The morning of the hunt, I wake to the guttural din of a didgeridoo echoing across the bulkheads of my compartment. Near my bunk, my cabinmate sits cross-legged atop the steel deck of the starship Fury. The elaborate pipe systems around us are a nest of anacondas. I pull a latch, and my sleep pod hisses open. The noise expands.

          “Kalani, kill the racket.”

          Kalani gawks at me like I’ve interrupted something important. Tattoos cloak his entire body with intricate ink work. He tightens his face, lips locked in a scowl. He huffs and drops his didgeridoo against the deck. Kalani is a powerfully built man with bulging biceps and chiseled features. A descendant of the Polynesian wayfinders.

          “Don’t hold it against me,” I say, hand to temple. “My head’s killing me. You know what it’s like waking out of these meat lockers.”

          “Three hours to launch, Abe.”

          Abe. That’s what Kalani calls me. Though my full name is Abram. Two years ago, I embarked on a voyage to the planet Trimshod to hunt the beast, a gargantuan, a leviathan. I did it on impulse. No, it wasn’t because my home planet relies on the oil found in leviathan brains. Nor was it for fame and glory. I did it because my soul compelled me.

          I tumble out of my sleep pod and stagger toward the lav. Overhead, vent ducts whir recycled air into our compartment, reeking of stench and sweat. Beside me roost five other sleep pods, eggs waiting to be hatched. They glow with an emerald luster, their captive occupants murky to behold.

          I open the door to the lav and trudge to the cracked sink with a set of clippers. The haircut is purely utilitarian—follicles interfere with the suit. My shaggy appearance melts away. My mind clears.

          An alarm blares overhead, and static crackles over the intercom. “Attention. This is Captain Jezebel speaking.”

          Jezebel. That maniacal individual hell-bent on avenging her lost leg, severed in an excursion to this planet 10 years ago. She would have died except that the memory cells in her suit sealed the breach like a cauterized wound. They say she was in a skimmer when it happened. Her crew hadn’t even been out 10 minutes when a massive leviathan—one they call “Lucky Seven” due to a seven-shaped scar shrouding its right eye—ambushed their craft. Few survived. Those who did emerged with a new reverence for the creature. But Jezebel, half drill sergeant and half cyborg, with a crimson mohawk and steely eyes penetrating to the bone, wanted revenge.

          “Gold crypto for the one who spots Lucky Seven,” says Captain Jezebel. Men and women stand and stretch, rubbing their eyes. “Gold crypto for vengeance upon the leviathan that devoured my leg.”

          Men and women bustle between compartments, whooping and joking, scrambling to the lav for haircuts. Soon, we’re all dressed in burnt-orange jumpsuits. A gang of convicts ready for a riot. We rifle through duffel sacks and check our lockers for gear.

          Jezebel calls, “Why do we hunt the leviathan fierce?”

          We respond. “For the health of those who buy the oil.”

          “Again.”

          “For the health of those who buy the oil.”

          In unison, we march in place, creating a rhythmic beat. Some whistle a tune.

          “Who are the ones who buy the oil?” Jezebel asks.

          “The rich. The rich. The filthy rich.”

          “Again.”

          “The rich. The rich. The filthy rich.”

          “Who’ll get profits from this filth?”

          “Us. Us. All of us.”

          “Again.”

          “Us! Us! All of us!”

          Cheers arise from the crew.

          Jezebel is shouting now. “On this inaugural hunt, may your eyes be keen and your hands swift.”

          “Happy the hunt!”

          The leviathan makes its home in Trimshod’s dense argon gas. Our specially designed spacecraft hovers in the stratosphere, looking like a spiraled catamaran with six hulls. Soon, we will release smaller skimmers to penetrate the argon and hunt the great dragon. Long and serpentine, the leviathan swims in the gas, using webbed claws to propel itself like a giant crocodile.

          I muscle into a closet and yank out my collapsible exoskeleton suit. The suits are self-sustaining, equipped with an electrolysis cell and miniature water tank so that the person using it can remain in the atmosphere almost indefinitely. The oxygen we use for breathing. The hydrogen we store in containers to power the skimmers.

          Kalani assists me with my helmet, screwing it down to establish an airtight seal.

          I return the favor.

          “Abe,” Kalani says. “When you fire the harpoon, make sure your foot is free from the rope. Biggest mistake akahi akahi make out here. You have to watch your feet on the hunting deck.”

          I nod. Leviathan oil is the elixir of life. It suppresses old age, rejuvenates the body, and cures disease, bolstering the immune system to a state of invulnerability. But only the “filthy rich” can afford it. Many signed up for this voyage because they got free leviathan oil.

          Ten of us muster in hangar bay 5 to deploy. Two crewmembers man the forward harpoon cannon atop the skimmer while others inspect the port and starboard grappling hook launchers.

          The skimmer looks like a hybrid between a dinghy and an antique German U-boat. I grasp the handrail and heft myself atop the deck. With a loud groan, the Fury’s airlock hatch unseals. Down its mouth I go.

***

As the pilot lowers the skimmer to our hunting grounds for the day, Trimshod’s atmospheric pressure blasts us with a force as powerful as a thousand-ton freighter. Rising temperature draws perspiration from my face. My suit battles the heat, and salty sweat leaks into the corners of my mouth.

          Driving the skimmer is much like operating a submarine. Argon pumps into the ballast tanks to dive and discharges to climb. Rudders and fins navigate through the atmospheric gas while rearward impellers thrust the craft forward. Gravity on Trimshod remains at 0.48 g’s, the feebler force assisting the skimmer’s buoyancy.

          I rest my hand against Kalani’s shoulder and blink the comm on. “Good luck finding Lucky Seven.”

          Kalani contorts with horror. “The captain is crazy. You don’t find Lucky Seven. Lucky Seven finds you.”

          The skimmer nose-dives. We strap ourselves into our safety harnesses, and the boat shudders like a roller coaster. Clouds eclipse the deck, white as ivory. It’s dangerous in this fog, and my bones quiver at the thought of a leviathan ambushing us. I steady my feet and cling to the railing.

          The ivory mist vanishes, and the ruddy alien landscape comes into view. Reminds me of an ocean floor populated with gigantic coral reefs.

          Wiry creatures with fingered tentacles swoop about, searching for tiny prey. Alien fishes with notched fins and glowing stripes swim together in schools. They’re disrupted by long, stringy worms flaunting piranha-like teeth. Over there, nestled near some jagged peaks, blossoms a field of flowers. Or are they more like sea urchins, ones that rely on chemosynthesis?

          A hand taps my shoulder. I flinch.

          “Here.” Kalani hands me a pulse rifle. “In case we’re ambushed by warsharks. Use the scope for spotting.”

          Warsharks resemble the prehistoric Helicoprion of primal Earth. A cruel, fishlike meat eater with a spiral-toothed jaw. I nod and shoulder the weapon as Kalani takes the helm.

          Closing one eye, I peer through my scope, searching for any leviathan sign. Trimshod’s horizon looks like a serrated saw blade, bloodred with purplish hues. To the north looms a mountain range of towering volcanoes, spewing inky lava into a lavender sky. Gnarly rock formations pepper the terrain, their knobby spires rising from the ground like lonely giants. Tall mesas and twisted hoodoos tower over craggy stones, strangely mysterious and savagely stunning.

          Something catches my eye.

          It looks like a glob of volcanic rock. My mind races back to the various photos and diagrams our crew studied during Harpooner Academy back on Earth. Could it be? Yes. There’s steam rising off it. Fresh leviathan dung. The giant dump is as enormous as the skimmer itself.

          “Kalani. Got something—”

          “Warshark?”

          “Negative. Leviathan scat. 4 o’clock.”

          Kalani grabs the pulse rifle and gazes through the scope. “Good eye.”

          The pilot jerks the throttle, and the skimmer glides forward.

          “We’ll set up a perimeter and lay a trap for it.” Kalani points at some crewmembers. “You three. Remove those grappling hook launchers and follow Plan Tango.”

          We park the skimmer 50 meters from the leviathan scat. Two operate the forward harpoon cannon, and the pilot remains at the helm while the rest of us form groups surrounding the skimmer about 100 meters apart.

          Kalani hefts a grappling hook launcher onto his back. The device resembles a rocket-propelled bazooka, complete with a holographic headset to keep the projectile on target. I partner with Kalani, pulse rifle in hand. It’s my job to keep the crew safe from roaming predators. God knows the thousands wandering this planet.

          Kalani presses a button on a remote, and loud screeches echo from speakers fastened aboard the skimmer. It’s meant to mimic a wounded scalawag, a six-finned whale native to the planet, and the leviathan’s main food source. The wails sound like a humpback from Earth, and the noisy clamor makes my skin crawl.

          The leviathan is here. I sense it. It lurks somewhere, possibly near the outskirts of the trap. My hand trembles, and I swallow hard. Some hunters have gone insane after confronting the leviathan face-to-face. No wonder. The creature is hideous, the very countenance of death. It strikes fear into the bravest hearts. Why do I desire to meet it? Do I hunger to test my resolve against death? That I have no clear answer disturbs me.

          A violent scream. To my left, someone’s in trouble. I raise the scope of my rifle and train my sights on the sound.

          A squid anemone grapples one of our mates, its barbed tentacles ripping through flesh like a saw through paper. Torn ligaments are flung into the air as the crewmember screams. Someone rushes over trying to beat the creature off, but to little use. I get an opening, aim my crosshairs dead center of the squishy carnivore, and suck in a breath. Holding it, I squeeze the trigger and exhale.

          Alien body parts erupt into pink mist.

          “Abe!” Kalani shouts into the comm. “They’re swarming! Rapid fire! Rapid fire!”

          The rocks are alive with squid anemones. They hop from peak to peak, descending on us like an army of angry hornets, yelping with guttural shrieks. Everyone bolts for the skimmer, and I’m able to pick off some of the leading squids. Behind us, oozing a trail of blood, limps our injured comrade. The memory cells in his suit have sealed the wound, but he’ll never make it.

          I shove the pulse rifle into Kalani’s hands. “Cover me.” I rush toward my wounded shipmate and extend my hand. He clutches it, and I drag him with all my might. My external feeds pass the screeching into my helm. Louder and louder, I hear them right behind us.

          Boom, boom!

          Two wails, then silence.

          Ahead, Kalani lowers the rifle, waving me on.

          “Good shot, Kalani.”

          The skimmer rises a few meters off the ground, and someone lowers a rope ladder. I grab the last rung and cling for dear life, my shipmate’s hand clasped to mine. Couldn’t do this in normal gravity, but on Trimshod my strength feels superhuman.

          Three crewmembers pull up the ladder and grab me by the shoulders. I veer back to my wounded comrade.

          Everything from his chest down is gone, ripped to shreds by the murderous tentacles of the squid anemones. One squid still clings to his hip bone, snipping at stringy red sinew where the suit has sealed around it.

          Whether in revulsion or fear, I don’t know, but I release my former crewmember’s hand. His lifeless, terror-stricken eyes vanish into the mass of flailing, spongy aliens.

          Those eyes.

          My whole body convulses. I sit atop the skimmer’s deck, hugging my knees like a helpless child.

          “This is a bad omen,” Kalani says. “We should never have come. The captain’s thirst for vengeance has brought us ill fortune.”

          “When . . . when will we go out again?” I ask.

          Kalani gives an expression of rage mixed with wonder. “What’s wrong with you?”

          But I cannot shake my desire to meet a leviathan.

          Our gunnery sergeant approaches Kalani, the lead crewmember in charge of the harpoon cannon. Through the gunny’s faceplate I confront his weathered mug. Deep wrinkles, sunken eyes.

          “He’s got the dragon fever.” Gunny growls in a Scottish brogue, pinching my arm with an iron grip. “Aye. That he does. They didnae call Lucky Seven by that name because she brought good fortune. The monster brings devastation. And anguish.”

          “We’ve had a casualty,” Kalani says. “We must head back. Captain Jezebel will not be pleased.” Kalani glares at me through his faceplate. I realize he means “with me.”

***

Leviathan paraphernalia line Jezebel’s quarters. Teeth, bones, and scaly leviathan skins decorate the bulkheads. Captain Jezebel stands at 200 centimeters in height and favors her good leg. Prosthetic surgeons couldn’t patch everything back to normal. The beast took her leg and soul. Jezebel’s eyes glint gun-barrel gray, and her crimson mohawk stands at rigid attention. She glares at us like we’ve committed an unpardonable sin, her powerful jaw clenched and crooked.

          “Why did you come back? You still had plenty of crewmates to at least set another trap, or maybe go trolling.”

          Kalani frowns. “Safer to grant them a rest. They’re worthless in a state of shock.”

          Jezebel stomps the deck with her bionic leg. “No one here signed up for rest. They knew the danger when they took this voyage. Now, get back out there and do what you’re paid for.”

          “Aye, ma’am.”

          Upon joining our other mates, Kalani barks orders. “Look alive. Get the MIG gun and weld a winch to the skimmer’s back deck. We’re going trolling.”

          The crew grumble and arm themselves with angle grinders and torches, preparing to fabricate a giant steel fishing pole on the back of our boat. It looks like a tower crane with a latticed neck rising 3 meters in the air.

          Sparks fly. Metal grates against stone. The acrid smell of hot steel envelops the air. The ferric twang slicks my tongue. Plan Echo—leviathan trolling. Just like the trophy fishermen centuries ago. It’s a dangerous business, and we’re running out of time. In 16 hours, the temperature will be too blazing for human habitation.

          The desire has gotten ahold of me. A “dragon fever,” like Gunny talked about. Once more the airlock door unfastens, and we slide into the argon atmosphere of the hostile planet. Certain areas of Trimshod are better for trolling than others. Kalani fiddles with a GPS tablet, directs our pilot to jet the skimmer to a spot some 300 kilometers from where we were before.

          Two of us hoist the hook and skewer a giant hunk of flesh on the end of the jagged barb. We drop the lure off the back of the skimmer, the reeled cable squealing like an angry cat.

          After half the cable’s been let out, we lock the winch and fire up the impeller, traveling 80 kilometers per hour. Brief turbulence rocks the skimmer and I steady my legs to keep myself standing.

          A sudden jerk halts the skimmer’s forward glide. The boat rocks back, and three atop the forward harpoon gun launch into the air. Lucky for them, their harnesses plant them back on the deck.

          “Strike!” Kalani shouts. “We got a strike!”

          Gunny points. “There she breaches.”

          One kilometer to the east, a hulking, snakelike body ruptures the mist, flailing like a raging swordfish.

          The cable attached to the winch snaps tight, and the skimmer drags back.

          The pilot reverses the impellers. I recall from my training: To resist a fresh leviathan will snap the cable.

          “Let out some more line,” Kalani says. “We’ll wear the beast down and let it fly.”

          I release the winch, and the cable screams.

          Gunny rotates the harpoon cannon. “Shoot, Kalani?”

          Kalani raises his hand.

          The winch reel unravels and pulls the arm. The base where it’s welded to the deck bubbles up until a whopping crack forms at the joint.

          “She’s rupturing!” Kalani lands atop the winch arm as if to try to keep it from ripping off. How he expects to do that, I have no idea. He must be mad. “Dragon fever” has got him, too.

          “Kalani, no! Get back. Don’t be a fool!”

          The winch arm yanks off and flips Kalani through the air like a throwing knife. Thrashing, the cable catches him around the torso and catapults him off into oblivion. Kalani’s last glance is one of peaceful meditation, like when I first saw him coming out of the sleep pod. In a cloud of churning vapor, Kalani vanishes.

          I crash onto the deck with a thud. “No! Kalani!”

          Fueled by adrenaline, I shout orders to the pilot and crew. “Dive! We’re getting that monster. I don’t care what it takes.”

          The boat plummets like a wounded bird.

          Were I not strapped in, I would fly off the skimmer. Down, down we go, below the mist toward the crimson planet.

          Before us looms the hulking beast, dragging winch and cable. The wicked dragon that took my friend.

          Three crewmembers operating the mounted harpoon cannon aim behind the leviathan’s forelimb. But the creature zags and lunges.

          “No shot,” says Gunny.

          My blood boils. “We’re taking that dragon, and we’re doing it right now.”

          The leviathan soars above us, its jade-green underbelly making a magnificent target.

          The three gunners scramble to their feet and aim upward.

          The skimmer jolts.

          Gunny and I exchange bewildered glances. What was that?

          Gunny staggers from the helm over to the weapons locker stowed underneath a deck hatch. “Abe. Get the grenade launcher.”

          The skimmer jolts again. This time, Gunny topples to the deck, his safety harness preventing him from going any farther.

          Below us swims a massive beast. It must have knocked us by accident. It’s twice the size of the leviathan above and unreachable by the harpoon cannon.

          I unstrap myself and stumble toward the weapons hatch, the skimmer jolting once more. Our gunnery crew clambers in complete disarray. They shriek and point until the cannon suddenly goes off.

          Gunny hollers and gapes at me.

          I glance down, seeing my foot caught in the rope. The rope uncoils rapidly, tracking the fired harpoon’s trajectory. In no time at all, the rope yanks me off the skimmer. The last thing I see is Gunny’s anguished face, arms open wide.

          I disappear into a cloud, being dragged by the wayward harpoon. In the moment, I have no time to react and am lugged farther and farther until the harpoon surrenders to Trimshod’s feeble gravity.

          Everything slows down, and I begin to sink. Lurching fear forms in my stomach and crawls up my throat.

          “Help!”

          No answer from the comm.

          A bitter sob escapes my lips. “Kalani. I’ve failed you, my friend.”

          I drift for a while in the barren whiteness, searching, agonizing. Wondering if there’s any way I could locate the skimmer.

          Why did Kalani jump on the winch in the first place? Did he also hope to meet the leviathan that ended his life?

          A giant eye with a diamond-shaped pupil flashes beside me. My blood turns to ice, and goose pimples surge across my skin. No sudden movements.

          There. A claw, a tail—something. I swallow hard, and my heart thumps like it wants to burst from my chest.

          The rope, still wrapped around my foot, pulls once again. I grasp for it, but with no success. I am being pulled—down, down, to Trimshod’s craggy surface.

          I grab for my sidearm and feel a sudden impact. My pistol goes flying. I’ve tumbled onto the planet’s surface. I crawl to the pistol, but the rope tugs at my ankles. First things first. I squat down to remove the rope. The rope jerks. It drags me about 10 meters. I grasp the loop. The rope jerks again. Something is toying with me.

          I glance down the line to confront the origin—a dismal cave. The rope ceases jerking and pulls me steadily toward the mouth. Coming closer, I realize my worst fear, my deepest desire. From the cave emerges a giant, lizard-like snout. A forked tongue slithers out of the mouth and back in.

          A leviathan. A leviathan with a seven-shaped scar over its right eye. I can’t comprehend it. I shield my face and pray for a quick death.

          Hot snorting surrounds my exoskeleton suit, maxing out my cooling system. My body moistens with sweat.

          Dare I gaze into the face of my executioner? I spare a glance through my fingers.

          The diamond pupils dilate and blink.

          I swallow hard.

          The monster opens its mouth, revealing a row of vicious fangs. Then something strange happens. The leviathan does not bite. Instead, it grips the rope between its teeth and swims upward, dragging me like a limp rag.

          Within minutes, others join. Thousands of leviathans swim in unison, zigzagging toward the Fury and bellowing with angry howls.

          The skimmer detonates first. Then the main ship. Wreckage explodes with violent blasts. Scores of leviathans share blows, huffing what looks like fire and demolishing everything in sight. Within minutes, the ordeal is over.

          Corpses float everywhere, their charred remains drifting through the atmosphere. Lucky Seven drags me amid the debris.

          One piece of machinery is still intact: the escape pod.

          I clamber into the hovering pod and slip into a hypersleep chamber, the only way to make the autopilot initiate. The rocket boosters engage, and I exit Trimshod’s orbit into an endless black.

          One does not dream in hypersleep, but one receives. I am aware of my fortune, my selection. I hear Lucky Seven’s whisper, an otherworldly, raspy drone, rising and falling, melodic yet tuneless. The music pursues me through several corners of the galaxy until I am saved.