Christopher Moore - Fluke, Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings

"Then, Nate, he's not a problem? You're sure?" Here the Colonel forced a smile that looked much more like something menacing than an actual smile. "Because I will tell him about you if I must."

"The greater good," Amy said, returning the forced smile with a real one.

"Good," said the Colonel, draining the last of his beer. "Come back. And bring me another of these."

"You got it," Amy said. Then she took the bottle from him and left the chamber. Thin line between genius and full-blown batshit, she thought. Very thin line.

For two weeks the Colonel didn't send for Nate. Cielle Nuñez had stopped by the third morning that Amy was at Nate's apartment. "Well, you don't need me anymore," Cielle had said. "I'd just as soon get back to my ship anyway, although it doesn't look like we're going anywhere soon." Nate was disappointed that she hadn't been jealous.

"He's afraid of the cupboards, the fridge, and the garbage disposal," Cielle told Amy, as if she were talking to the dog sitter. "And you'll need to take him to get his clothes cleaned. You know he's going to be terrified of the washing machines."

"I'm right here," Nate said. "And I'm not afraid of the appliances. I'm just cautious."

"Your mother will be thrilled for you two, Amy. Her ship should be back at base soon."

"No, she's not due in for another six weeks," Amy said.

"Not anymore. The Colonel's called all the ships back to base."

"All of them? Why?"

Cielle shrugged. "He's the Colonel. Ours is not to question why. Well, Nate, it's been a pleasure, really. I'll probably see you around. You're in good hands."

She hugged Nate quickly and started out the door.

"Cielle, wait. I want to ask you something. If you don't mind."

She turned. "Ask away."

"When did your husband's yacht sink?"

Cielle raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Amy. "It's okay," Amy said. "He knows."

"Nineteen twenty-seven, Nate. In retrospect it was a blessing of sorts. He died doing what he liked doing, and two years later he would have been wiped out when the stock market crashed. I'm not sure he would have survived that."

"Thanks. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Cal and I have a really good life."

"Cal? Cal from the ship? You didn't tell me that —»

"He's my husband? The Colonel thought you might be more comfortable with a single woman to orient you. Women down here have never taken their husband's surname, Nate."

"Females run the show in a whale society," Amy explained. "You know, as it should be."

Cielle Nuñez looked from Amy to Nate and smiled. "Oh, Nate, what have you gotten yourself into?" And then she snickered like a whaley boy and left.

"She wanted you," Amy said. "She hides it really well, but I could tell."

From then on they went out together every morning. Nate insisted that Amy take him far into the catacombs during the day. There they found Gooville's underground farms: tunnels where grains of wheat grew right on the walls — no stalks — others where you could pick tomatoes from two-inch stems that seemed to grow directly out of rock.

"How does any of this ripen without photosynthesis?" Nate asked, handling an apricot that was growing not on a tree but on a broad stem like a mushroom.

"Don't know," Amy shrugged. "Geothermal heat. The Colonel says the Goo extends deep under the continent, where it draws heat from the earth. I'll show you the kitchens where they prepare most of the food — it's all geothermal. The old-timers say that at first there was only seafood to eat, but over the years the Goo has provided more and different foods."

"What are these? Chicken nuggets?" He plucked one from the ceiling.

A whaley boy working nearby whistled and clicked harshly.

"He says not to pick them, they're not ripe."

Nate tossed the nugget to the floor of the cave, where a softball-size multilegged thing scurried out of a hatch, retrieved it, and scurried back into its trapdoor.

"I've seen enough here," Nate said.

In the afternoon they did errands and shopping, but still no one asked Nate for any form of payment, and he'd stopped offering. In the evening they usually had dinner in his apartment. After they had shared two meals out at Gooville cafés, Amy had insisted that they eat in.

"You're studying them," she said, meaning the whaley boys.

"No I'm not. I'm just looking at them."

"Who are you kidding? You have that look, that researcher look, that lost-in-your-theories look. You think I don't know that look? I worked with you, remember?"

Nate shrugged. "It's what I do. I study whales." He'd been trying to learn the whaley boys' whistle-and-click language. Emily 7 had come by his apartment a couple of afternoons when Amy was away, and while he thought she might have come for amorous reasons, he managed to channel her energies into lessons on whaleyspeak. They'd become friends of sorts. He hadn't mentioned the lessons to Amy, afraid that she might tease him about Emily the way the whale-ship crew had. "I observe. I collect data and try to find meaning in it."

Amy nodded, thinking about it, then said, "So if rescuing manatees and dolphins got you into the field, why didn't you do something more active to help the animals? Veterinary medicine or something."

"I always wonder. I've thought about the people at Greenpeace and Sea Shepherd, putting themselves in harm's way, ramming whaling ships, running Zodiacs in front of harpoon guns to try to protect the animals. I've wondered if that was the way to go."

"And you thought you could do more as a scientist, studying them?"

"No, I thought that being a scientist was something that I could do. There's a path to becoming a biologist — an educational process. There isn't for being a pirate."

"No, you're wrong, there is a school for that. I saw it on a matchbook when I was in Maui. I'm sure it said you could learn to be a pirate if you passed a simple test."

"That's learn to draw a pirate."

"Whatever. So you compromised?"

"Did I? I think what we — what I do has value."

"So do I. I'm not saying that. I'm just wondering, you know, now that you're dead, do you feel your life was wasted?"

"I'm not dead, Amy. Jeez, that's an awful thing to say."

"You know, effectively dead, I mean. Your life being over. Jeepers, does that make me a necrophiliac? When we get out of here, maybe I'll have to go to a meeting or something. Do they have those?"

"Amy, I'm wondering if maybe I don't want to get out of here." He'd been thinking about it a lot. Life here really wasn't bad, and since he'd been looking for a way out on their daily excursions (only to be reminded that he'd have to go through the miles of pressure locks only to emerge six hundred feet below the sea), maybe he and Amy could make a future together. The whole Gooville ecosystem would certainly keep him interested.

"Hi, my name's Amy, and I hump the dead."

"Maybe, if I can talk the Colonel out of his plan, I can stay here with you. You know, adapt."

"I can't imagine that they'd get up at a meeting and say, 'Hi, my name's so-and-so, and I like to bone the dead. It's sort of crude. Although strangely appropriate."

"You're not listening to me, Amy."

"Yes I am. We're not staying here. I'll find a way out, but we can't stay. You have to convince the Colonel not to try to hurt the Goo, but then we're leaving. As soon as possible."

Nate was a little shocked at how adamant she was. She seemed to be staring at nothing, concentrating, thinking about something she didn't want to share, and she didn't seem happy about. But then she brightened. "Hey, you're going to get to meet my mother."

A week later it happened.