by David Poyer
“Here it comes,” Eddi yelled from forward, where she knelt on the crazily pitching bow, hanging on like a squirrel on a wind-lashed branch. She leaned out with a baseball bat to smash a chip of white ice off the drum of the roller furler, where it had frozen like a dipped string of rock candy.
Sara glanced over a shoulder. A slaty mountain loomed behind her like a landslide. She hunched, clutching the wheel as the stern shot upward. The boat slipped sideways and she hauled the wheel over, panting. The sea peaked behind them and tore past, hissing threats, and the stern sagged again. The sail rustled and flapped, and she spun the wheel hard to starboard. The phosphorescent line on the compass steadied and began to march the other way.
A week out from Ushuaia, and she was wheezing, bone tired, bone cold, but beginning to feel she knew what to do, and might even be equal to it. Quill left her and Eddi in charge topside now, which made an ember of pride glow beneath the fatigue.
Though she’d always known that about herself: she’d work her ass off if anyone offered a little praise. That was the kind of lab rat that college, grad school, doctorate, and research bred. The Good Little Girl. The credulous Work Hard and You Will Be Rewarded fool. She smiled thinly beneath the balaclava. Right.
They didn’t stand set watches. A pair would come topside, stay until they simply couldn’t anymore, then yell down for relief. Dorée usually lasted half an hour. Sara tried grimly to take it for two. By that metric, she still had another hour to go.
Seven days at sea, and not another sail. Not a single ship. Only the occasional distant circling of an albatross, observing with the aloofness of a clockmaker God Anemone’s progress across the hazy wastes. Headed east, the wind at their stern. A course that brought those great rollers down on them again, again, again. Quill had warned against losing concentration even for an instant. “Let her come beam to, and she’ll bloody well broach. Roll over on her beam ends, and maybe keep going. I been on boats that went on over. Builder designed her to come back upright, but the sea don’t honor guarantees.”
The companionway slid back with a thud and Madsen peered out. He was growing his beard out and his cheeks glowed gold in the subdued cold light. Her gaze lingered on the long jaw, the wide brow. Those Arctic-pale irises blinked into the light, then locked on her. “Going okay, Sara?”
“Fine, Lars.”
“Where’s Eddi?”
“Chipping ice, up on the bow.”
“Want company?”
She said sure and presently he reappeared in a heavy sweatshirt and the white-and-brown doggie cap, the flaps that were its floppy ears tied down. He hauled himself into the cockpit and found a place out of the wind behind one of the yellow drums. Looked around the horizon, at the radar. Peered forward at Auer as she wound up for a swing, then back at Sara. Examining her. She kept her own gaze on the downwind path the bow would take. Quill had warned them to watch for ice, drifting logs, anything that might penetrate the hull. “Anemone’s fast because she’s light,” he’d growled. “But she’s brittle. We hit something hard, she’ll shatter. Be ice any day now. If it’s your watch, make fooking bloody sure you spot it before I do. That’s why you’re on the wheel, not to lollygag around with the self-steerer on like bloody fooking cruise control.”
She asked the Dane, “Aren’t you freezing in just a sweatshirt?”
“Guess I’m cold-blooded. How long’s Eddi been at that?”
“Fifteen minutes. Seems to build up as fast as she chips it off.”
“It’s the spray. I’d say leave it, but it’ll make us top-heavy if we don’t keep after it.”
“That’s what Jamie said.” They gazed at each other for a couple of seconds before she had to look to the horizon again. She shivered inside the heavy suit, but maybe not from the cold. A delicious tremor ran up the insides of her legs. No. She wasn’t going to think about that.
“Want a break?”
She relinquished the wheel gratefully, flexing cramped frozen fingers inside the mittens. Lars stood with boots planted wide, back straight, head up and chin out. The effort it had taken her to fight the steering looked like nothing to him. The bow rose to the sky as the next sea overtook them. He hardly glanced back, only touching the wheel now and then, yet the stern rose straight up. “How do you do that?” she said.
“Open yourself.”
“To what?”
“The rhythm of the sea. She knows the course. All you need to do is let her follow it.”
Mystical bullshit, but she didn’t want to argue. Relieved of the strain, her arms wanted to float straight up into the clouds. She glanced forward guiltily. “I should help Eddi.”
“Stay with me a minute.”
She sank back. Silence, broken only by the howl of the wind as they crested once more. Finally she said, “You’ve done a lot of sailing.”
“A lot of steering. Not so much sailing.”
“Were you in the navy?”
“Sea Shepherds.” Madsen fed the wheel a spoke right. A moment later, the boat lurched left, but by then the correction had taken effect, and the bow guillotined a hole down into the sea on a perfectly straight course.
Sara sat hugging herself. The Sea Shepherds were a splinter group of activists, more militant than Greenpeace. They harassed and boarded whaling ships, threw stink bombs to foul the meat. “How long were you with them?”
“Two seasons.”
“Was it fun?” God, how inane. Had she really said that?
“Fun?” He frowned at the radar. “Whales have been here for millions of years. Their brains are larger than ours. But these … people turn them into dog food, at so many dollars a ton. That is … well, obscene is the only word I know that comes close.”
“It’s still legal, though. Unfortunately.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “It isn’t. Even the International Whaling Commission recognized populations were declining. They put the Southern Ocean out of bounds. But the Japanese are still killing.”
“I’m not sure I understand. If it’s illegal—”
“There’s a loophole for science. And each country gets to define it. There’s nobody down here to enforce the convention. So the Japanese set their own quotas, and call it ‘research.’”
“Why did you leave the Shepherds?”
He steered for a time before answering. “At first, when they saw us, the Japanese would turn tail and run. Then they put up antiboarding nets, and spikes, and installed water cannons. Then they started shining lasers, hoping to blind us.”
“I think I heard about that.”
“If you did, that’s unusual—news channels are controlled by the same corporate interests that support the whaling fleet.”
“You mean, Japanese stations?”
“I mean all news.” The more he spoke, the less his accent intruded, or maybe she was getting used to it. “They called us terrorists, even though we were careful never to hurt anyone. Last season we actually started to cut into the fleet’s quota. So they decided to take more aggressive countermeasures.”
On the bow, Eddi staggered as she took a swing. The bat glanced off the ice and flew out of her hand as if jerked by an invisible string. It caromed off a wave, came up on a long graygreen backswell, then dropped astern. Auer shook a fist and shouted after it, but nothing audible made it aft. She turned and began crawling back.
Sara half stood and cupped hands around her mouth. “Watch out for that ice on deck,” she shouted.
“Wet ice, that’s not good,” Madsen muttered. They watched tensely as she crept aft hand over hand along her safety line. Her braced boots slipped off a stanchion once as the boat leaped, and Sara tensed; but Auer hung on like grim Death itself and at last Sara leaned to pull her bulky-clothed body into the cockpit.
Eddi sagged as if being deflated. “Gee. I feel really dizzy.”
“I wonder why. Sit down, you’re shaking. Better go below.”
“… on-n-n w-watch.” Her chattering teeth cut the words in pieces.
“Lars’ll help me.”
“Sure, Sara and I have it. Go below. Get warmed up.” Madsen bent to haul in the mainsheet, altering the set of the huge sail that strained above, dragging them over the waves. Immediately, Anemone picked up speed.
When the hatch slid closed Sara moved aft, to just beside the wheel. Where she could look up into his face. His cheeks were reddening; moisture glistened at the corners of his eyes. His nose was running. The blond stubble accentuated Viking cheekbones. Those ash-blue eyes gazed steadily ahead. Only now and then did he glance back for an oncoming sea, then ease the wheel this way or that. He looked as if he could stand there for weeks, like Ulysses, or maybe Leif Eriksson.
“You said … more aggressive countermeasures,” she prodded.
He cleared his throat. “We lost steerageway in front of one of their harpoon ships. The killer ships, that chase the pods and fire explosive-laden harpoons. They’re fast and maneuverable, with huge bows like axes. They rammed our boat. They called it an accident. But I looked up, just before they hit us, and saw the captain standing out on the bridge. Looking down at me. He yelled an order, and they swerved to hit us. Deliberately. It sank our boat. Two of our guys drowned.
“After that, our higher-ups decided to back off. So the whalers finished their season. Worse; they announced they’d taken even more, to make up the quota they hadn’t filled the year before. So we lost all the ground we’d gained, and didn’t save a single animal.”
She kept silent, looking alternately at the radar and the sea ahead. They were traveling faster, planing from wave to wave. The jolting was like repeated punches to her kidneys. Perrault stuck his head up into the transparent dome forward of the cockpit and searched around the horizon. He nodded to them, then sank out of sight.
“So you don’t … think they should have backed off?”
“No. We were costing the Japanese millions. Sooner or later, they would have had to stop. But when we started actually taking losses, we just … quit.”
“But the CPL doesn’t seem … my understanding was, they’re no more, uh, ready to use force than the other groups.”
He shrugged. “But we’re taking the fight to a different part of the Antarctic. Increasing the pressure. Have you ever seen a whale?”
“Once or twice. From far away, on the beach.”
“Once you do, up close, you’ll understand. They’re so beautiful. Intelligent, but not in our competitive, destructive way. We must save them, Sara. Whatever the cost.”
She shaded her eyes. “Hey—sorry to interrupt—”
“No problem, what?”
“Look over there. To starboard. No, farther forward. Do you see something?”
He narrowed his gaze too. After a long while he said, “Better call Dru.”
* * *
Perrault stood with one arm around the mast for a long while, steadying the binoculars against the surge and roll. Then handed them down without a word. They buzzed in her hand as if filled with bees. When she focused them the dark blur floated above the horizon, shapeless, inchoate, holding no fixed form. It seemed to be upside down. The boat was gyrating, pitching, but somehow whatever was humming inside the binoculars held the image steady, making her instantly seasick. She lowered them hurriedly. “An island?”
“Zavodovski,” the captain said, still gazing toward it. “Northernmost of the eleven South Sandwich Islands. A volcanic chain.”
She swallowed, trying to recall what solidity felt like underfoot. “Will we land?”
“Nothing there. It’s only five miles long. Unpopulated. No harbor. We’ll pass to the north, then come south again at about twenty-six west.”
She looked again. Even through the powerful binoculars it was only a jagged darkness, with clouds of colorless vapor shrouding its upper reaches. “Have you been on it?”
“Never set foot. The Vendée route’s well north of here.”
The round-the-world single-handed race he’d sailed in, where, Eddi said, something had happened. But she didn’t know what, and the captain didn’t seem to welcome personal questions. In fact, he said little that wasn’t directly related to the boat’s condition, or standing what he called a “rigorous watch.” He looked drawn. Black stubble stood out against pallid skin.
“How much farther to the whaling grounds?” Madsen asked in a low voice.
“We could see whales anytime. Or ice. Hope you’re staying alert up here.”
“We are,” Sara said. “Eddi’s just below to warm up. Lars is giving her a short break. We’re staying on the radar.”
“Then why is it off?” the captain asked.
She looked, and sucked a breath. The screen was blank. “Uh, but—it wasn’t a few seconds ago.” She checked the power switch, but it was already in the on position. “There’s no power.”
“The breaker,” Madsen suggested. “It flipped off on our watch, too.”
Perrault said he’d check it out. “Stay on this course.” He looked around once more, and slid back down the companionway.
“I’ll take that,” she said. Lars looked at her, then stepped aside, relinquishing the wheel with a bow.
He took her place huddled between fuel barrels as she resumed wrestling with the helm. “Relax,” he said. “Reach for the Force.”
“Ha. Not much force left in these arms.”
“Think two seconds ahead. Steer from where she’s going to be, not from where she is.”
“I just don’t have it.” She glanced at the screen; it was back on, the island a coruscating yellow-and-orange blotch. Why couldn’t they at least sail closer? Even if they couldn’t land.
“How’d you get wrapped up in all this?” he asked, settling back. His windburned flush was fading, replaced with a waxy pallor.
She gave a sanitized version of why she’d left Brown. “I did a position search, but nothing’s turned up yet. Primate ethology’s a small field. Everybody knows everybody—de Waal, Wrangham, Boesch, Matsuzawa—and there aren’t many positions. And my—previous project didn’t—didn’t work out. The only opportunities were in medical research, which meant animal experimentation. Which I don’t care for. I had my 401(k) from the college, so I didn’t need a salary, if I could move out of my apartment. Then I saw the CPL wanted someone.”
He nodded. Rubbed his cheeks as if to massage circulation into them. His fingers were long even in the mittens, his legs thin; the knees poked up. He murmured, looking toward the distant island, “Anybody waiting for you at home?”
So. She hadn’t been imagining it. “Um, just some cousins. Back in Nantucket.”
“That’s surprising.”
“My parents are dead. I was married, but it didn’t work out. He said I spent more time with monkeys than with human beings.” She hesitated, then added gently, “I’m older than you think, Lars.”
He blinked. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-four?”
He pulled out the corners of his eyes, erasing the squint lines. Tears skittered in the icy wind. “Now?”
She had to chuckle. “Twenty?” Then sobered. “I don’t want to play games. I like you, but there’s no room in my life right now for a … I don’t know, for…” Any word she could think of to end that sentence seemed either too trivial or too serious. “Anyway, no room,” she said firmly. “So, do you know where we’re going? After this island? Dru said south.”
He blotted his cheeks with the backs of his gloves. “Want me to take that again?”
“I’ve got it. But thanks.”
“He’s going to head south between twenty-six and twenty degrees west. Turn right and aim directly for the coast.”
She tried to remember the chart. “Are there more islands?”
“Not after the South Sandwiches. Just ocean. We’ll have sailed two thousand miles by the time we get down to where the whales should be. Maybe even cross the Antarctic Circle—depends on how the ice looks this year. And where the fleet is. That’ll be
the tough part. Finding them.”
The radar peeped. The island flashed on the screen. “Proximity alarm,” Madsen said, and pushed a button. The beeping stopped.
“That’s why Greenpeace and Sea Shepherd spend so long at sea. The whalers are closemouthed about their itinerary. Then they chase the pods. They’ll follow one for weeks, vacuuming up each member, one after the other, until they’re all dead. But this time we have a secret weapon.”
“That’s interesting,” she said casually. “Where’d it come from?”
“The Protection League.”
“Meaning Tehiyah.”
“She and Jules-Louis, they’re supporters, but not the only ones. Some are former Sea Shepherds. Some, former Greenpeace. Others, PETA. Others, just people who want to see whaling stopped, even if risks have to be taken.” He looked at her directly. “I hope you’re of the same mind.”
“I try not to get emotionally attached. But I don’t like seeing an endangered species killed for money, in defiance of international convention. No.” She smiled, then remembered he couldn’t see her face beneath the black wool. “I hope that’s close enough?”
A head bobbed in the bubble dome. The hatch clacked back and Eddi crawled out. She looked around. “Hey. We’re going so fast.”
“Just letting her run.” The Dane slacked the mainsheet and the boat rolled and seemed to sag back, abruptly more sluggish, no longer the seabird leaping from crest to crest.
Sara breathed a sigh, both relieved and saddened. It had felt dangerous but exhilarating, racing at top speed, sending spray flying with each chop of the bow.
Behind Eddi a dark head emerged. Tehiyah Dorée, followed by the captain. “I’ll take it,” the actress said, muffled behind a cold-weather mask. Behind them rose a third form, wraithlike, thin, moving very slowly in a much-too-large mustang suit. The face was bare except for ski goggles, pale, expressionless. It took a moment before Sara recognized her.
“Georgita! You’re up.”
