The Beast of Cretacea (27 page)

“And precisely how
did
the rest of you avoid being eaten?” Starbuck asks.

“Don’t really know, sir. We were lucky, I guess. We lit fires at night to keep the creatures away and hid in caves during the day when we had to. Still, I couldn’t tell you why we survived when Billy didn’t. But it looks like he put up a valiant fight.”

Something about Starbuck’s silence asserts his doubts, but Ishmael holds his gaze.

“What about food and fresh water?” the first mate asks.

“Ate a lot of scurry, sir. And luckily we came across a spring of clean water we could drink from.”

By now Dr. Bunger has finished examining them. “Considering what they’ve been through, they appear to be in good health.”

Starbuck shakes his head slowly. “A tad
too
good if you ask me.”

Ishmael is eager to find out if there have been any new Z-packs from Earth, and whether Charity succeeded in getting Gwen and him their bait money, but the three crewmates are ordered to remain in the sick bay. The next time they see Starbuck, the first mate herds them up several ladderways to the A level. Every sailor they pass stares — but not with surprise that they’re still alive after all this time. Instead, their looks convey wariness, and in some cases even disgust.

“What’s going on?” Queequeg asks in a low voice. “Why’s everyone looking at us like we’re pariahs?”

They’ve reached the black door. Without answering Queequeg’s question, Starbuck knocks.

“Who is it?” the captain rasps from inside.

“Starbuck, sir. With that stick-boat crew.”

“Bring ’em in.”

The captain’s cabin is semicircular and lined with windows that look out over the
Pequod
’s bow to the ocean beyond. But Ishmael barely notices the view. The room is a shrine to terrafins. Everywhere he looks are holographs, screens, ancient paintings, and models of the creatures. His eyes halt on the long, tapering white shaft that he’d glimpsed once before. It must be a sculpture or maybe a carving of a massive terrafin skiver, a hundred times larger than the biggest in Fedallah’s collection.

With hands clasped behind his back, Ahab stands in profile by a port window, staring out at the blue-green sea. His long, scraggly black hair hangs over the collar of his black coat, and the skin not covered by his scruffy beard is deathly pale.

Without turning to look at the crew, the captain asks, “How do you know when you’re being lied to?”

Ishmael feels his stomach sink.

“Well?” the captain demands.

“When it sounds too good to be true, sir?” Ishmael ventures.

Ahab harrumphs. “Correct, sailor. So you’d like us to believe you spent more than a month on land in the midst of wild beasts, pestilence, and all manner of danger, and, except for the one you say died valiantly, you’ve all returned looking healthy, well fed, and unscathed?”

Ishmael can’t resist risking a glance at his boatmates. Both look uneasy, but neither seems on the verge of confessing. Heartened by their courage, he stands straighter.

Ahab whirls around, his deep-set, pink-tinged eyes piercing. “Who’s going to give me an
honest
answer?”

The chase-boat crew is silent. The captain steps close to Queequeg and reaches out a disfigured, scarred hand to touch the tiny skivers in his earlobes.

“Tell me how you got these, sailor,” he growls.

“We found them on the beach, sir.” Queequeg repeats the answer Ishmael gave to Starbuck earlier.

Ahab snorts. “Lying there in the sand, I suppose?” He turns to Ishmael. “And I suppose you also want me to believe that malarkey about how you caught enough scurry to sustain you for all those weeks? And found a miraculous supply of fresh water to drink?”

Ishmael swallows. Their rehearsed story suddenly seems ridiculous. “I know it sounds unlikely, sir —”

“Unlikely?”
The captain cuts him off. “Try
impossible,
sailor.”

Ishmael feels a trickle of sweat run down his back. “It’s true, sir —”

“Like a hump with wings, it is!” The captain’s lip curls in disgust. He limps so close that Ishmael can practically feel the heat radiating from the old man’s body. “I’ve heard tales of such atrocities, but never —
never
— did I expect it of my own men!”

Ishmael is about to ask the captain what he means when the realization strikes. No wonder every sailor they’ve seen has looked at them like they were bilge scum! He almost starts to argue, but at the last moment manages to keep his mouth shut. Ahab limps back to the windows and once again surveys the blue horizon. Gwen and Queequeg shoot Ishmael puzzled looks, but he shakes his head.

“Before your recent disappearance, I’d been hearing good things about this crew,” the captain says. “That Queequeg has a natural talent with the harpoon, and Gwendolyn possesses the kind of quick thinking and daring that are key to a successful stick boat. As for you, young Ishmael, rarely have I heard my first mate speak so highly of a seasoned sailor — let alone a green-gilled nipper.”

Ishmael braces for the blow that he’s sure is coming.

“But your departed friend — Billy, was it?” Ahab goes on. “What I’d heard about him wasn’t so encouraging. . . . So as much as I’d love to keel-haul the lot of you for this atrocity, I’d be a fool to do away with such a promising crew. Especially when we’re so near the goal.”

“Atrocity?” Gwen repeats.

Ahab levels his steely gaze at her. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, missy. I’m talking about cannibalism.”

Gwen gasps.

“C-cannibalism?” Queequeg stammers, nearly struck dumb. “We . . . Is that . . . ? Sir, are you serious? Never! Not in a million —”

“It’s okay.” Ishmael places a firm hand on his friend’s arm and gives Gwen a cautionary look. “They were bound to find out sooner or later.” He turns to the captain. “Sir, if I could ask one favor? Billy was mortally injured in a fall. He knew he wasn’t going to make it. The only thing that brought him comfort at the end was our promise that we’d tell everyone he’d died a hero, to make his father proud. I mean, what’s the harm, sir?”

Ahab taps a knuckle against the window frame. “Few men in this world get to make their fathers proud,” he mutters. Outside, two dark-headed flyers with black wings and white breasts appear to float beside the ship while they glide on the breeze. Finally, the captain says to Queequeg, “Tell me, sailor, how much money did you imagine you’d have at the end of your year?”

Queequeg bows his head. “Don’t really know, sir.”

“Let’s take a guess. Ten thousand? Fifteen?” Ahab turns to Ishmael. “And you. Starbuck tells me you’ve already made ten thousand — nine once you factor in the repairs to your stick boat.”

Ψ10,000!?
Ishmael shoots Starbuck a questioning look.

Starbuck juts an elbow toward Gwen. “It’s her you should be thanking.”

Ishmael gawps at Gwen. “You . . . gave me your half ?”

“It’s a
loan,
” Gwen says with emphasis.

“I . . . are you
sure
?” Ishmael stammers. “I mean, it’s incredible . . . that you’d do that. I don’t know how to thank you.” And he’ll have to make sure he thanks Charity, too, for persuading Starbuck to give them any money at all.

“All right, enough of this maudlin drivel,” the captain snaps. “Normally in a case like this, you’d be stripped of your share of the pot and confined to the brig for the rest of the voyage. But instead, picture going back with forty or even
fifty
thousand! Enough not only for you to live a life of luxury but for your children and their children to enjoy comfortable lives, too.”

The chase-boat crew stand in bewildered silence. What he’s talking about sounds impossible.

“Well?” Ahab awaits the answer.

“It . . . it sounds amazing, sir,” Ishmael acknowledges. “But even if such a thing were possible, sir . . . I hear things on Earth aren’t so good.”

Ahab waves the suggestion away with a gnarled hand. “Baseless fear-mongering! Man’s an exceptionally adaptable species, sailor. He’s been on Earth for more than two hundred thousand years and he’s not finished now.”

Ishmael knows the captain is lying. A few months ago, he stood outside these chambers and heard Ahab tell Starbuck that things back on Earth were quickly becoming unglued. But he can hardly say as much now.

“So answer my question,” Ahab continues. “Imagine going back with more coin than you ever dreamed of. Wealth beyond anything you thought possible. Never having to worry about money again for as long as you live. You’d all like that, wouldn’t you?”

“By capturing the white terrafin, sir?” Gwen guesses.

A wry twinkle appears in Ahab’s eyes. “Precisely, sailor. I’ll let this recent atrocity pass . . . in return for your pledge of undying commitment to our pursuit of the beast until its bloody carcass is on the cleaving deck. Unfortunately, some of the spineless cowards aboard this ship lack the foresight necessary for such an endeavor. They’d rather spend their time naysaying and fostering discontent. That’s why I want your word, each of you, to stay the course. Do I have it?”

One by one the crew of Chase Boat Four agree.

“Very good.” The captain waves his hand. “You may go.”

As they leave, Ishmael notices a lockbox with a red optical thumbprint scanner — similar to the one he saw in the first mate’s cabin — partially hidden on a low shelf. Starbuck stays behind in the cabin to speak to Ahab.

When the door closes, Gwen whispers, “Was that strange?
Buying
our cooperation with a pardon for our supposed crime and promises of obscene wealth? Since when does
the captain
have to do that?”

“Maybe when the rest of the crew is fit to be tied over chasing the white terrafin,” Ishmael says as they start to take the ladderways back down to the main deck. “But Gwen, what Starbuck said back there about the money —”

“Don’t get all mushy on me,” Gwen warns. “I
said
it was a loan.”

“Still, I can’t thank —”

“Don’t make me tell Starbuck I’ve changed my mind.”

Ishmael makes a show of zipping his lips shut. Farther down, in the C level passageway, the squeak of bucket wheels and the smell of chemicals announce Tarnmoor’s presence. The bent old man presses his ear to the wall. “I hears the footsteps a’ three that ain’ts been aboard lately. That’s you, Ishmael? And Queequeg and Gwendolyn?”

“Right you are, Tarnmoor.”

“Aye, right I ams. But nots the fourth one. The one whats always smelled a’ fear and timidity. Heared we won’t be seeing much a’ him no mores.” Tarnmoor drops his voice to a whisper. “Word around the ship’s he been et.”

“Don’t believe that, do you?” Ishmael says.

“Aye, I knows whats to believe and what ain’t.” The old man takes a deep sniff, and the furrows in his wrinkled forehead deepen. “What’s that strange scent? Not the flesh a’ man nor beast thats. Scurry, for sure, but somethin’ strange as well.”

“Treestones?” Queequeg guesses.

The old man tilts his wrinkled face up. “What’s that? Treestones? Never heared a’ them. What is it, then, heh? Heh?”

Queequeg describes the sweet white flesh of treestone nuts.

“I knewed it! Knewed it!” Tarnmoor exults gleefully. “Not cannibals, not this bunch. No. Treestones and scurry is what you been livin’ on! Treestones and scurry!”

“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Tarnmoor?” Ishmael says.

“Not much, no.” The old man’s manner grows somber, and the lines between his unseeing eyes deepen. “But I fears you’ll regret leavin’ such sweetness. Comin’ back to a ship whats cursed.”

“Cursed?” Gwen echoes.

“Aye. Cursed and damned so longs that monster roams free. It be the prospect a’ sudden disasters, perils a’ life and limb; these and death itself. I been on ships long enough to knows their moods, and this one’s gone dark. Dismal and frightened she’s growed since you was last aboard. Fear walks these decks with a heavy foot, it do.”

“Fear?” Queequeg repeats.

“Aye, a’ what looms ahead, lad. A’ what looms ahead.”

Stares greet the crew in the mess at dinner, and Ishmael knows it isn’t just Gwen’s braids and the facial hair he and Queequeg have decided to let grow. Pip approaches their table, carrying a tray, but stops a few feet away. “Sure you’ve got enough to eat?”

“Very funny,” Gwen grumbles.

He sits. In the month since they’ve last seen him, he’s grown slimmer, though he’s still the same dull color they all were when they first arrived. He leans in and whispers. “So what really happened out there? Because I know you didn’t eat Billy.”

Ishmael, Gwen, and Queequeg share a cautious look and don’t answer.

“You don’t trust me?” Pip sounds hurt.

Ishmael drops his voice. “Billy’s fine. Probably better than he’s been in his whole life.”

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“On land.”

“Land? By himself ?”

Ishmael looks down at his plate. “That’s all I can say. Sorry.”

Pip scans the others and sees that he’s not going to get anything more from them. During the meal, he tells them what’s happened aboard the
Pequod
while they were gone. “We had a few good weeks of hunting, but then one of the drone ops spotted the white terrafin. Now it’s back to the chase. The captain keeps harping on how rich everyone will be, but you can tell that the crew’s skeptical. Lots of griping and groaning. Though, personally, I can’t wait to get a look at the beast, you know?”