Rick Riordan
The Last Olympian - 05
Inside, a row of yellow turbines the size of grain silos churned and hummed. Pressure
gauges and computer terminals lined the opposite wall. A telkhine was hunched over a console, but
he was so involved with his work, he didn't notice us. He was about five feet tall, with slick black
seal fur and stubby little feet. He had the head of a Doberman, but his clawed hands were almost
human. He growled and muttered as he tapped on his keyboard. Maybe he was messaging his
friends on uglyface.com.
I stepped forward, and he tensed, probably smelling something was wrong. He leaped
sideways toward a big red alarm button, but I blocked his path. He hissed and lunged at me, but
one slice of Riptide, and he exploded into dust.
"One down," Beckendorf said. "About five thousand to go." He tossed me a jar of thick green
liquid—Greek fire, one of the most dangerous magical substances in the world. Then he threw me
another essential tool of demigod heroes—duct tape.
"Slap that one on the console," he said. "I'll get the turbines."
We went to work. The room was hot and humid, and in no time we were drenched m sweat.
The boat kept chugging along. Being the son of Poseidon and all, I have perfect bearings at
sea. Don't ask me how, but I could tell we were at 40.19° North, 71.90° West, making eighteen
knots, which meant the ship would arrive in New York Harbor by dawn. This would be our only
chance to stop it.
I had just attached a second jar of Greek fire to the control panels when I heard the
pounding of feet on metal steps—so many creatures coming down the stairwell I could hear them
over the engines. Not a good sign.
I locked eyes with Beckendorf. "How much longer?"
"Too long." He tapped his watch, which was our remote control detonator. "I still have to wire
the receiver and prime the charges. Ten more minutes at least."
Judging from the sound of the footsteps, we had about ten seconds.
"I'll distract them," I said. "Meet you at the rendezvous point."
"Percy—"
"Wish me luck."
He looked like he wanted to argue. The whole idea had been to get in and out without being
spotted. But we were going to have to improvise.
"Good luck," he said.
I charged out the door.
A half dozen telkhines were tromping down the stairs. I cut through them with Riptide faster
than they could yelp. I kept climbing—past another telkhine, who was so startled he dropped his Lil'
Demons lunch box. I left him alive—partly because his lunch box was cool, partly so he could raise
the alarm and hopefully get his friends to follow me rather than head toward the engine room.
I burst through a door onto deck six and kept running. I'm sure the carpeted hall had once
been very plush, but over the last three years of monster occupation the wallpaper, carpet, and
stateroom doors had been clawed up and slimed so it looked like the inside of a dragon's throat
(and yes, unfortunately, I speak from experience).
Back on my first visit to the Princess Andromeda, my old enemy Luke had kept some dazed
tourists on board for show, shrouded in Mist so they didn't realize they were on a monster-infested
ship. Now I didn't see any sign of tourists. I hated to think what had happened to them, but I kind of
doubted they'd been allowed to go home with their bingo winnings.
I reached the promenade, a big shopping mall that took up the whole middle of the ship, and
I stopped cold. In the middle of the courtyard stood a fountain. And in the fountain squatted a giant
crab.
I'm not talking "giant" like $7.99 all-you-can-eat Alaskan king crab. I'm talking giant like
bigger than the fountain. The monster rose ten feet out of the water. Its shell was mottled blue and
green, its pincers longer than my body.
If you've ever seen a crab's mouth, all foamy and gross with whiskers and snapping bits, you
can imagine this one didn't look any better blown up to billboard size. Its beady black eyes glared at
me, and I could see intelligence in them—and hate. The fact that I was the son of the sea god was
not going to win me any points with Mr. Crabby.
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