Singers and poets had written reams of fiction on things that swim the deeps of the planet three hops from the sun. Oceans, in the real world, were primarily created because that’s all Leviathan would fit into.

The layers of sediment, barnacles, fossils and sludge made it difficult to tell what the beast actually looked like. Three flukes, no dorsal, and huge ventral jets that kept it righted. A leagues long, alien-artifact shark-looking whale with Great White protruding teeth to hunt with, rubbed over with black pepper, paprika and black caviar, left in the broiler too long.

Big enough to kill anything anywhere and very cognizant of that fact.

Lore had it that people were afraid to dip their toes in unknown waters because God did so after creation, forgetting what was down there.

This ain’t ya Bible’s Leviathan.

Here be evolution on a whole ‘nother level.

“… those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan.” Book of Job 3:8.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Milo shouted, swinging over the brow ridge of its right eye and unslinging his massive gun to point at the eye.

*to anger me is to die the thousandth death of your progeny* Leviathan rumbled in Milo’s mind. It was blind in both eyes from its incalculable span in the pressures of the depths, nor did it feel him on its surface.

Fear, not instability, made Milo tremble. Common sense made him stand his ground. He kept his finger well away from the trigger. One mistaken shot and the Ann would disappear with an insulting lack of effort.

*the world has not known my kind. the world will not know my kind.*

Milo tried to form cogent thoughts for the beast to glean but all he could get out was He’s getting away!

When Leviathan communicated, every psychic on the planet got a headache.

Ele rubbed her forehead, believing it was tension and stress as she watched Smoove try to maintain.

Botha Dish sat up in his convalescent bed and repeatedly mashed the button for his buxom nurse.

Neon, who was about to pick the winning chicken in a rather unsavory game of chance their beachside waiter had tipped them to, blanked from the zone and lost Yvonne about two days worth of money.

Bubba Foom blacked out at a highly inopportune moment. Lab-coated people rushed to revive him.

Buford slept. He knew there were very few things not solvable by simply going to sleep.

*i am the alpha and the omega—

“No you’re not!”

*i am the alpha and omega* it overrode him, *the swimmer and the ocean—

Out of spite Milo changed its grating, thunderous voice in his head to one sounding like Mike Tyson.

—i will create the known when i am ready and crush the past as i see fit.*

Creatures of the sea had a habit of making landlubbers come to them as a way of humbling evolution.

We go in peace, Milo tried, but it was hard vibing peace when pissed off.

Leviathan gave a twist of its body, churning the ocean into a sudden storm.

“You’re not even supposed to be out!” Milo shouted and shot a few impotent blasts into the thing’s surface, managing only to dislodge a strata or two of coral. He cast a glance at the Ann and calmed himself.

Do you plan to kill today?

*my will be done on water as on dry land and i will flood the land,* said Tyson, *and legs will be useless—

Milo tuned him into background droning. He looked out to the open water, at Quicho’s ship, and at the thing beneath his feet. Nobody knew Leviathan’s age, and that fact alone made the creature worthy of respect. Granted it was a bit senile, but the power that it packed significantly overcompensated for that.

Milo signaled the circling Ann.

“Desi, next arc toward open water, floor that sumbitch.” He ran up the craggy surface to the broad plain of Leviathan’s back and clamped himself down. His brother was invisible over the curve of a hump. “Ram, start running.” Milo counted the seconds. Three...seven...ten... “Go, Quicho! Ramses, now!”

A series of explosions went off along Tyson’s spine near its flukes just as it was about to flick for pursuit, nowhere near enough to hurt but enough to pause the creature to consider something it hadn’t registered in ages: a sensation.

Any sensation.

In this particular instance: an itch.

Ramses crested the hump. Three more charges went off behind him along the monster’s spine, showering coral and rock into the air.

“Keep going, Desi,” said Milo. Then he sat cross-legged as comfortably as he could on Leviathan’s head, locked himself down with clamps in both hands, and struggled to control his breathing.

I draw the breath of life and health; I expel the breath of doubt.

Ramses reached him. Ramses saw the boat zooming off. He saw Milo meditating. He felt the conflicted impulses of Leviathan’s uncertainty toward letting the boat go or mainlining on these little itches erupting on its back. For Leviathan these sensations were akin to thousand year orgasms. The creature hadn’t evolved yet that was going to turn away from a thousand year orgasm. It filled huge ballast sacks and began to sink.

“Dammit,” said Ramses and rammed his clamps on the coral as hard as he could.

“Be at peace, brother,” Milo told him.

Ramses forced a calm. I draw the breath…

Very gradually, like Atlantis itself lowering beneath the waves, Leviathan allowed the waters to draw it home.

It could be a very long ride.