Chapter 430: Captain

Pike called that Wednesday evening.

Jin heard about it from Elsa, who rang him so fast afterward that the call came through while he was still eating.

"It’s ready," she said. "The egg. Pike says the readings changed on Monday. They’ve been bringing it out of dormancy, and he thinks it may hatch by Saturday." She took a breath. "You leave in eight days."

"I know when I leave."

"I’m just saying. Saturday’s before eight days." Her voice wobbled. "I didn’t make them do it early. I asked. He said they’re following the readings, not when we want it."

"Call me when they’re sure," Jin said. "I’ll come."

On Saturday morning, Tamsin called. By the time Jin reached Harlow & Pike, the back room had been rearranged.

The cold unit was pushed to one side. In the middle of the room, on a bench, sat the hatchling tank with its little panel lit, the water shallow and still.

Beside it was a smaller, shallower tray lined with a soft grey mat, under a dim lamp. The egg sat in the tray.

It looked exactly as it always had, blue-grey and freckled, with the frosty mark at the blunt end. Jin didn’t know what he’d expected.

Elsa was already there when he arrived. She had her notebook open on her knee and her pencil in her hand, and she wasn’t writing anything.

Their parents came ten minutes later. Arthur took the chair Tamsin had set out near the door, where he could stretch his braced leg along the floor. Elena stood behind him with her hand on his shoulder.

"How long?" Elena asked quietly.

"As long as it takes," Pike said. "Hours, sometimes. We don’t hurry them."

It took most of the morning.

For the first hour, nothing happened at all. Then, very faintly, there was a tap.

Elsa sat bolt upright.

Another tap. Then a long silence. Then three in a row, small and stubborn, from somewhere near the blunt end of the shell.

A crack appeared. It was hardly anything, a hairline, but Elsa made a noise as though somebody had stood on her foot.

"Should I—" She was half out of her chair. "Can I help it? It’s taking ages."

"Not yet," Pike said gently. "The breathing and progress are what we want to see. We’ll keep checking, but this chick doesn’t need us opening the shell." He nodded at the tray. "You can talk to it, if you like."

Elsa looked at him, then at the egg. Then she knelt down by the tray, put her chin on the edge of the bench and started talking.

Jin didn’t listen to what she said. He went and stood by the window.

He thought of Glitch’s egg, the one his family had emptied their savings to buy. He remembered the dread of disappointing them before he’d even had a chance to try.

Now his parents were here to watch another beginning, and he could hear Elsa whispering encouragement behind him.

At half past eleven, a piece of shell the size of a thumbnail fell away, and something wet and dark pushed out through the gap and lay there, breathing.

At ten to twelve, the egg split down one side, and the chick came out in a slow, exhausted tumble onto the grey mat.

It was very small. Smaller than Elsa’s hand. It was covered in damp, flat, slate-grey down, darker on its back and paler on its belly, and its feet were too big for it.

It lay on its side with its eyes shut and its whole body heaving.

For a moment, nobody said anything.

Then the chick opened its eyes, a dark, wet blue, and lifted its head, and wobbled, and looked straight at Elsa, who was kneeling closest.

"Oh," Elsa said. Just that.

Her eyes had filled. She didn’t move.

Jin reached for Appraisal without quite deciding to.

[Brinecoat Penguin — hatchling]

[Quality: Silver (Low)]

He let the reading go without opening the Engine for anything more. The chick on the mat was small, wet and alive, looking at his sister.

That’s enough, he thought, and meant it. That’s plenty.

"Let it settle," Tamsin said softly. "I’ll check its condition before we offer anything."

Elsa nodded without looking away.

"Elsa," Arthur said, from his chair. His voice was rougher than usual. "What are you calling it?"

She’d had a list for months. Pebble. Slate. Captain. Jin had watched her refuse to decide. She’d said she wanted to meet it first.

She looked at the chick for a long time. It had managed to get its oversized feet under itself and was now sitting up, very solemnly, swaying slightly.

"Captain," Elsa said.

The chick sneezed.

Elena laughed out loud. Arthur covered his face with his hand.

"Captain," Elsa said again, more firmly, as if she’d been challenged. "It’s got a captain sort of face. Look at it. It’s in charge."

Captain settled back against the mat, apparently satisfied with the appointment.

After Tamsin had checked and weighed the chick, she invited Elsa to give the first feed.

Tamsin made up the paste and handed her the bowl and the soft tongs. Elsa put down her notebook, picked them up, and then stopped.

"How much?" she asked. "I measured it before. On the dummy. But it’s—it’s real now."

Tamsin wrote the portion beside the new weight. "This amount today. The method you practised: small and slow. We’ll adjust as needed."

Elsa measured it on the little scale. Her hands were shaking a bit. She held the tongs out toward the chick, and Captain looked at them suspiciously, and then lunged and caught the paste, and nearly fell over again.

Elsa laughed, wet-eyed, and wrote it down.

12:14. First feed. Took it.

Captain would stay at Harlow & Pike for the first weeks, as they’d always planned. Elsa would come before school and after it. The staff would cover nights and any visits school made impossible, preparing and storing the feeds under their usual routine.

Pike confirmed that the provisional egg bond had settled into the hatchling’s contract, then went over the care plan once more while Elsa nodded. She asked one question, about what to do if Captain wouldn’t take the morning feed, and wrote down the answer. Then she asked it again, slightly differently, and wrote that down too.

They went for lunch afterward, the four of them, at the café on the corner that Elena had always walked past and never gone into.

Elsa talked about Captain for most of it. Then, somewhere around dessert, she stopped and looked at Jin.

"You might miss the first swim," she said.

"I might."

"You won’t see anything. For six weeks." She put her spoon down. "The academy letter said no messages at all. Not even one."

"It said not to expect any."

"That’s the same thing." Elsa looked at her plate. "I’m going to write everything down. Every day. So when you come back, you can read it."

"That’s a lot of writing."

"I know," she said. "I’m going to do it anyway."

Arthur, who’d been quiet, cleared his throat.

"We’ll come and see you off," he said. "All of us. Crowe’s office sent the time. The transport yard has a bench." He glanced at his leg. "I checked."

"You checked."

"I’ve got a son who fills in seating forms," Arthur said. "I learned it from him."