by Mira Grant
The roar of the engines drowned out most sound, but she heard a few people laughing. One woman in particular brayed like she thought she was in the audience for a live taping of The Late Show. Tory smiled to herself. This was going to be a good crowd.
“But you can see sea lions back on the dock, and we have places to go. Brace yourselves, because we’re going to get this party started.” Tory gripped the rail with one hand as the boat accelerated. “It’s mealtime for our visiting whales, and we’re heading for a canyon roughly two miles offshore where they tend to congregate. Because of the season, we’ve got a lot of whales in the area, and we might see anything from orcas to big blues. It’ll be a while before we reach their feeding grounds, so relax, enjoy the trip, and watch the waves for little orange blobs. Those are our egg jellies, a favorite food of sea turtles and dolphins, and they’ll show through the blue just like the fried eggs that give them their name. Our crew is here if you need anything at all, and I’ll check back in with you in a while.”
Tory put down the microphone, checking twice to be sure it was off. It was a small thing, but a live mic had gotten several of her coworkers in trouble, and had gotten one of their regular marine biologists fired when he’d been caught broadcasting unpleasant statements about the physical appearances of their passengers. His loss had been her gain; since every trip needed a marine biologist on board, she’d been able to spend a lot more time at sea than she’d been anticipating at the start of the season.
It hadn’t been enough. It was never going to be enough. She gripped the rail with both hands, watching the horizon grow bigger and broader as they left the land behind, and wished with all her might for the waters to open wide and give up all their secrets.
They didn’t. But then, they never did.
Global climate change had been impacting the world’s oceans since the early 1980s, although most people hadn’t noticed the transformation until the mid-2010s, when the reduced surface temperatures, increased ferocity of storms, and seemingly endless blooms of toxic algae had become severe enough to make headline news. As the glaciers melted, they dumped their runoff into the deep currents that warmed much of the world. The sudden freshwater influx lowered the ocean’s temperature and overall salinity even as temperatures on land continued to climb. Fish were dying. Whales and other large sea mammals were changing their ancient migration patterns, following the food into waters where they had never been seen before. Sharks were doing the same, sending scientists into tizzies and panicking the public.
Monterey had been lucky. It was sheltered from the worst of the weather by its place on the California coast. El Niño winds still blew in warm water and kept the surface temperatures where they needed to be, while natural rock formations blocked toxic algae and the increasingly common jellyfish. As a consequence, more and more whales arrived every year, to the point that scientists were becoming concerned about the ecosystem’s ability to sustain them. Eventually there would be another collapse, this one brought on by overfishing by both humans and marine mammals. It was a serious concern, and one Tory was glad she wasn’t a part of: whales featured in her research only tangentially. Let other people, smarter people, figure out how to save the whales from this latest man-made catastrophe. She would be hundreds of miles away, sailing in deeper waters.
Not that she didn’t love the vast seagoing mammals. It was impossible to look at a pilot whale cutting through the water, or a dolphin leaping out of a wave for the sheer joy of being alive, and not love them. They were majestic wonders of the natural world, and if mankind had any obligation left to the sea that had been its birthplace, it was preserving the ones who’d stayed behind.
The ship rumbled under her feet, the song of the engine traveling through her shoes and into her bones. She could have stayed out here forever, if not for all the things that needed doing back on land. “We have some company out here, folks,” she said into the microphone. “If you look to either side, you’ll see that we’ve been joined by a group of bottlenose dolphins. These curious creatures love to follow boats and see where we’re going, what we’re up to—and, of course, to feast on the fish disturbed by our passing. This is a large family grouping, somewhere between fifty and seventy individuals …”
Dolphins were easy. They were common enough to show up almost without fail when the ships went out, and exciting enough to rouse passengers who might have been starting to feel like the trip had been a waste of time and money. To tourists, wasting time was often the greatest sin; they’d traveled from their homes expecting to return indebted but happy, with phones and digital cameras packed with blurry memories to get them through the lean times ahead. An extra fifty dollars was a more reasonable request than an extra fifty minutes for someone whose itinerary was planned to the second, and a whale-watching expedition was by its very nature a substantial time commitment. Just getting to where the whales were could take up to an hour, and woe betide the boat that turned around without giving its passengers time to see everything they wanted to see.
The dolphins had finished the most dramatic part of their visit, fading into the occasional flash of bright gray against darker blue. Now that they were almost to the whales, Tory kept talking, about migration patterns, likely sightings, anything to keep the tourists looking at the water. Not that most of them were listening to her; she was a service offered because it made the whole production seem more impressive, and less like the rehearsed thing it was. The whales came and went as they liked, sometimes showing themselves and sometimes not, but the boats went out all the same.
The ship rumbled to a stop, still bucking and rolling with the motion of the waves around it. People who never went out to sea didn’t realize how much of a difference even a small ripple could make to a maritime vessel’s stability. They complained when a whale watch was canceled due to inclement weather. Tory, who had been out in her share of storms—sometimes that was the best time to gather data—always wanted to laugh when she heard some petulant tourist from Idaho or Wyoming complaining about how their day had been ruined, and couldn’t they just take the damn boat out anyway? The sort of seasickness that came from riding a small craft into a big storm would ruin their day a lot more conclusively than a little rescheduling. But there was no explaining that to someone who didn’t want to hear it.
“All right,” she said. “We’re going to hold here and see if we—there we go, folks! Those of you on the right-hand side of the boat, if you’ll check your two o’clock, you may see the characteristic black-and-white coloration of a pod of orcas coming up to breathe. These majestic creatures can hold their breath for up to twenty minutes, although most will surface every four or five when they feel comfortable. This is a large group, and they’ve been seen in these waters before, so they’re definitely comfortable. The boat doesn’t bother them. If anything, we think they find us reassuring, since we’re such a common presence. They may swim over to the side to say hello.”
No one seemed to be listening. There were more interesting things at hand, like the whales themselves. Tory rolled the microphone in her hand, weighing what she was going to say next.
Oh, go for it, she thought. What’s the worst they can do?
The worst they could do was tell her boss, who could yell at her for going off script. The worst they could do was leave a bad review for the service. But the best they could do …
The best they could do was listen.
Raising the microphone again, she said, “Sometimes called ‘killer whales’ by fishermen who wanted an excuse to paint them as vicious monsters, orcas are intelligent enough that some marine biologists argue they should be considered people. They’re potentially as smart as you or me—and smarter than some of us. Despite this, marine parks continue to display wild-caught orcas. Orcas are captured as calves, separated from their parents, who will continue to cry for them long after they have been removed from the water. Orca parents have been known to recognize their adult children after twenty years, and are always
overjoyed to have them home again, assuming those stolen calves live long enough to be released. Eighty percent of wild-caught orcas will die in captivity, never seeing their families again. If anything is going to drive the orca to live up to the name ‘killer whale,’ it’s the way they’ve been treated by humanity. Orcas—”
A hand landed on her shoulder as the microphone was plucked from her fingers. She turned to see Leroy, their “first mate,” standing behind her and scowling.
“You know better,” he hissed. “Stay on script for the rest of the damn trip.”
“Sorry,” she said, and reached for her microphone.
After a brief, wary pause, he gave it to her.
“Sorry about that, folks,” she said, turning back to the water. “Now, if you’ll look to the left, you’ll see the distinctive spout of a gray whale coming up for air—”
She spoke, and the boat rocked, and the sea, deep and dark and endless, spread out all around them, and for a little while, she could pretend she was home.
CHAPTER 2
Monterey, California: July 28, 2022
What do you mean, fired?”
Jay O’Malley, owner and operator of Dream Dives Whale-Watching, looked impassively at the young marine biologist. “I mean, you’re fired,” he said. “You’re a smart girl, it’s a simple phrase, you should be able to get it if you think hard. I believe in you.”
Tory sputtered. “But—but—the season isn’t over!”
“It is for you,” he said. He sighed. “When we let Jon go for calling passengers names, you were fine with it. I didn’t find you in here fighting for his job. You took his shifts and you smiled and told me to my face that you’d rein in your tongue, and like a fool, I believed you. I don’t like it when people make me feel like a fool, Victoria. It makes me wonder what else I might be letting slip by me.”
“I said I was sorry,” she protested.
“You made two children cry,” he said implacably. “You caused immediate emotional distress to families who were looking for a nice day out on the water, enjoying the majesty of nature. Some of those same families have been to SeaWorld or Atlantis to enjoy the majesty of nature. They didn’t enjoy being told that they were wrong to do so.”
Tory opened her mouth to speak, then paused, closing it again. He wasn’t going to give her back her job; she could see that. When she’d crossed the line this time, she’d done it conclusively. She still hadn’t thought he’d fire her. She took a breath in through her nose, let it carefully out, and said, “Whether they enjoyed it or not, they needed to hear it. Those whales are being held captive against their will. They have a right to be free.”
“And I have a right to not have customers come rushing in demanding refunds, but here we both are.” Jay shook his head. He was a big man, soft from years spent on land, although his shoulders and neck were still thick with muscle from his time as a fisherman. He was an imposing figure when he stood, which was the reason he gave for staying seated almost all the time: he wanted to delight people, not intimidate them. “You’ve been a good guide. If you want to reapply next summer, I’ll consider you. But for this season, you’re a liability. You’re done.”
Reapplying would mean coming in at entry level: half the pay and all the worst boats, the ones no other marine biologist wanted. The thought burned. Even worse, by next summer, she’d either be defending her dissertation or looking for a new adviser, either of which would leave her too exhausted to jockey for a new place in the pecking order. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, hoping her unhappiness wouldn’t come through in her voice, even though she knew full well that it would. “Should I see Christine for my last paycheck?”
Jay frowned. For all his good points, he didn’t like paying his employees even a second early—or, quite honestly, at all. There’d been a bit of a scandal a few years back, when he’d tried to convince college students to intern on his boats for the “experience.” That had been shut down quickly by students and universities alike, but the memory clearly still stung. “I’ll mail it to you.”
“If I don’t have it by the end of the week, I’ll have to come back and ask about it,” said Tory, in her sweetest tone. “I guess I might wind up talking to some people about whales.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“You just fired me. I think I’ve earned a little blackmail.”
Jay exhaled hard. “You can’t talk to your bosses like this in the real world.”
“I’m not planning to go into the real world. I’m going to work in marine conservation. As long as I’m not dangling from the ceiling, people will take me seriously as a scientist.”
“I’ll get Christine to set up your deposit and provide you with a receipt.”
“Thank you,” said Tory. She took one last look around the Dream Dives offices, taking in the maps of the Monterey Bay, the awards from local polls and contests, and the framed pictures on the walls. Her entire life was on these walls, from her childhood as a passenger to her gawky teenage years as a deckhand, all the way to her time as an adult subject matter expert. She had grown up here, measuring things one summer at a time.
When she looked back to Jay he was watching her, a strangely gentle look in his eyes. “You still chasing mermaids, Vic?” he asked.
“I’ve never been chasing mermaids,” she said. “I’ve only ever been chasing Anne.”
Jay nodded solemnly. “Well, then. I hope you find her.”
Tory drove along the road that would take her home, trying not to dwell on the meager size of her final paycheck. It had been enough for a few weeks’ worth of groceries, or to buy access to another set of private camera rigs. The oceans were still the great unknown: with so many fledgling marine biologists switching to climate science and meteorology when the die-offs began, and with so many others going straight into conservation, the ones who remained didn’t have the manpower to chart everything that was out there. Cameras were smaller and cheaper every year, and there were video networks sunk through the entirety of the open sea, but almost all of them were privately owned. Passes were sold by the season, since most of the people requesting access were trying to map the increasingly unpredictable weather patterns of the world’s oceans.
Tory could have done guided whale-watching tours for years without saving enough to buy camera time on one of the really exclusive networks, the ones sunk around volcanic vents or in the spawning grounds of the great white sharks. That was fine. The cameras she needed were smaller, less reliable, and almost entirely pointed at the Mariana Trench. She checked the amount of the deposit twice before sending off requests for access to two more of those networks. Food was less important than footage. She’d lived on ramen noodles and dried seaweed sheets before. Doing it again was no problem.
Monterey was still a beautiful city, even after closing on twenty years of drought, wildfires, and other complications. The fires had never reached the city, although they’d come close a few times; Tory would never forget the first evacuation, huddled on the beach, wrapped in a thermal blanket while she watched the sky turn red. She’d been nineteen at the time, Anne less than two years gone, and the thought of losing her home so soon after she’d lost her sister had been enough to trigger a full-blown panic attack, sending her weeping into her father’s arms. But the city hadn’t burned. The firefighters had stopped the fire before it could get that far, and Monterey had endured, becoming a little bit more of a period piece masquerading as a tourist town with every passing year. They’d always been haunted by the ghosts of Steinbeck and Cannery Row, those two great icons of the Great Depression. Now they were also haunted by the coastal towns that hadn’t been so lucky, by all the pieces of a dying way of life.
What people didn’t understand was how hard Monterey worked for its own survival. They hadn’t been able to stop or slow climate change, but they had been blessed with a high concentration of scientists, drawn by the Monterey Bay Aquarium and its many conservation programs. Faced with the idea of losing t
hat research site, those same scientists had set themselves against the problem with an iron will. They had chased funding, pursued grants, and encouraged innovation. As a result, while the rest of the state was falling into despair, the people of Monterey were building as fast as they could, throwing lines into the future and hoping they would hold.
Desalination plants dotted the coastline like fairy towers, their solar-paneled roofs glittering in the California sun. They were closely monitored by marine biologists and conservationists, watched for signs of negative environmental impact. That was just a formality. The city needed the tax breaks provided by the state in exchange for them waiving their groundwater rights. The city needed the food produced by local farmers. The city needed water.
Tory was grateful for the desalination plants, like every other child of California, but that didn’t stop the shiver from running up her spine when she looked at them. The waste produced by the desalination process was proving invaluable to scientists, letting them catalog pollution, document plankton, even analyze salt levels to determine the scope of the dilution effect triggered by the still-melting glaciers. The water that went back to the sea went back clean. Fully two-thirds of the desalination plants were also devoted to water purification, removing pollutants before restoring the salt level and pushing the cleansed water back out to sea. The ocean’s potential to supply humanity with freshwater seemed limitless.
But the rain forests had seemed limitless once, as had the redwoods. It was hard not to look at the plants and guess at the shape of an as-yet-uncharted future looming out of the fog, too distant to see clearly, but coming closer all the time.
Tory took her eyes away from the coast and focused on the road.
There were three kinds of people in Monterey: the idle rich, who’d moved there when it became clear that this small jewel of the Pacific wouldn’t burn like Lake County or wither into desiccated silence like Santa Cruz; the scientists, who lived in subsidized housing and kept the complex system of desalination, solar power, and grant-bearing research going; and the remainders of the old Monterey, the people who weren’t going anywhere, no matter how much they were offered, no matter how broadly the research organizations hinted.