The Beast of Cretacea (41 page)

And while Gwen and Queequeg had insisted that they needed to return to the ship in order to earn more money, Ishmael suspected that they were really going out of loyalty to him. He’d only hoped neither of them would be punished.

When the time came to leave, they’d stocked Chase Boat Four with water and food and set out. After several weeks on the vast ocean, they’d gotten lucky, coming across a trawler whose captain had had two-way contact with the
Pequod
only a few days before. Having gotten a sense of the ship’s course from him, the chase-boat crew found the
Pequod
a week later.

“Blast, it’s hot down here,” a voice murmurs in the dark.

Ishmael sits up, surprised to hear footsteps. In the dimness he makes out the silhouettes of an unlikely trio: Fleece, Stubb, and Marion. He can’t imagine what they’re doing down here.

The bulky cook wipes sweat off his glistening forehead. “Melville’s mercy, a few more days in this and you’ll be slow-roasted and juicy.”

Marion passes a canteen through the bars.

“Thanks.” Ishmael drinks. “From the pace of the reactor, I figure Ahab must have the Great Terrafin on drone imagery.”

“That he does,” Fleece says. “They think the beast has been slowed by that big harpoon in its wing. But a creature that’s wounded is all the more dangerous. Seems like madness to pursue the terrafin after that business with the pinkboat, don’t it?”

“A suicide mission,” Marion adds.

This isn’t news. Everyone on the ship knows it. “So what brings you down here?” Ishmael asks.

Marion drops her voice. “Some of us has been askin’ ourselves what all the money Ahab’s offerin’ is worth if we ain’t gonna be alive to spend it.”

Fleece smooths his fan of a beard. “To be blunt, urchin, I never dreamed that such a day would arrive. I’ve been a salty dog my entire life and cherished most every moment. But this marks my last voyage, and unlike these other miscreants, I’ve amassed a nice little cache of coin. All I aspire to now is surviving to enjoy it.”

Of the three, Stubb is the one Ishmael is most curious about. Why is he here? The fussy second mate is usually the enforcer, not breaker, of rules.

Stubb removes his glasses and wipes them with a fine cloth. “Mr. Bildad and the other senior directors have concluded that the actions of Captain Ahab are no longer in the best interests of the Trust. He is considered a rogue captain and will face charges of dereliction of duties. As a result, I have been authorized to take whatever action is necessary to protect the ship and its crew, and to terminate the voyage as soon as possible.”

“What’s this got to do with me?” Ishmael asks.

Marion’s upper lip is dotted with perspiration. “Ever since you went AWOL and risked your life to save your friend, you’ve become somethin’ of a hero to the crew. They talk about how you stood up to Starbuck and even to Captain Ahab himself. If we can tell the others we have your support . . .”

“To do what, exactly?” Ishmael asks.

“To strike,” she explains. “If we can get the majority behind us, we can stop Ahab from going after that monster. He can’t do it without a crew.”

“You mean mutiny?”

“With the approval of the Trust,” Stubb quickly stresses. “So no one will be punished.”

Fleece presses his bearded visage close to the bars. “Can we count on your support?”

Ishmael can see the desperation in their eyes. Even though he gave his word to Ahab, he has no desire to risk his life, either. But what about the rest of the crew? Are they equally as reluctant to pursue the beast, or are they still blinded by the promise of enormous riches? Ishmael feels like he needs to stall until he knows more. “I need twenty-four hours to think about it. In the meantime, I promise I won’t say anything to anyone.”

The trio glance at one another.

“All right. Twenty-four hours,” Marion says. “One of us will be back tomorrow night for your answer.”

Fleece squeezes a fleshy arm through the bars and claps Ishmael on the shoulder. “Consider the crew, urchin. Lives hang in the balance.”

Managing only a few hours of fitful sleep, Ishmael is awake in time to watch through the small porthole as the sun rises. At some point he dozes off again, because he next opens his eyes to a clinking sound: Starbuck unlocking the cell door.

“Captain wants to see you.”

Ishmael sits up, immediately apprehensive. Does the captain know that Fleece, Marion, and Stubb paid him a visit last night?

The first mate holds the cell door open. “Well, you coming?”

Ishmael slides off the metal slab and starts to follow.

“That story about Charity and Billy staying with those tree dwellers true?” Starbuck asks as they start climbing the ladderways.

“Queequeg and Gwen told you, sir?”

“That’s right. Guess I shouldn’t blame her.” Starbuck sounds wistful. At the top of the ladderway, he stops. “You may not believe this, boy, but I’ve always tried to do the right thing. For the men, for the ship, for the Trust.”

“What about for yourself, sir?” Ishmael asks.

“For myself ?” Starbuck repeats, surprised. “I had dreams, boy.”

There’s something fatalistic in his tone. While his eyes remain hidden behind those dark glasses, Ishmael imagines they’re filled with regret.

“Know what the problem with dreams is?” the first mate goes on. “Sometimes you don’t know when to stop dreaming. One leads to the next, and it seems like there’s always something bigger and better just over the next wave. But in the meantime, life passes. Your wife gets tired of waiting. Your kids grow up, have families of their own and don’t know who you are. One day you realize that for every dream you’ve achieved, you’ve lost something or someone equally important. Only by then it’s too late.”

Ishmael recalls the holograph in the first mate’s cabin of the attractive blond woman and three children. Are they the kids who are now grown with families of their own? Not for the first time he wonders how long Starbuck’s been away from Earth. “If you really believe that, sir, why not stop now?”

The first mate lifts one of his gnarled hands and studies the scarred knuckles. “I’ve come too far and given up too much to quit now. But I promise you, boy: This is the end. When it’s over, I’m done.”

Ishmael recalls Tarnmoor saying something similar about Ahab.

There’ll be no turning back . . .

They start up another set of steps. The
Pequod
seems quiet today; presumably the chase boats are all out stalking the Great Terrafin. At the top of the next ladderway, Starbuck unexpectedly leads Ishmael outside.

After three days in the brig, Ishmael squints in the bright sunlight, but even with his eyes nearly closed, he is aware that something is different. The deck is unusually hushed — absent voices, the cries of flyers, and the clamor of sailors at work. As soon as his eyes adjust, he sees why: Two figures hang from cranes overhead, slowly turning in the warm breeze.

He draws a sharp, involuntary breath. Marion and Stubb are suspended by hooks snagging the backs of their PFDs. Their hands are bound, and gags are stuffed in their mouths. The good news is they’re alive.

So much for the mutiny,
he thinks. He searches around for Fleece but doesn’t see him.

“Looking for someone?” Starbuck asks pointedly. “If it’s the cook, he’s been confined to his cabin.” The first mate leans close and lowers his voice. “If I find out you were involved in that scheme, so help me, boy, you won’t swing from one of those cranes for a day like those two. You’ll be up there for the rest of the voyage.”

They climb the remaining ladderways to the bridge, where Ahab is holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes, his long black hair lifted gently by the breeze. Starbuck leaves Ishmael there and departs.

After several moments of silence, the captain speaks: “You puzzle me, sailor. You persist in risking your own hide to help others when it will mean no material gain for yourself. What do you think is to be earned by this? Everlasting glory? Entrance into Valhalla? Sainthood?”

Though uncertain what the words mean, Ishmael senses that no answer is required.

“We’re born alone, sailor,” the captain continues, “and should the day come when we die, we’ll depart in the same condition. After that, nothing matters.”

Not far off the bow, a decent-size basher leaps into the air and splashes back down, but Ahab takes no notice.

“Can’t recall when last we had a sailor who’d spent quite as much time in the brig as you,” the captain remarks. “Like it down there?”

“Not particularly, sir.”

Ahab lowers the binoculars. “Then how would you like to be pardoned . . . again?”

“For the rest of the voyage, sir, or just until the Great Terrafin is captured?”

A wry smirk creases Ahab’s thin lips. “I’d heard there were brains to go along with your bravery. A good combination, and one that could make you extraordinarily rich. For the rest of the voyage, sailor. Your share of the pot reinstated. Would you like that?”

“You want me to go out after the Great Terrafin, sir?” Ishmael asks.

Ahab turns toward the sea and lifts the binoculars back to his eyes. “The beast is wounded. She won’t be able to run much longer. When the time comes, we’ll need every available man to bring her in.” Out in the distance the basher leaps again. “Just tell me one thing, sailor. How do I know you won’t run off a second time?”

“I didn’t run off, sir. I went to get Queequeg. And if I had to, I’d do it again. But I don’t, because he’s here.”

Ahab continues to scan the ocean. “All right. I’ll let you go back out, but this time you’ll have a drone watching you. And mark my words: one wrong move and next time it won’t be the brig. Next time I’ll feed you to the big-tooths myself.”

The blue VRgog light is flashing when Ishmael gets down to the men’s berth. It’s been many weeks since he’s heard anything, and he eagerly slips them on. It’s an audio clip from Joachim!

“mael . . . condit . . . very bad. . . . Ben said you sent . . . enough to get us out . . . can’t thank you enough. . . . But . . . terrible news . . .
Jeroboam
lost . . . in a storm . . . all . . . presumed dead. . . . We are leaving . . . Earth . . . heartbroken. . . . So very sorry . . . communications shutting . . . this . . . last time. . . . We love you.”

Beneath Ishmael’s feet the deck of the
Pequod
shivers. The drones are locked on the Great Terrafin, and the crew have been assembled. Around him sailors radiate nervous anticipation — adjusting PFDs, sharpening knives. The fidgeting of preparations.

But for Ishmael, a nearly unbearable sadness has bullied out any sense of fear or anticipation. The
Jeroboam
has been lost in a storm, and all aboard are presumed dead. The news feels like a harpoon through his heart. The relief and joy he should be feeling about his foster parents getting off Earth is crushed beneath the weight of his grief.

Gwen slides an arm around his waist and Queequeg squeezes his shoulder. They say nothing, but then, there’s nothing they can say.

Ahab and Starbuck are up on the bridge, looking down at the crew. The captain’s hands are tight on the bridge rail. “This is it, men!” he yells with maniacal elation. “I can feel it in my bones! The Great Terrafin is wounded and vulnerable. But mind you, we ain’t the only ones after her. There’s big-tooths on her tails. So our task is to get the beast before those scavengers do!”

“We’re gonna be rich!” Bunta shouts from down in the crowd. The sailors on the deck cheer until the captain hushes them.

“Don’t be lulled into thinking this will be easy!” Ahab warns. “Injured or not, no more ferocious creature exists anywhere in the universe, and none that will fight harder for its freedom. You’re in for the battle of your lives, men. . . . But once we succeed — and we
will
succeed!— you’ll have wealth beyond anything you’ve ever dreamed of. Keep that in mind, sailors. Today’s the day we’ve been waiting for!”

More wild, raucous cheers fill the air.

Ahab retreats from the bridge, and Starbuck takes over, explaining the strategy the chase boats will use, sticking as many harpoons as possible into the creature to create a web of lines — special green lines that have been reinforced with steel filament — from which the beast will be unable to extricate itself. Once the web is in place, the lines will be blended into two giant strands, one for each of the two enormous winches at the stern of the
Pequod.