John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

“Parts for your main liner would seem to me to be important,” Walker said.

“They said the same thing,” Baker said. “Also that there’s a lot of stuff that’s important. And the pump isn’t out yet, it’s just old. So… I think I’m going to have to go into the fucking dark and try to find Barry’s pump. Or he’s going to make my life hell.”

“Sounds like you need to talk to a Chief,” Walker said.

“I would if we had any,” Baker said, shrugging. “The only chief we’ve found was a retired guy on one of the liners. And they sent him off to the small boat squadrons down the coast. I’m going to go brace the Gunny, I think. I sort of knew him on the Iwo . I knew him, don’t think he knew me. I’ll ask him if he could free up a couple of Marines. It’s fucking dark in there and there are zombies. I’m not going to take a fucking Beretta in there hoping for the best. I’m not.”

“If I didn’t have some sort of class coming up, I’d offer to cover you,” Walker said. “I can use a Beretta. Prefer a 1911 but I can use a Beretta.”

“If you’re available and I can’t find Marines, I might just take you up on that,” the kid said. “There’s a liquor storage compartment that’s barely been touched from what I hear. If we’re taking in a pallet to get out a pump, we might as well fill it, right?”

“As long as we get the pump,” Walker said, as the zodiac reached the floating dock on the liner.

“What was that name again?” the kid asked.

“Walker,” Thomas said. “But I’m going to be taking the nautical class so I don’t know how much time I’ll have.”

“Zero,” the driver said. “Bloody zero. Runs from early morning to late at night.”

“Shit,” the kid said. “I guess I’ll need to find some Marines, then.”

* * *

The cabin wasn’t bad but it was interior. And while he wasn’t claustrophobic, Thomas was about tired of four walls. He used the delicious luxury of a flush toilet, with toilet paper, took another shower then took a walk.

There was a dining area that served from morning to midnight according to the posted schedule. He decided to check out the food. A middle aged guy swiped his card and looked at the readout.

“You can eat as much as you’d like,” the guy said, handing him two printed tickets. “But eat everything you take. The tickets are for the bar if you want some booze.”

The food was bland and clearly canned. Some of it had the look of being from Navy rations. The only thing fresh was baked mackerel. And there was a lot of it.

“Where’s the fish come from?” he asked the server.

“Some of the boats just brought it in,” the girl said. She was English, southern England. “It appears that submarines can stun fish with their sonar. They stun them and the boats pick them up.”

“They’re going active to go fishing ?” Thomas said, his normally bland expression flickering.

“They’re out of food, too,” a woman said, tartly. She was American and apparently in charge of the chow line. “The subs are. They mostly do it to feed their crews. We get what’s left over.”

“Okay,” Walker said. “That makes a little more sense.”

He took some of the mackerel and looked for a table by the windows. They were mostly occupied but most of the people were probably European and thus wouldn’t mind sharing. One person, one table was an American thing.

There was a self-serve soft drinks stand, Pepsi products, and a bar with wine and beer. He decided he could really do with a beer.

“You look like you’re fresh off the boat,” the bartender said, looking around then waving away the ticket. “Hang onto it. You can use it later.”

“Thanks,” Walker said. “I am. And I signed up for the nautical course.”

“Good luck, mate,” the man said, drawing a beer. “I tried that and quit on day two. Bloody ball buster that is. You’re not cleaning first?”

“I studied for the master mariner’s test one time,” Walker said. “And I remembered enough of it they put me in the class right away.”

“I’ll just sit here and pour, then,” the man said, pouring himself a beer. “Leave it to you.”

Walker went to one of tables by the window with an open seat and gestured to it with his tray.

“May I?”

“Please,” one of the men said, waving to it. “I suppose you’re another enjoying a last evening of freedom?”

“Yes,” Walker said. “Taking the nautical course tomorrow.”

“We’ll be together then,” one of the men said. “Robert O’Toole. No relation to the actor.”

“Tom Walker,” Thomas said.

“I am celebrating my first night of not cleaning up zombie crap,” O’Toole said, taking a sip of his beer. “The people who do that full time have my respect. I don’t care if we’re using rubber gloves, masks and suits. There are things a man should not have to see. I don’t remember seeing you, Tom was it? Were you on one of the other boats?”

“I just got off the Nordic Venture ,” Walker said. “As in a few hours ago. Signed in, went to HR and volunteered. When I took the mariner’s test they sent me over to take the course right away. I studied for the master mariner’s ticket one time and I remembered some of it. That excited them. So, no, no cleaning up zombie crap for me. I offered to, but they wanted me to go straight to the course.”

“Lucky bloody you,” the first man said. “Rick Ewald. I’m starting on cleaning zombie poo tomorrow morning. Apparently all that a man with a bachelors in business is good for.”

“They’ve got lots of positions that need managers,” O’Toole said. “And it’s not nearly as bad as being in a compartment.”

“I understand the nautical course is a ballbuster,” Walker said.

“You’ve been talking to Timothy,” the third man said. “He’s a bit of an idiot but he draws a good beer. Steven Schaper, at your service, Mister… Walker?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “At yours, sir.”

“Tim is cut out for a life of working as a clerk,” O’Toole said. “But he’s a hard worker. He cleans in the day and draws at night. You get points for both, you see.”

“Points?” Walker said. “Fresh off the boat.”

“Chits, points,” Ewald said, gesturing to the drink tickets. “You get points you can trade for drinks or better clothes or food. Even accommodations. They’ve become the de facto currency. There’s even a bit of an exchange.”

“Bit different with the boat crews,” O’Toole said. “One of the reasons to join. Take, oh, clothes as Rick pointed out. You’re salvaging boats at sea as well as doing rescue. If there’s something your size, you can grab it. And from what I hear, the boats always have the good liquor. If they have time they’ll strip a boat bare then bring the stuff back here. What they don’t want, goes to the stores. People who handle the stores tend to get next pick. The ladies who wash the clothes that are brought in pick out anything they’d like to keep. Then if your job doesn’t involve either of those, well, you can trade chits. There’s a bit of a market place down in the Atrium. Prices fluctuate depending on what’s come in but it’s all quite legitimate. The Commodore encourages it from what I’ve gleaned.”

“Otherwise it’s functionally a communism,” Ewald said, shrugging. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.”

“Or a bit like the military,” Schaper said. “You get rations cards for different ration levels, better or worse accommodations depending on your rank as it were.”

“I suspect there’s a good bit of graft,” Walker said.

“Figuring out the difference between graft and efficiency in an economy like this is difficult,” a voice said from behind him.