Ishmael stops chewing. “The Pequod?”
“It’s the name of this ship.”
Ishmael puts down his silverware as Old Ben’s words come back to him: “On Cretacea, where you served aboard a ship called the Pequod.” There’s no longer any doubt in his mind that the old man knew where he was going. But how?
“Lost your appetite, honey?” Charity asks.
Ishmael blinks. “Sorry?”
She gestures at the uneaten food on his plate. He forces himself out of his daze and continues to eat, but his thoughts are far off. How could Old Ben have possibly known?
It’s not long before everyone except Pip and Billy has cleared his plate. Pip is still eating in his slow, deliberate way. Billy has tried a few morsels and left the rest untouched.
“Can we have some more?” asks Queequeg.
Charity nods. “But not too much, or, believe me, you’ll be sorry.”
Queequeg, Ishmael, and Gwen head back into the galley. Heeding Charity’s advice, Ishmael and Gwen don’t ask for much, but Queequeg tells a server to fill his plate.
“Hold up, friends.” He pulls out a spoon he’s hidden in his pocket and quickly shovels food into his mouth.
Moments later, when they leave the galley, it appears that Queequeg’s taken no more of a second helping than Ishmael and Gwen.
By the time they finish their meals, a heavy, languorous sensation has settled upon them. Charity goes into the galley and returns pushing a cart with two meals on trays. “I have to take these up to the bridge. You guys head back to your quarters. Get a good night’s sleep. First thing tomorrow, you’re going to work.”
Later that night, in the pitch-black, Ishmael wakes to the sounds of whimpering and sniffling. For a second he wonders if it’s Pip. Earlier, when they returned to the men’s berth, Pip found that his electronic sleep aid had been ripped apart, foam and fiber circuitry hanging out like the guts of a small, disemboweled creature. But it’s not Pip who’s sobbing; it’s Billy.
From around the room come rustling and grousing as Billy’s moans begin to wake the others.
“Aw, for Earth’s sake, shut it,” someone gripes in the dark.
“I w-wanna g-go h-home,” Billy whimpers.
“Wait a year and you’ll get your wish, bud,” another voice croaks.
“I want to g-go now!” Billy blubbers.
“Put a sock in it,” someone — sounding like Bunta — growls.
“Leave him alone,” Ishmael warns.
“Mind your own business, pinkie. No one wants to listen to that snivelin’ crybaby all night.”
“The more you threaten him, the more frightened he’ll feel,” Ishmael says. “If you really want to get back to sleep, just drop it.”
Some mumbling follows, but the room soon goes quiet except for Billy’s sniffling.
“Billy,” Ishmael whispers.
“Y-yes?”
“You’re not alone. We’re all kind of scared. And these jackasses aren’t making it any easier. But Queequeg and I have your back. Right, Queequeg?”
“Right, friend” comes a yawning murmur from the sleeper below his.
“Try to get some rest,” Ishmael tells Billy. “Things’ll be better in the morning.”
“N-no, they w-won’t.” Billy sniffs.
Knowing not to argue, Ishmael says, “Okay, maybe not. But after a good night’s sleep, at least you’ll feel better.”
Silence. Then Billy whispers, “Th-thanks, Ishmael.”
Ishmael lets his head sink into his pillow and soon falls asleep — but not for long. A short while later he’s awakened again, this time by a warm breath close to his ear. He can just make out the silhouette of Bunta’s large, shaved head.
“You’re a dead man, pinkie,” the brute whispers in the dark. “When you least expect it . . . when it’s the farthest thing from your mind . . . you’re going down.”
Bunta moves away without a sound. Ishmael closes his eyes and waits for his heartbeat to steady. In the quiet he hears someone retching in the washroom. He peers down at Queequeg’s sleeper. It’s empty.
In Old Ben’s place, Ishmael listened to the wind whistle. He should have started home already. It was not uncommon for people to get lost in storms, often suffering lung damage from breathing in too much soot and grit. Sometimes they even died. But despite the looming danger, he stayed. What Old Ben had just said about them meeting on another planet was impossible — nonsense, really — but Ishmael had never known him to lie. “They haven’t told me where I’m going yet. And wherever it is, we can’t have met there before. I’ve never been off Earth.”
In the shadows, the old man drummed his fingers, as though struggling to find a way to explain. “For now, just humor an old man and pretend you and I met on Cretacea thirty-five years ago. Would you do that for me?”
Old Ben might have used the word pretend, but Ishmael knew this wasn’t a game. If the old man was telling him this, it was because he believed it to be true. But Ishmael hadn’t even been alive thirty-five years ago. . . .
“Back then, I was just a kid myself,” Old Ben went on. “Maybe twelve years old at the most. All I knew were Grace and the ocean.”
“Grace?”
The old man’s voice turned wistful. “The captain of our pinkboat. I was her crew.”
Pinkboat? Apprehension began to slither through Ishmael. This was starting to sound more and more like a fantasy, the imaginings of an old, lonely man. Or could it be the benzo talking? “We met when you were twelve?” Ishmael repeated, trying to show the old man how ludicrous the whole thing sounded.
But Old Ben took it differently. “You’re thinking they don’t allow kids as young as twelve on missions?” He leaned across the table, his craggy face faintly visible in the dark. “I wasn’t on a mission, son. Cretacea’s where I grew up.”
Ishmael sat back, unsure what to do. The wind rattled the house’s roof. By now, Joachim probably assumed that he’d stay the night at Old Ben’s. But Ishmael was determined to get home and spend his last night on Earth with his foster brother.
A loud plink! made them both start. A gust of wind must’ve picked up a small pebble and hurled it against a window. Old Ben poured himself another glass of benzo, liquid overflowing the rim. “Mark my words, son: The next time you see me, it’ll be on a scurry trawler in the middle of an ocean the size of which you can’t imagine.”
He raised the glass and drained it. But instead of relaxing, he suddenly hunched forward, his demeanor intense. “Here’s what you need to remember: Do not rendezvous with the Pequod. When Grace tells you that’s what she’s going to do, you have to stop her. Understand? Lives are at stake, son. Don’t let her do it. If she insists, you go down below and disable the RTG. Do whatever you have to. Just don’t let her near that ship.”
Outside, the wind no longer whistled; now it screamed. Scurry trawler? RTG? The Pequod again? Ishmael didn’t know what to make of any of this.
“Promise me,” Old Ben said.
The roof rattled so loudly that Ishmael wondered if it would blow right off. It was definitely time to go. He started to rise.
“Son?” said the old man.
“How can I promise? Nothing you’ve said makes sense.”
Old Ben mulled it over. “All right, if it’s all nonsense, then what harm is there in promising?” He offered his hand. “I’ve been waiting most of my life for this moment. Shake on it, son.”
Ishmael hesitated, then reluctantly grasped the old man’s quivering hand and shook. But instead of letting go, Old Ben tightened his grip and pulled Ishmael close. “There’s one more thing. As soon as you’ve got a decent chunk of money, you transfer it to me.”
Ishmael scrunched his face. The old man’s benzo breath was foul.
Old Ben squeezed his hand, refusing to let go. “Promise?”
“Why do you need money?”
“To save your foster parents. They’ve aged out of the mission parameters, but there are still way
s to get them off this planet. Only it’s going to take a lot of cash.” The old man let go of Ishmael’s hand and slumped back in his chair, breathing heavily. “I know . . . I’m putting a huge burden on your young shoulders . . . but there’s no other way. You just . . . you’ve got to take a leap of faith, son. I’ll need at least six thousand. Maybe seven or eight. Ten thousand would definitely do it.”
That cinched it: Old Ben had lost his mind. Ψ10,000 was an absolute fortune, more than most people earned in an entire lifetime.
“I know it sounds like a lot,” the old man said, “but it’s not impossible where you’re going. You’ve heard the stories. You can make that and more if you’re smart. Just remember, son: As soon as you’ve got that money, transfer it to me. And don’t let Grace rendezvous with the Pequod.”
Outside, the wind continued to howl and sand and dirt pelted the windowpanes. “You better get going,” Old Ben said, reaching again for the benzo jar. “And son?”
Ishmael hesitated. “Yes?”
“May good luck and fortune go with you.”
A loud, insistent bleating comes through speakers in the ceiling of the men’s berth — speakers that Ishmael hadn’t even realized were there. With no windows in the sleeping quarters, it’s impossible to know whether it’s dark out or light, but to Ishmael it feels much too early to rise. He and the other nippers nestle groggily in their sleepers while the older sailors wash and dress.
The door opens and in hurries a short, portly, balding man wearing a neatly pressed black uniform much like Starbuck’s, as well as wire-rimmed glasses. He’s carrying a tablet and wearing a headset, and his skin is pallid. The nippers watch him from under their blankets while the other sailors brush past without a word. “Well, what are you waiting for?” the man asks in a high, squeaky voice. “Come on, it’s time to get up. This is your first full day. Lots to do. Come on. Up, up, up!”
Billy, Queequeg, and Ishmael drag themselves out of their sleepers. Queequeg looks especially bleary, his eyes puffy from spending half the night in the washroom giving back his dinner. Only Pip rolls over and covers his head with a pillow.
The portly man passes his tablet over Pip’s bare wrist. “Oh, uh, it’s you, Mr. Lopez-Makarova.” The man’s tone becomes deferential. “You really should get up. You don’t want to be left behind, do you?”
“Bugger off,” Pip murmurs from under the bedding.
Ishmael and Queequeg wait to see how the man will react, but he simply forges ahead politely: “Now, now, Mr. Lopez-Makarova, is this really the way to begin your sojourn with us here on the Pequod? As I’m sure you’ve been informed, no one gets to sleep in, except for an extra hour on Sundays, and today is not Sunday.”
A wiry man with tattoos of coiled vipers on both cheeks enters the room. He, too, wears a black uniform, but it’s wrinkled, and several days’ worth of stubble darkens his jaw. When he hears the portly man meekly admonishing Pip, he stomps over to the bunk. “Aw, fer Earth’s sake, Stubb, step aside.” He reaches into Pip’s sleeper and grabs the boy by the hair. “Get up, ya lazy slug!”
Pip lets out a cry, and the man named Stubb gasps. “Stop, Mr. Flask! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Ignoring him, Flask yanks Pip’s pale, round face close to his own. “Listen, mate, when ya get an order, ya snap to it. Otherwise you’ll spend yer time here cleaning toilets with yer tongue.”
Stubb scoots close and whispers something in Flask’s ear that makes him instantly let go of Pip’s hair. “Oh, er, is that so? Still, shouldn’t mean a basher’s snout who he is,” he splutters and backs out of the quarters.
“I’m terribly sorry about that, Mr. Lopez-Makarova,” Stubb apologizes while Pip sits up and rubs his eyes. “But it is breakfast time, and Ms. Charity asked me to make sure you were all up. She said she’ll meet you in the mess. So do hurry. You don’t want to be late on your first day, as that would —”
“Oh, for Earth’s sake.” Pip swings his legs over the side of the sleeper. “You won’t cease blathering unless I’m up, will you?” He hops down and stalks off toward the washroom.
A few minutes later, on their way to the mess, Ishmael gets a better look at the Pequod. Like its exterior, the interior of the ship is in a state of disrepair, with reddish-brown rust creeping along the corners where walls and floors meet, lights broken or missing, hatches that either won’t stay shut or must be forced open, portholes with cracked glass . . .
“So just who are you, Mr. Lopez-Makarova?” Queequeg asks, imitating Stubb.
“My father’s acquainted with some people, that’s all,” Pip replies vaguely.
“My father used to know some people, too,” Queequeg says. “But that never got me special treatment.”
Pip’s lips remain pressed tight. Meanwhile, Ishmael notices that Billy has fallen behind them. He slows down, letting Pip and Queequeg go ahead.
“You okay?” he asks in a low voice.
The thin blond boy shrugs. “I d-don’t know. But th-thanks for doing what you did last night.”
“No problem. It’s too bad some of them have to be idiots.”
Billy lowers his voice. “I heard what Bunta said. Aren’t you scared?”
Now it’s Ishmael’s turn to shrug. “Worrying about guys like him is a waste of energy.”
Billy absorbs this, then nods at Pip and whispers, “Y-you believe that stuff about his f-father knowing some people?”
“Right now I’m finding a lot of this hard to believe,” Ishmael replies, only half kidding.
When they arrive at the mess, Charity and Gwen are already eating. “Anyone lose their dinner last night?” Charity asks.
Queequeg sheepishly raises his hand.
“Right. So this morning take it easy, okay, honey?”
Once again the meal looks unappetizing but tastes delicious. They’re almost finished eating when the mess door swings open and in marches Starbuck, followed by the pale, bespectacled second mate, Stubb. Starbuck stops beside a row of tall chrome canisters near the nippers’ table to fill a mug with a steaming brown liquid.
“I must tell you that I have spoken to Mr. Bildad himself, and he is not at all pleased with the production of this ship, Mr. Starbuck,” Stubb says, clutching his tablet to his chest like a newborn baby. “At this point in the voyage, he says there should be twice as much weight in the hold.”
“Is that so?” Starbuck replies, bringing the mug to his lips.
“Yes, sir. And I’m sure you know that the crew isn’t happy either. With our catch being so meager, their common fund is far lower than on previous voyages. Far, far lower. And pardon me for saying this, sir, but we both know that when the crew isn’t happy —”
“They work even harder to make up for the shortfall.” His round black glasses steamed by the hot drink, Starbuck turns on the fussy man. “Is that what you were going to say, Stubb?”
“Why, n-no, sir,” stammers Stubb. “That wasn’t what I was going to —”
“How many voyages have we been on together?” Starbuck cuts him short.
“Uh, five, sir? Well, officially five and a half if you take into account that we’re halfway through this one and —”
“And have we ever ended a voyage with less than full weight?”
“Well, uh, no, sir, not really.”
Starbuck adjusts his glasses. “Then I don’t see a problem, do you?”
Stubb swallows. “Well, to be honest, sir, yes, I do.” He offers his tablet. “You see, sir, at this point in the voyage —”
“At this point in the voyage doesn’t mean a blasted thing,” Starbuck snaps. “The only thing that matters is what the weight and common fund look like at the end of the voyage. So talk to me about it then.”
“But Mr. Bildad says —”
“Mr. Bildad can shove a terrafin’s skiver up his —” Starbuck’s eyes find the table of nippers watching and listening. The first mate’s forehead furrows. “Why aren’t you at work? Get your sorry carcasses into the
galley, now!”
The startled nippers jump to their feet. Starbuck points at Pip. “Not you, Lopez-Makarova.”
In the storm outside, Ishmael adjusted his goggles and tightened the thin dust mask covering his nose and mouth, but he could still taste grit. He felt for the rope that led out to the street. This length would lead to another that he could follow home while gusts whipped around, soot getting into his hair and working its way beneath his clothes through every possible crevice. The important thing was to count the number of steps. When he got to three hundred, he’d begin feeling for the rope that ran along the path to his home.
Later, he stood inside the front door, shaking the grime and filth out of his clothes and hair and wiping what he could off his skin. Washing wasn’t an option. Water was too scarce for anything except drinking. After returning the gun to the storage closet, he went into the tiny bedroom he shared with his foster brother. It wasn’t large enough even for two small beds, so Joachim had rigged a bunk. In the shadowy dimness, Archie was barely visible sitting on the side of the lower bunk, undoing the Syncro straps on the metal braces that ran the length of both legs. Ishmael had been listening to the tearing sound of Syncro for almost as long as he could remember.
Recalling the electric shock he’d felt earlier at Old Ben’s place, Ishmael had an idea. “Show me your registry?” he asked.
Without asking why, Archie held out his left arm. Ishmael pressed his own registry close to his foster brother’s.
There was no shock.
“What was that for?” Archie asked.
“Nothing,” Ishmael said. “Any word from the Mission Board?”
Archie shook his head.
On impulse Ishmael said, “Maybe we should run away.”
“In the middle of a storm? And go where?” Archie chuckled as he braided his long black hair so that it wouldn’t get tangled in his dreams. He was right. There was nowhere to go. For many hundreds of miles outside Black Range, the territory was said to be barren, parched, and uninhabitable. Even if they packed supplies, how far could they possibly get with Archie on crutches?
The Beast of Cretacea Page 4