The Sensory Deception

by Ransom Stephens

  “Come on, Farley, stand up!”

  Farley looked back at Chopper. What a sight: Chopper with his crumpled shoulder and a grin threatening to crease his face. The Cetacean Avenger loomed behind him, its crew watching from the deck.

  He caressed the whale’s back and could just make out giant, muscle-corded vertebrae beneath the grizzled skin. The whale made a deep-throated sound. It was either really pissed off or purring for more. Farley laughed away his own fear, kicked off his fins—they’d just get in the way now—and crawled up the whale’s spine. He worked his way to the forehead and spread himself out to distribute the pressure of his weight just above the whale’s eyes.

  “It’s cool,” Chopper yelled from the Zodiac. “Moby is copacetic. Plenty of time—get to work.”

  Farley shifted the backpack around and pulled out the audio data acquisition equipment: two dozen hydrophones, each designed to acquire data in a specific frequency band, to store sixty continuous hours of sound and vibration, and to transmit those data through the satellite link, whenever the whale surfaced, to both the lab in Santa Cruz and the DAQ laptop aboard ship.

  The low-frequency hydrophones were a foot in diameter. These would be used to record the visceral sensory data of the whale’s movement. A crucial part of the VR experience would be imparting the roller-coaster ride of diving two miles deep. In designing how the equipment would be attached, Farley and Chopper had spent more than a week evaluating different suction techniques until they found one that would be infallibly effective yet minimally irritating to the skin. That had been a waste of time. The array of scars across the body of this deep-sea war veteran indicated an incredible pain threshold. They’d chosen a rubbery carbon composite at ten times the cost of an aluminum system, but this whale wouldn’t notice anything unless the hardware interfered with his sonar. To reduce the debilitating effect, Farley attached the hydrophones in a circular array just behind, but in audio contact with, the cavity of spermaceti. They attached in two steps. First, just as with any suction cup, Farley pushed them on. Then, to keep them fixed even under tremendous stress, the cup had a valve attachment to which he attached a small canister. The canister contained a nearly perfect vacuum that sucked any remaining air from the suction cup.

  Then came the difficult part. To reconstruct visual images from sonar, the most sensitive detectors had to be attached in audio contact with the whale’s jawbone. These would record even the faintest of returning echoes. Farley pulled these two detectors from his pack, each no larger than his hands, took a deep breath, and rolled off the whale’s back. He swam under the beast, right up to that I-beam jaw. The whale’s mouth hung open like that of a stoned frat boy. Farley attached a detector to each side, just ahead of the point where the jaw hinged.

  He passed the giant eye as he surfaced. The whale rolled so that his eye followed Farley. This time, instead of feeling a wave of wisdom or sentience, he caught a blast of humor.

  There were six more detectors to attach: low-frequency monitors that he’d place near the flukes; two scent/taste detectors, crude devices that could monitor salinity, iron levels, and hydrocarbons; and a camera that he attached just in front of the dorsal ridge. It would have little value in the murky depths and, without a light source, wouldn’t have much use at sea level either, but people are visual mammals, and everyone on the project wanted a camera.

  As Farley fixed the video camera, the whale blew an almost vigorous spout and arched his back. The forehead submerged and the flukes pushed off into a gentle, shallow dive. Farley took a deep breath, let go, and swam away. Chopper might enjoy being thrown through the air into the two-inch-thick steel of a ship’s hull, but Farley preferred a more subtle dismount. As the whale went under, Farley stayed at the surface.

  He kicked his way to one of the life preservers as the whale swam a slow circle around him. He only caught glimpses of that giant eye but had no doubt that the animal was watching him.

  Others were staring at him, too, and not just the crew aboard the Cetacean Avenger. At the peak of a swell he saw white dots on the horizon. At first he thought they were whitecaps, but the sailor in him knew there wasn’t enough wind to produce whitecaps. They were hundreds of meters away: sportfishing boats like the one piloted by Sayyid Hassan, self-proclaimed King of Somalia.

  While the crew was engrossed in the Moby-Dick theatrics off starboard, Tahir watched the modern-day pirates move in from port. He headed upstairs and made it to the bridge just behind Captain Gaynes. One of the sailors indicated a computer monitor and said they were just a mile from the coast. Gaynes took a pair of binoculars from a peg. So did Tahir. Gaynes glanced at him, and Tahir replied with the look he’d used to discourage commentary from gangbangers in San Francisco and soldiers in Iraq. Gaynes didn’t say anything.

  Gaynes scanned the horizon and called out names that the pilot wrote down. There were ten boats configured in three clusters, one to the north, one south, and the one Tahir had seen a minute before closing from the west.

  Tahir asked, “How many hostiles?”

  “They’re all hostile,” Gaynes said. “But once we get Sy Hassan aboard, the others might leave us alone.”

  “Might?”

  Gaynes pulled the binoculars down and looked at Tahir. “Why do you think they’re called pirates?”

  Flying over swells ahead of great rooster-tail wakes, the pirates closed in fast.

  Gaynes motioned to the boats approaching the Cetacean Avenger’s bow. “Those assholes don’t care what we’re doing, but if they think we have anything of value, they’ll try to take it.”

  “This is your network?”

  “Allies, information network, whatever. They want wealth, and I want to protect whales.” Gaynes took the binoculars off, hung them back on the peg, and moved for the stairs. He paused and said, “Mr. Tahir, in pursuit of a noble goal we sometimes find ourselves with strange bedfellows.”

  Farley clung to the side of the Zodiac and watched Moby-Dick make another lazy dive.

  Behind him, Chopper said, “I’d help you in, but…”

  Farley climbed aboard the Zodiac and stood over Chopper. The entire right side of Chopper’s torso was pale yellow and scattered with congealed blood. His shoulder was folded at a right angle in front of him so that his chin nearly rested on it. His right arm was tucked tight at the elbow like a broken wing, and, staring at the spot where Moby had just disappeared, he was happy.

  Farley maneuvered the boat under the crane and attached the chain. As the crane reeled the Zodiac in, Farley finally asked the question: “What the fuck were you doing out there?”

  Chopper laughed and winced. “No way was I going to stab a whale. No way.”

  “Instead you sacrificed yourself?” Farley’s voice was rising. “You think that animal would have noticed the prick of one of those darts? Damn it, Chopper, how the hell are we going to get you healed?” He motioned to the coast. “I don’t think Mogadishu Memorial Hospital has a bed for you.”

  Chopper shrugged his left shoulder and said, “Look, there aren’t ten sperm whales like him on the whole planet, and I’m one of seven billion people. His life is worth a billion of mine.”

  Yes, Chopper was in pain, plenty of pain, pain increasing in intensity every second. The geometry of his body was the real shock. After being thrown into the ship’s hull he had slid into the water. Not having the use of one arm to tread water hadn’t surprised him. Looking down and realizing that his shoulder had been twisted in front of him—this surprised him, but he dealt with it. By the time Farley pulled him aboard the Zodiac, he had manufactured a blind spot below his chin so he couldn’t see his injuries.

  The Cetacean Avenger medic, Ann Witherby, whose qualifications for the role consisted of her experience as an emergency medical tech in London, stood by as the Zodiac was lowered to the deck.

  Farley took Chopper’s good hand and helped him up. To stave off the pain, Chopper tried to concentrate on Ann’s breasts, but she was a small woman in
a baggy T-shirt so he switched to her hair—a light bob, mostly blond but with dark roots.

  Her eyes got wider as Chopper stood and stepped on deck. The act of standing turned out to be considerably more painful than sitting, so he stood with perfect vertical, if not rotational, posture.

  “Bloody hell,” Ann said. “He needs surgery; it’s the only way to tell what’s what in there.”

  “If you can just help me shift it back in place,” Chopper said, “I’ll be fine.”

  Ann ran her hands along his shoulder and down his injured limb. She straightened the wrist first, then the elbow, and finally stretched out the arm. Chopper kept his eyes on the horizon the whole time. He said, “Looks like Gaynes’s friends are here.” Then Ann exerted torque on the bicep to gauge the amount of freedom. This action crossed his pain threshold.

  Chopper conceded one short, sharp groan. He tried to cover it with humor. “Oh, Annie, that’s how I like it.”

  To Farley, Ann said, “Place your hand right here,” indicating the area on Chopper’s back where the shoulder blade ought to have been.

  Chopper felt Farley’s hand on his back.

  “It’s swelling right up,” Ann said.

  “I can see that,” Farley said.

  Ann said, “I find the tension on the skin right here, where it’s already purple, unpleasant.”

  Chopper said, “Me too.”

  Ann said, “I believe every tendon has torn. The rotator cuff is still here, you can feel it, but as you can see, the shoulder is a wee bit displaced.”

  “Yeah, a wee bit.” Farley moved his hand up and over Chopper’s mangled shoulder. He and Chopper looked each other in the eye and Farley exerted pressure. He said, “Chopper, you’re going home.”

  The words caught Chopper by surprise. Farley should know better. He said, “I’m not going anywhere until we’re finished here.”

  Farley increased the pressure.

  Chopper glared at Farley. As the pressure grew he couldn’t help but grind his teeth. Finally, he yelled, “Okay!”

  Farley let go of the bad shoulder and embraced the good one. “We did it, man,” he said. “We actually did it.”

  Chopper tried to nod, but the pain stopped him. “For that experience, I’d give up both shoulders.”

  Farley took Chopper’s good hand and offered it to Ann. “How do we get him to a hospital?”

  “Yes, well,” she said, guiding Chopper toward the sick bay. “You’ll have to inquire with the captain.”

  Farley ran up to the bridge. The pilot pointed down to the starboard deck where Gaynes stood against the gunwale. A ladder had been lowered to one of the pirate boats. Farley asked the pilot what their procedure was for getting injured sailors to hospitals. The pilot said he’d need to discuss it with the captain but then indicated a chart. The Cetacean Avenger’s position was marked in blue pencil.

  The pilot said, “You came from the closest major city, Nairobi. From here, it’s about a thousand miles away, at least five hundred of it by land.”

  There was another mark on the chart, this one due north a few hundred miles farther up the Horn of Africa, marked in red. Farley asked, “Is this where the Norwegian whaler went?”

  “That’s the location of a pod of migrating fin whales,” the pilot said. “If the whaler isn’t there yet, it will be soon.”

  Behind him, Tahir appeared at the top of the stairs. “Farley, we have a problem.”

  “I have to get Chopper to a doctor. He needs surgery.”

  Tahir said, “That is not our most urgent problem.” He stepped forward and pointed to a cluster of skiffs along the starboard side and another at the bow. “There is a debate among our hosts regarding the fee for the large fish you equipped. Captain Gaynes is more interested in separating himself from the problem than participating in its solution.”

  Farley looked down to the deck and then back at the red mark on the chart. “We’ve held Gaynes back as long as he’ll let us.” He stepped toward the stairs and motioned for Tahir to follow. On deck, he said, “I have to check the incoming data from Moby-Dick. I want you glued to the captain. Find us some options.”

  In the cargo-hold lab, Farley clicked the mouse of the DAQ laptop. It had already acquired a few gig of data. He checked the log for confirmation that the primary DAQ system in Santa Cruz had also acquired the data. He opened the video file captured from the camera he’d placed in front of the whale’s dorsal ridge. The screen started dark, then went underwater-green, and soon he could make out the long gray-black length of the whale’s back. When Moby surfaced, the video showed the terrific geyser of his blow. Farley could also see several of the detectors. Every one of them was in place. Then he ran test software that skimmed through the other data feeds, checking for continuity of input.

  Farley moved on to his next problem. Conveniently, it walked in under its own power. His entire right side wrapped in white tape, Chopper was a half-mummy. He was also pleasantly buzzed on pain medication, but his shoulder had not been reset. Chopper checked the data feed, and saw the sequence of downloads. Since salt water is a conductor, the instruments couldn’t communicate with the satellite if they were deeper than a few feet. Each sensor included a depth monitor. Every time the whale surfaced, the transmitters would upload the sensor data to the satellite. Chopper set to work comparing files to check the bit error rate.

  A few steps from the lab, Farley ran into Tahir.

  “You’ve been invited to dine with Sayyid Hassan and Captain Gaynes,” Tahir said.

  “What else have you got?”

  “Before Sayyid will permit the Cetacean Avenger to continue its voyage, you must pay the duty.”

  “Yeah, we have an idea for how we can help Sy, but we need to get Chopper to a hospital.”

  “Gaynes is negotiating the ship’s departure,” Tahir said. “You asked me to determine our options; I came to report that the captain is negotiating away those options.”

  “We are finished here anyway.” Farley then told Tahir to assemble their remaining detection equipment. They had several hydrophones and three extra video recorders. “Load it into a backpack, and don’t let anyone touch it.”

  As they separated, Tahir said, “Farley, it would be unwise to trust Sayyid Hassan.”

  “I have an injured man and a debt to pay.”

  Farley rushed to sick bay, where he found Ann staring at a well-dog-eared copy of Gray’s Anatomy. Without looking up, she said, “I’m afraid that if I reset his shoulder without an X-ray to guide me, I could tear his rotator cuff or even crush tendons.”

  Farley said, “It has to be done.”

  Now she looked up and said, “The real danger is that it could hemorrhage. It may have already. I don’t have the equipment or training to tell. He needs a doctor.”

  “What’s the longest he can go without hospital care?”

  “If he’s not hemorrhaging, and if we figure out how to reset his shoulder, perhaps a week. No more than a fortnight. However, should he hemorrhage, you must get him to a surgeon in a matter of hours.”

  “Either zero or seven days?”

  “Sorry, really, I’m not qualified,” Ann continued. “If he hemorrhages or—I don’t know what—you see? I won’t be able to help him.”

  Sayyid Hassan greeted Farley with an outstretched arm. Gaynes motioned to the vacant spot at the table. Farley shook Sy’s hand and sat.

  Sy spoke as though unloading the weight of his worries with each word. “You have obtained from my ocean that for which you came. You are not without courage, though perhaps without wisdom. I have come to collect the tariff.” Sy’s eyes were forlorn and deep, as though he expected betrayal.

  Farley could only contemplate the burden this man carried. Two thousand people relied on him, two thousand people whose lives had been betrayed by the forces of “civilization.”

  Farley turned to Gaynes, who was leaning back in his chair. Gaynes tapped his watch. Sy’s expression chilled.

  Farley was c
onfident of the value a documentary could have for Sy and his people, but he wasn’t sure he could sell it. “Sy, I can help you in a fundamental way. But right now my closest friend needs immediate transportation to a hospital.”

  “I have a doctor in my village.”

  “You do? Good. Can he do magnetic resonance imaging? X-rays?”

  “Don’t offend me.”

  “I need to get my friend to the hospital. I’ll pay you the fee, but I might need some credit.”

  “Our doctor is an Oxford-educated surgeon,” Sy said, “and we have surgical equipment.”

  Gaynes interrupted. “Farley, you need to pack your equipment. You’re going ashore.” There was an edge in his voice.

  “Where has your doctor practiced? Do you have a room with sanitary conditions?”

  “Do not offend me,” Sy said. “I don’t offer credit without collateral. You will be welcome in my camp until the duty for your fishing expedition has been paid. Once I understand how you will compensate us, I will arrange transport for your friend.”

  To Farley, Gaynes said, “It’s settled.” Then, to Sy, “Now get your maggots out of the way of my ship.”

  Sy stood. “We are agreed?”

  Farley stroked his beard. They had to go ashore to record the documentary. If they tried to stay aboard the ship, there was no telling if Gaynes would get Chopper to a doctor in time. In all likelihood, Chopper would convince Gaynes that his health was less important than getting the Cetacean Avenger between those fin whales and the whaling ship, and Gaynes wouldn’t take much convincing. If he hemorrhaged aboard ship, Ann couldn’t help him. Farley couldn’t shake the vision of Chopper’s torso folded in half. They had to get him straightened out, and they had to do it with a surgeon who could sew up the mess inside. Plus, he had to admit to himself, he wanted Chopper by his side.

  “Pardon my question,” Farley said. “Are you going to ransom us?”

  “This question does not offend me.” Sy turned to Gaynes, then back to Farley and said, “As I said, the tariff is fifty thousand euros.”