And that’s when it hits him: They’re all using the terrafin neurotoxin. Hadn’t Billy and Charity been trying to tell him as much? The one thing the Gilded fear more than anything is death — and the way to avoid death is to use the green serum. No wonder Ahab was so confident these people would pay whatever he demanded for it.
But unlike the pirates and the highest-ranking officers of the Pequod, the Gilded have had their teeth fixed and their eyes whitened so that the effects of their addiction won’t show. And there will soon be thousands of the Gilded here, all demanding neurotoxin to stay alive long beyond their natural life spans.
Ishmael stares at the golden ropes holding back the long maroon drapes. Once they find out the islanders farm terrafins . . .
The executive vice president leans forward, interrupting his thoughts. “Ishmael, this is extremely important. Are you saying that there’s nothing they want?”
“I think the islanders are perfectly content with their lives just as they are,” he answers. “But they’re a very generous people. I’m sure they’d be happy to share their building skills with you without demanding payment.”
Amid the flabbergasted expressions that ring the table, Mr. Bildad slowly removes his earbuds. “It’s not only skills we need, it’s manpower.” He places his hands flat on the tabletop. “I believe we’ve heard enough. I see no other option than to proceed with the approach I originally proposed — before this young man made his . . . unexpected appearance. Any objections, Madam Executive Vice President?”
Barely able to mask her irritation with Bildad, Pip’s aunt looks away without replying. Ishmael glances at Pip, hoping for an explanation, but his friend won’t meet his eye.
When the meeting ends, protocol demands that people leave the room by official rank. Mr. Bildad and Pip’s aunt exit at the same time, though through different doors. Pip and Ishmael are the last to depart.
“When you said your father was acquainted with some people . . .” Ishmael begins, using the cane for support as they walk back down the long hallway.
“She’s his sister,” Pip says.
“You knew all along that Cretacea was Earth?”
“Yes.”
“So that story about collecting drone data for cartography was just another lie?”
Pip grimaces at the reminder that he’s told so many untruths. “No, that was true. The coastlines in this period are quite different from those a hundred million years in the future.” He stops and gives Ishmael a bemused look. “I always thought one of you would figure out that this was Earth. Didn’t you think it was strange that the days here are the same length as the days on the Earth you left? Every planet rotates at its own unique speed, so if this really were another planet, the days would be a different length.”
Ishmael shakes his head. It’s just one more piece of information he never knew. “What about Gwen and Queek? In the Z-pack you sent me —”
Pip stops and presses a finger to his lips. He looks up and down the hallway and then shoos Ishmael through a door and into a sitting room . . . where Gwen and Queequeg are waiting.
His friends are dressed in threadbare coveralls, their hair is shorn, the skivers no longer in their ears. They look as thin as they did the day they first arrived on Cretacea. And Queequeg is limping.
After hugging him joyously, Ishmael asks what happened.
“Work accident,” Queequeg responds matter-of-factly. “Log fell on it.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Doctor?” Gwen snorts bitterly. “Not for us mere peons.” She shoots Pip an angry look.
“I told you before,” Pip says in a hushed voice. “Even if I have favorites, I can’t be seen showing it.”
Gwen turns to Ishmael and smirks. “How do you like that? We’re Pip’s favorite slaves.”
“Easy, Gwen,” Queequeg cautions.
Pip looks at Gwen. “Did it ever occur to you to wonder how that rotorcraft found you in the middle of the ocean? When the Pequod vanished, there were no reports of survivors. I spent days and nights scanning the ocean with a high-altitude drone I wasn’t even authorized to use.”
“Oh, you’re such a hero,” Gwen says contemptuously. “That’s why the only people who’ve been transported here have been your precious Gilded.” Her voice rising, she adds, “What about the millions of non-Gilded who got left behind on Earth — or in the future or whenever? The people who weren’t considered worth saving?”
Pip hangs his head. “There was a limited number of pods, and yes, most of those spots went to the Gilded, since they were the ones who could pay. . . .” He stares at his feet. “I don’t know what more you want from me, Gwen. I can’t apologize for who I am, but you know me well enough —”
The door swings open and a guard looks in. When he sees Pip and the others, his mouth falls open. Pip instantly changes his tone. “How did you two get in here? Guard, take them outside and hold them until I can deal with them myself.”
As the guard hustles Queequeg and Gwen out, she replies scornfully, “Know you? You’re so wrong. We don’t know you at all!”
When they’re gone, Pip slumps onto a divan, shoulders sagging, hands pressed between his knees. “That wasn’t fair. I mean, what she said. I didn’t create this system, I was born into it . . . like you.” Pip looks up searchingly, and Ishmael knows he wants him to agree that they have a common bond. But Ishmael can’t help wondering if he and Pip have anything in common at all.
“What’s Bildad planning to do?” he asks.
Speaking a hair above a whisper, Pip says, “Invade the island and enslave everyone they capture.”
“What if the islanders resist?”
Instead of answering, Pip looks away. “We should be going. The guards will get suspicious.”
Pip leads him out of the building, past the long line of unhappy Gilded still waiting to voice their grievances. Water drips from the eaves, but the rain has stopped and the sun is gradually breaking through the clouds.
The guard is waiting on the walkway with Gwen and Queequeg. “I’ll take them from here,” Pip tells him. “Return to your duties.”
As soon as the guard departs, Pip drops the officious act. “Take a few moments to catch up, but don’t be too long or you’ll attract suspicion. You and Queek are supposed to be down in the workers’ camp.”
“How could we ever forget?” Gwen snaps sarcastically.
Pip shakes his head sadly, then turns to go.
“He’s not that bad,” Ishmael says in a low voice when Pip’s out of earshot.
“You can’t be serious,” Gwen spits. “Do you have any idea what his kind have been doing to the rest of us for the past five hundred years?”
“Yeah, but think about it,” Queequeg says. “You can’t blame Pip for everything the Gilded do.” He raises his hand when Gwen begins to protest. “Wait. I’m not saying he’s a saint, but he did try to save me and Ish when the pirates had us. And we wouldn’t be alive if he hadn’t found us with that drone.”
Gwen’s forehead wrinkles, but she doesn’t argue.
“Ish, before we go back to the camp, there’s something we think you should see,” says Queequeg.
They lead him down a creaky walkway that extends over lush jungle. In the distance Ishmael hears a steady clang! clang! clang! that grows louder the farther they go. Eventually the walkway ends, and they look out over the jungle at a broad green valley and a sparkling blue-green bay. Flyers of different sizes and shapes glide on air currents, and unseen animals clamor in the trees. Ishmael still finds it mind-boggling to see how much vegetation there is here compared with the barren gray Earth of the future. An Earth that can no longer support life.
Another settlement is being built on a nearby hill, and hundreds of yards below it, where the jungle ends at the water’s edge, construction has begun on what appears to be a dock, flanked by the framework of several large, low buildings. The clanging sound is coming from a tall machine on a barge that is driving pi
lings into the shallows offshore.
Gwen points farther up the hill, where a camp of white tents is nestled among the trees. “That’s where we live. There are about a hundred of us, including engineers and construction managers. It’s not nearly enough people to do all the work.”
Queequeg gazes down at the new construction. “My father used to say that in the entire history of the planet Earth, no other creature — not the dinosaurs, nor the apes, nor any other living thing — ever saw fit to radically change the environment to accommodate its whims. When you think about it, humans have been the most successful invasive species of all time. In the space of three thousand years — a mere blink on the cosmic time line — we destroyed a world that was four and a half billion years in the making. It’s what the Lectors have always said. This is the human legacy: the sixth and final mass extinction event. Complete ecocide.”
Now, in addition to the clang! clang! clang! of the pile driver comes a distant crashing from somewhere in the valley.
Queequeg points to a spot where three large machines are slowly plowing through the jungle, knocking down and scraping away all the trees and vegetation before them, leaving a ribbon of brown road behind. “It’s going to be the same thing all over again. These people will always live under a shroud, if not of darkness and pollution then of greed and selfishness. They’ll take everything they can to make themselves rich and comfortable while they ruin the world around them. How long will it take them to destroy Earth in this epoch? Two thousand years? A thousand? And you know what they’ll do then?”
The question is rhetorical, but Gwen answers anyway: “Go back even farther into the past and do it all over again.”
That night, Ishmael is kept awake not only by the booming thunder and flashing lightning of a storm, but by his mounting concern over Bildad’s plans. He may barely be able to remember his mother, but he’s certain she would have stood up to the executive board and fought for the rights of all people — islanders, the non-Gilded, and Gilded alike. But what can he do with only Gwen, Queequeg, and, maybe, Pip on his side?
He’s barely slept when he feels a hand gently shake him. In the dim predawn light, he finds Pip crouched beside his cot. “Get up, we have to go.”
“Where?” Ishmael yawns.
“Just come. I’ll explain later.” Pip holds up a robe to show there’s no time for Ishmael to dress. Ishmael grabs his cane, and they leave the tent. The gray air is heavy with warm mist.
“What happened to the guards?” Ishmael asks.
“Don’t worry about that,” Pip whispers. “Hurry.”
Leaning heavily on the cane, Ishmael hobbles down the walkway, still slick from last night’s rains. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll see in a moment.”
But suddenly feeling apprehensive, Ishmael stops on the wet walkway. “Where are you taking me, Pip?”
Pip stops and looks back at him. “Don’t you realize what’s at stake? The future of the planet could hinge on what happens here, right now, between us.”
Despite all he’s been through in the past twenty-four hours, Ishmael can’t help eyeing Pip with wary amusement. “Sounds kind of grandiose, don’t you think? I mean, we’re just two people who —”
“Suppose I tell Bildad that you’re plotting to warn the islanders of his attack?” Pip challenges him. “Don’t bother denying it; there’s no way you’d sit idly by while the island is invaded and its people are taken into slavery.”
Ishmael tenses and grips the head of his cane, his thoughts galloping. Has Gwen been right about Pip all along? Is he just like the other Gilded — concerned only about those with privilege?
“And why shouldn’t I tell Bildad?” Pip goes on. “I mean, look how Gwen acts even after everything I went through to save the three of you? Maybe my fellow Gilded are right when they say you people don’t appreciate anything we do for you.”
Ishmael looks over the walkway. It’s a long way down. If it comes to a choice, can he do what has to be done to stop Pip from telling Bildad?
A crooked smile inches across Pip’s lips. “Always worrying about other people, aren’t you.”
Ishmael isn’t sure how to respond. But it doesn’t seem to matter. Pip says, “That’s why I’m not going to tell Bildad anything. Because I admire you, Ishmael.”
Ishmael feels his forehead wrinkle.
“And I’m going to help you protect the islanders,” Pip adds.
“How?”
Pip’s smile turns impish. “You can’t attack something if you don’t know where it is.”
Ishmael blinks with astonishment. “The maps you were charting . . .”
“I might have missed an island.” Pip winks.
“But won’t that make it incredibly difficult for the Gilded to survive here?” Ishmael asks. “I mean, no offense, but those people have no concept of what work is.”
“I told you I came to Cretacea because I found that life boring,” Pip says. “Maybe if we can learn to be self-sufficient here, we won’t become what we used to be — an arrogant class of self-indulgent sycophants with nothing to do except entertain and play.”
Now Ishmael understands that Pip might not have been exaggerating: The future could hinge on this moment. If the Gilded are forced to relearn basic life skills of survival instead of simply bending the wills of the weaker and less fortunate to do their bidding . . . If the islanders are allowed to continue their way of life undisturbed . . . Perhaps some new kind of society could eventually evolve. One not based on greed and the old animal instincts of survival of the fittest but on shared industry, compassion, kindness, and respect for nature. A world that values the worth of all individuals equally and respects the great circle of life and death. If such thinking is spawned now and inherited by subsequent generations, then maybe the future history of Earth could be rewritten — perhaps the Anthropocene Extinction Event might never have to happen.
If Pip is really to be believed about wanting to help him . . .
Wisps of mist drift across the elevated walkway. From somewhere below comes the sound of a creature scuttling through the underbrush.
“Come on, there isn’t much time,” Pip urges.
But Ishmael doesn’t move. Is this a trick? He already knows that some of the Gilded don’t want him around because of how much like his mother he appears to be. Or because his allegiance is so obviously with the islanders. Or because, despite his birthright, he is so obviously not of the Gilded.
Pip frowns, then shakes his head. “You still don’t trust me?” he ask. “All right, suppose I show you something that’ll convince you once and for all?”
Gwen and Queequeg are waiting in Chase Boat Four, which is anchored in the bay just off the beach. The clouds have thickened, and it’s begun to rain again. Pip helps Ishmael wade out to the boat.
“There’s food, water, and this.” Knee-deep in the water, Pip takes a small, thick tablet from inside his tunic. “You know what this is?”
“A tablet with memory?” Queequeg guesses.
Pip nods. “It’s got the only copy of the true map. Once you reach the island, I suggest you destroy it.”
“You could come with us,” Gwen says.
“If Ishmael and I both disappear, they’ll think he kidnapped me. They’ll never stop looking for me. You never know, they might accidentally stumble upon the island. I’m better off staying here and helping my aunt get this place up and running.” He pauses, then chuckles as if he’s had another thought. “Besides, could you really see me strolling around in those things the islanders wear?”
The rain’s begun to fall harder, matting down their hair and pocking the water all around them. A small green-and-yellow flyer with a bright-red head alights on the chase boat’s breasthook and shakes itself out.
“One more thing, Ishmael,” Pip says. “Your foster parents made it off Earth. They’re coming here.”
Ishmael feels his mouth fall open.
“They’re in the queue an
d probably won’t be up for destasis for another three hundred years. But they’ll make it.”
Ishmael sags with relief. He will never get to see them, but at least they’ll be able to live out their lives in a place with sunlight and fresh air. His gaze falls on the water, on the multitude of ever-widening rings caused by the rain. He has Old Ben to thank for what’s happened. That night in the storm back in Black Range, the old man had tried to save all of them — himself, Grace, and Ishmael’s family. He almost succeeded.
Gwen leans over the gunwale and hugs Pip. “I never thought I’d ever hear myself say this, but thank you.”
Queequeg rubs Pip on the head. “We’re grateful to you, friend.”
“You won’t tell them about the islanders farming terrafins?” Ishmael asks.
Pip shakes his head.
“Or the Great Terrafin?” asks Queequeg.
“Not unless I want them to think I’m as crazy as you three,” Pip replies with a wink.
Ishmael clasps Pip’s hand thankfully. “You’re a good person, Pippin Xing Al-Jahani Lopez-Makarova.”
“If that’s true, it’s only because of what I learned from all of you.” Pip pats the chase boat’s RTG. Ishmael presses the starter. The engine engages immediately — and hums smoothly.
“Almost forgot to tell you.” Pip grins. “That’s a brand-new RTG. No more stalling. Guess money and power do have some perks after all, huh? Now you’d better get out of here before anyone notices you’re gone.”
The crew wave and steer for the open ocean, raindrops stinging their faces as the chase boat picks up speed. Behind them the settlement grows small, then finally vanishes in the misty air.
The Beast of Cretacea Page 33