by David Poyer
“So where’d you say you were from? Sara?”
“Hmm? Oh … Nantucket.”
“Oh. Right.” Auer looked impressed. “So your family’s got money.”
Sara laughed. “Hardly. My grandfather had a scallop shanty. We all scalloped in the winter.” She made a prying motion with her hands. “Open it, flip the guts into the gut bucket, the meat goes in the sell bucket. But the state shut us down. Health regulations. So we lost the shanty, and then our house.…”
“So how’d you get to be a doctor? A scientist, I mean.”
“Just lucky. I’d be waitressing in a seafood restaurant if it hadn’t been for the local science center, and scholarships.”
Auer glanced at the companionway. Quill said they had to keep the hatch closed as much as possible, in case of a pitchpole or capsize. Also, of course, to keep what little heat they had down in the cabin. “Man, these fucking suits … I’ve got to pee. Keep an eye on the course?”
“You bet. Going below?”
“No, just gonna peel down and squat back by the ramp.” She started to unzip.
“Be careful,” Sara said. “Remember, ‘If you go in the water here—’”
“‘Helpless in sixty seconds.’”
“‘Dead in five minutes.’”
They both giggled. Then Sara, looking ahead, sobered. “What’s that?” she muttered. Eddi turned and they both stared.
A strange milkiness lay on the sea, a queer shimmer in the air. As Anemone drew nearer, nodding over gentling seas, the low haze coalesced into hundreds, thousands of milling specks, like the clouds of mayflies Sara had walked through as a child in the island spring. As the mist rose the sea glowed from deep within.
“Don’t know,” Auer breathed, stretching out over the gunwale. Lifting her face to the wind. “It’s … it’s getting colder.”
“Smells different,” Sara said at the same moment. They peered ahead, crouching, wary.
The boat nodded again, rose, and sailed into a broad, roiling band of lighter water. In the space of three hull-lengths the sea turned from black to a turbid, roiling, pearlescent green, with floating scum patches the color of old rust. Sara noted the same iridescent haze lying across the horizon ahead. It loomed like a cliff, yet didn’t appear solid. The hairs rose on her nape.
“Hadn’t we better call Dru?” Eddi asked.
Sara was still bent over the side, studying the sea. Seabirds rose from its slick-looking surface, dipping and swooping in short arcs around the greater wings of the sails, shrieking down. She frowned, bent farther, and one boot shot out from under her. She grabbed for the gunwale and only just saved herself from sliding over its slick curve.
The rusty patches were thousands of creatures the size of grasshoppers, as if a plague of locusts had fallen from the sky. They looked like tiny pincerless crayfish. And they were all dead. Millions of corpses laid a reddish-brown carpet that heaved gently on the boiling smoky green. They stretched to the horizon, as far as she could see. And there were more below, layer beneath layer sifting down farther and farther beneath the visible surface, until she had no idea or even guess as how far they extended. She found herself straining to imagine this much life.
And this much death.
“Dr. Pollard? You okay?” Perrault said from behind her.
She recoiled from the edge, realizing she’d almost fallen overboard. “Yes. Yes, I am. But—what is this? Some kind of red-tide phenomenon?”
“This?” The captain glanced at the birds, at the sea. He sniffed. “It’s the Convergence. Farther south this year. Interesting.”
“What’s ‘the Convergence’?” Eddi said eagerly.
“The cold water—coming off the continent—hits the subtropical ocean up here. Cold water’s heavier than warm, yes? You’re looking at where they mix. Then it … slides underneath the warm water, and keeps flowing north, deep down, out of our sight.”
Sara shivered to a wind like an opened morgue refrigerator. The ammoniacal smell of death, rising with the mourning keen of the birds. “Are those krill? There must be billions of them. Thousands of tons.”
“The shock of the warm water kills them.” Perrault shaded his eyes ahead. “They die; the birds eat. Nature, yes? Feel the chill? It grows steadily colder from here. We’ll have fog, and some weather to windward may come down. Call me if you can’t see more than a mile ahead. Expect ice from here on. Small bits at first, but even they can punch through our hull if we hit right.” He gave them both sharp looks, seemed about to say something else. But at last only nodded, and ducked below.
* * *
They shivered through the watch, and lay below gratefully when they were relieved.
The cabin smelled of diesel. Someone had turned the heaters on, and it felt almost warm when she unpeeled the heavy suit. Her sweaty stink welled from clothes she’d worn for days now, rancid and unwashed. Like her brother’s dirty socks, in the little apartment in Mid-island they’d moved to after losing everything. She hung it to drip-dry in the swaying, packed-solid wet-gear locker, and cleaned up as best she could in the head. Dragged a comb through oily hair. She’d cut it after Leo had left, trying for a fresh start. And it’d helped; changing your hairstyle did make you feel different somehow.
When she got to the table only a corner was left between Bodine and Eddi to wedge into. Perrault wasn’t there, but the bilge access was screwed down. Jamie lurched from the galley cradling a large pot that smelled wonderful. He reeled across the slanting space like a dancing bear, landed the steaming tureen dead center in a boxed-in grill, then toppled. Bodine grabbed his belt to steady him. “Thanks,” the mate grunted.
The hot polenta was spicy, cheesy, with canned tomato and generous hunks of soy bacon. Water sprang into her mouth. Her hands began to shake. She ladled a hefty portion. “Damn, this here’s good,” Bodine said, sopping gravy from his bowl with a torn-off chunk of bread. The others mumbled agreement through full mouths.
“Just the instant shite, tarted up a bit,” Quill said, but he was smiling behind the bush of beard.
The companionway hatch banged back; cold air whistled through the cabin. The mate wheeled, annoyed, but all faces went carefully blank as the opening outlined Tehiyah. “That smells so good,” she said. “Dru says he’s okay up there alone.”
Quill slid a filled bowl and a hunk of buttered bread down, which the actress acknowledged with a nod. Sara was struck anew by how beautiful she was, even with frizzled hair and dark circles from lack of sleep. Those high, perfectly regular cheekbones. Perfect butterscotch skin, framed by shining jet-black hair. But the eyes were what stopped you. Larger than any human’s had a right to be, and more expressive. They could be a devil’s, or an angel’s; a goddess’s, or those of some fey race more charmed than human.
But beside her Sara became conscious of another face, another set of eyes. A nearly transparent blue, and bent on her. “How about some more?” Lars Madsen’s smile was warm and real and not fey at all.
“I—I don’t know. Maybe a little. You can have my bacon.”
“It’s fake. But who cares.” He fished a large piece off the top and dropped it into his bowl. Had he stroked the back of her wrist by accident? She caught Eddi’s upquirked eyebrow.
“I’ll take some of that,” Dorée said gaily. She held out her bowl, and after a moment’s hesitation Madsen dipped the rest of the imitation meat out of Sara’s bowl to enrich the actress’s.
Sara caught Bodine’s flicked gaze. Did the heat on her cheeks show? She quickly mumbled around a mouthful, “Mick, let’s get together up in the lab. After we finish here?”
“Sure, boss.”
The boat leaned, bounded. Bowls and plates lifted a few inches, then crashed down. From behind the swaying curtain came a low groan. “She sounds so miserable,” Dorée said. “I had no idea, when she insisted on coming, she’d be this much trouble.”
“She’ll get over it,” Quill grunted. “Last call. Anybody for more tuck?”
&
nbsp; The actress napkined her lips. “Is there possibly some of that great cocoa? Before I have to go back up.”
“I’ll make some, Miss Dorée. Coming right up.”
“Thanks so much, Jamie. Maybe a mug for the captain, too?”
* * *
Sara was all the way forward, in the cramped low-ceilinged pie wedge they called the “lab.” Bodine had been sleeping here, to judge by the camo-patterned mummy bag stuffed into a shelf. Even with the heaters on aft, the air was icy. It smelled of bitter plastic, damp line, preservative chemicals. Clipboards swung from strings. Everything not tied down was in motion. Bodine hunched in a chair bolted in front of racks of equipment, studying a display. Light moved across it, paused, resumed. Headphones swayed on a hook. His shaggy hair hung uncombed. He shaved only occasionally, and the last occasion hadn’t been recent. He looked like Russell Crowe, but with even more massive arms. He didn’t have his artificial legs strapped on, but seemed content to move about the boat without them.
He pressed keys on a board that unfolded into his lap and the screen changed to a weather chart. “Where are we?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder.
“Here. See the southern tip of del Fuego … six hundred miles as the albatross flies from there to the Palmer Peninsula. Where the cruise ships go.”
“But we’re not headed there.”
“Right. We’re aimed east. Sea Shepherd’s engaging in the grounds south of Australia and New Zealand. But when the Japanese hunt to the west, between Kerguelen and the Weddell Sea, they’re out of their range from Sydney. Dorée’s idea—actually, her PR firm’s—is to shadow and harass them when they come west of zero longitude.” He tapped the chart. “Plenty of krill in these waters. And a lot of the upwelling that brings it to the surface.”
“We saw that topside. At the Convergence.”
“Must be what I’ve been hearing on the sonar. Well, whales follow krill. So they’re here somewhere. The Japanese, I mean.”
“We’re sailing east—”
“Don’t have much of a choice. Down here, south of Argentina and Australia, this is the only stretch of ocean that wraps around the world. No land. The wind blows west to east, uninterrupted. And the fetch builds up these huge swells. That’s why they call them the roaring forties, and the screaming fifties.”
This was the most lucid explanation she’d yet heard. “So how do we find them?”
“We head for the whaling grounds. Then listen.” Bodine pointed to a rack above his head. It was dark, unlit, draped with wires. He waited, as if for more questions. When they didn’t come, he reared back. The chair’s armrests were wrapped with green duct tape. “I know why they’re out here. Killing the last great sea creatures on earth. For profit. What I wonder is why you’re with us.”
The space leaned; she braced herself to avoid sliding into his lap. “I explained that. To study atypical behaviors in population statistical outliers.”
“I read what you sent. But I’m not sure I understand it.”
“Well.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m primarily interested in agonistic behavior—sudden violence—unprovoked by any apparent threat. The phenomenon occurs in several species.”
He knitted his brows. “Rogue elephants?”
“The elephant’s a well-known example.”
“What’s your hypothesis?”
She hesitated, looking at the dark hairs on his forearms, from which he’d turned the sleeves back. She didn’t want to discuss this. But he was supposed to be her assistant. The more minds on a problem, the more fruitful the collaboration. Rachel had been a big help when—
Oh God. Rachel. She laced her fingers over her face and bent into them. Remembering white bone shining through bright blood. The lacerated, streaming eye sockets.
No. That collaboration hadn’t turned out well.
A hand cupped her cheek. “You okay, Doc?”
“Yeah … yes.” She took a ragged breath and shoved it away. “Please don’t touch me.”
“Sorry.”
“I—I might have a theory. I want to look into a certain large, long brain cells: Von Economo bipolar neurons. They’re found in what seem to be the most recent structures to evolve—the fronto-insular cortex and the anterior cingulate cortex.”
“Yeah, I read about that,” he said. “They’re like high-volume digital circuits. Carry a lot of data, fast. But I thought they were supposed to be involved in empathy, reading social situations—”
“The science is murky. You’re right, they do seem to be connected in some way with higher-order social cognition—the ability to identify with and interact altruistically with others. I’m wondering if those we perceive as rogue individuals, perhaps even human serial killers, might have a deficiency or deficit of these neurons. Lesions, some disease or trauma—”
“Might trigger violent behavior?”
“Maybe not directly. But it may be worth looking into.”
He frowned. “But why whales? I’m not seeing the link.”
“Not every mammal has VENs,” she said. “So far the only species we see them in are the most intelligent, social ones. Humans, the great apes, elephants … and certain whales.”
He shrugged. “But there aren’t any rogue whales … Whoa. Wait a minute.” He blinked. “There was one, wasn’t there?”
“Probably not just one,” she told him. “Most likely several that attacked ships in the early nineteenth century, when the populations were much larger. The old whalers conflated them into one legend. Mocha Dick, they called him. Moby Dick, in Melville’s novel.”
“So how do we investigate them? It’s the Japs who’re cutting them up. You should be on the factory ship with them, not with us.”
She shook her head. “I have zero interest in ‘cutting up’ animals, as you put it. A behaviorist observes live subjects, either in the wild, or in a controlled setting. Plots social interactions, the way Goodall did with gorillas.
“But right now, I’m only speculating. It would be a long time before we could demonstrate that damage to or lack of VENs leads to violent behavior. But that’s how science progresses. These neurons were first described in the 1920s. It’s taken this long just to start to guess what their function might be.”
Bodine was hitching himself up in the chair. Despite herself, her gaze drifted to where his legs would have been. She jerked her eyes up as he said, “Problem with your theory. You’re assuming what you’re calling ‘rogue’ behavior is some kind of aberration.” He was looking at the slanting, banging coils of cable around them, not at her. “But people fight over territory. Resources. Politics. Even what name to call God. Do we blame that on a short circuit in our neurons?”
“Group defense is different. You can’t equate a soldier going ashore at D-Day with a serial killer.”
“Okay, but even as an individual—couldn’t violence sometimes be a rational response to seeing the world as it really is? A lot of progress has been due to people who didn’t play nice with others. John Brown. Joan of Arc. Tom Paine.”
“John Wilkes Booth,” she countered. “Richard Speck. Lee Harvey Oswald, and Ted Bundy. The ones who really changed humankind for the better—Jesus, Gandhi, King—they weren’t men of violence. They were men of peace.”
“Uh, what did they change, again?” Bodine said, face harsh in the dim light. “Every one you mentioned—they killed him. And, human kind? There’s two words that don’t belong next to each other.”
Up in the bow the unceasing motion was more extreme than farther aft. She stood, wondering how he could take it cooped up here. Then thought: What choice does he have? “You lost your legs in Afghanistan?” she blurted, surprising herself.
“That’s right.”
“What happened?”
“A mine.” He looked away. “Some old Russian piece of shit they laid years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Over and done. At least I’m still breathing. Hey—you smell coffee?”
In the salon Dorée was sitting close to Perrault. Almost, Sara thought, in his lap. “Brr. It’s getting colder and colder,” she said. “Can’t we turn that heater up, Dru? It’s barely above freezing in here.”
“We have to conserve fuel, Tehiyah. For when we find the fleet.”
“Then run the motor.”
“That uses fuel too. Plus, we’re not going to slip up on any whales if we do that. You wanted to see whales, remember?”
As she turned to sidle past, Dorée put out a hand. Sara halted. Dorée tugged her head down to whisper into her ear. “We don’t need to compete. Which one do you want, Sara? Lars, or Dru?”
Sara blinked, brain erased like a whiteboard covered with erroneous equations. Before she could answer, the other woman gave her a catlike, conspiratorial smile and patted her cheek. Sara tried to come up with some joking reply, but failed.
The smell of the coffee soured suddenly in her stomach, or in her vagus nerves. A spring of saliva tided at the back of her throat. She hauled herself from handhold to handhold as the boat rolled and pitched, looking for a place to vomit as acid rose and burned, and she swallowed again and again.
4
Antarctic Sea
Sara clung to the wheel, feeling as close as she ever had to dead as the seas raved and the boat bounded for the four hundredth time since she’d come on watch. There was no dawn, as there’d been no real dark. The sun levitated above the horizon, steel gray and heatless behind thin clouds like iced-over glass. The cold air rushed over her, bleeding life itself away hour by hour. Her feet were dead even within four pairs of socks and heavy boots. Her hands felt nothing inside undergloves, then knitted wool, then waterproof fishermen’s gloves. She squinted through ski goggles strapped over a wool balaclava.
