Monstrum by Ann Christopher

“Whatty-who’s?”
    â€œXCRs,” Carter says impatiently, pointing to these vicious-looking assault rifles. “Developed by Robinson Armament for SOCOM?” The other girls and I exchange blank looks. “Special Operations Command? NATO?” Carter continues, tapping my forehead with an index finger. “
Hello?
Is anybody home in there?”
    â€œOh,” I say as the lightbulb goes off over my head. “NATO. Got it. Thanks, G.I. Joe. And what about the rifles in the cabinet next to—”
    Sammy interrupts me. “What’s the tank for?” he asks.
    At first I don’t know what he’s talking about, but then I see it in the next cabin, only partially in our field of vision: a room-sized aquarium filled with beautiful blue water, undulating seaweed in all colors and, as far as I can see, absolutely nothing else.
    I stare, unwillingly riveted. In an unconscious gesture, my fingers go to my necklace. I rub the aquamarine and try to regulate my breathing, which has become shallow and inadequate.
    â€œThe captain will—” the crewman begins.
    â€œWhat’s with the secrecy, boyo? You can fill us in on a few of the pertinent details until the captain talks to us. We’re not in a bleedin’ James Bond movie.” Murphy has apparently had enough of the party line, and his unsmiling face and thinned lips reflect it. It also reflects his age, which seems to have increased exponentially since we boarded that plane in the Bahamas. His skin, which was wrinkled but nicely ruddy from the sun, has turned to a crinkled roadmap of shoe leather, and his cheeks have sharpened to bony cliffs. Fixing the crewman with his flinty blue gaze, he says, “I suggest you use the tongue God gave you.”
    The guy stares at his shoes, rocks back on his heels and rubs a hand over his neck. Then he picks his words with the delicacy of a soldier tiptoeing his way across a minefield.
    â€œThis is a . . . scientific research mission, Señor. We discuss it on a need-to-know basis only. We must get going.”
    â€œSo you’re trying to catch that rabid whale out there?” Gray demands.
    Without another word, the guy pivots and walks off, leaving us speechless and dissatisfied. Muttering, we frown at each other and watch him go, trying to decide whether to follow him or not. Finally, we walk after him.
    Well, everyone except Espi, that is.
    I’ve taken a few steps before I realize she’s fallen behind the rest of us. When I look back, I see that she’s standing in the middle of the hallway, where we left her, with her hand holding the two ends of the blanket at her throat and her blank eyes staring at nothing.
    â€œEspi,” I say quietly, approaching her.
    No answer.
    I glance around for help, but the group has disappeared down a corridor to the left, leaving me and my sorry comforting skills with Espi. The only thing I can think to do is put my arm around her shoulders and lead her, silent and unresisting, the rest of the way.
    A flapping door tells me where the others have gone, and we follow them into a small dining room, and a nice one at that.
    The decor is nautical and highly masculine, as though the room was transplanted from some retro men’s club where women aren’t allowed. There’s a small collection of ornate globes standing in a corner, and the brass chandelier overhead provides a nice change from the fluorescent lighting everywhere else. All kinds of gleaming brass sea instruments dot the surfaces, and a plush navy rug covers the floor. One of the wood-paneled walls is covered with nicely framed antique maps of the Bahamas and nearby islands.
    The long table in the middle is set with covered plates at each chair, which is lucky for me because I’m suddenly starving. The smell of onions and butter hits our nostrils, and we take seats down the sides of the table and converge on the plates like hyenas devouring a bloody