The Beast of Cretacea

  “Right,” Queequeg agrees emphatically. “That’s how it always is with you people. It’s all about business.”

  Rather than take offense, Pip seems amused. “Ah, the Lector expounds. Don’t you ever tire of this absurd dream of destabilizing the world order?”

  “Not the world order,” Queequeg counters. “Your world order, which works really well for the Gilded and really badly for everyone else.”

  “If it weren’t for the Gilded, there’d be no order, period,” Pip snaps.

  Queequeg smirks disdainfully. “At least, that’s what you’d like everyone to believe.”

  Pip rolls his eyes. “Who constructed the Zirconia Electrolysis stations to provide the planet with oxygen? And the Natrient factories? Who pays for these missions that bring resources back to Earth?”

  “Don’t the Gilded have to breathe and eat as well?” Queequeg asks scornfully.

  “Like we’d ever eat Natrient,” Pip scoffs, then catches himself. His face turns red.

  Queequeg chuckles bitterly. “Oh, right, I forgot. That’s only for us menial laborers.”

  By midday, Ishmael’s throat is so parched he can barely swallow. Queequeg’s and Pip’s faces and arms are smeared with dirt, and he’s sure he doesn’t look any better. They would definitely be sweating were there any moisture left in their bodies to sweat.

  “Can I ask you a question, friend?” Queequeg starts in again with Pip.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “What are you doing here? In all seriousness. If you’re of the Gilded, you sure don’t need the money. So why are you on this planet?”

  “This planet,” Pip repeats in a snarky tone, then shrugs like he knows it’s stupid to be antagonistic. “You truly want to know? I was bored.”

  Ishmael cocks his head curiously. Of all the answers he might have predicted Pip giving, that wasn’t one of them.

  “You have no idea how dull that life is,” Pip goes on. “The same people doing and saying the same things all the time. Wearing the same clothes and acting in the same ways. I was going crazy. It got to the point where I said I would run away. Not that I had the faintest idea where I’d go. It was an empty threat, but it worked, and it just so happened that there was something useful I could do here.”

  “Be a drone op?” Queequeg frowns.

  “Cartography, if you must know. Gathering imagery to map Cretacea.”

  Ishmael eyes Pip curiously. “When the pirates caught you, they complimented you on your swimming. Where did you learn to swim?”

  Pip looks away without answering. But in a way, that is the answer.

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” Queequeg says bitterly. “While the rest of us didn’t have enough water to wash in, he and his type were swimming in pools of it. So Pip, bet you’re sorry you’re not in your nice comfortable boring world now.”

  Pip snorts. “You Lectors think you’re so smart, so smugly righteous and morally superior.” He pauses and looks at Ishmael, then appears to make up his mind about something. “Suppose I told you that your close friend here is of the Gilded, too?”

  Queequeg laughs. “That’s a good one.”

  “Tell him,” Pip says to Ishmael.

  Queequeg’s grin fades, and he gives Ishmael an uncertain look.

  “How could I be of the Gilded?” Ishmael asks. “I’m from Black Range, the armpit of the coal region. My foster parents work at a Zirconia Electrolysis station, like everyone else in Black Range who is lucky enough to have a job.”

  “Hold out your registry,” Pip says knowingly.

  Ishmael hesitates, then tells Queequeg, “Something strange is going to happen. I don’t understand why, but —”

  “Just do it,” Pip cajoles, then says to Queequeg, “Watch closely.” He crosses his left wrist over Ishmael’s. In the dim light of the shipping container, there’s the faintest blue spark, and once again Ishmael feels a shock.

  Queequeg gives him an astonished look. Ishmael rubs his wrist and thinks back to his last night on Earth, when Old Ben’s registry greeted his the same way. Old Ben was the last person Ishmael would have imagined being of the Gilded, but there were certain things about him that now make Ishmael wonder. How could such an old, broken-down, benzo-swilling husk of a man be the manager of the Zirconia Electrolysis station? And back at the foundling home, the way he spoke to the haughty Ms. Hussey and she listened without argument . . .

  In a voice rife with misgivings, Queequeg asks, “What . . . what was that spark?”

  But before the discussion can continue, the tall, toothless pirate and the scrawny one appear at the container door.

  “Now whish of you gentlefellers ish Lopesh-Makaroba?” lisps the toothless one.

  Pip gets to his feet. The tall, thin pirate smiles — a grisly sight. “Well, if it ain’t ol’ Pudgy himshelf !” He takes out his gun and aims it at Queequeg and Ishmael while he unlocks the shipping container door. “Come wish us.”

  Pip pauses and gives Ishmael an apologetic look.

  “See if they’ll give us water,” Ishmael reminds him, then watches as the Gilded boy goes.

  “Think they’ll let us die?” Queequeg rasps. Hours have passed since Pip was taken away. During that time, Ishmael explained that he has no idea how he could be of the Gilded, since he’ d never even heard of them until he arrived on the Pequod. Queequeg believes him, saying it wouldn’t matter now, anyway; he knows what Ishmael is made of, Gilded or not.

  Ishmael cannot recall ever being so thirsty. He can’t bear the idea that he might perish here in this shipping container, not knowing what happened to his foster parents or having found Archie. Is there truly no justice in the universe?

  “Hey.” The scrawny pirate with the hooked fingers looks in at them. His left cheek and eye are red and puffy, like he’s recently been on the losing end of a fight. From under his shirt he pulls an animal-skin bag that sloshes. The sound is enough to drive Ishmael mad. He’s stunned when the pirate offers the bag through the gap to Queequeg and him.

  They pass the animal skin back and forth, drinking quickly. At the same time, the scrawny pirate appears to be keeping an eye out for anyone coming. Suddenly he reaches in, snatches the empty bag, and slides it back under his shirt. Then, with feigned gruffness, he loudly demands, “Come on, you gotta know how many terrafins they’ve landed in the past six months.”

  A moment later he’s joined by the toothless pirate. “They confirm you of anyshing, Blank?”

  “I think they were just gonna, Glock.”

  The pirate named Glock looks in at Ishmael and Queequeg.

  “Where did you take our friend?” Ishmael asks.

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t be conshentrated about him,” Glock answers. “He’s valued hish proportions in joy juice. He’ll be finalized jush fine. Come on, Blank.”

  The scrawny pirate hesitates. “Shouldn’t we try to trade them for juice, too?”

  “Naw, Kalashnikov says theesh two aren’t worsh a day of time,” Glock says.

  It takes a moment to unravel the pirate’s meaning. Queequeg points at Ishmael. “They’d trade for him. He’s of the Gilded, too.”

  “Him?” Glock scowls. “That accurshed?”

  “Don’t I wish,” Ishmael says. “I’m afraid my friend’s delirious from thirst.”

  Glock sneers at Queequeg. “Nicesh try, head meat.”

  The two pirates depart. In the container, Queequeg gives Ishmael a frustrated look. “You should have told him, Ish. You could have gotten out of here.”

  Ishmael settles back down on the dirty container floor. “Not without you, Queek.”

  That night Ishmael and Queequeg take turns batting away crawling creatures in the dark. By the morning, they’re drained, and as thirsty as ever. When Glock and Blank return, the scrawny pirate cups a rifle with his bad hand. He waits for Glock to unlock the container door, then motions with the muzzle of the rifle. “Let’s go.”

  Outside, Blank points to a couple of shovels. “Gra
b ’em.”

  Queequeg and Ishmael do what they’re told, and Blank marches them barefoot through the camp. It’s still early, and while a few pirates are out and about, the doors to most of the crude dwellings are locked shut. As they pass the fire pit, Ishmael feels the hard nubs and ragged edges of bones underfoot. Many appear to have come from scurry or flyers, and here and there are larger bones that might have come from some medium-size animal. A few of the bones are larger still . . . almost, Ishmael realizes with alarm, of hominid proportions.

  “Any chance we could get something to drink?” Queequeg croaks.

  Blank answers by poking him hard in the back with the rifle barrel. “Shut up and walk.” He forces them along a thin trail through the undergrowth, past tall, limbless trees, to an open area with a hut. Buckets, metal drums, and wire screens lie about.

  “Up there.” Blank points at a narrow path leading up to a cave in the side of a hill.

  Ishmael and Queequeg start to climb, but they stop when a sharp, unpleasant odor hits their nostrils. It’s coming from the cave opening, which is barely wide enough for someone to crouch down and squeeze into. After tying a bandanna over his nose and mouth, Blank lights a torch and gestures with his weapon. “Go in.”

  Ishmael and Queequeg inch into the cramped, dark cave. The stench is stronger here, and Ishmael’s eyes begin to sting and water. His lungs burn. Blank’s torch lighting the way, they find themselves in a vast, open cavern. In its middle is a large, dark mound, which is the source of the caustic odor. Buckets lie on the ground.

  “What is this?” Queequeg wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Ya new jobs.” Blank jams the torch into a crack in the cavern wall. “Start diggin’. Fill those buckets.”

  While Queequeg tentatively jabs his shovel into the side of the mound, something catches Ishmael’s eye, and he looks up at the ceiling of the cavern. At first he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. Then, with a start, he realizes that hanging upside down above them are thousands of horrible-looking, white-fanged, gray-and-brown creatures.

  “Don’t worry, they sleep durin’ the day.” Blank wipes his brow. “Fill ten of them buckets and bring ’em out.” With that, he turns and goes back outside, where the air is fresher and it’s possible to draw a full breath without gagging.

  The digging is dreadfully hot, unpleasant work. Each time Ishmael or Queequeg thrusts a shovel into the mound, a new burst of sharp, acrid odor fills their noses and burns their eyes. Both have to stop several times to retch, and it’s not long before the front and back of their dirty uniforms are dark with sweat.

  Having filled ten buckets with the foul-smelling stuff, they eagerly lug them out of the cave and into the fresh air. Next Blank orders them to scrape the contents of the buckets through wire mesh, then mix it with charcoal from the fire pit and a white-yellow substance with a rotten odor all its own. The resulting powder is black and malodorous.

  “Some water, friend, please?” Queequeg begs while they work under the broiling sun.

  The scrawny pirate holds up his animal skin and jiggles it. This time no sloshing sounds come from within.

  “Can’t you get us some?” Ishmael implores.

  Blank looks at them like they’re crazy. “If Glock or one of the others came by and found I’d left ya alone, I’d be shot. Enough talk. Back to work.”

  Ishmael and Queequeg have no choice but to make more of the black powder. Do the pirates plan to work them until they drop dead of thirst?

  Not far from them, lounging in the shade of a nearby tree, Blank takes his knife from its sheath and starts whittling a small stick. Because of his bad hand, he must clench the stick in his teeth. He’s concentrating deeply and not paying attention to them.

  Ishmael catches Queequeg’s eye. Should one of them sneak up behind the scrawny pirate and hit him over the head with his shovel? They could grab the rifle and run — but that’s where the plan gets dicey. To get to the chase boat, they’d have to go back toward the pirate camp. With one gun between the two of them, what chance would they have against all those armed brigands?

  Still, Ishmael isn’t certain how much longer they’ll last without water. And the longer they wait, the worse shape they’ll be in.

  He glances again at Blank, absorbed in whittling. After motioning to Queequeg to keep scraping the black stuff through the wire mesh, he picks up his shovel and starts quietly toward the tree, trying to stay out of the pirate’s line of sight. Soon he’s close enough. Having never hit anyone on the head with a shovel before, he isn’t sure how hard to swing. Ishmael doesn’t want to hurt him any more than is absolutely necessary. Blank may be a pirate, but he did sneak them water yesterday, and he doesn’t seem nearly as ruthless as the others.

  But at this point, it’s him or them.

  He raises the shovel.

  Crack!

  “Ahh!”

  Caught by surprise, Blank yelps and jumps up and spins around, coming face-to-face with Ishmael. “What’s goin’ on? What was that noise? Why ain’t you over there workin’?”

  “I . . . was coming over here to tell you we’re almost finished,” Ishmael lies, pretending to lean casually on his shovel. He points at the source of the noise — a treestone lying beside a large rock. “A treestone fell.”

  But Blank’s face has gone ashen and he’s trembling.

  “You okay, friend?” Queequeg asks hoarsely, coming toward them. “You look kind of shook up.”

  “I’m fine. Just don’t like loud noises,” Blank snaps peevishly. He knits his brow. “You ain’t slowin’ down, are ya? Get back to work.”

  But instead, Queequeg starts toward the hut.

  “What’re ya doin’? Stop!” Blank picks up the rifle.

  Queequeg keeps going. A rusty ax is propped next to the hut, and Ishmael wonders if that’s what his friend is headed for.

  “Hey! I said stop!” Blank aims the rifle.

  “Queek?” Ishmael says apprehensively, worried his friend may be so addled by thirst that he’ll try something stupid.

  Click! Blank unlocks the rifle’s safety. “I swear I’ll shoot!”

  “Go ahead,” Queequeg says. “If you won’t let us drink, we’re going to die anyway.”

  Blank’s finger quivers on the trigger. Ishmael’s stomach cramps anxiously. “Don’t shoot him! He’s delirious. From thirst.” He turns to Queequeg. “Stop, Queek. Don’t do this.”

  But Queequeg picks up the ax.

  Finger slowly tightening on the rifle’s trigger, Blank warns, “This is ya last chance!”

  The pirate’s attention is completely on Queequeg. Ishmael slowly starts to lift his shovel.

  “I swear, I’ll shoot!” Blank declares again, but to Ishmael the warnings have begun to sound hollow. If the pirate were going to shoot, he would have already. Queequeg comes closer with the ax. . . . And stops at the fallen treestone, which he starts to hack open.

  Feeling a wave of relief, Ishmael tells Blank, “It’s okay. He’s just getting us something to drink.”

  The pirate lowers the rifle. “He’s crazy. All he’s gonna find inside that thing is a hard, round nut.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Blank exclaims gleefully through a bulging cheekful of treestone meat a few minutes later. “These things’re all over the place and we ignore ’em.”

  “You can tell the other guys and be a hero,” Queequeg says, hacking open another.

  Blank’s face darkens. “Not a chance. Now I ain’t gonna have to go anywhere near that stupid fire pit and have my scurry and flyers stolen before I can eat ’em. The rest of ’em can starve for all I care.”

  Queequeg gulps down the water inside another nut and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Let me ask you a question, friend. If you hate the others so much, why be a pirate? Why not quit and join the crew of a scurry boat or something?”

  “Not with these.” Blank closes his eyes, displaying the crossbones tattoos on his eyelids. “I’m brande
d. No captain’ll ever let me on his boat.”

  Having finished his treestone meat, Blank starts to whittle again. When Queequeg asks what he’s doing, he explains that he’s making wooden darts, then sweeps away some fronds behind a shrub and proudly shows off the crossbow he’s fashioned out of wood, metal, and animal sinew. He demonstrates, firing at the trunk of a nearby tree. The dart buries itself in the bark.

  “See? As lethal as a gun,” the pirate says with pride. “And without all the noise, which makes it even better.”

  “You built this all by yourself ?” Queequeg runs his fingers over the crossbow.

  Blank beams.

  “Shown it to the other guys?”

  “Naw, they wouldn’t understand. The notion of stealth is lost on ’em. They ain’t big on subtlety.” He glances over at the wire mesh and black powder, and Ishmael wonders if he’s about to order them back to work.

  “What’re we making, anyway?” Ishmael asks, hoping to delay their return to the putrid-smelling cave.

  “Gunpowder.”

  “Serious?” Queequeg gestures at the buckets of gunk they dug in the cavern. “From that stuff ?”

  “Don’t believe me? Watch.” Blank opens the door to the hut. Inside are piles of cloth bags filled with black powder, as well as several long coils of what looks like black string. He takes a scoop of the black powder and lays a short trail on the ground, then lights one end with a match he’s taken from a box in the hut. Sizzling sparks and flames spurt beneath a small cloud of white smoke from one end of the black powder trail to the other.

  Queequeg stares, dumbfounded. “If I didn’t see that with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.”

  When it rains that night, water drips through the small, rusty holes in the roof of the shipping container. Queequeg and Ishmael lie on their backs with their mouths open, trying to catch whatever moisture they can. The water tastes metallic, and from time to time they have to pick tiny flecks of rust off their tongues, but after a day spent digging in the hot cave, they can’t get enough. Then while one tries to get a few hours of fitful sleep, the other bats away the creatures that crawl out of the maze of webs at the back of their cell.