Generations

by Steve Alten

He descended from the platform to where a throng of reporters had gathered, everyone calling out questions.

  “Guys, if you’d head down to the gallery, I’ll answer all of your questions downstairs.”

  He watched them head for the exit leading below as Monty joined him with his scuba gear.

  “Just the vest and snorkel—she doesn’t let me get as close with the air tank.”

  “At least take a pony bottle; I charged two of them in case you wanted one.” He reached into a backpack and handed David a small container of compressed air. “You can clip it onto your weight belt.”

  “Yeah … okay. That’s actually a good idea.”

  “I guess Luna’s not the only dumb animal that can be trained around here.”

  “I never called you a dumb animal, Monty.”

  “I know. I was referring to you. But no worries, you’re not the first fool to tempt Mother Nature. Take Tania Cruz. She decided to go for a swim with Lizzy in the Salish Sea.”

  “What happened?”

  “Bela ate her.”

  “Bela had a nasty streak.”

  “And knowing Lizzy, she probably baited the woman into entering the water.”

  “Enough. The main reason I’m doing this is to lock her down inside the lagoon. Once we widen the access tunnel, she can move freely between the two tanks.”

  David spit inside his mask and smeared it around to prevent fogging. Slipping on his swim fins, he swung his right leg over the guardrail and glanced at Luna.

  The shark was spy-hopping twenty feet away, the Meg watching his every move.

  Are you suckering me, Luna?

  Swinging his left leg over the rail, he placed the snorkel into his mouth and eased himself into the water.

  He remained close to the surface so he could breathe, his mask underwater so he could see.

  Luna submerged and circled twenty feet below him as if beckoning David into deeper water.

  She’s aware of the audience in the gallery. Does she mean to kill me as a warning to the others not to invade her space?

  He heard a strange sound … like a flock of birds flapping their wings. Looking down, he realized people were banging on the glass three stories below, attempting to get the Meg’s attention.

  Oh, geez … they must think I fell into the tank by accident.

  He removed the pony bottle of air, spit out the snorkel, and placed the built-in regulator in his mouth. Heart pounding, he drew in a deep breath and descended.

  He paused in thirty feet of water as Luna rose to meet him. He could see his reflection in her volleyball-size eye as she passed within five feet, her gill slits fluttering in his face.

  Seeing the approaching pectoral fin, David attempted to hitch a ride by grabbing on to the one-foot-thick, winglike appendage. But the Meg’s hide was too rough and he let go, tumbling sideways.

  Stop trying to ride the damn thing and get it inside the tunnel.

  David swam over to the entrance to the passage, beckoning Luna to follow. The Meg circled twice, and then entered the tunnel.

  * * *

  “The passage was sealed after Luna entered the lagoon. She doesn’t like being there; she can detect Angel’s scent. But now we’ll be able to drain the Meg Pen and widen the tunnel so she’ll be able to move from one tank to the other.”

  David was in the gallery, dressed in jeans and a Tanaka Institute collared shirt, standing at the podium before several hundred reporters.

  “Okay, now I’ll be happy to answer any questions.… Yes?”

  “Lauren Haight, CNN. That was a pretty dangerous stunt. Is this going to be a regular part of the new shows?”

  “There will always be some kind of human-Megalodon interaction. I can’t promise I’ll be taking a dip with Luna every feeding, but I am teaching her some wild new tricks. Once she gets settled into her new home, I’ll be able to work with her more. Angel’s scent makes her nervous.”

  “Steve Chyborak, San Francisco Chronicle. Could you give us an update on what’s going on with the Liopleurodon?”

  “Honestly, I haven’t spoken with Jacqueline Buchwald in over a year. Locate the Mogamigawa and you’ll find the expedition.”

  “The tanker’s last reported position was off the Channel Islands. That was nine months ago; she hasn’t been seen since.”

  “And neither has the Lio, so that’s a good thing.” He turned to a gentleman seated in the first row. “Yes, sir—did you have a question?”

  “Indeed. Dolf van Craanenburgh, Süddeutsche Zeitung—Southern Germany News. Our readers wish to know if the purpose of your dive with the Megalodon was an attempt to sway the Canadian government to call off the hunt for Luna’s mate following the recent attack off Vancouver Island?”

  “First, it’s not Luna’s mate—it’s Bela’s surviving offspring. As for my dive with Luna … sure, part of my motivation was to dispel the public’s fear about Megs and sharks in general. Yes, these are apex predators, but they are not cold-blooded killing machines; they have a place in the ocean’s hierarchy.”

  “Don’t you mean they had a place?” a woman shot back from the third row. “These monsters went extinct; they serve no purpose on the food chain, other than to kill off the orca pods in British Columbia.”

  David read her name tag: Heather Kitchens, Washington Post. “Ms. Kitchens, every year great white sharks kill surfers; every summer bull sharks attack bathers in the shallows. And yet there’s no public demand to hunt them down. Humans sit at the top of the ocean’s food chain, not a solitary Megalodon. Man is decimating the oceans; commercial fishermen are ruthlessly slaughtering millions of sharks by cutting off their fins for shark fin soup. If you added all of these shark incidents together, they wouldn’t amount to one percent of the population who are killed or crippled by people texting while driving. Is the Canadian government planning a ban on iPhones?”

  Diana DeBoer, a Canadian journalist, stood to be called upon. The woman with the striking red hair and green eyes was clearly perturbed by David’s attitude. “This monster isn’t just killing the occasional civilian, Mr. Taylor, it’s going after any craft that dares to venture into her territory. Do you know what they’re calling her now?”

  “Not really. My friend calls her Lunatic—sort of a play on ‘Luna.’”

  “A Hispanic teen named her Bela Diablo, as in ‘Bela the devil,’ after he witnessed her sink a charter boat and dismember three of his friends. Notice I didn’t say ‘eat.’ Apparently, this particular Meg doesn’t like the taste of humans; she just wants them dead. The same thing was reported by the woman whose boyfriend was killed three days ago. Since then, the B.C. media has been calling her Belladonna. Do you know what belladonna is, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I don’t know … a porn star?” He shrugged as his response drew a few laughs.

  The redhead was not amused. “Belladonna is a dark, poisonous berry so toxic that ingesting even a small amount can kill you. The Tanaka Institute is responsible for Belladonna’s poisoning the Salish Sea. And judging by the size of her albino cousin, it won’t be long until she internally fertilizes her eggs like her mother and spreads her demon seed throughout the waters of British Columbia. Before that happens, she needs to be hunted down and killed, Mr. Taylor. And you appear to be the one most qualified to handle that.”

  A flutter of camera clicks froze the moment in time, the flashes momentarily blinding David’s eyes with purple spots.

  “I agree something has to be done about Bela’s offspring populating the Salish Sea with Megs. Our resident marine biologist, Carmen Rodriguez, is working on a drug that, when injected using a hypodermic dart, would sterilize the shark’s…”

  David paused as he saw his father enter the gallery, pushing someone in a wheelchair.

  “Oh my God…”

  David left the podium and dashed up the center aisle to embrace his mother.

  Emmett Industries, Tanaka Pier

  Monterey, California

  The black Toyota Coroll
a made its way to the security gate at the end of the private pier, the driver rolling down her window to show her identification to the guard.

  “Morning, Dr. Emmett. I didn’t expect to see you on a Sunday. Guess there are no days off for the boss.”

  She ignored the comment, her eyes focusing on the Harley-Davidson motorcycle parked by the front entrance of the building. “I see Dulce’s here. What time did she arrive?”

  “I’m not sure she ever left. The Harley was here when I started my morning shift.”

  Helen Emmett waited impatiently for the gate to swing open wide enough to drive through without scratching her side-view mirrors. She parked in her reserved spot at the front of the building, her blood pressure ticking up a few points higher at the sight of her assistant’s motorcycle in a spot reserved for the handicapped.

  Pick your battles, Helen.…

  The CEO of Emmett Industries grabbed her purse and brown-bag lunch and exited the vehicle, heading inside the building.

  * * *

  Helen Emmett was born in Christchurch, New Zealand, her parents eventually relocating the family to Auckland. Her earliest memory was when she was six and her older siblings had locked her in a room, forcing her to watch Jaws 2. From that moment on she had become a shark fanatic. By the time she was nine she had been certified to dive; a year later she was swimming with seven gilled sharks in the Napier Aquarium. At home in the water, she remained an introvert on land, a trait no doubt influenced by her slight five-foot-three-inch stature and librarian looks.

  Her world had been rocked during her freshman year in college when a pregnant Megalodon rose from the depths of the Mariana Trench, its lone surviving pup captured and raised in the man-made lagoon at the Tanaka Institute.

  If there was one Megalodon in the trench, there had to be more. What other exotic prehistoric life-forms were down there? She had to know! The challenge, of course, was getting there. Intent on being at the forefront of this new “monster industry,” she switched her studies from premed to engineering in order to design deep-water craft that could withstand the titanic pressures of the abyss.

  Two decades and six patents later, Emmett Industries was the go-to company for sea exploration. When Jonas Taylor’s Submersible Designs Inc. was placed on the market, she purchased the company, despite protests from her business advisers that she was paying far too much for the antiquated workshop.

  It was Luna’s capture two weeks earlier that had motivated her to buy Taylor out. To observe this magnificent creature on a daily basis … she had actually insisted that a clause for twenty-four-hour access to the Meg Gallery be added to the buyout agreement. She began each morning and concluded every workday watching the albino creature circling its aquarium—the exception being the past few days, ever since Luna had been exiled into the lagoon.

  Was it any wonder she was in such a dour mood?

  And then there was her assistant. Dulce Lunardon was everything Helen was not—cocky, athletic, outgoing, and alluring. The moment David Taylor had set eyes on the twenty-three-year-old submersible pilot with the long brown, blond-highlighted hair, he had been smitten.

  Wouldn’t surprise me if he told the girl he had named Luna after her.

  Was Helen jealous? In truth, she was envious. For the better part of a year she had played the role of Jonas Taylor’s confidante, their relationship expanding from shoptalk about his Manta sub design to his depression over his wife’s vegetative state, as their friendship showed signs of developing into something more.

  Last week she had emboldened him into a passionate kiss.

  Three days ago his wife had awakened … almost as if she knew what was coming down the road.

  Helen had not seen Jonas since; but David had told Dulce that the Chinese acupuncturist was rigorously rehabbing Terry, and that her husband had not left her side.

  So much for their past twelve months of friendship.

  In truth, what had set her off this morning was not Jonas Taylor, or Dulce’s motorcycle, or even the missing hours of tranquility watching Luna in the Meg Pen. It was the text message she had received from her business partner and investor at six-fifteen the night before:

  “Be available to receive my call, 0900 hours Pacific—J.H.”

  * * *

  Helen moved through the small lobby and entered her security code, accessing the administrative offices. She continued down the marble corridor to the double doors of her suite and keyed in by pressing her right eye to the optical scanner.

  The bolt clicked open and she entered.

  Helen’s office was more live-in apartment than office. A floor-to-ceiling window made up the north wall, providing an ocean view of the back end of the Tanaka arena and canal. There was a kitchenette and small eating area, and a second door led into a bathroom, replete with Jacuzzi, shower, and a sleep pod. Helen’s work space encompassed the south side of the suite—a horseshoe-shaped enclave that surrounded her with virtual screens. Though she lacked Dulce’s piloting reflexes, within this portal she was in command, able to test any new design element in a virtual three-dimensional environment.

  As she sat in her desk chair, her presence activated her computer assistant, Roland.

  “Good morning, Helen. I wasn’t expecting you until Monday.”

  “Business call from Hong Kong. Where’s Dulce?”

  “Dulce Lunardon is in the simulator.”

  “Give me a visual.”

  The array of computer monitors activated, each displaying a different angle of her naked assistant, curled up in the arms of David Taylor.

  “Dulce!”

  The girl woke. “Helen, is that you?” Instead of covering up her nudity, she held her left hand up to the monitor, a diamond ring poised on her fourth finger. “Guess who proposed last night!”

  David opened his eyes. “Oh, shit—”

  The monitors went blank.

  Christ, that’s just perfect. What else can you pile on me, God?

  “Incoming call from Hong Kong … Dr. Johnny Hon.”

  I had to ask.…

  “Put it through.” She forced a smile. “Good evening, Johnny. How are things?”

  “We’ll cut through the small talk. Have the new defense systems been field-tested yet?”

  “Not yet. We’re tentatively scheduled for Thursday.”

  “Push them up.”

  Helen felt the blood drain from her face. “You had another encounter?”

  “Sting Ray-3. No survivors.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Assuming the new defense system passes the field test, how many SRs can be equipped and ready for delivery by Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday? As in two days from now? Let’s see … I have two Sting Rays here in Monterey, but the propulsion unit is shot in one of them. Our plant in San Diego has two units that should be mission-ready—”

  “I am dispatching a C-5 transport; it will arrive Thursday to pick up the three vehicles. I am also in need of a pilot. Have Dulce accompany the subs; I’ll be sending my private jet to pick up the Taylors. I am extending an invitation for them to join me at Site-B.”

  “The Taylors? Which Taylors?”

  “Jonas and his wife. I do not expect him to make the trip without Terry.”

  “My God … you’re the one who sent the acupuncturist?”

  Johnny Hon never reacted, confirming her statement. “I want to see the field-test results in twenty-four hours. Have a blessed day.”

  78 Nautical Miles West of the Channel Islands

  Eastern Pacific Ocean

  A gray sky cast its winter pall over a chilly November morning. Wind lashed the surface into foam, creating a snow-like effect over the endless peaks and troughs of ocean spread out before them.

  Jacqueline Buchwald stood in the bow of the Mogamigawa in defiance of both the elements and her mission. She ran a palm across the crown of her freshly shaved head, wiping away moisture before tucking on the thick hood of her sweatshirt, granting herself
a moment’s reprieve from the wind. Her eyes remained fixed on the sea and she inhaled its briny scent deep into her lungs. The creature was close; she had known it for days, and this morning she had proven it to her crew, her prediction bonding them to her. In an act of solidarity with her crew, she had shaved her head. When they captured Junior, she had promised to allow them to tattoo her scalp.

  The previous nine months at sea had changed the marine biologist, after the first four had nearly broken her. Forced into a position of leadership she had not earned, and a responsibility that did not match her skill set, she quickly found herself at the mercy of an aggressive crew made up of Indians and Middle Eastern men and a handful of women—the latter having been brought on board to cook and service the tanker’s officers.

  A razor-thin lifeline of sanity kept the pack bridled, and that was the slightest of possibilities that maybe the American female knew how to capture the Lio and earn them all a small fortune.

  But the monster, no longer a juvenile, hadn’t been seen since the day it had escaped from the Tonga, and Jackie’s actions seemed born more out of desperation than a strategy to capture the beast. Yes, there was the carnage the creature had left back in the Farallones, and for two months the ship had remained in the Red Triangle—until it became obvious that Fiesal bin Rashidi’s replacement knew no more about how to recapture the Lio than the dead man she had replaced.

  When another month passed and the creature failed to return, the mood of the crew shifted from skeptical to dangerous. Several of the men began making sexual overtures, forcing Jackie to remain a prisoner in her cabin after sunset.

  Warned by one of the women that ringleaders among the crew were organizing a mutiny that would end with her death, she worked feverishly on a plan that would bring the Mogamigawa to a populated area where she could make her escape. Two hours later she had met with the ship’s officers, a rolled-up map in her hand.

  “There was a reason we remained in the Farallones for so long. The Lio’s preferred delicacy is elephant seal. These mammals spend ten months of the year thousands of miles from shore, but twice a year they return to land to mate, molt, and give birth to their young. I needed to see if the males would be returning to the Farallon rookery, which it seems they have abandoned. They have to go somewhere; the question is where?”