The old man shook his head. “Think about it, son. More than anything, your foster parents want you and Archie to be safe. And it won’t be long before the safest place will be anywhere but on Earth.”
Now Ishmael understood why Joachim and Petra weren’t fighting Archie’s enlistment. Still, he shook his head. “If that’s true, then I’m not going. They can’t expect me to leave them here to . . . what? Die a slow death?”
Old Ben placed his hand on Ishmael’s and squeezed. His grip was surprisingly strong. “If you stay here, son, you’ll all die. The only way you can save yourself and your foster parents is to go.”
“And abandon them?” It was inconceivable.
Old Ben let go of Ishmael’s hand and sat back in the dark. He took a gulp of benzo and then contemplated his glass, gathering what he had to say next. “Listen closely, son, because what I’m about to say won’t be easy to believe. What if I told you that you and I met once before — a long, long time ago? I’m not talking about here on Earth.” The old man pointed a finger upward. “I mean, out there . . . out where you’re going. On Cretacea, where you served aboard a ship called the Pequod.”
The new arrivals follow Charity through a hatch and into a passageway. Shaken by the death they’ve just witnessed, they take a moment to notice the wrinkled, bent old man trudging toward them. His skin is so pale it’s nearly translucent, and his eyes are sunken and shut. One bony hand slides along the handrail while the other pulls a wheeled bucket. Liquid with a sharp chemical odor sloshes in the bucket, and the handle of a long brush pokes out.
He stops and listens for a moment, his face turned to the passageway wall. “That you, Ms. Charity? That you?”
“How are you, Tarnmoor?” Charity asks.
“How’d anyone be what’d just heared about young Abdul? Tells me, Ms. Charity, is there no folly a’ beast that ain’ts infinitely outdones by the madness a’ men? Now is there?”
Ishmael wonders how this old man already knows what just happened abovedecks.
“No, Tarnmoor, it certainly isn’t,” Charity answers.
The strange old man takes a deep sniff. “Gots some nippers with ya, eh? Eh?”
“I do.”
“Ah.” He addresses them. “Listen to what Ms. Charity says, ya hears? Don’t want to end up like poor young Abdul. Or a blind old swabbie like me, neither, does ya? Does ya? Now tells me your names as you passes. Your names.”
The new arrivals identify themselves as they file past: “Hello, I’m Pip.” “B-Billy.” “Ishmael.” “Queequeg, sir.”
“Waits a minute, waits a minute,” Tarnmoor calls when they’re done. “The young lady didn’t say her name. Young lady?”
Gwen looks startled. “How’d you know?”
The bent old man grins, revealing gums and a few worn stubs of teeth. “How’s old Tarnmoor know? How? Blinded by the light on his first day, he wassed. Aye, but he knows. . . . If it moves, if it makes a noise, he knows. If it gots a smell, he knows.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Grandpa,” Gwen scoffs.
“Ah, and a redheaded lass at that, she is! Ain’t that right, Ms. Charity? Ain’t it?”
Gwen’s eyes go wide with astonishment.
“Indeed it is,” Charity says.
Tarnmoor cackles, then aims a crooked finger at the new arrivals. “Keeps cares, nippers. The most dreaded creatures glides under waters, unapparent for the most parts, and treacherously hid beneath the loveliest tints a’ azures.”
The old man continues past, pulling his bucket. Charity leads Ishmael and the others away.
Several decks down, they stop outside a door marked MEN’S BERTH. Charity tells Gwen to wait, then motions the guys inside. Curtained bunks float at different heights between the ceiling and floor, suspended by magnetic levitation. As she leads them toward the back of the room, Ishmael notices that some of the sleepers are decorated with what appear to be large pointed teeth as well as long spines like the one that killed Abdul. Charity pushes open a door marked WASHROOM and gestures for them to look in. Lining one wall are urinals and toilets, but along another wall is a row of open stalls, each with knobs and a long pipe that arcs overhead and ends in a conical nozzle.
“Anyone know what those are?” Charity asks.
Ishmael, Billy, and Queequeg don’t have a clue. But Pip — who has quick, curious eyes that never stop moving — hangs back, as if he knows something they don’t.
“Try turning one of the knobs,” Charity suggests with a smile.
Queequeg strides into the washroom, and Ishmael can’t help noting how unlike the cautious, jittery denizens of Black Range he is. He reaches into a stall and turns a knob.
Water starts to pour from the nozzle overhead.
Queequeg jumps back in surprise, then quickly reaches in and turns it off. “Sorry! I had no idea! Really!”
“It’s okay.” Charity chuckles. “That’s what it’s there for. You can let it run all day if you want.”
Is she serious? Ishmael wonders. Back on Earth you could be arrested for wantonly wasting water. He looks at the wall of stalls again and then back at Charity. “They’re . . . for washing?”
“Anytime you want, guys,” Charity says, training her gaze on Ishmael and Queequeg. “And based on the way some of you smelled when I opened your pods, you might want to try one right now. I’ll come back when it’s time for dinner.” She backs out of the washroom and pulls the door closed.
Moments later, Ishmael and Queequeg are in the stalls letting water — hot water!— pour down on them. It’s a miracle. Ishmael cannot get enough of the sensation of it splashing against his body. If only it could wash away the memory of the death he’s just witnessed.
“Can you believe this?” Queequeg asks in the next stall.
“Where could it come from?” Ishmael asks.
“Charity said the ship has a nuclear reactor,” Queequeg says. “My guess is the hot water’s the byproduct of the cooling mechanism.”
Ishmael’s never heard of nuclear reactors. Though now that he thinks of it, he doesn’t recall seeing smokestacks on this ship when they were abovedecks. No trails of dark soot rising into the air like back home.
“There used to be nuclear power on Earth, too,” Queequeg adds. “Before the Shroud. But without lots of water, reactors can’t work.”
Ishmael lets the hot water splash against his face, wondering how Queequeg could know all of this.
“And the way it got him with that skiver thing in its tail,” Queequeg is saying later. Their meager possessions neatly stowed, the nippers have gathered between bunks to talk about Abdul’s death. “Ever see anything like that?”
“Of course not,” Pip says condescendingly. “It’s an ocean-dwelling creature and there are no oceans on Earth.”
“Oh, yes, there are,” Queequeg says. “Not much now, but there was a time when more than three-quarters of Earth was covered by water.”
Pip snorts. “Rubbish.”
“Oh, yeah? What if I told you I saw one once?” Queequeg asks.
Pip laughs. “That’s rich!”
“May lightning strike me if it’s not true.” Queequeg crosses his heart. “My father took me. We walked on dirty gray salt for a week. Crunch, crunch all day long.”
“So, wh-what made you th-think there w-was an ocean?” Billy asks.
“The wreck we found. Of a ship like this. Just a huge, rusted hull lying on its side.”
No one speaks, not even Pip. When Ishmael thinks of the dry, filthy planet he left, the idea of most of it once being covered by water does sound outrageous.
“Finally we came to these cliffs,” Queequeg continues. “I think my dad was afraid that the salt might give way and we’d fall in and never get out, but then we saw some coral —”
“Coral?” Billy repeats.
“Colonies as hard as rock under the ocean made by tiny creatures long since dead,” Queequeg says. “There were once huge reefs of them in all sorts of strange shape
s.”
“Oh, for Earth’s sake, what nonsense.” Pip harrumphs, then says to Billy and Ishmael, “You believe that from someone who doesn’t even have a registry?”
“Th-that’s right,” says Billy. “How’s that p-possible? I th-thought everyone g-got a registry at b-birth.”
Queequeg averts his eyes. “Not everyone.”
“Perhaps you’d like to explain?” Pip asks.
When Queequeg doesn’t answer, Pip turns to Billy and Ishmael. “Keep that in mind the next time he tells you one of his tales.”
As strange as it is that Queequeg doesn’t have a registry, Pip is something of a mystery as well. He enunciates his words the way the voice-overs in VR do. And there’s his chubbiness, and his neatly trimmed hair and nails — all things nearly impossible to achieve in the barren and dim households of Black Range. Finally, when the nippers were settling in, Ishmael noticed that the items Pip pulled out of his travel bag were brand-new and still in their original packaging.
But before he can ask about any of that, the door of the men’s quarters opens and three sailors come in. Ishmael recognizes them from earlier: The one with the bright-yellow hair, the one with the white topknot, and the brute with the shaved head, his left arm now in a sling. The sailor with the topknot climbs into a bunk decorated with many teeth and what look like terrafin skivers, but the other two saunter over to the nippers. The one with the shaved head is built broad and deep, a concrete block of a man with bulging muscles ridged with thick veins. How long must he have served on this planet to have attained such a physique?
The muscular sailor reaches into Pip’s sleeper with his good hand and grabs a T-pill that Pip just removed from its box.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Pip demands. “Give that back!”
The brute ignores him and displays the electronic sleep aid to his mate. “Nice, eh, Daggoo? And good timin’ ’cause mine just broke.”
“It’s not yours,” Pip snaps indignantly, and addresses Daggoo. “Tell him to return it at once!”
Daggoo chuckles and pretends to obey. “Hear that, Bunta? You’d better do as he says.”
When the brute smirks and turns to leave, Pip appeals to the other nippers for help. Ishmael should have no allegiance to this well-fed, fancy-talking boy who acts so superior, and yet he feels a bond because they’re both new arrivals. Besides, he knows what happens when bigger guys think they can push you around. Once these sailors bully one nipper, what’s to stop them from trying to terrorize all of them?
He figures it’s not in Billy’s nature to fight, and Pip looks too small and soft to be much help. That leaves Queequeg. When Ishmael shoots him a quizzical look, the tall, broad-shouldered boy nods.
Ishmael steps in front of Bunta. “Give it back.”
The brute stops and slowly swivels his head, pretending to look around. “Someone say somethin’?”
Ishmael cracks his knuckles. “I did. Give it back.”
Bunta looks down and curls his lip, baring a row of shiny steel teeth. “You? How old are you, pinkie?”
“My name is Ishmael, and I’m seventeen.”
“You ain’t big enough to be seventeen.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but nutrients are scarce back on Earth.”
“Then you should feel lucky you’re not there and mind your own business here.” Bunta winks at Daggoo as though he thinks he’s said something clever.
“Maybe you’re the one who should mind his own business,” Ishmael shoots back, “and not steal from new arrivals.”
The room goes silent. Bunta’s face darkens. “Watch yourself, pinkie.”
“I said, my name is Ishmael. Now give the T-pill back.”
The brute snorts. “Make me.” As he pushes past, Ishmael reaches up and taps him on the back. Bunta instantly wheels around, a huge fist swinging for Ishmael’s head. Ishmael ducks and delivers a sharp jab to the brute’s ribs. But it feels like he’s just punched a firm slab of clay. Bunta sneers and draws his fist back. But before he can swing, Queequeg steps beside Ishmael.
“This is between me and him,” Bunta warns. “You stay outta it.”
Queequeg doesn’t budge.
Bunta considers for a moment, then hands the T-pill to Daggoo. “All right, I’ll take you both with one hand.”
“No.” From across the room comes the voice of the sailor with the white topknot.
Bunta looks askance. “Aw, come on, Fedallah.”
His bearing impassive, Fedallah points at Daggoo. “Return what he took.”
The yellow-haired sailor tosses the sleep aid to Pip.
Bunta narrows his eyes at Ishmael. “You’re dead meat, pinkie.”
Ishmael raises his chin. “For the last time, my name is Ishmael. See if you can manage to remember it.”
Bunta’s beady eyes bug out at the insult. For an instant it looks like he’s going to do grievous damage, but then he glances at Fedallah and stomps away. Daggoo lingers. “You don’t know what a pinkie is, do you?”
Ishmael raises his little finger.
Daggoo shakes his head. “You’re in for a treat one of these days.” Then the sailor’s manner grows menacing. “But mark my word, Ishmael: the next time you get in Bunta’s way, no one, not even Fedallah, will be able to stop him.”
“Anyone kn-know which p-planet we’re on?” Billy asks in the passageway while he and the other nippers follow Charity to dinner.
“Cretacea,” replies Charity.
Ishmael stops. “You sure?”
Charity gives him a funny look. “Of course I’m sure. Why?”
Ishmael feels goose bumps as he recalls his last night on Earth. Is it really possible that Old Ben knew where he was going? Or was it just a lucky guess?
“Hey, friend, you just gonna stand there?” Queequeg asks. “Some of us are hungry.”
Ishmael makes his feet move. As they near the mess, the passageway fills with unfamiliar smells, some oily and mechanical, others tart or smoky.
“Listen up,” Charity says before they go in. “I assume most of you have never eaten solid food before. If you don’t want to spend the better part of tonight puking your guts out, don’t eat more than half a plate. Don’t eat anything raw. Nothing that’s green, red, yellow, or orange. Stick to foods that are brown or close to white. You can eat things with skin, but don’t eat the skin itself. Your bodies don’t have the microbiota for that stuff yet.”
“Wh-what’s microbiota?” Billy asks nervously.
“Bacteria,” Charity answers. “In the old days, our digestive systems were full of them, but it’s been so long since people on Earth ate anything except liquid nutrients that they no longer have much gut bacteria. Here on Cretacea the food’s a lot more complex, and it’ll take your gastrointestinal tracts a few weeks to adjust. You can’t rush it without getting sick, so just bide your time.”
Ishmael is still trying to wrap his brain around the idea of eating anything that has skin when Charity leads them into the large, noisy mess filled with sailors, their plates piled with awful-looking matter. Some of the sailors are trim, while others have clearly been so well fed since their arrival on Cretacea that their uniforms are stretched tight over their bellies.
Charity directs the nippers to the far end of the mess, where they get trays and eating utensils, which she calls silverware. Next stop is the galley, a hot, cramped room filled with pungent aromas that make Ishmael’s stomach rumble hungrily. Behind steamy glass cases, sailors wearing stained white aprons serve portions of grossly unappealing fare. Despite his growling stomach, Ishmael is repulsed by the dark-brown lumps, the crusty, light-brown sticks, and things with tails, glassy eyes, and mouths filled with tiny teeth, lying in shallow pools of oily yellowish liquid. They’re supposed to eat this stuff ?
“Believe me, it tastes a lot better than it looks,” Charity assures them. “It just takes getting used to. Sample a few things and see what you like. Then you can come back for a few bites more.”
&
nbsp; Moments later, carrying trays, the nippers follow her back into the mess, where she instructs them on the use of the silverware. They watch in fascination as she spears a morsel with a fork, then chews and swallows. “Delicious!” she pronounces.
Queequeg is the first to follow her example, stabbing a small brown lump and placing it in his mouth. His eyes go wide and he quickly begins to tear at another piece with his spoon and fork.
“Use the knife to cut, and don’t forget to chew,” Charity advises. “Otherwise you can choke.”
Ishmael’s head is spinning. Food with eyes and tails? Food that was once alive? Food that can kill you? Back home, all they had was Natrient, a sweet, gooey “natural nutrient” squeezed out of hermetically sealed pouches. Why would anyone choose to eat these weird-smelling, awful-looking lumpy things instead?
But Queequeg’s blissful expression and eagerness to eat more motivate Ishmael to pick up his fork and sample something. The food feels strange in his mouth, and he has to remind himself to chew, but it does indeed taste far better than it looks, and like nothing he’s ever had before.
“Slow down,” Charity cautions. “Chew for as long as you can before you swallow. It helps with digestion.”
They try, but it’s difficult to pace themselves. Ishmael and Queequeg hunch over their plates with knife and fork tightly in hand, their mouths working busily. Billy uses the spoon to try small bits of the blandest-looking lumps. Once Gwen discovers how delicious the food is, she sets her arms on either side of her plate protectively. Pip, however, eats slowly and delicately, resting his knife and fork on his plate while he chews. But then, given that he’s the only plump one among them, perhaps he isn’t as hungry.
“What is this stuff ?” Gwen asks with bulging cheeks.
“Mostly what we catch,” Charity answers. “Hump, long-neck, basher.”
“Wh-what about that?” With his knife Billy pokes one of the things that have eyes, a mouth, and a tail.
“Scurry. Someone must’ve caught it, or maybe we traded for it. The Pequod doesn’t trawl for game like that.”
The Beast of Cretacea Page 3