The Beast of Cretacea

by Todd Strasser

  “Pirates?” asks another.

  Flask has joined them. “Pirates woulda taken what they wanted and gone. No reason to waste their energy doin’ this.”

  “Look!” A crewman points from the bow. Out in the middle of the debris, a lone survivor is clinging to an otter board.

  Starbuck hurries toward the bridge, shouting, “Quick turn starboard! Back her down, then dead slow ahead! Put a ladder over. Rescue!”

  It takes a few minutes for the Pequod to slow and come about. Two rescue swimmers in immersion suits have already gone over the side and are kicking toward the survivor with a bright-orange buoyancy torp.

  A short time later, the grizzled, waterlogged survivor is lifted on board in a rescue basket. The man’s skin is gray, his lips blue, and he is moaning in pain. Dr. Bunger, the ship’s white-bearded surgeon who wears an eye patch, fumbles through the crowd of sailors and kneels beside him, scanning his body with a tablet no doubt loaded with biodetection software. Even before the results are back, the ship’s surgeon attaches a saline injector to the man’s forearm. He hands Ishmael a clear plastic bag of solution. “Hold this.”

  Ishmael takes the bag and watches while Bunger cuts away the sailor’s sea-soaked clothes. Standing this close to the ship’s surgeon, Ishmael catches a familiar whiff of fermentation; Dr. Bunger smells like he’s saturated in benzo.

  The injured man’s torso is covered with dark-purple bruises. When his eyes start to roll back into his head, Starbuck kneels and gently pats his cheek. “Stay with us now, you hear?”

  Bunger cuts through the legs of the man’s pants, and gasps rise from those who’ve crowded close to watch. A ragged red gash runs the length of the man’s right thigh, so deep that Ishmael can see the white of bone. Despite the severity of the wound, hardly any fresh blood seeps out. Is it possible the man has no more to give? Bunger and Starbuck share somber looks that speak volumes.

  The crowd stirs and begins to part. Ishmael hears an odd alternating step, clank, step, clank, and through the silent throng limps a man he has never seen before, wearing a long black coat with the collar turned up. His pale, bearded face is lined but free of tattoos, and his dark eyes are fierce and determined. The clanking comes from the metal shaft of a harpoon where his lower left leg should be.

  Bunger hunts around in his disorganized medical bag and finds a derma-jet infuser filled with green-tinted liquid. He flicks it with his finger.

  “Not yet,” the man in black rasps, and slowly lowers himself beside the sailor. Ishmael recognizes the voice. It’s the man Starbuck argued with about Charity.

  “He should have it, sir,” Starbuck says.

  “I’ll decide what he’ll have and when,” the man in black snaps in a way that no one else speaks to the first mate. This must be the captain, Ishmael realizes.

  The injured sailor’s eyes have begun to roll back into his head again. The captain shakes his shoulder roughly. “What species of creature did this?”

  The wounded man’s eyes close, but not for long. Slap! The captain strikes him across the face with his open hand. Some in the crowd gasp, but, Ishmael notices, they quickly school their expressions. The survivor of the wreck starts and blinks.

  “I said, ‘What species of creature did this?’” the captain demands.

  The sailor’s cracked, bluish lips part. “A . . . a terrafin, sir. A giant. . . . The size of . . . I don’t know, sir. Never . . . seen nothing like it.”

  The effort to say even this much seems to exhaust him. The captain leans closer. “Its color, man. What was its color?”

  The man’s eyes start to roll.

  Slap! “Its color!” The captain orders.

  “All I saw . . . was white.”

  The captain looks up at Starbuck. Something deep and meaningful passes between them, and then the captain looks at the sailor again. “When?”

  But the sailor’s eyes have closed.

  Slap!

  The sailor’s eyes open, unfocused. “The pain, sir. . . . If I could just have something . . .”

  “When did this happen?”

  “At dawn, sir. Just . . . after we put out the nets. . . . It got caught . . .” He grimaces. “The pain, sir.”

  “You’ll get what you need soon. Caught it in the net, you say?”

  “Snagged it, sir. But as soon as we saw . . . we cut the nets free.”

  “And?” The captain presses, but the sailor’s eyes have begun to roll again.

  Slap!

  “And?”

  The sailor cringes, and a tear rolls from the corner of his eye. “For the love of Earth, sir . . . something for the pain . . . I beg you!”

  “First tell me: You cut the nets free, and then?”

  “The . . . strangest thing.” The sailor’s voice sounds far away. “We swung the trawler around and ran . . . but the white terrafin . . . it . . . came . . . after us.”

  Murmurs ripple through the crowd. This time when the sailor’s eyes close, there’s no slap. The captain looks up at Starbuck. “If she was here at dawn, she can’t have gotten far. Put every drone you have on it. Tell the operators to sweep a twenty-five-mile radius.”

  “Two of the drones are on humps, sir,” the first mate answers. “Big ones we’ve been trailing all night. Easy prey.”

  “I said call them in, now!” The captain rises and goes face-to-face with the first mate, his eyes steely. “She could be close — maybe only five, ten miles away!”

  Starbuck stands his ground. “I’m thinking of the crew, sir. The pot’s awful low.”

  “The pot?!” the captain shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. “You heard the man — she’s out there! Within our grasp!” He steps toward the first mate, their faces mere inches apart. “You want to see that wench of yours again? You’ll call those drones in now!”

  Starbuck’s face hardens; he doesn’t reply.

  “Captain Ahab, sir?” Bunger calls.

  The captain — Ahab — sees the derma-jet infuser of greenish liquid that the doctor is holding up. “Don’t waste it.”

  “But the man’s in —” Bunger begins.

  “Is he a goner?” Ahab asks.

  “Yes, sir, almost certainly, sir,” Bunger replies. Just then, the sailor lets out a deep, anguished groan. His eyes have closed, but his face is pinched and contorted.

  The captain starts away. Step, clank, step, clank . . . Once again, the crowd parts to let him pass.

  Still holding the infuser, Bunger gazes quizzically up at the first mate. “Sir?”

  Starbuck turns his furious glare from Ahab’s back and whispers harshly, “Give it to him.” Bunger infuses the green-tinged liquid into the sailor’s arm. The man shudders with relief and then goes limp.

  Ishmael sticks his hand out of one of the galley portholes into a world nearly as white as bone. His hand comes back wet. Around the ship, they say the rainy season has begun. While there are still periods of bright sunlight on many days, there are always clouds in the distance, trailing long gray tails of rain. Dense fogs like this are not uncommon. Peering into the heavy mist, he can’t help wondering how much longer Captain Ahab will insist that they keep to this mad pursuit, ignoring an abundance of catchable beasts while searching for a huge white terrafin.

  Queequeg joins him at the porthole. He’s gained weight and filled out, his skin is sun-kissed glossy copper, and his brown hair has grown long enough to fan out from his head. Ishmael, whose light-brown hair now nearly covers his ears, is certain they’ve both grown taller as well.

  Queequeg looks over at Fleece on his stool, shoveling fried scurry into his mouth straight from a large pan. “How long do you think this gloom will last?” he asks.

  Cheeks bulging, the cook shrugs. “Might as well be forever, considering the mood aboard this rust bucket.”

  Because of the fog, the drones haven’t launched, and no chase boats have been sent out to hunt. In the mess, sailors sit in knots at tables, sipping red berry, the savory brew that, after a few s
ips, usually leaves one feeling as if everything is in brighter, sharper detail. But today, even this exotic concoction can’t lift the crew’s spirits. Their grumblings seep into the galley.

  “Nothin’ in the pot an’ he still wants to go chase that monster. A damn waste of time.”

  “We ain’t on this ship to appease that madman’s nightmares.”

  “If we don’t start making some coin soon, he’s gonna have serious trouble on his hands.”

  Ishmael only half-listens. He has frustrations of his own: It’s been weeks since he last heard from Joachim and Petra, and he can’t shake the feeling that the delays between messages mean things are getting worse back home.

  Fleece wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Anyone seen the redhead?”

  Gwen hasn’t shown up for work.

  “Maybe she got called upstairs,” Queequeg says. “Know what’s going on?”

  All morning, sailors have been called, one at a time, to Starbuck’s quarters on the B level.

  Before the cook can reply, Gwen comes through the galley door, carrying a mug of red berry and looking bleary, with bags under her eyes.

  “W-where’ve you been?” Billy asks.

  “With Charity,” she answers.

  The guys gape wondrously. Even Fleece looks up. It’s been almost a month since the pirate attack.

  “She came back late last night,” Gwen says. “Really agitated. Wouldn’t let anyone near her. Not even Starbuck. Finally said she wanted a female, and they asked me.” Despite her weariness, Ishmael detects a sliver of pride behind her words. “I was up most of the night with her, in the sick bay.”

  “She gonna be okay?” Queequeg asks.

  “Don’t know.” Gwen angrily works her jaw. “But believe me, if I ever get my hands on a pirate . . .”

  “She’s fortunate to be alive.” Fleece heaves his great girth off his stool and carries the empty pan to the sink.

  The galley speaker crackles on. “Ishmael, report to B level.”

  Queequeg pats him on the shoulder. “Good luck, friend.”

  A few minutes later, Ishmael stands in the passageway outside Starbuck’s cabin. Someone is with the first mate in his quarters — Stubb, from the sound of it — and Ishmael can’t help overhearing.

  Stubb: “Mr. Bildad insists that you give up this ridiculous pursuit immediately.”

  Starbuck: “Take it up with Ahab.”

  Stubb: “The captain ignores me. Perhaps if you spoke to him . . .”

  Starbuck: “Perhaps if you had kept your mouth shut, Mr. Bildad would be none the wiser.”

  Stubb: “As the official representative of the Trust on board this ship, I have a responsibility to keep my superiors apprised of everything that happens.”

  Starbuck: “And have you informed your superiors of what they stand to gain if we succeed?”

  Stubb: “The Trust does not indulge in hypotheticals, Mr. Starbuck. At the rate you’re going, this voyage will actually lose money. Are you prepared to tell your crew that they’ve worked all this time for nothing more than their paltry base pay? Some who’ve been sailing with you for years?”

  The Trust? Ishmael remembers Old Ben mentioning it the night before Ishmael left Earth. But what is it?

  Starbuck lowers his voice, and Ishmael can’t make out his answer. A few moments later, the door opens and Stubb emerges, his face flushed. When he sees Ishmael, he stops and scrolls down his tablet. “Let’s see. Ah, yes, here you are. Ishmael . . . Still nearly a thousand in debt for that damaged chase boat. What a pity.” The punctilious second mate shakes his head disapprovingly and starts down the passageway.

  Ishmael knocks and Starbuck beckons him inside. The first mate sits behind his broad desk, but today there is no chair for visitors; apparently he intends to keep these meetings brief. Starbuck appears weary, his black hair falling limply and his uniform open at the neck. The cabin is quiet except for the faint humming sound coming from the lockbox Ishmael knows is secreted under the desk.

  The first mate sits back in his chair, presses his fingers together, and scrutinizes Ishmael, but he doesn’t speak. Several moments pass. Finally, as if he’s made a decision, he rocks forward.

  “Congratulations, boy. Starting immediately, you and your crew will be full-time on Chase Boat Four. We need to put serious weight in the hold, and it’s going to take every stick-boat crew we can muster. A new group of nippers will arrive this afternoon and take over in the galley. Your pay levels will be adjusted accordingly.”

  Ishmael fights a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ll be hunting smaller creatures for now,” the first mate continues. “Bashers and whatnot. We’ll see how you do with those, and then maybe you’ll be allowed to go after the larger beasts.”

  Ishmael feels his heart beat faster. They’re a full-time chase-boat team!

  “That’s all. You may go,” Starbuck says dismissively.

  Ishmael hesitates. “One question, sir?”

  Starbuck sighs. “What a surprise.”

  “Charity’s back, sir. Did we make a deal with the pirates?”

  Starbuck’s eyes may be hidden, but the dark round lenses don’t cover the wrinkles around them, which deepen. “Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, boy.” He points. “There’s the door. Use it.”

  At dinner that night, Ishmael and his crew quietly celebrate in the mess, wearing new blue uniforms, while the latest batch of scrawny, gray-skinned nippers in brown uniforms hurry around on mess detail.

  “We never looked that bad, did we?” Queequeg jokes.

  “Time to make some real money,” Gwen says with a rare gleam in her eye.

  Tashtego, the harpooner, stops at their table. “Congratulations, and welcome to the best job on this ship.”

  “The drone ops would disagree,” Pip says.

  Tashtego waves the comment away. “All you bobbit worms do is play with joysticks. We’re the ones who bring home the goods.”

  “When you’re not chasing phantom terrafins,” Pip says.

  “Where you been?” Tashtego hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. “We’re done with the white terrafin. As of tomorrow, assuming this blasted fog lifts, we’ll be putting weight in the hold like nobody’s business.” He salutes the crew of Chase Boat Four. “See you out there.”

  He goes off.

  “That was n-nice,” Billy says.

  “He seems like a good guy,” agrees Queequeg.

  “Especially compared to who’s next.” Gwen gestures toward a familiar head of bright-yellow hair coming their way.

  Daggoo stops by their table. He’s using a knife to carve a large beast’s tooth into something that resembles the grip of a gun. They’ve heard that he’s been promoted from skipper of Fedallah’s boat to harpooner on Chase Boat Three.

  “Congratulations.” Queequeg tries to be friendly.

  “Took me nearly three years to be promoted to stickman,” Daggoo replies sourly, launching small white bits of whittled tooth onto their table. “Then you come along and do it in a few months.”

  Ishmael’s in too good a mood to argue. “With all the catching up they need to get the pot where it should be, guess they’re willing to send out just about anyone. Truth is, we got lucky.”

  “Sure, luck.” Daggoo nods contemptuously at Pip. “Or maybe it’s who you know.” He gouges a larger piece of tooth and launches it into the air. It lands with a splash in Pip’s bowl.

  “Yee-ha!” Queequeg cries early the next morning while Chase Boat Four races away from the Pequod, skimming over gently rolling ocean swells. The fog has finally lifted, and they’ve received word that a drone has detected subsurface activity several miles away.

  As the chase boat whisks along, Gwen and Billy let out gleeful whoops of their own, the wind whipping their hair, their new blue uniforms flapping. Ishmael feels hopeful as he steers toward their quarry. If they work hard and are a tad lucky, it’s possible that by the time his year is up he’ll have made enou
gh to pay what he owes for the chase boat’s repairs and to send Old Ben the money to help his foster parents leave Earth. And after that, whatever he earns he can keep for himself.

  In the bow, Queequeg points excitedly. Ahead, several dark shadows glide beneath the waves. From their slender, pointed snouts and long, sleek bodies, Ishmael thinks they’re bashers — not particularly large beasts, but valuable nonetheless. And given that no other crew has caught anything yet this week, a fortunate find.

  Heart thudding with excitement, Ishmael positions the boat parallel to the pod while Queequeg aims the harpoon gun. A shadow begins to darken as one of the bashers rises toward the surface, and Ishmael angles the chase boat closer to give Queequeg a better shot. Gwen and Billy have slipped on their line-handling gloves and crouch at the ready.

  The basher’s pointed dorsal fin breaks the surface thirty feet away.

  Bang! Queequeg fires. With a white cloud of smoke, the harpoon rockets toward the beast.

  It’s a hit!

  With a frantic splash of its tail, the basher starts to flee. Red line begins to whip out of the tub. Now the linemen take over. Ishmael keeps an eye on Billy, who handles himself well and makes sure the big orange float goes over the side without a hitch. The red line goes tight and the basher begins to drag the float behind. Ishmael follows with the chase boat.

  It’s not long before the creature tires. Gwen and Billy start hauling in line, slowly bringing the exhausted basher closer.

  “How about that?” Queequeg beams. “Our first day and our first beast!”

  “If you don’t count that big hump that nearly destroyed this boat,” Gwen reminds him.

  The basher is only fifty yards away when they hear the whine of another chase boat. As it gets closer, Ishmael sees that it’s Chase Boat Three, with Daggoo in the bow on his first day as a harpooner. Ishmael signals that they don’t need any assistance and points to the west, the direction in which the rest of the bashers are headed. Hopefully Chase Boat Three will find the pod and stick another beast.

  But instead of veering away, Daggoo’s boat shoots past Chase Boat Four, headed toward the basher that Queequeg just harpooned.