by Laura Martin
Kate let out an appreciative whistle. “Nice. How big?”
“Big enough,” I said.
“Think we’ll get to take a look at them?” Kate asked Max.
Max shrugged.
“They have to belong to the cetus,” Kate said. She gave her plate a shove to make some room and yanked her tablet out of her backpack. Next came a pair of thick black glasses, which she crammed onto her face so she could peer down at the screen. She noticed my glance at the glasses and shrugged. “Staring at a screen gives me a headache without these. Now, where is that textbook Weaver showed us on Greek mythology?”
“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Garth whispered as Max leaned in to look at Kate’s tablet, his head cranked to the side as he tried to read whatever she’d pulled up.
“Sort of,” I said. “Apparently, the kind of sea monster we’re after is a descendent of some mythological one called Cetus, and from the way everyone reacted to those claws, it must have a pretty impressive set.”
“Does anything else in the ocean have claws?” Garth asked.
Max shrugged. “Don’t look at me. Kate is the brains around here. I’m just the good-looking one.”
Kate snorted and reached over to give Max’s head a stiff-armed shove. Max almost face-planted into his steaming plate of seaweed but caught himself at the last second and glared at her.
“Last time I’ll give you a compliment,” he muttered. I smiled. Max was prickly, all right, but there was something about the way the two bickered and shoved at each other that reminded me of the way Wallace and I used to annoy each other back on board the Atlas. I pushed that thought to the back of my brain. If I thought about missing him, I’d think about how much I missed my dad, and then that would spiral into thinking about the danger they were both in.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Kate said, sitting back from her tablet. “By the time we get done with our morning duties and then class, the dive team will be back, and Captain Reese will have the sub underway.” Despite her words, she kept tabbing through the textbook, and picture after picture of creatures that might or might not be Cetus flashed onto her screen. The images had been pulled from texts, paintings, and tapestries so old—from the time of the Roman Empire and before—that the dates and names of the creators had long ago been lost. I knew from my own brief studies that morning and from Weaver’s crash course the day before that these relics used to be housed in fancy places like the Vatican or stored behind protective glass in famous museums. All of them were gone now.
When the waters had started rising, there had been a panic to save books as well as other precious works of art and history, and plans had been devised to build subs and ships to house them. It didn’t work, though. The water rose too fast, and eventually everyone agreed that any available space aboard a boat or sub needed to go to living, breathing people and their small allotment of belongings, and not to useless stuff that would undoubtedly mold and disintegrate. It had been a huge loss to the human race, with the only consolation being the images that were hastily taken and uploaded so that the artwork might be remembered long after it became fish food.
I peered over Kate’s shoulder at her most recent find, which showed Cetus with a head very similar to a lion and huge front fins that were indeed capped with claws. The back half appeared to be some weird combination of a whale or a shark. It was no wonder that for hundreds of years people had written off images just like this one as pure make-believe. The creature staring back at us from Kate’s screen seemed like something from a fairy tale. I knew different, though. Fairy tales didn’t leave deep gouges in coral reefs.
“So, is the Britannica trying to kill the cetus?” Garth asked Max, and I looked up from the tablet.
Max shook his head. “This is a research-only mission. The cetus is one of those monsters that seem to have been around for forever, and Weaver thinks that studying the more ancient species will help us with some of the new weirdos that have cropped up.”
“Weirdos?” I repeated.
Max chuckled. “Just wait. You’ll see some real doozies if you hang around long enough.”
“Are you still betting on how long we’ll make it?” I said, eyebrow arched.
Max shrugged. “Don’t take it personally,” he said. “I bet on everyone. It keeps things interesting.”
The bell clanged, and I quickly shoved the last bite of my breakfast into my mouth. Kate snapped her tablet shut and shoved it in her bag as we clambered out of our seats. Max eyed her half-eaten breakfast and reached over to snag a bite. Kate saw him coming and smacked his hand away before picking up the whole dripping mess of seaweed and shoving it into her mouth.
“That’s disgusting,” Max said.
“That’s smart,” she said around her massive mouthful as she shouldered past us, heading for the tunnel on the far right.
“See you in class!” she said before disappearing around a bend. Garth and I turned to look at each other as everyone hurried out of the mess hall.
“Do you know where we go?” he asked as the last person rushed past us and down one of the five hallways that connected the mess hall to the rest of the sub.
“How in the world would I know that?” I said.
“Didn’t Weaver say there was a schedule somewhere?” Garth said.
“On our tablets, I think,” I said, turning to dig out my own tablet. I should have asked Kate about the schedule for the day, or at least where to find it, instead of gawking at sea-monster pictures like an idiot.
“Which one of you is Berkley?” said a voice behind us, and we both jumped and turned to see a weathered old man standing in the center tunnel. His hair was white and cut close to his head in the buzz cut that so many of the sailors seemed to favor, and his eyes were a piercing blue. He was small-boned and slightly hunched, but there was something about the way he held himself that made it clear he didn’t mess around.
“Her,” said Garth, pointing at me.
“Right,” said the man. “You’re assigned to work with me this morning.” He jerked his head at Garth. “Someone will be along for you shortly, recruit. Just sit down and cool your heels.”
Garth promptly plopped down in his seat, his butt making a loud thwump in the empty room.
The man looked at me, eyebrow raised. “Do you listen as well as that one?” he said. “Otherwise I may swap.”
“I’m a very good listener, sir,” I said, standing up straight.
“Right, then,” the man said, turning to walk back down the tunnel. I hesitated for a moment until I felt Garth’s foot on my back as he gave me a solid shove.
“Thanks,” I hissed over my shoulder as I hurried to follow the gnarled figure, who moved with surprising ease through the network of hallways.
“The Britannica’s primary job is to hunt down sea monsters,” the man said, never slowing his pace. “But we don’t have the room on board for more than one crew. Around these parts you’re expected to do just about everything, so you’d better get used to it. I’m sure you were expected to work aboard whatever wretched hunk of floating junk you came from, and it’s the same here. Today I’m going to teach you how to work on the bomb.”
“The bomb?” I repeated, the little hairs along my arms standing on end at the word.
The man flapped a hand dismissively over his shoulder and took a sharp left that had me scrambling to keep up. “It’s not a real bomb,” he said. “I always forget you new recruits don’t know a jellyfish from a jelly sandwich. It’s what we call the sub’s oxygen generator.” He suddenly whirled to face me, and I came within inches of running right into him.
“Hector,” he said, holding out a hand. I shook it, wincing a little at his grip. With that he opened up a door that I hadn’t noticed before and led me inside. The room was small and close, and I could hear the low hum of machinery. It reminded me a little of the systems room aboard the Atlas, with its smells of oil and grease and metal.
The bomb was hard to miss. Made
completely of a tarnished brass that had turned a lurid green, the oxygen generator was a mess of dials, switch panels, and large tubes.
“We pump in seawater and, wham-bam-kapow, it turns it into oxygen,” Hector said. “The fancy-pants name for it is electrolysis, but what you need to know is that without this thing, everyone dies.”
“Right,” I said. “What can I do?”
“Desalination filters need scrubbed,” he said with a jerk of his head toward the left side of the generator. I nodded and followed him as he began deftly flipping switches and turning knobs in preparation for the morning’s work.
“Here,” he said a moment later, handing me a long, slim cylinder that he’d pulled out of the generator. “Get going on this one.” He jerked his head over to where he already had a deep pan of water and brushes waiting, and I nodded and got quickly to work. Hector joined me with his own cylinder a minute later, and we worked together in companionable silence for a few minutes.
“We spotted claw marks this morning,” I finally said, because if I didn’t talk about it, I was worried I might bust.
“Did ya now?” Hector said, never looking up from his task.
“Big ones,” I said.
“They usually are,” he said, holding his cylinder up to the light before plunging it back into the water. “The monsters with claws are the meanest,” he said, “but they are also usually the slowest. Claws are utter rubbish when it comes to swimming.”
“Really?” I said.
He nodded. “The ones with the claws don’t need to be fast, though,” he said. “They can shred you into ribbons with one swipe.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so I just got back to work. I glanced over at him out of the corner of my eye a few minutes later. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbow, and faded black tattoos of monsters were visible, swirling up his arms. He noticed my glance and smiled a smile that revealed more than a few gaps in his teeth.
“It used to be a tradition for crew members to get a tattoo of each monster they helped capture or kill.”
“Used to be?” I asked, staring at a tattoo of a monster that appeared to have more than one head.
“Eventually us old-timers ran out of room,” he said with a smirk. “I have more sea-monster know-how and whatnot in my left nostril than you will probably have in your entire life, and you’d best not forget it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, wondering who Garth had ended up with and if he’d be willing to trade.
A bell clanged a few minutes later, and Hector calmly took the cylinder I’d been working on out of my hand and jerked his head toward the door. “Better get to class.”
“Thanks,” I said, but as I hurried down the hallway, I couldn’t help but think about the pain in Hector’s eyes right before he’d turned back to his work. Someone he knew had been shredded by a monster with claws—I’d put money on it. The thought made my stomach churn uncomfortably, so I pushed it away. It was time for my first class.
8
The Britannica’s classroom was tucked into the side of the submarine, and to my surprise I was able to find it with only two wrong turns. It helped that I ran into Garth halfway there. He was dripping wet, covered in an oily blue-black substance, and grumpy. When I asked what had happened, he just grumbled something incoherent and wiped at his face with a dripping sleeve. I decided that my job with Hector hadn’t been that bad.
We were almost to Weaver’s classroom when Kate popped out of a trapdoor on the floor like an overgrown sand crab. The gear room was just visible as she scrambled up the ladder to follow us. Smudges of oil and grease liberally coated her aqua jumpsuit, and I wrinkled my nose at the smell as I hurried after her.
“Five seconds until you are late!” cried Mr. Weaver’s voice from the end of the passage. We picked up the pace, practically flying down the hall and into the tiny aquarium-filled classroom.
Kate flopped down at the table and pulled out the chair next to her for me. “You don’t want to be late,” she said. “Like, ever. Late recruits get clean-up duty, and trust me, you don’t want clean-up duty.”
“Everyone, please sit down,” Weaver said. “We have a special opportunity today, but we have to get through our regular lesson first.” At that moment Max came bursting through the open door, sweat dripping down his face.
“Have fun cleaning up,” Kate said, grinning wickedly. “I hope it’s something messy.”
“Crumb and fish guts,” Max said, slumping into the empty seat beside Garth. He scowled at the table for a moment and then glanced over at Garth with a raised eyebrow.
“Is that terrible smell coming from you?” he said.
“Let’s just say that cleaning the large-specimen tanks has a steep learning curve,” Garth said dryly.
Max snorted. “Elmer dunked and inked you, didn’t he? That old octopus is about as mean as they come.”
“Enough chitchat,” Mr. Weaver said. “It’s time to get started.” A moment later something wet, squishy, and very much alive landed in the middle of the table. Everyone sat back as the thing made an awful squelching noise, its tentacles thrashing around so wildly that one whacked Garth across the face.
“Blech,” he said, scrubbing at his red cheek with his sleeve.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Looks like a squid,” said Kate, who had the luck of being closer to the thing’s head, where there was a lot less action.
“I love a good calamari,” Max said, leaning forward to pin down one of the long, thrashing arms with a finger. “Can we fry this guy up after we inspect him?”
“That’s exactly where he’s headed when we’re done,” Mr. Weaver said. “But first, he’s today’s lesson, so if you could hold off eating him until we’re through, Max, I’d appreciate it.”
I leaned back, well away from the tentacles of the squid, and tried to squelch my disappointment. I’d really been hoping for a cetus lesson. I mean, squids were fine and all, but they weren’t the legendary sea monster we were supposedly hunting.
“Who can tell me about the kraken?” Weaver said. The room fell silent except for the wet slapping of the squid’s long arms on the table. With a quick movement Weaver scooped it up and plunked it into the five-foot-long tank behind him. I blinked at the wet table a second, gathering my thoughts. Unlike the cetus from that morning, I actually had heard of the kraken before.
“The kraken is a monster first found in Scandinavian folklore,” Max said. Weaver gave him a nod of approval as he forged on. “It’s reported to be some kind of cephalopod, like a squid or an octopus, and big enough to take down entire ships.”
“There’s one in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea!” Garth said. “It snatches a sailor clean out of the Nautilus! Blam! One second he’s there; the next second he’s a goner.” He sat back with a sigh. “Gosh, I love that book. Captain Nemo is just great. The entire time you can’t figure out if he’s a good guy or a bad guy or crazy or what.”
“My favorite Nemo is a little orange clown fish,” Max said.
“Not that debating the merits of Nemos isn’t fascinating,” Mr. Weaver said, “but I’d have thought that you’d want to get through this lesson so you could hear about the unique opportunity Captain Reese has granted us.”
“What opportunity?” I said, all thoughts of the squid and its giant legendary counterpart momentarily forgotten.
“Well,” Weaver said, followed by an overly dramatic pause as he savored our anticipation, “I did receive special permission from Captain Reese to take you all out on a dive inspection of the claw marks that were spotted this morning.” Kate cheered, and Max pumped his fist in the air, whooping loudly. Weaver flapped his hands to quiet them down and smiled. “It’s not often that we are shallow enough for a recreational dive, and it was an opportunity too good to miss. Now, let’s finish our lesson on the kraken, shall we? Everyone grab your tablets and open up the lesson I just sent you. If this hunt for the cetus is a bust, we may head north and see abou
t the kraken that was spotted there.”
There was a flurry of activity as we all got our tablets out and ready. The next hour flew by, and by the time I slid my tablet back in my bag, I had over two pages of notes, and I realized that I’d missed being in school. There was something exciting about learning something new, especially when that something new was a Norwegian folktale the size of ten ships. I also had a very strong desire to read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, despite Garth and his big mouth having spoiled the bit with the kraken.
I was too excited to worry much about it, though—it was time to dive. The dive room smelled comfortingly familiar, and I inhaled the smell of musty rubber and brine with a smile on my face. Within moments my bare feet were covered in a fine grit of dried sea salt, and I could almost convince myself that this dive was going to be just like the countless others I’d done on the Atlas. I quickly collected the wet suit with my name on it, zipped it on, and bounced on the balls of my feet as I waited for Kate, Max, and Garth to suit up with what felt like a painful slowness.
“You pumped?” Garth said as he came to stand next to me. “You look pumped.”
“Sort of,” I said. “I mean, you and I know squat about sea monsters, but this? This we know. It will be nice not to feel like a fish out of water, even if it is only for a few minutes.”
“I don’t know,” Garth said. “Diving feels sort of, I don’t know, pointless if we aren’t scavenging. I’m going to miss the thrill of the hunt.”
“Sea monsters aren’t thrilling?” I said.
“Sea monsters are terrifying,” Garth said. “There is a big difference.”
Weaver entered the dive room and did a quick head count before walking over to check out the gear we’d be using for the dive.
“It’s going to be cold,” Max grumped as he hobbled over to us. He was already wearing one of his black flippers, but the other one was clutched in his hand, and I glanced down at his bare foot and grimaced. The entire thing was a mottled blackish green, and two of his toes were a pretty solid black color. There was also a fairly impressive and only partially healed gash snaking up his foot to disappear inside the cuff of his wet suit.