The Whiteness of the Whale: A Novel (16 page)

“I still have wet laundry,” Dorée stated.

The companionway hatch slid back, and a gust of snowflakes whirled into the salon. Quill’s head poked in, masked in black wool and platinum rime. “The hell’s going on down here? Sounds like a fooking catfight.”

“This is too much. It’s cold all the time. Jules said there were heaters. He promised I’d be warm.”

“In
Antarctica
?” Sara drawled.

“Shut
up
, Pollard!”

“You didn’t like the diesel smell, Tehiyah. And we can’t spare fuel to keep it like toast. Now, I’ve had enough of this. I’m warning you both,” Perrault said. He rose, eyed Bodine and Madsen. “Let her go,” he said, and Sara felt them uncrimp her arms. He waited to see how she’d react. She hunched her shoulders, but kept her fists in her lap. He nodded, and went into the galley.

When he came out he carried a dark bottle. “I want us to drink together, and remember where we are. In these latitudes, the sea is more dangerous than anywhere else on earth. And any help? It is too far away to matter. There is no room for”—he eyed the women distastefully—“screaming fights. Slapping. Or insults. Once again, I demand an apology.”

Dorée smiled through tears like a rainbow emerging through a summer shower. “I
truly
am sorry, Sara dear. We’re all so on edge, you know. I didn’t mean what I said. About you being a total failure as a scientist, I mean.”

“And I didn’t mean what I said, about your being so lazy and useless,” Sara said, and they glared at each other across the slanting cabin, smiling hard.

*   *   *

She lay huddled in her bunk for some interminable time, curled around the flickering spice-warmth in her belly, and at last drowsed off.

A scrape and jingle as if Marley’s Ghost were dragging his chains past her ear woke her. She lay listening, but it trailed away aft and didn’t come again. The light through her porthole was dimmer. Evening, though there was no night. The boat was careening from sea to sea with shrugs and bangs that threw her against the straps. She lay listening for ice and fighting the need to pee.

At last she gave in to the inevitable. She unlashed herself and climbed down. Her breath steamed. A stagger of the boat as she stepped to the deck planted her foot square on Georgita’s chest, narrowly missing the splinted arm.

“
Oof
. Sara … what’d you…”

“Sorry, Georgie. I’m so sorry. Go back to sleep.”

Shadows loomed in the salon. It was cold as an ice cave. The table gleamed with moisture. Their exhaled breaths, condensing. It pattered down from the curved overhead with each lurch and slam. Black skeins of mildew ran down from the portlights, closing her throat when she got too close. From the dark narrow cave to which the open hatch led echoed the erratic staccato of Bodine’s snoring. When she peered forward he was melted into his chair, head back, mouth agape.

The head was flooded. Turds and paper sloshed to and fro in the bowl of the high-tech vacuum toilet. When she pressed the button nothing happened. She wiped the lid down with damp tissue and perched, lifting her feet to avoid the tide each time the boat heeled. A scraping began forward and passed down the port side, followed by something bumping the hull. When she went to wash her hands the faucet hissed ominously, but gave no water.

Quill was in the bubble, ass sagging over the too-small seat. Pouched eyes lined with scarlet inflammation blinked down at her, then back at the sea. His tangled beard was red as blood. After a moment’s horrified puzzlement she realized it was only the remains of the jambalaya.

“The toilet doesn’t work,” she murmured. “And I think the freshwater system’s frozen.”

“Plunger’s in the locker under the sink.”

Great. “Where’s the captain?”

“Topside.”

“I hear ice. And isn’t it getting rougher?”

“It’s little stuff. Brash. And the fog’s closing in. Shitty weather, actually.” He leaned into the plastic, tensing, and cranked the wheel hard left. He worked the sheeting mechanism, then twisted in his seat, grimacing. “Fooking cramps in me spine … can you take it for a few minutes?”

“Isn’t anybody else up?”

“Just you, I guess.”

She wavered, liking neither more hours in the seat nor the alternative. Finally she muttered, “I’ll see if I can fix the toilet.”

*   *   *

Each time they pitched, the bowl’s contents sloshed over the sides. She kept dragging her sleeve across her face, breathing through her mouth. At last she got the bowl cleared of solids, the circuit breaker reset, and the clog of soggy paper out of the vacuum line. When she pressed the button the flipper at the bottom opened and with a choking, explosive suck everything vanished, pulled down into oblivion. What happened to it after that she cared not. She found an unopened pack of Wet Wipes, peeled off her top, and cleaned herself as best she could, armpits and neck and face, the too-strong fruit-flowery fragrance for once welcome.

When she weaved back out into the salon Bodine was at the table, prosthetics sticking out stiffly. Perrault and Quill were with him. Mugs steamed and slid. The long jean-clad limbs and sea boots dangling from the bubble must be Madsen’s. The captain nodded at her. “Coffee is hot. If you would like some. Jamie says you fixed the WC.”

“I guess the doctorate wasn’t wasted.”

A frown; the irony seemed lost on him. “Go on,” he said to Bodine.

“They’re mike clicks, all right. You can hear those farther than you can make out speech transmissions. And they’re on the channel they use for communications with the kill ships.”

The Frenchman exchanged glances with Quill, then faced Bodine again. “The radars?”

“Getting stronger. May be a third, more distant. On almost the same bearing. But masked by the others.”

Anemone
pitched hard, creaking. The chains rattled again, dragging along the hull. Something thudded and Sara tensed. “Getting heavier,” Quill observed. “Went through a field an hour ago was almost solid. We get trapped, it’ll turn ugly.”

“Speed, Lars?” Perrault called.

“Ten.”

“
Bien.
Here is what we are going to do.” The captain tapped the table with a long index. “Mick: Shortwave
Esperanza.
Let Greenpeace know we have a fix on the fleet. Jamie, take in the main. That will give us more time to avoid floating ice, and less damage if we hit.”

Bodine scratched black stubble. “If anyone’s listening?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we transmit, the Japanese can pick us up.”

“He’s right,” Madsen said, voice hollowed by the dome, as if he were a sibyl speaking from within a rock-walled cave.

“We must share information. We could box the fleet in between us.”

“They won’t cooperate,” Madsen snorted. “I say leave them out of whatever we do.”

Perrault weaved his head in a peculiar snakelike motion. “I hear you both. Well, let me think more about it.

“Meanwhile … Sara, would you get the others out here? Eddi and Georgie and Tehiyah? Jamie, another pot of coffee might be in order.”

She went aft first, taking particular pleasure in jabbing Dorée hard in the side as she snored sleep-masked and earplugged in the big master bed. Soon everyone was either at the table or, since there wasn’t room, hanging from handholds or clinging to the strutwork that supported the steering chair. Water fell in fat heavy drops from the overhead, as if they were deep beneath the sea.
Anemone
careened even more heavily as their speed ebbed. The wind shrieked and whistled.

“All right,” the captain began, rubbing his chin. “We are not far from the whaling fleet, we believe. After all this time. Lars?”

“I’ve sailed against these people before,” Madsen said, invisible from the waist up. His boots kicked idly. “They’re good seamen, and they react violently to being interfered with. One man’s particularly dangerous. We call him ‘Captain Crunch’ because he rammed a boat two years ago. Two of the crew drowned.”

Quill said, “Remember, if you go in the water here—”

“You’re bloody well dead in five,” they chorused. Georgie giggled.

Perrault said, “I will review our assignments, for if and when we finally encounter those I can only describe as our enemies. In charge of inflatable launch: Mr. Quill, assisted by Ms. Dorée and Ms. Norris-Simpson. In the inflatable: Mr. Madsen, in charge; Mr. Bodine, and Ms. Auer. Their mission is to harass, damage equipment, and place themselves, physically if necessary, between the whalers and their prey. On
Anemone
’s helm: Ms. Pollard. On deck after launch, to recover the boat and respond to orders as necessary: Ms. Dorée and Ms. Norris-Simpson.”

He looked around the table. “When in contact with the Japanese, all hands above or below decks will wear exposure suits and life jackets. Anyone topside will also wear safety harnesses. The life raft will be at the foot of the companionway, stocked with radios, batteries, food, water. Jamie, overhaul it today.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Remember what Lars told you. If we seriously hinder their operations, and they see a chance to run us down, this Crunch has proven he will do exactly that. We must be ready to sustain a collision, abandon ship, and survive until we reach land or are rescued.

“Well, that is about all I have to say. Any questions?” He held out his mug and Quill poured it full again. Then he looked down as Dorée covered his hand with hers.

“Why’s
she
on the helm?” Tehiyah squinted at Sara. “I told you
I
wanted to do something important. Somewhere I can make a difference.”

Perrault cleared his throat, still looking at the fingers resting on his wrist. His eyes flicked up toward Madsen, but the Dane’s face wasn’t visible. From the angle, though, Sara was pretty sure he could see what was going on. The boots had ceased kicking idly; they braced against a support. Perrault circled her wrist with two fingers and set it aside. “Sara has proven herself on the helm. And launching and recovering the inflatable will be important, once we are in contact. It will also put you out on deck, where Georgie can film you.… Any other questions? No? Then one more thing. I wish to have this boat cleaned, very thoroughly. We have let conditions go too far.”

Dorée seemed about to protest again, but subsided. Quill showed big yellow teeth in a simian grin. Sara thought he looked more like Hagrid of Hogwarts than ever.

*   *   *

They ran east. She put in another few hours on the wheel while the rest, chivied by Quill, began at the bow. The smells of disinfectant, detergent, and bleach penetrated the chill air, the mildew stink. She smiled down at Dorée’s bent back as the actress pushed a mop along the deck. She glanced up, as if feeling Sara’s gaze. They regarded each other for a moment; then Dorée, without the slightest change in expression, went back to mopping.

“Inside the bubble, dashboard, everywhere you can reach,” the mate said, handing up bucket, sponge, and spray bottle. “But don’t let it distract you from the ice.”

So far on this watch, though, she hadn’t seen any. Stretches of heaving water, black as coal. Shoals of birds. But the snow had stopped. The fog was thinning, visibility opening out, though the dim light made it hard to see far even with the heavy night binoculars that hung by the wheel.

*   *   *

No night, and no day. But the light was ebbing again as she nursed a mug of tepid tea on the salon settee. The boat creaked and swayed.
Anemone
was cutting through the waves with a hiss like sled runners, given her head now that the danger of ice seemed to have receded. Quill’s boots now dangled from the steering position. When Sara looked forward the rolling tunnel of the long hull rotated like a funhouse ride. Through the open hatch she could make out the glowing dials and screens that illuminated Bodine’s constricted kingdom.

She microwaved another mugful and took it forward, stepping carefully. Past the sounds of sleeping men and women. The washer-dryer had been repaired and all the curtains taken down, laundered, and rehung, and everyone had been issued fresh towels. The newly cleaned bulkheads gleamed, reflecting her in distorted versions as she passed. She corkscrewed through the hatch, caught a handhold, and stepped over and between the green duffels and boxes of stores and reels of heavy line that covered the deck. She couldn’t fully straighten, and the overhead came down and the deck up with each step so that by the time she reached where the ex-soldier sat in his taped-up, lashed-down armchair she was crouched in a space barely adequate to breathe in.

“Earl Grey?”

“Hey. Thanks.” He removed his eyes from the screen and focused fuzzily on her. Stubble coated his cheeks like black soot. He wore green coveralls with the sleeves pushed back and chest bare at the throat except for a loosely twisted cloth with a reticulated pattern in desert tan. His rumpled hair grew down the back of his neck untrimmed.

“Thanks for sticking up for me. About the—the laundry.”

“Not a problem. We don’t draw a line in the sand, she’ll take the whole boat over.” He patted a sailbag. “Grab a perch.”

She wriggled down on the crackly bag, her bottom sinking into stiff yet yielding folds within. Her knees stuck up and her back was rammed against a coil of thick yellow line studded with hard round things.

He returned his attention to the screen, which jumped with vertical bars of light. He took off the earphones and turned them toward her. A sizzling static backed by a steady hum pulsed against the swish of water. It occurred to her then that Bodine, alone up here, crippled, with all that gear swaying between him and the hatch, would be trapped if they hit ice. How must he feel when it thumped and banged against the thin fiberglass? She shuddered and hugged herself. It was much colder up here too, far from even the scanty warmth of the heaters.

The man beside her fitted the headphones to his skull once more. He turned switches, and another screen powered above the first. He pulled the keyboard down and typed in a gunfire rattle. Listened, head cocked. Then slid the phones off again and turned up a speaker.

Another sound filtered into the rushing sea and tapping gear and the thump of her heart in her ears. A distant lonely wail, trembling with ethereal beauty. Music from the depths of space. Notes intertwining, playing off one another in ghostly counterpoint. A chant in a cathedral as huge as the ocean itself.