The Beast of Cretacea (47 page)

The air is cool and dry, and the floor is thickly carpeted. A group of elegantly dressed men and women sit around the large oval table. Ishmael recognizes Bartleby and the shiny-headed Valente.

At one end of the table sits a distinguished-looking, dark-haired man in a sharply pressed dark-blue suit with gold buttons and a gold pocket square. A pointed beard grows on his chin, his fingers are adorned with heavy gold rings, and he’s wearing earbuds so as to receive outside information while attending this meeting.

At the other end of the table sits a silver-haired woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses. To Ishmael’s befuddlement, Pip is rising from the chair next to hers. Like the others, he is dressed in finery and appears to be quite at home in these surroundings.

Pip tells Nazik he can go, then comes over and squeezes Ishmael’s hand. “It’s so good to see you.”

Ishmael allows himself to be led to a seat at the table. The men and women stare at him with expressions ranging from guarded to amazed.

The silver-haired woman smiles benignly at Ishmael. “We of the executive board are surprised, but of course delighted, that you are here. Those of us who knew your mother admired her enormously. It was a great tragedy when she and your father died.”

Some around the table nod in agreement, though Valente and a few others remain stone-faced. The man in the dark-blue suit shoots his cuffs, displaying a heavy gold wrist tablet. He leans forward and addresses the silver-haired woman with carefully calibrated words. “You must forgive me for injecting a note of skepticism, but I imagine I’m not the only one here who feels that it is extremely
convenient
that Eliza’s son and heir not only is still alive but has shown up in the very time and place where the Trust has chosen to establish this epoch’s headquarters, Executive Vice President Lopez-Makarova.”

Lopez-Makarova?
Ishmael gawks at Pip, who tosses off a self-conscious shrug.

The silver-haired woman appraises the distinguished-looking man with practiced impartiality. “Thank you, Mr. Bildad. Convenient though it may seem, there can be no doubt in the matter. The registry data is conclusive. In addition, you are welcome to speak to my nephew about Ishmael’s service aboard the
Pequod.
He has proved himself to be invested with the best of both his parents.”

Mr. Bildad leans back, presses his fingertips together, and gives an obsequious reply: “As you are the most senior corporate officer on Cretacea and this epoch is under your jurisdiction, Executive Vice President Lopez-Makarova, who am I to argue?”

“Thank you, Mr. Bildad. I certainly appreciate your heartfelt vote of confidence,” Pip’s aunt replies smoothly. The tension between these two is as thick as the pirate Winchester’s skull. The executive vice president turns her attention to Ishmael. “One of the reasons we’ve asked you here today is that we hope you can assist us. As I’m sure you’ve seen, we are trying to cope with many of the challenges people face when suddenly thrust into a new and unfamiliar environment. My nephew informs us that you’ve spent time with the group of people he calls the islanders, who apparently have been quite successful in adapting to the conditions of this epoch. We would like to reach out to these people, to ask their assistance in how to best adapt to this place and time.”

Ishmael tries to imagine the overdressed Gilded wearing the meager clothes of the islanders, climbing limbless trees to shake down treestones, and sleeping on floor mats in windowless huts.

“What you’re really saying is you want me to get them to help you build your settlement,” he says.

“We can easily persuade them to do that,” Mr. Bildad says with unsettling calm.

Pip’s aunt shoots Bildad a dismayed look, then turns back to Ishmael, her appearance once again serene. “I’m sure you’ve seen our poor attempts at building with the materials we have at hand. We’ve concluded that the only way to complete this settlement in a timely fashion — and to the standards to which our colleagues are accustomed — is to employ the services of more skillful laborers. We will, of course, compensate them for their time. In addition, we are hoping that you might have suggestions as to what other incentives we can offer them.”

“We’ve been led to understand that they live very . . . primitively,” Valente adds. “Perhaps they could benefit from our advanced knowledge of medicine?”

“From what I can tell, they don’t need any assistance in that area,” Ishmael replies, choosing his words carefully.

“Then perhaps something in the area of education, or entertainment, or . . . fashion,” suggests a woman dressed in a lavish green gown with polished gold buttons and sharp lapels, over which is draped a long gold-and-black sash.

“That’s a very generous offer,” Ishmael says. “But the islanders take pleasure in things that nature, not humans, provides. I honestly can’t think of anything you could offer that would interest them.”

The faces around the table grow frustrated — except for Mr. Bildad’s. He appears preoccupied with the feeds from his earbuds. In the lull in conversation, Ishmael studies this rarefied group his birth parents once belonged to — that
he
supposedly
still
belongs to. Without doubt, they are the healthiest, best-groomed people he has ever seen, and yet there is something unsettling about their appearance. They’re
too
perfect-looking, all with teeth that are uniformly straight and unnaturally white, and hair that has an artificial luster. Ishmael peeks at the hands of the man next to him. The skin is almost translucent, allowing the blue veins to show through. He looks at the eyes of the people across from him and realizes that the whites are
too
white. There’s no sign of any redness, not even tiny capillaries.

And that’s when it hits him: They’re
all
using the terrafin neurotoxin. Hadn’t Billy and Charity been trying to tell him as much? The one thing the Gilded fear more than anything is death — and the way to avoid death is to use the green serum. No wonder Ahab was so confident these people would pay whatever he demanded for it.

But unlike the pirates and the highest-ranking officers of the
Pequod,
the Gilded have had their teeth fixed and their eyes whitened so that the effects of their addiction won’t show. And there will soon be
thousands
of the Gilded here, all demanding neurotoxin to stay alive long beyond their natural life spans.

Ishmael stares at the golden ropes holding back the long maroon drapes.
Once they find out the islanders farm terrafins . . .

The executive vice president leans forward, interrupting his thoughts. “Ishmael, this is extremely important. Are you saying that there’s
nothing
they want?”

“I think the islanders are perfectly content with their lives just as they are,” he answers. “But they’re a very generous people. I’m sure they’d be happy to share their building skills with you without demanding payment.”

Amid the flabbergasted expressions that ring the table, Mr. Bildad slowly removes his earbuds. “It’s not only skills we need, it’s manpower.” He places his hands flat on the tabletop. “I believe we’ve heard enough. I see no other option than to proceed with the approach I originally proposed — before this young man made his . . . unexpected appearance. Any objections, Madam Executive Vice President?”

Barely able to mask her irritation with Bildad, Pip’s aunt looks away without replying. Ishmael glances at Pip, hoping for an explanation, but his friend won’t meet his eye.

When the meeting ends, protocol demands that people leave the room by official rank. Mr. Bildad and Pip’s aunt exit at the same time, though through different doors. Pip and Ishmael are the last to depart.

“When you said your father was acquainted with some people . . .” Ishmael begins, using the cane for support as they walk back down the long hallway.

“She’s his sister,” Pip says.

“You knew all along that Cretacea was Earth?”

“Yes.”

“So that story about collecting drone data for cartography was just another lie?”

Pip grimaces at the reminder that he’s told so many untruths. “No, that was true. The coastlines in this period are quite different from those a hundred million years in the future.” He stops and gives Ishmael a bemused look. “I always thought one of you would figure out that this was Earth. Didn’t you think it was strange that the days here are the same length as the days on the Earth you left? Every planet rotates at its own unique speed, so if this really were another planet, the days would be a different length.”

Ishmael shakes his head. It’s just one more piece of information he never knew. “What about Gwen and Queek? In the Z-pack you sent me —”

Pip stops and presses a finger to his lips. He looks up and down the hallway and then shoos Ishmael through a door and into a sitting room . . . where Gwen and Queequeg are waiting.

His friends are dressed in threadbare coveralls, their hair is shorn, the skivers no longer in their ears. They look as thin as they did the day they first arrived on Cretacea. And Queequeg is limping.

After hugging him joyously, Ishmael asks what happened.

“Work accident,” Queequeg responds matter-of-factly. “Log fell on it.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Doctor?” Gwen snorts bitterly. “Not for us mere peons.” She shoots Pip an angry look.

“I told you before,” Pip says in a hushed voice. “Even if I have favorites, I can’t be seen showing it.”

Gwen turns to Ishmael and smirks. “How do you like that? We’re Pip’s favorite slaves.”

“Easy, Gwen,” Queequeg cautions.

Pip looks at Gwen. “Did it ever occur to you to wonder how that rotorcraft found you in the middle of the ocean? When the
Pequod
vanished, there were no reports of survivors. I spent days and nights scanning the ocean with a high-altitude drone I wasn’t even authorized to use.”

“Oh, you’re
such
a hero,” Gwen says contemptuously. “That’s why the only people who’ve been transported here have been your precious Gilded.” Her voice rising, she adds, “What about the millions of non-Gilded who got left behind on Earth — or in the future or whenever? The people who weren’t considered
worth
saving?”

Pip hangs his head. “There was a limited number of pods, and yes, most of those spots went to the Gilded, since they were the ones who could pay. . . .” He stares at his feet. “I don’t know what more you want from me, Gwen. I can’t apologize for who I am, but you know me well enough —”

The door swings open and a guard looks in. When he sees Pip and the others, his mouth falls open. Pip instantly changes his tone. “How did you two get in here? Guard, take them outside and hold them until I can deal with them myself.”

As the guard hustles Queequeg and Gwen out, she replies scornfully, “Know you? You’re so wrong. We don’t know you at all!”

When they’re gone, Pip slumps onto a divan, shoulders sagging, hands pressed between his knees. “That wasn’t fair. I mean, what she said. I didn’t create this system, I was born into it . . . like you.” Pip looks up searchingly, and Ishmael knows he wants him to agree that they have a common bond. But Ishmael can’t help wondering if he and Pip have anything in common at all.

“What’s Bildad planning to do?” he asks.

Speaking a hair above a whisper, Pip says, “Invade the island and enslave everyone they capture.”

“What if the islanders resist?”

Instead of answering, Pip looks away. “We should be going. The guards will get suspicious.”

Pip leads him out of the building, past the long line of unhappy Gilded still waiting to voice their grievances. Water drips from the eaves, but the rain has stopped and the sun is gradually breaking through the clouds.

The guard is waiting on the walkway with Gwen and Queequeg. “I’ll take them from here,” Pip tells him. “Return to your duties.”

As soon as the guard departs, Pip drops the officious act. “Take a few moments to catch up, but don’t be too long or you’ll attract suspicion. You and Queek are supposed to be down in the workers’ camp.”

“How could we ever forget?” Gwen snaps sarcastically.

Pip shakes his head sadly, then turns to go.

“He’s not that bad,” Ishmael says in a low voice when Pip’s out of earshot.

“You can’t be serious,” Gwen spits. “Do you have any idea what his kind have been doing to the rest of us for the past five hundred years?”

“Yeah, but think about it,” Queequeg says. “You can’t blame Pip for everything the Gilded do.” He raises his hand when Gwen begins to protest. “Wait. I’m not saying he’s a saint, but he did try to save me and Ish when the pirates had us. And we wouldn’t be alive if he hadn’t found us with that drone.”

Gwen’s forehead wrinkles, but she doesn’t argue.

“Ish, before we go back to the camp, there’s something we think you should see,” says Queequeg.

They lead him down a creaky walkway that extends over lush jungle. In the distance Ishmael hears a steady
clang! clang! clang!
that grows louder the farther they go. Eventually the walkway ends, and they look out over the jungle at a broad green valley and a sparkling blue-green bay. Flyers of different sizes and shapes glide on air currents, and unseen animals clamor in the trees. Ishmael still finds it mind-boggling to see how much vegetation there is here compared with the barren gray Earth of the future. An Earth that can no longer support life.