The Heartless Void

3: Captain of my Soul

Starbuck climbed into the dome as the harpooners were siphoning off the Ambergris' fuel and distributing her oil to the Pequod's massive tanks. He glanced out of the windows down at the captive ship, her burnished metal sides lashed to the trawler. He did not need to watch though – he trusted Queequeg, Tash and Daggoo to do their job, and anyhow, he could feel the shaking of the pumps even up here. The three men would repeatedly drop back and forth into the forward airlock of the Ambergris to keep the system running smoothly, until the unlucky vessel was on its final legs.

Then she would be left to float aimlessly until the security ship picked her up.

It always left a bad taste in Starbuck's mouth, but he had learned to swallow it over the years.

He climbed higher into the dome where the captain's cabin was. There was a strange sensation of stepping between worlds: not only of hierarchy – that border between man and captain, as much as a believer and God out here in this void – but of morality. Here, the captain formed his own ethics.

Starbuck made his way through the maze of corridors until emerging into the large, open space of the Skylight. Windows wrapped about it, gazing permanently out into the darkness. Housed atop was the comms array with its impressive telescope and radar, always searching, sending its data back to the spine of the Pequod. Calls were repeatedly sung into the emptiness, trying to coax that hidden giant from the abyss.

Ahab stood with his back to Starbuck. The floods blazed an eerie white aura about him, throwing his shadow almost to Starbuck's feet. For the while Starbuck watched him, he seemed to be frozen, hands clasped, shoulders firm. Here was the figure others thought of when they heard the Pequod's name: imperious, statuesque, immovable. Starbuck lived with the reality of that icon every day.

"Captain," he announced finally, voice small in the large room. "I have spoken with the pirate."

Ahab acknowledged him with a minute nod. "Did he have any word?"

Starbuck paused, then neatly sidestepped the question. "He spoke about a hydrocarbon lake in this system. I have its coordinates. If we might adjust our course, we could easily fill the quota for the next season. And then, we can think about returning home."

"You know what I asked you, Starbuck," Ahab dismissed. "Did he have any word of our target?"

Starbuck resisted the urge to sigh. "He said the same as they all do. That we should avoid it."

Ahab huffed. He moved from the window, and between the pools of shadow. He still walked with a lurch – a reminder of the closeness of their shared trauma. Every other step, his artificial leg beat the sleek metal floor. It was crafted from scraps of a gutted vessel – bits of charred hull and airlock welded together and strapped onto the stump that remained. It was said that Perth, their ship's engineer, had worked a day and night without break on it. Starbuck did not remember much of that time.

Now, Ahab lowered himself to his desk and brought up a cross-section of the poor Ambergris. "Had the captain seen it?" he asked, watching the vessel's oil levels deplete as the Pequod sucked it dry.

"I don't know, sir. He was aware of the legends."

"They're not legends, Mr Starbuck. You and I both know that."

"It is a ship. I refuse to believe it is any more."

Starbuck couldn't engage in this debate again. He walked closer and peered down at the hatched, green image of the Ambergris. As resources were seized, the ship's directory and log were also being thoroughly scanned. Starbuck spotted the coordinates Elijah had given him, and pointed them out. "These are for a hydrocarbon lake. Much of the Ambergris' hold was filled by that alone. If we might divert our course, it would make the owners very happy."

"Damn the owners. Peleg and Bildad have built an empire for themselves. Another drop of oil could overflow their bucket."

Starbuck glanced at Ahab, shocked. "We are a trawler, sir, with a quota to fill. It's not clean work, but what is anymore? This lake will make our jobs much easier. We all want to go home within the season."

"The men will fly where they are told. And it shall not be to this lake. You know where our course is set, Starbuck."

"Sir." Starbuck swallowed. "We don't know where it is. Every unit we travel is another unit away from our agreed chart. It is a fruitless quest, Captain. I am here to trawl, sir, nothing more."

"You are here to obey, Starbuck, as my first mate. I didn't realise that that white devil had so unmanned you."

"I am game, sir," Starbuck replied, sourly. "But I saw what it did last time, and I have no desire to see that repeated. And the oil aboard that ship – it would be a fraction of what we could find elsewhere, if it even has any resources left."

"You speak as if you can part me from my course, Starbuck. Bold, perhaps, but futile. We continue. I shall hear no different."

Starbuck lowered his head. Every time he spoke with Ahab, they went through the same motions, the same words. Such pleas were like dust now, there to be swept away and scattered. Starbuck's throat grew sore with them. As ever, he relented, and tried his next point.

"It will be an hour before the oil is depleted from the Ambergris," he said. "The captain made a request to me. A crew member became sick and died on the voyage, but they had no time for a proper burial. Might they perform it before we leave them to their fates?"

Ahab paused, mind obviously still full of the past – of Moby-Dick and all the chaos he had caused. When was his mind not on that cursed ship? He stared at the image of the Ambergris, then turned it with a finger. The vessel span like an old child's toy, green lines splitting and shuddering into static for a moment. "How long?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. But we know of the superstitions of astronauts. They will believe the dead man will return as a revenant if he is not buried properly."

"Thirty minutes, no more. We have work to do, and they broke the law. Your kindness must be weighed against that."

Starbuck took the small victory, no matter the barb it was delivered alongside. He exited and returned to Elijah. The prisoner seemed to have aged ten years in the short time Starbuck had been gone. But he brightened when he heard the news, albeit with tears pricking his sallow eyes.

Starbuck attended the rushed funeral with Ishmael and Queequeg at his side. His heart sank as they wrapped the deceased crew member in his shroud ― it was a boy, no older than twelve. Elijah held the hand of a weeping woman and nodded silently during the eulogy. The prayer was read aloud, the laments were sung, and the child's body was committed to the deep.

Afterwards, even as the pumps started again, Elijah sidled up to Starbuck. He gripped his arm and shook his hand with as much vigour as he could muster. "You are a good man, Lieutenant," he insisted. "A very good man."

Starbuck wished he would not say such a thing. "I was only doing what was right."

Elijah smiled tearfully. "May you continue to do so."

And then Elijah was back amongst his crew – set to become another poor figure swept aside in the Pequod's cursed quest. Being a good man mattered nought. Whatever was in his heart, their course remained the same.