panties. She hadn’t even bothered to dry her shoulder-length, dark hair. It was warm in the room, so it didn’t matter. And she was feeling an incredible urge to sleep.
Her crew had searched for the camera for hours over the rest of the night, since it should theoretically float. She needed it to figure out what had provoked the shoal. Somehow she had effectively communicated with the animals, but not in the way she had planned. Finally, at dawn, her crew had insisted they give up and head in. Back at her hotel, having eaten and showered, Val was now feeling utterly drained.
She yawned. It was early in the morning in La Paz, Mexico, but she was accustomed to working at night. It was her bedtime now. Safely in her room, the familiar morning fatigue was grappling her willpower into submission.
She padded across the broad, rust-colored tiles on the floor, flopped down on the bed, and buried her head in the cool pillows. They smelled clean, like bleach. The room was dark, thanks to the thick curtains hiding the sliding glass door, and mercifully quiet. The bed felt good. Soft. She began to relax, feeling sleep setting in.
The phone rang, and Val’s heart jumped. Dammit .
She reached over and grabbed her cell phone off the nightstand, glancing at the display. It was PLARG. She pushed the green answer button.
“Hello, Mark.”
“Hola, Val. Buenos dee-az!” Mark’s Spanish was shit.
“Cut the crap, Mark. I’m tired. Why are you calling?”
“Tough Monday morning, huh? At least you’re in sunny Baja California. I get to spend the day in a cold, windowless lab in cheery Moss Landing. There’s even summertime fog outside, if I decide to go look out a window.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. I had a really rough night and I was trying to get some sleep. What’s going on?”
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you, but this is pretty big. Someone called about one of your tags.”
“That’s nice. Couldn’t you call me later? You know I’m usually asleep this late in the morning.”
“Val . . . this is big.”
There was a silence. “Okay, Mark. What’s so big about this?”
“Drumroll, please . . . it’s where he’s calling from. This guy isn’t in Mexico.”
“What?” She sat up on the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about?”
“Apparently, your squid took a trip to San Diego.”
PART II
ALLOCATION
C HAPTER 18
“H umboldt squid.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“That tag came off a Humboldt squid, Mr. Sturman.”
“So lady, you’re saying this here tag isn’t from a fish? It’s from a giant squid?”
Sturman heard the woman sigh into the phone. “Not a giant squid. The tag was on a Dosidicus gigas , or Humboldt squid. You may have heard of them before. They’re also called ‘jumbo squid’ or ‘flying squid.’ Down here, they’re called los diablos rojos —‘red devils. ’ ”
Sturman turned the orange and white tag over in his hands. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard of those before. I’ve seen a few articles in the paper over the last couple years, talking about them washing up dead around here.”
“Right. That’s them. We’re starting to think that periodic El Niño events bring them north from Mexico.”
“So this big tag fell off some little Mexican squid?”
The woman sighed again. “All anyone cares about are giant squid. Look, Mr. Sturman—can I call you Will?”
“Most people just call me ‘Sturman.’ It’s a Navy thing.”
“Right. Anyway, Dosidicus are nowhere near as big as giant squid, but they’re still quite large. There’ve been reports from South America of Humboldts growing to twelve feet or more, though I’m fairly certain those reports are exaggerations. I’ve personally seen mature adults two meters long that weigh as much as I do . . . as big as a very large dog.”
“Never heard a woman compare herself to a dog before.”
Sturman heard another loud sigh. He looked at Bud. His dog was sitting next to him at the sunny street-side patio of a
Her crew had searched for the camera for hours over the rest of the night, since it should theoretically float. She needed it to figure out what had provoked the shoal. Somehow she had effectively communicated with the animals, but not in the way she had planned. Finally, at dawn, her crew had insisted they give up and head in. Back at her hotel, having eaten and showered, Val was now feeling utterly drained.
She yawned. It was early in the morning in La Paz, Mexico, but she was accustomed to working at night. It was her bedtime now. Safely in her room, the familiar morning fatigue was grappling her willpower into submission.
She padded across the broad, rust-colored tiles on the floor, flopped down on the bed, and buried her head in the cool pillows. They smelled clean, like bleach. The room was dark, thanks to the thick curtains hiding the sliding glass door, and mercifully quiet. The bed felt good. Soft. She began to relax, feeling sleep setting in.
The phone rang, and Val’s heart jumped. Dammit .
She reached over and grabbed her cell phone off the nightstand, glancing at the display. It was PLARG. She pushed the green answer button.
“Hello, Mark.”
“Hola, Val. Buenos dee-az!” Mark’s Spanish was shit.
“Cut the crap, Mark. I’m tired. Why are you calling?”
“Tough Monday morning, huh? At least you’re in sunny Baja California. I get to spend the day in a cold, windowless lab in cheery Moss Landing. There’s even summertime fog outside, if I decide to go look out a window.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. I had a really rough night and I was trying to get some sleep. What’s going on?”
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you, but this is pretty big. Someone called about one of your tags.”
“That’s nice. Couldn’t you call me later? You know I’m usually asleep this late in the morning.”
“Val . . . this is big.”
There was a silence. “Okay, Mark. What’s so big about this?”
“Drumroll, please . . . it’s where he’s calling from. This guy isn’t in Mexico.”
“What?” She sat up on the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about?”
“Apparently, your squid took a trip to San Diego.”
PART II
ALLOCATION
C HAPTER 18
“H umboldt squid.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“That tag came off a Humboldt squid, Mr. Sturman.”
“So lady, you’re saying this here tag isn’t from a fish? It’s from a giant squid?”
Sturman heard the woman sigh into the phone. “Not a giant squid. The tag was on a Dosidicus gigas , or Humboldt squid. You may have heard of them before. They’re also called ‘jumbo squid’ or ‘flying squid.’ Down here, they’re called los diablos rojos —‘red devils. ’ ”
Sturman turned the orange and white tag over in his hands. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard of those before. I’ve seen a few articles in the paper over the last couple years, talking about them washing up dead around here.”
“Right. That’s them. We’re starting to think that periodic El Niño events bring them north from Mexico.”
“So this big tag fell off some little Mexican squid?”
The woman sighed again. “All anyone cares about are giant squid. Look, Mr. Sturman—can I call you Will?”
“Most people just call me ‘Sturman.’ It’s a Navy thing.”
“Right. Anyway, Dosidicus are nowhere near as big as giant squid, but they’re still quite large. There’ve been reports from South America of Humboldts growing to twelve feet or more, though I’m fairly certain those reports are exaggerations. I’ve personally seen mature adults two meters long that weigh as much as I do . . . as big as a very large dog.”
“Never heard a woman compare herself to a dog before.”
Sturman heard another loud sigh. He looked at Bud. His dog was sitting next to him at the sunny street-side patio of a
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