Blood Red Tide. James Axler

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      Krysty thought of several retorts but kept them to herself. She nodded at the mutant top-man acrobat. “Mr. Movies.”

      He nodded. His voice was a soft chirp. “Hello.”

      Sweet Marie nodded at the man mountain beside her. “This is Gallondrunk.” Krysty noted the puckered scar just above his left temple.

      Gallondrunk stared at Krysty for long seconds. “Pretty.”

      Sweet Marie sighed. “He’s never been the same since he took that bullet to the brain off Scoshia.”

      Movies suddenly became agitated. “Bastard bluenoses!”

      Sweet Marie shrugged. “Bonesaw got the bullet out, but Gallondrunk’ll never reef, hand or steer again. Still, he’s the strongest man on the ship, and he’s a chilling machine with that walrus lance he cherishes.” She patted the giant on the shoulder tenderly. “Even worse chiller than he was before. Got the gift of emptiness, don’t you, darling?”

      Gallondrunk spent long moments processing the question. “I like to help. I like to give ’em the iron.”

      He turned his gaze on Krysty again. She realized the giant was staring more at her hair than her. “Pretty.”

      Another crewman came over bearing a steaming bucket. He was one of the handsomest men Krysty had ever seen. He had long black hair, a luxurious black mustache and hazel eyes. He put the heavy bucket onto the table and twirled his mustache. He had some sort of very thick accent. “And you must be Miss Krysty.”

      Sweet Marie made a disgusted noise. “Speaking of circling sharks, this is Goulash.”

      Goulash rolled his eyes. “Gulyas.”

      “Whatever, he may be the worst sailor aboard other than you, girlie, but he’s a dead shot with a blaster and our best hunter and scout ashore.”

      Goulash ladled beans and three lumps of bushmeat onto Krysty’s wooden platter. She stared hard at the mystery meat. “What is it?”

      Goulash blew a lock of black hair off his brow and pointed his ladle in turn. “That is monkey. That is sloth.” He pointed last at a small mass of twisted bones and gristle. “That is mutie...something.”

      Krysty decided to go from worst to best. She picked up the mutie mess and began stripping meager meat and tendon and spitting bones.

      Krysty looked at her friends. “How’s it going. Mildred?”

      “Bonesaw is a drunk, and when he isn’t drunk he’s sampling whatever meds he has. Strangely enough he seems to care about his patients. He likes the way I sew.”

      “J.B.?”

      J.B. shoveled down beans. “I wasn’t allowed in the armory or near the cannons. I cleaned blasters. Mostly single shooters. Homemade. I think they’re desperate short of—”

      Sweet Marie spoke low and dangerous. “You best keep that talk between you and Gunny till you get your short ass signed, Specs.”

      Krysty changed the subject. “Jak?”

      “Big boat.”

      Sweet Marie, Movies, Gallondrunk and Goulash spoke in harsh unison. “She’s a ship!”

      “Ship,” Jak amended. “Big ship.”

      “You all right?”

      Jak almost smiled. Krysty had seen Jak up in the rigging and knew that despite their circumstances Jak was enjoying hanging from the rigging and being in the tops. He was already as agile as a monkey, and he was learning a new skill set. It didn’t mean he wasn’t planning on how to murder the entire crew, but part of him was enjoying the work.

      “Ricky?” Krysty asked.

      Ricky’s fists clenched. “If one more person pinches my ass...”

      “You and me both. Has anyone seen Ryan?”

      Sweet Marie sucked the meat off a monkey bone. “Captain’s working your man watch-on-watch. Can’t imagine he’ll last much longer without falling asleep on duty or collapsin’. Then it’s ship’s punishment.”

      Krysty bit her lip. “Like Doc?”

      Sweet Marie looked at Krysty with genuine sympathy. “Best you forget about Old Stick, girl. He’s done. Eat. Sleep. If you gotta worry, worry about your man.”

      * * *

      THE SHIP’S BELL RANG. First Mate Loral piped the change of watch as the sun set. Ryan had been going twenty-four hours straight. “One-Eye! Take supper with your mates!” Ryan managed not to collapse to the deck. Loral called to the purser. “Mr. Forgiven! Rate Mr. Ryan waister!”

      Crewmen made approving noises of Ryan’s elevation from One-Eye to his name and from lubber to waister. His bravery, work ethic and sheer toughness had not gone unnoticed.

      Mr. Forgiven came forward bearing the book. “Come along, Wipe!” The thatch-headed sailor who had named Doc “Old Stick” bore a large bundle. Forgiven opened his book and flipped to a page. “Mr. Ryan, neither proved otherwise, nor signed.”

      “Mr. Forgiven.”

      “One hammock, mattress and blanket.” Wipe dropped them at Ryan’s feet. Forgiven held out his pen. “Sign or make your mark for your issuables.”

      Ryan signed the indicated space in the book.

      “You have been promoted from lubber to waister, until proved otherwise or signed.” Wipe set down a leather belt sheath with two implements on Ryan’s bedding. Forgiven nodded. “Ship’s knife number 12, Marlinspike number 42 and sheath. Mr. Ryan, these belong to the ship and are your responsibility until you’re chilled in action, leave ship’s service or should you buy implements of your own preference in port that meet ship standard and then these seen returned to stores. You understand?”

      Ryan understood all too well. The beating at Manrape’s hands had been one test. Working him watch-on-watch had been another. Now he was being issued the tools that could be the keys toward mutiny or escape. He was being tested again. “I understand.”

      “Sign.”

      Ryan signed.

      Forgiven nodded and walked away. “Very good.”

      Ryan drew the marlinspike. It was twelve inches of tapered iron coming to point like a sharp, flathead screwdriver with a hitch loop at the top. It was made for splicing, knotting and hitching rope and line. Ryan slid the spike back into its side pocket and drew the knife. It was simple, with well-weathered wood grips and a full riveted tang. The blade was five inches long, discolored and pitted from salt and sea. It was a working man’s knife. The spine was thick for strength and the edge was thin as a razor and shaving sharp. The knife had been sharpened so many times the blade was starting to lose its original line. Ryan hefted it in his hand.

      “Don’t even think about it,” Hardstone muttered.

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