Page 50 of Fresh Flesh

Joras

The human vessellooks dubious to my eyes. For one thing, the hull is made out of something called fiberglass. Just the word glass makes me suspicious.

For another thing, it’s damn small for a ship that’s meant to brave the ocean waves. The triangular shaped, narrow body is designed for speed, but I wonder if it will fare well on the larger swells.

“Will you stop fussing around and get on board?” Mlarx demands.

“I’m not sure this ship is seaworthy.”

“It has to be seaworthy,” Lurg says as he unties the mooring rope from the dock.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Because,” he says “it is the only ship we could find that anyone was willing to part with. It simply has to work because we have to make it work. There is no choice.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when we sink to the bottom of the ocean.”

“You sound like a whining child,” Mlarx scoffs.

“Or someone with good sense.”

“You can always stay behind while we go and find Maisie,” Lurg offers.

“No,” I snap, the very idea abhorrent to me.

“Then stop stalling and come on.”

I sigh and leap over the narrow span of water separating the ship from the dock. I take up a position on one of its molded seats. Lurg gets behind the steering wheel and starts the engine up. The engine is so primitive it hangs off the back of the boat. The ship shudders, and then lurches forward, the front end raising up into the air.

We shoot out over the harbor, to the bigger waves in the open sea. The swell isn't bad today. Maybe five- or six-feet max. Still, the tiny ship skips off every wave like a ramp, catching air at times to crash back down with shuddering force.

I give Lurg a look. “Will you ease up on the throttle before we get bounced out of here?”

“Don’t you want to find Maisie in time?”

“Yes, and I’d like to be alive when we get there. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I never knew you were afraid of water, Joras,” Mlarx says.

“Not afraid. Appropriately cautious.”

“That’s just fancy words for saying you’re afraid.”

Lurg jerks a sharp glance over his shoulder at us.

“Stop bickering, or I will turn this boat right around.”

I doubt he would do any such thing, but Mlarx and I cease our spirited debate. For a time we skip over the waves, homing in on the transponder signal of the Genola Tay.

I keep scanning the horizons, and then I see it, a gray ship chugging through the waters.

“Look,” I say, totally unnecessarily. “There’s the Tay.”

“Indeed,” Lurg says with a grunt. “I don’t like this.”

“Why not?”

“From their heading, I’d say they’re heading back out to open sea after putting in at a dock somewhere.”

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