“But there must be drone imagery,” Ishmael argues.
Bartleby shakes his head. “If there was, it was lost with the Pequod.”
Ishmael fights the urge to laugh at the absurdity of what Valente’s saying. “We didn’t just see the terrafin. We fought it. We saw it kill people. It nearly killed us.”
Bartleby leans close, his voice gentle. “I understand that you sincerely believe everything you’ve said, Ishmael. But the myth of the giant white terrafin has been around for as long as men and women have been coming to Cretacea. We’ve repeatedly consulted the experts: scientists, historians, archaeologists. They all agree that if such a mammoth creature ever existed, there would be evidence in the fossil record.”
Ishmael can’t fathom this. “Fossil record? But the Great Terrafin isn’t a fossil. It’s alive. It’s out there now, at this very moment!”
Valente sighs impatiently. “There is not now, nor was there ever, any sort of ‘giant terrafin’ here on Earth. What you and your friends saw — what you think you saw — was a figment of your overexcited imaginations. Hallucinations brought on by trauma and severe malnourishment.”
But Ishmael hasn’t heard anything after “here on Earth.” What is Valente talking about? he wonders, staring at the yellow disc of sun still glowing through the gauzy material overhead. “Aren’t we still on Cretacea?”
Valente shoots Bartleby an exasperated look.
The stern-faced man fixes Ishmael with his gray-blue eyes. “What I’m about to tell you may come as a shock: There is no difference. Earth is Cretacea, and Cretacea is Earth.”
Over the next hour, Bartleby explains. As Pip predicted in his Z-pack, Ishmael has a hard time believing at first. It sounds unreal: A millennium ago, while working on something called the Large Hadron Collider, scientists discovered how to create wormholes — tunnels between different points in space-time.
“Cretacea, Triassica, and Permia aren’t other planets,” Bartleby tells him. “They’re the names we’ve given to the missions taking place in different periods of Earth’s history.”
Ishmael’s head is spinning. “Why?”
“To harvest the past for the resources we need in the future. We chose times prior to extinction events in the hope that whatever, er, alterations we caused wouldn’t carry over. Of course, all of that is now moot, as the time you and I came from — the Anthropocene Epoch — has ended.” Bartleby pauses and shakes his head regretfully. “The sixth and most profound extinction event of them all. Almost one hundred percent of life on Earth, including man, is gone.”
As Ishmael absorbs this, a sudden realization appears like a light in a swirling fog. This explains how Benjamin could have been the same Old Ben whom Ishmael knew when he was growing up. When Benjamin’s pod shimmered and vanished from the Pequod’s stasis chamber, it wasn’t traveling through space to Earth, but through time . . . to the future, roughly thirty years before Ishmael was born!
“My foster parents,” Ishmael says. “They . . . I . . . someone I know supposedly got them out of the Anthropocene. Is it possible they’re here?”
The lanky man looks down at Ishmael and shakes his head. “We’d know if they were in this settlement.”
“Then is there a way to find out where they are?” Ishmael asks.
“Things are very disorganized right now,” Valente says impatiently. “As the Anthropocene Extinction Event nears completion, there’s been a significant diaspora of humans, and none of the available databases are proving to be as reliable as we’d hoped. It’s nearly impossible to track down even those of us who are . . .”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to. If they can’t keep track of their own kind, what chance is there that they’ve bothered with anyone who’s not of the Gilded?
Trying to cover up her blunder, Valente continues: “If your foster parents were able to get out, then they’re quite lucky, no matter where they wound up. You’re fortunate to be here yourself, Ishmael. Our scientists have determined that the Cretaceous period offers some of history’s richest resources, as well as many relatively stable millennia without any recorded major cataclysmic events.”
“We estimate that the next extinction event here, the Cretaceous-Tertiary, won’t occur for at least twenty million years,” adds Bartleby.
But Archie came here to Cretacea, and now he’s dead, Ishmael thinks. Cataclysmic events aren’t the only threats to life.
His ire and the pain of losing his foster brother return. He can’t help thinking that if the Gilded hadn’t been so rapacious, there might not have been the need for so many missions — or to take volunteers so ill-suited for the task. If Archie had remained behind, maybe Old Ben could have smuggled him out, too. And then he’d still be alive.
“So”— Valente manufactures a pleasant expression —“perhaps now we can discuss the circumstances surrounding the destruction of the Pequod?”
If there’s one thing Ishmael’s ascertained about the Gilded, it’s that they’re not interested in others unless they have something they want. And he has no qualms about using that very trait against them. “I’ll be glad to discuss the Pequod . . . just as soon as you give me a definitive answer about my foster parents.”
“But . . . that’s not possible,” Valente says, flustered. “You’re being completely unreasonable.”
“Ishmael, thousands of pods had to depart the Anthropocene very quickly,” Bartleby tries to explain. “Right now there’s a moratorium on destasis until we’ve built adequate accommodations. As a result, there are long queues of them up and down the time line, waiting in stasis. It’s going to take centuries.”
“I need to know about my foster parents.” Ishmael remains firm.
Valente’s neck reddens and her eyes narrow. “Well, if I wasn’t convinced before, I certainly am now: You are undoubtedly your mother’s son. But I’d like to remind you, Ishmael, that regardless of what’s happened in your life up to the present, you are still one of us, and it would serve you well to be more cooperative.” She spins on her heel and departs.
Ishmael is left alone with Bartleby. The tall man’s face is inscrutable. “I feel I must warn you that there are those among us who were, quite frankly, shocked to learn of your existence. Not everyone is happy about your uncanny knack for survival. The situation here is quite unsettled. You must be careful whom you choose to trust.”
Ishmael glances toward the entrance to the tent. “Is that why those guards are here? To protect me?”
The question appears to amuse Bartleby. “Who said they’re here to keep people out?”
The realization catches Ishmael by surprise: They’re here . . . to keep him in? Make sure he doesn’t escape again?
“Why?” he asks. “Who am I?”
Ishmael’s earliest memories are vague, vaporous, the least to be trusted: nestling in the silky softness of a blouse, a perfumed fragrance enveloping him, his ear pressed close to a warm, soft bosom, the peaceful beating of a heart beneath. Then loud crashes and shouts from somewhere in a house. A violent struggle close by. Panicked scurrying. Frightened voices as he was bundled into scratchy, unfamiliar clothes and passed tearfully into a stranger’s hands.
Were the memories credible? Or just the confabulations of a lonely young boy who’d never known who his real parents were?
The medic, whose name is Nazik, helps Ishmael to his feet.
“You’ve been summoned by the executive board.” He gives Ishmael a cane. “This will help while you regain your strength.”
Several days have passed since Ishmael first awoke in this tent. Since then he has learned much about Earth, about “Cretacea,” about himself. He is the son of Eliza, after whom Eliza’s Law was named. Bartleby had known his mother when she inherited her chair on the Trust’s executive board from her parents. He spoke of her with fondness, but also with great sadness. Eliza had devoted her life to protecting children and the disadvantaged, something that had earned her both admiration and
many powerful enemies. Then, one night seventeen years ago, Eliza and Ishmael’s father were killed in a fire that was rumored to have had suspicious origins. Ishmael himself was presumed dead, though his remains were never recovered.
Tarnmoor’s words come back to him: “Where’s the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls is like those a’ orphans. The secret a’ our paternity lies in their grave.”
It’s been a lot to take in, and as Ishmael follows Nazik out of the tent, he is still reeling from it all.
The day is gray and humid, and a light rain falls. The medic offers to cover Ishmael with a shawl, but he refuses it; he prefers the sensation of rain on his face.
They start down a narrow wooden walkway, part of an elevated camp with platforms for tents and huts. The camp smells of freshly cut wood, and the thatching on the roofs is green. But unlike the islanders’ elevated village, the construction here is crude and clumsy. The walkway creaks and dips unsteadily, and instead of having finely carved joints, the woodwork is amateurishly lashed together with strips of rope and vine.
Still weak and needing to pause and catch his breath, Ishmael watches while a handful of men and women on the ground attempt to raise a newly built hut onto an elevated platform. It’s plain to see that they’re not used to manual labor. Their polished shoes sink into the mud, and the men’s tight trousers and rain-soaked tunics hinder their movements. There is fevered shouting as some of them tug on ropes attached to pulleys, hoisting the small dwelling into the air, while others attempt to guide it over the platform.
Snap! Crash! A hoist rope breaks. Workers cry out and dive for safety as the hut smashes to the ground and splinters apart.
“Third one this week,” Nazik mutters, helping Ishmael along. “Yet still they act surprised.”
Ahead on the walkway, an irate woman with two children is complaining loudly to a harried-looking man holding a tablet. The woman and children are dressed in gold-trimmed finery and have the same ashen-skinned and plump look Pip had when he first arrived on the Pequod. The woman lugs a heavy bag in one hand while using a purse to shield her head with the other. The children cling to armloads of electronic toys.
The woman gestures at a thatch-roofed hut. “This is where you want us to live?”
“It’s the best we can offer right now, madam,” the man apologizes.
The woman peers inside. “It’s so tiny and dark.”
“We hope to have lighting soon.”
“And the washroom?”
The man blushes and points down a walkway at two small structures. The nicer one — with a metal roof and small skylight — has a human figure painted in gold on the door. The other is made of rough-hewn wood and has a thatched roof. Instead of a door, there hangs a sheet with a crude outline of a worker with a shovel.
“You . . . expect us to share a toilet?” the woman asks, aghast.
“It is only temporary, madam,” the man replies. “We are working to remedy the situation as soon as possible.”
“Excuse us,” Nazik says as he and Ishmael go past.
Ishmael can feel the woman and children gawking at his darkly tanned skin, terrafin skiver-pierced ears, and rain-matted hair.
They come across more bewildered refugees from the future. Though he knows it’s only wishful thinking, Ishmael can’t help looking for his foster parents in the crush.
At last Nazik and Ishmael arrive at a large thatched structure that is sturdier and better built than any of the others they’ve seen. A long line of well-dressed, disgruntled-looking people wait outside, trying to keep the rain off their heads with palm leaves or pieces of clothing. As the two pass, they overhear irate grumblings about the oppressive heat, overcrowding, lack of furniture, and shared bathroom facilities.
Two guards stand at the building’s entrance while a third scans visitors’ wrists before allowing them in. Nazik leads Ishmael past those waiting in line.
“We are here at the behest of the executive vice president,” Nazik tells a guard, who regards Ishmael with suspicion. The guard reaches out and touches the tiny skivers in his ears. Does he really think they could be some kind of weapon? As soon as Ishmael’s registry is scanned, the guard’s demeanor changes. The two visitors are politely ushered inside.
The building, which appears to be some sort of headquarters, is still under construction, with half a dozen workers hammering, sawing, and plastering. Nazik guides Ishmael to the end of a long hallway and knocks on a heavy wooden door. A voice inside bids them enter.
Ishmael steps into the room, sees the table and heavy maroon curtains, and knows he’s been here before . . . in VR with Pip.
The air is cool and dry, and the floor is thickly carpeted. A group of elegantly dressed men and women sit around the large oval table. Ishmael recognizes Bartleby and the shiny-headed Valente.
At one end of the table sits a distinguished-looking, dark-haired man in a sharply pressed dark-blue suit with gold buttons and a gold pocket square. A pointed beard grows on his chin, his fingers are adorned with heavy gold rings, and he’s wearing earbuds so as to receive outside information while attending this meeting.
At the other end of the table sits a silver-haired woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses. To Ishmael’s befuddlement, Pip is rising from the chair next to hers. Like the others, he is dressed in finery and appears to be quite at home in these surroundings.
Pip tells Nazik he can go, then comes over and squeezes Ishmael’s hand. “It’s so good to see you.”
Ishmael allows himself to be led to a seat at the table. The men and women stare at him with expressions ranging from guarded to amazed.
The silver-haired woman smiles benignly at Ishmael. “We of the executive board are surprised, but of course delighted, that you are here. Those of us who knew your mother admired her enormously. It was a great tragedy when she and your father died.”
Some around the table nod in agreement, though Valente and a few others remain stone-faced. The man in the dark-blue suit shoots his cuffs, displaying a heavy gold wrist tablet. He leans forward and addresses the silver-haired woman with carefully calibrated words. “You must forgive me for injecting a note of skepticism, but I imagine I’m not the only one here who feels that it is extremely convenient that Eliza’s son and heir not only is still alive but has shown up in the very time and place where the Trust has chosen to establish this epoch’s headquarters, Executive Vice President Lopez-Makarova.”
Lopez-Makarova? Ishmael gawks at Pip, who tosses off a self-conscious shrug.
The silver-haired woman appraises the distinguished-looking man with practiced impartiality. “Thank you, Mr. Bildad. Convenient though it may seem, there can be no doubt in the matter. The registry data is conclusive. In addition, you are welcome to speak to my nephew about Ishmael’s service aboard the Pequod. He has proved himself to be invested with the best of both his parents.”
Mr. Bildad leans back, presses his fingertips together, and gives an obsequious reply: “As you are the most senior corporate officer on Cretacea and this epoch is under your jurisdiction, Executive Vice President Lopez-Makarova, who am I to argue?”
“Thank you, Mr. Bildad. I certainly appreciate your heartfelt vote of confidence,” Pip’s aunt replies smoothly. The tension between these two is as thick as the pirate Winchester’s skull. The executive vice president turns her attention to Ishmael. “One of the reasons we’ve asked you here today is that we hope you can assist us. As I’m sure you’ve seen, we are trying to cope with many of the challenges people face when suddenly thrust into a new and unfamiliar environment. My nephew informs us that you’ve spent time with the group of people he calls the islanders, who apparently have been quite successful in adapting to the conditions of this epoch. We would like to reach out to these people, to ask their assistance in how to best adapt to this place and time.”
Ishmael tries to imagine the overdressed Gilded wearing the meager clothes of the islanders, climbing limbless trees to shake down treestones, and sleeping
on floor mats in windowless huts.
“What you’re really saying is you want me to get them to help you build your settlement,” he says.
“We can easily persuade them to do that,” Mr. Bildad says with unsettling calm.
Pip’s aunt shoots Bildad a dismayed look, then turns back to Ishmael, her appearance once again serene. “I’m sure you’ve seen our poor attempts at building with the materials we have at hand. We’ve concluded that the only way to complete this settlement in a timely fashion — and to the standards to which our colleagues are accustomed — is to employ the services of more skillful laborers. We will, of course, compensate them for their time. In addition, we are hoping that you might have suggestions as to what other incentives we can offer them.”
“We’ve been led to understand that they live very . . . primitively,” Valente adds. “Perhaps they could benefit from our advanced knowledge of medicine?”
“From what I can tell, they don’t need any assistance in that area,” Ishmael replies, choosing his words carefully.
“Then perhaps something in the area of education, or entertainment, or . . . fashion,” suggests a woman dressed in a lavish green gown with polished gold buttons and sharp lapels, over which is draped a long gold-and-black sash.
“That’s a very generous offer,” Ishmael says. “But the islanders take pleasure in things that nature, not humans, provides. I honestly can’t think of anything you could offer that would interest them.”
The faces around the table grow frustrated — except for Mr. Bildad’s. He appears preoccupied with the feeds from his earbuds. In the lull in conversation, Ishmael studies this rarefied group his birth parents once belonged to — that he supposedly still belongs to. Without doubt, they are the healthiest, best-groomed people he has ever seen, and yet there is something unsettling about their appearance. They’re too perfect-looking, all with teeth that are uniformly straight and unnaturally white, and hair that has an artificial luster. Ishmael peeks at the hands of the man next to him. The skin is almost translucent, allowing the blue veins to show through. He looks at the eyes of the people across from him and realizes that the whites are too white. There’s no sign of any redness, not even tiny capillaries.