  Ishmael is in the middle of explaining how Daggoo stole the basher when Charity, wearing a sheer pink robe, shambles out of the bedroom and stands beside the first mate. This is the first time Ishmael has seen her since her return from the pirates. She looks thin and has faded bruises on her jaw and arms. The sparkle is gone from her eyes, and her lips are a flat straight line. The first mate glances at her with displeasure, though Ishmael can’t tell if that’s because she’s revealed herself in his quarters or because he doesn’t want her interfering in this matter.

  When Ishmael has finished telling the story, Starbuck folds his arms. “Sorry, boy. It’s Daggoo’s word against yours. Nothing I can do.”

  “Are you serious, sir?” Ishmael asks. “You really think I’d make that up?”

  Charity shoots the first mate a lethal look. “You know it’s true. It’s exactly the kind of thing that idiot Daggoo would do, and Ishmael’s not the type to lie.”

  Starbuck knits his brow. “That’s not the way it works, woman, and I’ll beg you to stay out of it.” He turns back to Ishmael. “Let it be a lesson, boy. Next time don’t let him steal your catch.”

  The door closes, leaving Ishmael standing stunned and furious in the passageway. A few minutes later, back on the main deck, he tells his crew what happened.

  “No way is Daggoo getting away with that!” Gwen starts for the hatch that leads up to the B level. “Wait till I give Starbuck a piece of my mind!”

  Ishmael grabs her arm. “Don’t.”

  “You’re going to let him cheat us?” Gwen challenges him.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  On the deck behind them, sailors cheer when Chase Boat Three appears in the distance, towing in the first captured beast of the week. Ishmael feels his hands ball into fists.

  “Easy,” Queequeg cautions. “You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”

  The basher is hauled up the slipway, and the flensing crew begins to cleave it for processing. The cargo net has gone down the side of the ship so that the crew of Chase Boat Three can climb up. Ishmael casually strolls along the deck, getting to the gunwale just when Daggoo’s head appears over the rail.

  As soon as they lock eyes, Ishmael hauls back and punches him in the face as hard as he can.

  It’s something he knows he’ll never regret.

  The brig is scalding — no surprise, given that it’s deep in the ship’s bowels beside the nuclear reactor. Ishmael lies bare-chested on the slab of metal that serves as a bed, his face and body glossy with sweat. The hum of the reactor is loud, but oddly soporific. As he drifts off, he savors the memory of his fist smashing into Daggoo’s smug face, knocking him off the cargo rope ladder and back down into the sea.

  The boy with the leg braces is hunched over a broken tablet. He sees Ishmael watching and motions for him to help. The boy has squeezed his fingertips into a seam along the side of the tablet and is trying to open it. Together they press their fingers into the seam and pull.

  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 punis
hment? 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:

  “Ishm . . . conditions worsening . . . best if you send . . . money soon . . . your . . . parents safely . . . before . . . too late. . . . Ben”

  “Dear . . . ael, . . . derful news! Arch . . . he’s . . . ship . . . Jeroboam . . . also on Cret . . . well, thank . . . safe. . . . But here on Ear . . . conditions . . . etting worse. . . . riots and looting in other part . . . Ben . . . rumors . . . oxygen production . . . slowing . . . very frightening . . . not safe . . . look for Archie! Love, Petra and Joa . . .”

  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.