Chapter 23, Roberts

  The first few days of our voyage into starvation aren’t so bad. We use the last of the oranges and coconuts as gambling prizes. The winners share their small bounty, reminding everyone we’re still in this together.

  By the third day, the salvaged rice and beans start to turn. We’d spread them out in every sheet pan and shallow bucket we had and left them baking in the sun, hoping they’d dry. But it wasn’t fast enough. Most of it turned sour.

  Despite being a permanent fixture on the latrine, Jake keeps insisting he’s got a steel stomach, that a few spoiled beans won’t kill him. Sonya catches him nibbling at a handful of mush and knocks it out of his palm.

  “You may think you’re made of stone,” she snaps, “but the runs can kill you. It’s not worth it.”

  As if to prove her point, Harken stumbles past and barely makes it to the rail before vomiting into the sea. That night, every one of us came down sick at some point or another, and by morning, what was left of the spoiled food was tossed overboard without a second thought.

  What’s really ironic is that if this had happened any other time, we’d be fine. We’d have vegetables, foods that don’t spoil when wet. But we get all that in Thelos. And we were on our way there. The sea is cruel like that.

  It’s day five now, and our strict schedule of chores and sailing duties has all but gone out the window. Some cope better if they keep sailing, so we let them. Others have given in to sleeping in the shade or in hammocks on the gun deck.

  Sarah’s been following Manee like a shadow, learning the ropes faster than most. Yesterday I spotted them mid-rigging inspection, both halfway up the shrouds, making jokes like they’ve been friends for years. Harken even let Sarah take the wheel once, though he kept a hand on it the whole time.

  As for her and I, it’s like there’s too much to be said and we don’t know where to start. And at the same time, nothing needs saying until she decides about the offer I gave her. So we nod, or say hello in passing.

  But today I haven’t seen her at all. Maybe she just wants to be alone. Still, I can’t shake the urge to check on her.

  I knock once on her door and wait. Nothing.

  I knock again. “Sarah, are you in there?”

  Still nothing. I grip the handle and push slowly. It’s unlocked.

  She’s sitting at the table, which has been pushed up against the open window. Her head rests in one hand, leaning over a book.

  “I’m coming in,” I say, but she doesn’t look up.

  I walk towards her. Her eyes are half-hooded, like she’s drifting off or stuck in a blank, half-awake stare. "Are you alright?" I say, coming closer.

  Only when I’m standing right next to her does she finally look slowly up from the book, marking a line with her finger. “What? Oh, good. You?”

  A quiet sigh escapes my lips. I lean in, reading a few words over her shoulder. “An Inquiry Into the Causes of Drift in Otherwise Well-Behaved Vessels.” I scoff. “Riveting.”

  “It’s a nice change of pace.” She says, looking back down.

  Her eyes move back and forth on the page, her brows knit together in a focused line. I fold my arms and pace toward the wall, then return and take the chair across from her. “You’ve always been good at reading boring shit.”

  Her finger brushes the parchment and stops, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve always been shit at reading anything.”

  I feel my lips twitch, as I hold back a grin. “Didn’t need to read. I had you for that.”

  Her eyes dart up from the page and pin me with a glare. “You only got away with stealing my answers because I let you, you know.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Oh really?” My pulse stutters and something flutters in my core. “Little miss perfect was aiding a cheater all along?”

  “Don’t act so surprised.” She holds my gaze, and relaxes her jaw.

  “I’m not,” I say, leaning forward. “I always knew the good girl thing was an act.”

  She blinks a few times, fast, and inhales sharply. Her lips part like she might say something, but then she leans back in her chair and bites her lip, gaze dropping to the floor.

  And just like that, the thread I was pulling snaps. My ears burn. My stomach turns. I push the chair back and stand. “I have a meeting.”

  She doesn’t answer. Her eyes stay down. I walk to the door step outside. Then I pause, turning back. She’s looking at me now.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. So I close the door, wincing at the sound. My heart thumps once, twice. I swallow the lump in my throat and then realize I’m still gripping the door handle. I uncurl my fingers one at a time until my hand slides free, silently, and step back.

  My vision wavers as I head down the passageway to my quarters. Harken joins me, matching my slow march. Manee and Jake are already waiting when we arrive.

  “Have a seat,” I tell them, as I settle into my chair, leaning forward onto the table.

  Harken sits across from me and Manee opts for a low trunk.

  “Don’t be a martyr,” I tell Jake, still on his feet out of stubborn loyalty or sheer will.

  “The fother is slowing us down.” He groans, easing to the floor beside Manee. “We haven’t cracked four knots.”

  “We’re looking at an extra day between us and Sanctum, maybe more,” Harken says.

  “The repairs are holding.” Manee exhales, resting elbows on their knees. “But if we pull the fother, I can’t promise it’ll stay that way.”

  “I say we try it,” Harken replies. “If she starts taking on water, we slap it back on. Seas are calm, skies are clear. This might be our only window.”

  “And with all that tar slapped to the hull, we’re a floating firepot,” Manee says, head in their hands. “If we get into a fight, we’ll burn before we can even fire back. I say we pull it.”

  "I should have you knock on wood for that," I say, rapping my knuckles twice against the table.

  “Forgive me,” they say, giving two solid knocks to the trunk they’re sitting on.

  The thought of swimming under the hull again makes me press my thumbs into my brow.

  “If we have to replace the fother… I’ll do it,” Jake says.

  “Jake… I appreciate the offer, truly. But you’re a shit swimmer.”

  Manee huffs a laugh and Harken snorts behind his hand. Jake’s jaw tightens.

  “I didn’t hear either of you jumping at the chance,” I say, cutting my eyes toward Manee and Harken.

  Harken clears his throat, barely concealing his amusement. “Apologies, Captain.”

  “Jake, it was a joke, alright? You and Gery are the only ones I trust to pull me back up.”

  “Aye, Captain.” He says, straightening his spine.

  “None of the choices are good,” I say, threading my fingers together. “But this one doesn’t end in death by fire or cannibalism, so… I don’t see a way around it.”

  “Listen, if you’re too tired, I’ll—” Harken starts, still smirking like an idiot.

  “Like hell you will,” I grunt, pushing myself out of the chair. “Let’s go before you three take any more years off my life.”

  Manee shakes their head, chuckling, and gives Harken a playful shove as we move out.

  I pause at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for the spinning to stop before I take a step. Then, the others follow me to the upper stern deck.

  The ropes holding the fother to the mooring loops need to be removed first. I won’t have to swim, but it’s right at the waterline. I’m getting soaked either way.

  I kick off my boots and Manee heads for the hold. Jake brings a ladder, and he and Harken tie it off.

  I climb down the starboard side until I’m waist deep and within reach of the mooring loop. Water lapping at my chest, spray stinging my face. I keep one hand on the rope ladder and wrestle with the knot, fingers burning. The thick, wet rope is stubborn as hell.

  A few minutes and some choice words later, it finally comes free. I climb back up, and we cross to the port side to do it again.

  With the stern lines released, I signal the crew positioned at the bow to begin hauling in the fother. The tarred canvas flops onto the deck like a limp carcass, littered with seaweed and debris. As soon as it does, I can hear less foaming at the waterline. That’s the sound of less drag. Good.

  A pitch rocks the bow down and back up. But then, it seems like smooth sailing.

  Until a hard gust of wind catches the sails. And instead of a clean forward surge, we’re yawing and rolling like a cart missing a wheel.

  “How much ballast do we have left?” I ask, turning to Jake.

  “None. We let it all go,” he says.

  “Fuck. I think the fother was—”

  Manee comes trudging back from the hold. “—keeping us bottom-heavy,” they finish for me.

  I look up at Harken, who’s gripping the wheel and shaking his head in my direction.

  Fucking fuck. All that for nothing.

  “I’m not doing it at speed again,” I say.

  “Let go the anchor!” Jake bellows, swatting at swabbies spinning in useless circles.