“A predator,” gasped Coolidge. “ I want it. How soon will that net be ready?”
“I’ll check,” promised Dennis as he headed down the stairs two at a time. When he got to the stern, Lonesome Joe was grumbling curses as he finished attaching the shrimp net to the swivel. “Don’ like runnin’ like dat,” he grumbled, gesturing to the winch he had been working on. The cover was off and the freshly lubricated gears shone black next to coils of cable. “It snap, and somebody’s killed.”
Dennis nodded and ran back toward the wheelhouse, the deck suddenly vibrating under his feet as the big diesel engines fired up for the first time all day.
“Ready,” he said as he entered. “Closest thing to hand was a crab trawl net, and it’s goin’ in. Current’s gonna carry it a little behind that thing, then we haul it in.”
The image on the screen was circling the place where the hammock hit bottom, watched by Coolidge and the graduate student who captured the image on his video camera. Captain Eddie put the engines in reverse and gently eased the throttle, glancing over at the fish finder every few seconds.
“Aimin’ at it the way we do for schools of redfish,” he commented without taking his eyes off his work. “Gonna try to float the net wide, behind and below it, then give the boat full engines ahead and the net full winch, haul it in quick. That thing down there can move fast when it wants to.”
“When it comes to catching underwater creatures, I trust to your expertise, gentlemen,” said Dr. Coolidge.
“You went out in that boat you first chartered, you wouldn’ta had it,” observed Captain Eddie. “They woulda charged extra for expertise. We throw it in for free.” The conversation broke off as the thing stopped, changed direction, and started spiraling upward. Coolidge started to peer into the monitor, then realized that he was about to block the camera. “Getting this?” he asked the student.
“Every second,” replied Mac Leod. “It’ll be the biggest thing on YouTube.”
“They get it after Woods Hole has a look. Gods, every oceanographer and icthyolologist in the world would give their souls to be here right now. An unknown species that can live in this…” He broke off, then asked Captain Eddie, “What is its depth now?”
“Up to ten fathoms… nine now. Comin’ up eight.” They heard a wordless shout from Davies, the graduate student on deck. “Close enough so’s you can see it, I’d guess.”
Coolidge ran out of the wheelhouse and headed to the rail by Davies, followed closely by Dennis. They peered into the murky brownish depths at the bulbous shape that corkscrewed toward them in lazy circles. “Six fathoms!” came a shout from the wheelhouse.
“Davies, oxygen level at twenty meters?” asked Coolidge crisply.
“Last reading here, less than one point six parts per million. Rises to two point two at ten meters, almost three PPM at five meters.”
“What’s normal?” asked Dennis.
“Six to twelve at the surface,” answered Coolidge. “This is almost…” He stopped as the thing turned slightly and came out of the boat’s shadow. “My god!”
The two sets of tentacles on each side pulsed in rhythm, while the fins worked independently to both steer and add momentum. Something gaped and closed next to each to the three compound eyes, and there was movement in the huge triangular mouth each time it opened. A dark band encircled its body just behind the tentacles, irregular bulges dangling from it.
As it entered the shaft of light, the tentacles went motionless, and it used its fins to turn so all three eyes faced the sun. The men at the rail stood stock still, gazing at the weird face pointed toward them. Dennis noticed a flicker of movement in the background just as Captain Eddie shouted “It’s at two fathoms now!” from the cabin.
“Joe, haul the net in, full speed! Eddie, give her the gas!” Dennis shouted.
The engines roared and the boat lurched forward just as a sharp whine sounded from astern. The net that had been spread out behind the creature started to tighten around it, drawing it toward the surface. It thrashed as it rose, and they noticed the tentacles scrabbling toward the dark band around its middle, then working at the net.
“Which rig is that, Joe?” Dennis shouted.
“Six millimeter propylene.”
“Nothin’ can break that! We got it.”
The tentacles flexed convulsively, and suddenly the thing had more room to move. They moved again, and even as a writhing mass of dazzling orange and green striped fins came partway out of the water, the thing leaped free through a ragged hole in the net and spiraled downward toward the ocean floor. This time its movements were erratic, as though the fins that had broken the surface were paralyzed. It swerved as it was at the edge of their vision, toward the undersea canyon to the south. The Miss Tillie lurched to follow it, but it was obvious that the old trawler couldn’t keep up.
Dr. Coolidge’s hands tightened on the rail until his knuckles were white, and he said, “Damn” with emphasis. Lonesome Joe used considerably more colorful language as he viewed the remains of the net dangling from the end of the boom. Nobody else said anything as the big engines stopped and the boat slowed to a stop.
“Lost him,” called Captain Eddie from the wheelhouse. “Swingin’ around like a bat all the way down into the canyon, but gone.”
“Still recording,” called Mac Leod.
Coolidge brightened a bit. “Davies, you got that?”
When the other assistant nodded, Coolidge smiled. “We at least have two recordings of a creature never before seen—three, counting your cell phone, Dennis. Four counting the chart recorder, which probably got something. Plus the most amazing fishing story ever about the one that got away.” He glanced toward the stern and shouted, “Joe, don’t touch that net! Might be DNA on the skin scrapings—or rather, whatever that thing uses instead of DNA.”
“Doesn’t everything use DNA?” asked Dennis.
“Every organism we know above the bacterial level uses DNA or RNA. But then, we may have just seen a product of a separate evolution.”
“A space alien?”
“Another evolution on this Earth, one that happened a long time ago. The early Precambrian era, before photosynthesis, when algae started producing oxygen and changed the environment. The shift to an oxygen environment wiped almost all the anaerobic life-forms out—the only ones we know of are viruses and some bacteria, and a few microscopic creatures that live in the depths of the ocean, mostly near volcanic vents. Apparently, some larger forms evolved, too, and they still live deep where humans couldn’t see them. And now, for the first time in eons, there is a path to the surface for them. A path humans made through stupidity.”
There was silence for a time except for the sound of Lonesome Joe putting the cover back on the winch mechanism. Captain Eddie came out of the wheelhouse and walked slowly over to join them.
“I wonder why it came up here,” he mused. “Searching for food, I guess, or maybe just curious.”
“Perhaps. I wonder, though. Remember the stripe around the creature? I think it was a tool belt, and I think that when we look at your net, we’ll find that it has been cut. As for why it came here, miles above its ancestral home? After two and a half billion years in the dark at the bottom of the ocean, I wonder if its kind even has legends about the sun. It would be quite a temptation to see if ancient fables are true. There’s a kind of mind that does that.”
“A scientist?” asked Dennis.
“Their environment is changing, and it needs to know why. Perhaps it travels because it can.” Coolidge looked at the storm building in the east, the clouds now visibly angrier. “Nature is about to stir up this water now, make it inhospitable for them down to ten meters or so. We’ll quantify that as best as we may, then head back to shore. And by the way, I’ll pay for a new net, as our new acquaintance seems to have ruined that one.”