Peter Watts: Bulk Food

Shamu rises up like Shiva. One effortless chomp and the Steller explodes like a big wet piñata. A curtain of blood drenches the plexi barriers. Streamers of intestine fly through the air like shiny pink firehoses.

The audience goes wild. This is the kind of award-winning educational display they can relate to.

Shamu surges back and forth, mopping up leftover sea lion. It takes less than a minute. By the time he’s finished, Ramona has the harpoon set up on the gangway.

Two kilometers out, one of the Chosen hears a blow and alerts the others. The pilgrims again fall expectantly silent, undaunted by the fact that the first three times turned out to be the first mate blowing his nose.

To be honest, nobody here has ever heard a real orca blow, not first-hand. No civilized human being would ever patronize a whalejail, and whale-watching tours have been banned for years—they said it was a harassment issue, but everyone knows it was just Bob Finch and his aquarium industry cronies out to eliminate the competition.

The passengers huddle quietly in the fog, straining to hear above Dipnet ’s diesel cough.

Whoosh.

“There! I knew it!” And sure enough, something rolls across a fog-free patch of surface a few meters to port. “There! See?”

Whoosh. Whoosh.

Two more to starboard. Leviathan has come to greet them; her very breath seems to dispel the fog. A pale patch of tissue-paper sun lightens the sky.

There is much rejoicing. One or two people close their eyes, choosing to commune with the orcas telepathically; no truly enlightened soul would resort to crass, earth-raping technology to make contact. Several others bring out dog-eared editions of Bigg’s Guide to the Genealogy and Natural History of Killer Whales . Anna Marie has told them they’ll be meeting L1, a southern Resident pod. Hungry eyes alternately scan the pages and the rolling black flanks for telltale nicks and markings.

“Look, is that L55? See that pointy bit on the saddle patch?”

“No, it’s L2. Of course it’s L2.”

One of the telepaths speaks up. “You shouldn’t call them by their Human names. They might find it offensive.”

Chastened silence fall over the acolytes. After a moment, someone clears her throat. “Er, what should we call them then?”

The telepath looks about quickly. “Um, this one,” she points to the fin nearest the boat, “tells me she’s called, um, Sister Stargazer.”

The others ooh in unison. Their hands fly to the crystals nestled beneath their rain ponchos.

“Six-foot dorsal,” mutters the first mate. “Male.”

No one notices. “Oh, look at that big one! I think that’s the Matriarch !”

“Are you sure this is even L-Pod?” someone else asks uncertainly. “There aren’t very many of them—isn’t L1 supposed to be a big pod? And I thought I saw… that is, wasn’t that big one P-28?”

That stops everyone cold. “P-28 is Transient,” says a fortyish woman with periwinkle shells braided into her long, graying hair. “L1 is a Resident pod.” The accusation is clear. Is this man calling Anna Marie Hamilton a liar ?

The heretic falters in the stony silence. “Well, that’s what the Guide says.” He holds the document out like a protective amulet.

“Give me that.” Periwinkle snatches the book away, riffles through the pages. “This is the old edition.” She waves the copyright page. “This was printed back in the nineteen -eighties , for Goddess’ sake! You’re supposed to have the new edition, the one Anna Marie approved. This is definitely L1.” Periwinkle throws the discredited volume over the side. “Bob Finch had a hand in all those old guides until ’02. You can’t trust anything from before then.”

The wheelhouse hatch swings open. Dipnet ’s captain, a gangly old salt whose ears look as though they’ve been attached upside-down, clears his throat. “Got a message coming in,” he announces over the growl of the engine. “I’ll put it on the speakers.” The hatch swings shut.

A message! Of course, Dipnet has all the technology, the hydrophones, the computers, everything it needs for the unenlightened to communicate with both species. There’s a speaker mounted on the roof of the cabin, pointing down at the rear deck. It burps static for a moment, then:

“Sisters. Hurry.” A squeal of feedback. “Grandmother. Says. Hello.”

Count on crass western technology to turn a beautiful alien tongue into pidgin English.

“Ooh,” says someone at the gunwales. “Look.” The orcas are pacing Dipnet on either side, rolling and breathing in perfect synch.

“They want us to follow them,” Periwinkle says excitedly.

“Yes, they do,” intones one of the telepaths. “I can feel it.”

The orcas are so close to the boat they’re almost touching the hull. Dipnet plows straight ahead. Just as well. The whales aren’t leaving enough room for course changes anyway.

The chair on the gangway is obviously not meant for children.

Ramona fusses with the straps, cranks the cross-hairs down to child-height. She offers patient instruction in the use of the harpoon. Papa-san hollers up instructions of his own in Japanese. Conflicting ones, apparently; Tetsuo, bouncing excitedly in the harness, gives nothing but grief. Herschel continues his cheerful instigation: Hey, lady, we pay ten grand for this, we do it our way thank you so much . He doesn’t seem to have noticed that Ramona’s smile shows more teeth than usual.

This looks very promising. Doug glances back over his shoulder; the route’s still clear. Fifty-five seconds…

Shamu rolls past on the other side of the plexi.

The crowd laughs. Doug turns back to center stage. Ramona’s had enough; she’s jumped down from Tetsuo’s perch and is barking at Herschel in Japanese. Or maybe in sea lion. Herschel backs away, hands held up placatingly against Ramona’s advance. It’s entertaining enough, but Doug keeps his eyes on Tetsuo. The kid is the key. Adult squabbles don’t interest a ten-year-old, he’s strapped in at the controls of the best bloody video game since the parents’ groups came down on Nintendo. If it’s going to happen at all, Doug knows, it’s going to happen—

Tetsuo squeezes the trigger.

—Now.

Ramona turns just in time to see the harpoon strike home. The crowd cheers. Tetsuo shrieks in delight. Shamu just shrieks, thrashing. A pink cloud puffs from his blowhole.

Doug is already half-turned, one foot raised to motor. He checks himself: Wait for it, it still might be clean…

“ Shit! You were supposed to wait !” Ramona’s mike is off-line but it doesn’t matter; you could hear that yell all the way over in the Arctic Exhibit. She brings her translator online, barks syllables. The ringside speakers chirp and whistle. Shamu whistles back, spasming as though electrocuted. His flukes churn the water into pink froth.

“His lung’s punctured,” Ramona calls over to the guy with the cattle prod. Prodmeister disappears backstage. Ramona wheels on Tetsuo. “You were supposed to wait until I told him to hold still! Do you want him to suffer? It’ll take days to die from a hit like that!”

That’s it. Go.

He knows what’s coming. Herschel, out his ten thousand dollars, will demand that his son get another chance. The Aquarium will stand firm; ten grand buys one shot, not one kill. No, sir, you can’t try again unless you’re willing to pay.

Herschel’s own shrieks will go ultrasonic. Prodmeister will come back with another harpoon, a bigger, no-nonsense harpoon this time. Perhaps the Guests will try and wrestle it away. That’s resulted in an unfortunate accident or two.