Carnifex

20/4/468 AC, Santisima Trinidad

The boat advanced at the speed of the classis, a stately and sedate twelve knots. The speed was set by that of the slowest vessel in the flotilla, the steamer, BdL Harpy Eagle, which served as safe berth for the patrol boats. At that speed, the bow needn't lift nor the engines strain. The forward gun was manned, as was the con, radar and sonar. Most of the crew were unemployed for the moment, even so, and hung out on the rear deck behind the con, drinking some of their ration beer and eating lunch from paper plates.

"Watsa matter, Santiona, tired of fishing?" Pedraz asked.

"Fuck that shit," the heavyset sailor answered. "I'll never toss a hook in the water again as long as I live. If I ever fish again, it'll be with hand grenades or big nets."

"Pity," said Pedraz. "I'll bet that meg is still following us hoping for a chance at your plump ass again."

Santiona suddenly looked to the stern, fearfully. "You don't really think so, do you, Chief?"

"Nah," Pedraz answered, lightly. "You're fated to die at the hands of a jealous husband, young seaman."

"All things considered," Santiona answered, "I'd rather not. But that still beats being eaten by a fish."

"I think they're dying out," Francés said, from behind the wheel. "Fish that size, it's got to be hard to keep fed. Especially with the loss of whales and such over the last couple of hundred years. It would need a lot of space to hunt in. That would make it hard to find mates."

"Good riddance," answered Santiona. "When the last one is dead and washed ashore I'll be all that much happier."

"Oh, I dunno,' answered Francés. "They're magnificent, for all they're dangerous. Be kind of sad when there're no more."

"Hah!" Santiona snorted in reply. "You haven't been looking into the maw of one with no more than ten feet between you and its teeth. You haven't smelt its breath."

"Oh, puhleeze! Besides, they don't breathe."

"As a matter of fact," Santiona continued, unfazed, "I've decided I hate all fish. So when I take my discharge, after this tour, I'm gonna use my vet's benefits to get a fishing boat. Then I can kill the slimy scaled bastards wholesale."

Guptillo snorted. "Not me. When this is over I'm heading to dry land and, God willing and the river don't rise, I'll never get my feet wet again."

"Farmer?" asked Pedraz. "My people were farmers. Hard work and you're an awful soft city boy."

"Used to be soft, Chief. Hard to stay that way on a patrol boat."

"True enough," Pedraz agreed. "It's still awful hard work."

"No matter, I didn't want to be a farmer. I was thinking about the university and maybe taking up agronomy."

"That would be easier," Pedraz nodded. "Pay better, too."

"And no one will be shooting at you," Clavell added.

"That would be a plus," said Guptillo.

"Ah, you're all pussies," said Francés. "Me; I'm sticking with the classis until the day I die."