“Friend or foe?” the call repeats. The voice sounds like a woman’s.
Another voice joins in: a boy’s. “I see him! He’s just lying there.”
“Careful,” the woman cautions. “Could be a trick. Put out the bumpers.”
The chase boat shudders, and suddenly Ishmael suspects it might not be a dream after all. This time when the woman shouts “Friend or foe?” she sounds closer. A strong smell of scurry is in the air.
Ishmael gathers what little strength he still possesses and props himself up a few inches. His skull feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and his arms and shoulders tremble with the strain. A trawler has come alongside, and two blurred figures stare down at him from the railing. The larger of the two — Ishmael thinks it’s the woman — is holding something long and dark that might be a shotgun.
“Friend or foe?”
Ishmael tries to swallow. His throat is so dry and sore he isn’t sure that words can crawl out, but somehow he manages to croak, “Even if . . . I were . . . a foe . . . I’d have to be . . . crazy . . . to say so.”
His head drops back to the chase-boat floor. The effort to hold it up has exhausted him.
Sunlight pours in through a porthole. Ishmael is lying in a cushioned bunk, covered by a thin blanket. It takes several moments before he figures out that he’s on the trawler, which is moving slowly, rocking this way and that. He vaguely remembers being pulled from the chase boat, and someone coming in now and then to give him water and food.
When he tries to rise, he feels woozy and dazed, but he waits for his mind to clear and slowly stands. Feeling his way along the wall to steady himself, he makes it to the head.
The face in the small mirror over the sink is gaunt and sunburned, with hollowed cheeks and protruding cheekbones. Though not thick, his mustache has grown in, as has the patch beneath his lower lip, but the hair on his chin is sparse and scraggly. Sliding his hands down his sides, Ishmael can feel his ribs and hip bones. How long was he stranded at sea? Even if he finds his way back to the Pequod, is he already too late to save Queequeg and prevent the pirates from attacking the islanders?
When he exits the head, he’s aware of a fracas coming from above. He finds a tunic and pants, which are too large and must be cinched with rope, then climbs the steps to the deck barefoot. From the moisture in the air and the position of the sun, he can tell that it’s midmorning.
The trawler is at the center of a cloud of flapping, wheeling white flyers making a tremendous ruckus. The woman and boy are in the stern, retrieving wet line through a pulley hanging from a boom overhead. They are wearing boots and bright-yellow overalls made of some slick waterproof material. The boy is young — maybe eleven or twelve. The woman has a stocky build and short gray hair; something about her is familiar. Clamped between her teeth is a stem with a small bowl at the end. Now Ishmael remembers: This is the trawler that traded pinkies for supplies with the Pequod months ago.
“Well, well, look who finally woke up.” The woman chuckles. “Sure two days of sleep was enough for you?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thanks for saving me.”
“See you found the clothes. Had to pitch your uniform overboard. Never smelled anything so awful.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
“Ever clean scurry?”
“Sorry, ma’am?”
The woman holds up a medium-size silver scurry. Its belly has been slit open and the innards removed, revealing pink meat.
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, you’re about to learn. Go back down and get yourself a bib, some boots, and gloves.”
Ishmael does what he’s told. While below, he sees through a porthole that Chase Boat Four has been secured to the starboard side of the trawler. If he ever gets back to the Pequod, Starbuck and Stubb will surely be pleased that he’s brought the boat back with him.
When Ishmael returns to the deck a short time later, the woman and boy are winding in netting and the flyers are in a frenzy, diving and trying to steal whatever morsels they can. The net begins to rise out of the water, bringing with it the huge, squirming ball of sea life. Ishmael expects to see wriggling pinkies, but instead the net is filled with a squirming silver-and-blue mass of scurry.
When the net is entirely out of the water, the woman and the boy swing it over the deck, spilling out a writhing blanket of scurry in all sizes. The intense screeching of the flyers is matched by an unexpected roar of applause — the desperate clapping of hundreds of scurry flopping on the deck.
“Round ’em up before they slip through the scuppers!” the woman yells, grabbing scurry by their tails and tossing them into buckets. Ishmael and the boy join in. The deck is glazed with scurry slime, and several times Ishmael slips and almost loses his balance until finally both feet shoot out from under him and he goes down hard on his butt.
The boy offers him a hand.
As Ishmael reaches for it, their wrists graze.
The shock catches them both by surprise. The boy freezes and stares at Ishmael in confusion. Once again, Ishmael has serious doubts about Pip’s claim that greeting registries are a sign of the Gilded. How could this boy be one of them? Why would any member of such an illustrious group want to crew on a smelly trawler on this harsh, backward planet?
The boy doesn’t ask what the shock meant, and Ishmael doesn’t offer to explain. Instead, the boy tightens his grip on Ishmael’s hand and helps him up.
“Show him what to do,” the woman shouts over the din of screeching flyers while she sorts through the buckets of twitching scurry on the deck, picking out the biggest and dropping them through a hatch.
“Come with me!” The boy leads Ishmael to a narrow table covered with gouges and small iridescent scurry scales. Laying a scurry on its side, he demonstrates how to slit its belly open, and uses his gloved fingers to scoop out the entrails. The “cleaned” scurry go into pails beside the table.
Ishmael gets to work, but he is much slower than the boy, who can deftly clean a scurry in seconds. Ishmael struggles to pin the flailing, slippery creatures on the slimy table and feels uncomfortable jabbing the knife into a living thing. And even though he’s wearing gloves, his hands and fingers are stuck repeatedly by the spiny fins. But he slowly catches on.
By the time they’ve finished with the scurry, Ishmael’s hands are sore and bloody. But the day’s work is still not done. He and the boy must hose down and scrub the cleaning table and deck until every bit of slime, entrail, and scurry scale has been washed through the scuppers and into the sea.
All the while, enticing smells of cooking seep out of the wheelhouse. Finally, the woman calls them to lunch in the small saloon belowdecks. The meal is fresh-cooked scurry, biscuits, and some sort of steamed green. A fold-out table is set with a tablecloth, cloth napkins, plates, and silverware.
While Ishmael eats ravenously, the boy and the woman take their time, handling their silverware with ease and refinement.
“This is delicious, ma’am.” Ishmael dabs his lips with his napkin. “I really appreciate it.”
“Please, call me Grace,” the woman says.
Grace . . .
Ishmael stops in mid-chew. He hasn’t forgotten what Old Ben said that last night back on Earth: “All I knew were Grace and the ocean. . . . The captain of our pinkboat.”
When Ishmael takes a moment too long to reply, Grace says, “And you are?”
“Call me Ishmael.”
“Nice to have you aboard, Ishmael.” Grace tilts her head toward the boy. “And this is my son, Benjamin.”
Feeling light-headed, Ishmael stares at the boy. The distinguishing facial characteristics are there — the broad forehead, the thick hair, the widow’s peak. Is he actually Old Ben? The thought is completely unsettling. It’s not possible — is it? The old man’s prophecies about Cretacea, the Pequod, Grace, and the pinkboat have already come true. But how in the universe could this boy end up an old wreck of a man in Black Range? How could he have lived there
for more than thirty years before Ishmael even left for Cretacea? And yet, that last night in Black Range, hadn’t Old Ben also said, “I wasn’t on a mission. Cretacea’s where I grew up.”
“Ahem.” Grace clears her throat.
“Sorry.” Ishmael realizes he’s been staring. Grace knits her brow. “Are you okay?”
Ishmael takes a deep breath to stop his head from spinning. “Yes, ma’am.”
“May I ask how you came to be floating in the middle of the ocean?” Grace asks. “In a stick boat from the Pequod, if I’m not mistaken.”
Ishmael swallows, then tells them the story.
“You were captured by pirates?” Benjamin asks with wide-eyed wonder.
Ishmael nods.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Grace says. “In a few days we’ll rendezvous with your ship to drop Benjamin off. He’s going back to Earth.”
“I said, I’m not going!” The boy crosses his arms defiantly.
“You must get an education, Benjamin,” Grace says patiently, in a way that makes Ishmael think she’s said this many times before.
“No, I mustn’t,” Benjamin protests. “I want to stay here with you.”
Meanwhile, Ishmael feels his insides churn while he recalls Old Ben’s warning: “Do not rendezvous with the Pequod. When Grace tells you that’s what she’s going to do, you have to stop her. . . . Lives are at stake.”
It may have once seemed impossible, but there’s no longer any doubt in Ishmael’s mind: This boy sitting in this trawler on this vast ocean on sun-blessed Cretacea will somehow grow into Old Ben on bleak, sooty, Shroud-covered Earth.
Unless Ishmael can stop them from meeting the Pequod.
“That story about you escaping from pirates really true?” Grace asks while she lights the bowl she has clamped in her teeth. Wisps of pungent smoke drift into the air. She and Ishmael sit on a narrow bench outside the wheelhouse and watch the sunset of pinks and purples over the vast blue ocean. They’ve finished dinner, and Benjamin is below in VR.
Ishmael cocks his head. “Why would you doubt it?”
“Been sailing these oceans a long time. Heard a lot of stories about pirates taking prisoners, but never heard of anyone getting away. Guess it was a good thing we found you when we did. You looked like you might not have lasted another day.”
“Not sure how long I’d have lasted if I hadn’t escaped in the first place,” Ishmael says, once again feeling an ache about leaving Queequeg behind. “Do you ever have trouble with them?”
“The pirates? No. They’re shore huggers, afraid of the open ocean. Don’t have a clue about navigation. As long as we stay out at sea, we don’t have to worry.” She points at the tiny terrafin skivers in his ears. “What about these?”
He tells her about his time with the islanders, but not about the terrafin pens.
Grace gives him an uncertain look. “Islanders? Never heard of them.”
“You’re serious?” Ishmael’s surprised.
“Well, like I said, we stay in deep waters because that’s where the scurry and pinkies are plentiful.” She relights her bowl. “Still, seems like you’ve covered an awful lot of ocean for someone who says he’s been here only a short time.”
Ishmael hears loud and clear what’s gone unsaid: She’d like to believe him, but isn’t convinced she should. But he’s curious about her, too. “How long have you been on Cretacea?”
“More than half my life at this point.” Grace lets out a puff of smoke. “I left Earth the day I found out there was a place like this, with real daylight and all sorts of living creatures and endless, beautiful ocean. Guess I was born with the sea in my blood. Why anyone would want to remain on that filthy, dark world is beyond me.”
“Then why send Benjamin there?”
“All he’s ever known is the ocean, but that doesn’t mean it’s in his blood, too. I made a choice about what kind of life I wanted to live. He deserves to have the choice as well.”
“But what makes you think he’d ever choose Earth? Like you said, it’s so ugly there.”
“Not everywhere.”
Ishmael absorbs this. It still seems incredible to him that there are places on Earth that aren’t as bad as Black Range. But he knows there must be. Like High Desert, where Billy’s family lives. And Pip, of course, comes from a place that must be much different, where there’s enough water to fill swimming pools, and people don’t depend on Natrient to survive.
But no matter where Grace thinks she’s sending Benjamin, Ishmael knows that eventually the boy will end up a broken-down benzo fiend living alone in Black Range. His insides are in turmoil. He promised Old Ben that he’d do whatever he could to stop Grace from rendezvousing with the Pequod, but that was before he knew that Queequeg’s life might depend on him getting back to the ship to organize a rescue. And before he knew the lives of the islanders might depend on him as well. Finally, it was before he knew that Archie was somewhere on Cretacea.
He knows he should tell Grace the truth, try to persuade her that Benjamin is better off on her pinkboat than he ever will be on Earth. That they shouldn’t interact with the Pequod . . .
But something else has begun to niggle at him:
It was Ben who discovered him and Archie in the foundling home, and who brought Petra and Joachim to see them.
It was Ben who persuaded Ms. Hussey to let Joachim and Petra take both boys when it became obvious that they were inseparable.
It was Ben who always said they could have better lives than anything the Zirconia Electrolysis station could offer.
Finally, it was Ben who encouraged Ishmael to go on this mission.
Is it possible . . . that Ben planned this from the beginning? So that he wouldn’t have to be sent back to Earth?
Has everything that’s happened to Ishmael since the day Ben spotted him in the foundling home been leading to this one moment, when Ishmael has the power to change the course of the old man’s life?
Has Old Ben simply been using him all this time?
No, Ishmael can’t believe that. He won’t believe that.
But even as he tells himself that, other suspicious thoughts worm their way in.
The Ψ9,000 he sent back . . . was it really for his foster parents?
You can’t think this way, he tells himself. You’ve got to trust.
But what about meeting up with the Pequod?
Ben’s is only one life. What about Queequeg and the islanders? Can he choose one man’s life over so many?
The trawler rocks gently on the waves. The sun is below the horizon now, but the clouds are still orange, pink, and purple. Fifty feet off the bow, a large scurry leaps out of the sea and splashes back down.
“I thought this was a pinkboat,” Ishmael says, watching the spreading rings of water where the scurry jumped. “I remember we traded with you a few months ago.”
“It’s a pinkboat when the pinkies are running. When they’re not running, we have to take whatever we can get, which means scurry.”
“Do you trade with ships besides the Pequod?”
Grace chuckles. “When all you’ve got are pinkies and scurry, you’ll trade with any ship you can.”
“Ever encounter one called the Jeroboam?” Ishmael asks.
Grace gazes off into the distance. “No.”
In the morning Ishmael wakes to the scent of red berry. His body aches and his hands are sore from cleaning scurry the day before, but he rises and goes into the head, where he decides to shave his chin but keep the mustache and patch beneath his lip.
When he gets to the galley, he gladly accepts a steaming mug from Grace.
“Benjamin’s up on the deck,” she tells him. “It’s a beautiful morning. Why don’t you join him?”
Mug in hand, Ishmael heads abovedecks. Benjamin, wearing a gray jersey with shortened sleeves, is in the bow. Ishmael sits beside him. The trawler drifts on the nearly flat ocean.
“So what’s it like on Earth, anyway?” the boy asks sullenly.
Ishmael takes a sip of red berry and answers carefully. “I guess it depends on where. Some places aren’t so great. . . . But it sounds like Grace wants to send you somewhere that’s better than most.” He feels a spasm of guilt. He hates being deceitful. But how can he tell this boy the truth as he knows it?
“What about the place you’re from?”
Before Ishmael can reply, they become aware of a distant speck in the sky and a high-pitched whine that grows louder until a drone hovers before them. Grace comes out of the wheelhouse, and it occurs to Ishmael that this drone is here to inspect them. Trust is a rare commodity on the open seas. They are supposed to meet the Pequod soon, and someone on that ship wants to make sure everything on this trawler is as it should be.
The drone circles the trawler and then returns to inspect the crew, coming within a few feet of Ishmael and lingering a moment longer.
“Get the feeling someone’s surprised to find you aboard?” Grace asks.
“Can’t blame them,” Ishmael answers.
Another moment passes, then the drone zips off.
Realizing what the drone’s visit signified, Benjamin shoves his hands into his pockets and pouts. “I’m not going.”
Grace lights her bowl. “There’s a lot more to life than living on this boat.”
“You like it,” Benjamin shoots back petulantly.
“It’s a choice I made after many years of seeing what else was out there,” says Grace. “It’s time for you to make your own choice.”
“This is what I’d choose,” Benjamin insists.
“You’re too young to know that. You have to get an education, and then, if you decide you still want to work on a trawler, no one will stop you.”
“I hate you!” The boy springs to his feet and goes below, slamming the hatch behind him.
Grace doesn’t react, but Ishmael sees a great sadness in her eyes. As much as she seems convinced that this is the best thing for Benjamin, the decision to send him so far away must be terribly painful.