Sayl-master

"Great ..." Sasha was a little confused: he did not expect that the decision would be made right away, and now he felt as if he had been hit on the head with a butt. "I am certainly very glad, Madam Captain.... Tell me, who is in the carriage besides Sandra?"

"Oh," Ball said calmly, but with a noticeable note of pleasure in her voice, "our crew is small, but highly competent: besides me, you and the helmsman, we also have a pilot and a purser, who is also the XO. I have no doubt that you will work well together. And just call me "captain," without "madam."

* * *

The squirrel looked with distaste at their new navigator, who towered over her like a tower. He's not an intellectual at all, he's too handsome, and he clearly knows it: he has a very good-looking, open face, long, bleached-white hair falling over broad, tanned shoulders, generously exposed by a white tank top, and a Saturn earring in his ear (and what do gays wear? Left or right?.. I can't remember). In addition to his tank top, the navigator was wearing white canvas trousers, and he had a dreamy, slightly embarrassed smile on his face. "Sucker," that's what the Squirrel thought, in its own words.

Besides, he's too young: twenty-five years old, no more. How can you be a reliable navigator at that age?..

Belka herself turned nineteen a month ago, and her entire flight experience was limited to practice at the Academy of Foreign Trade.

"A small one..." remarked navigator Belobrysov, surveying the brigantine. Indeed, the "Glare" barely occupied a third of the volume of the "muzzle". They climbed up from the launch edge so that Sasha could take a look at the ship before going to get his things.

"We were given the wrong size, there were no others available," The Squirrel said defensively.

"What about me?" the navigator was surprised. "I'm fine," he glanced at the Squirrel's jumpsuit with an appraising glance, apparently noticed the bloodstains from the sacrifice to the ship's spirit and asked: "How's her character?"

"Normal character," Belka shrugged her shoulders, unwilling to admit that she had never seen any other ships before, only training ones. "Only the "Glare" is masculine. I know it's unusual for brigs, but..."

"By the way, are we on You or on you?" the persistent navigator continued.

"As you wish," the Squirrel just shrugged her shoulders.

"And who's already on board?"

"Kulikova is installing the propulsion crystals, and lu... Lyudmila Iosifovna was going to place the cargo."

"Lyudmila Iosifovna — is this XO Berg?"

"Executive Officer, Purser, supercargo..." "the all-seeing eye and the ship's god," thought the Squirrel, but did not say it out loud. "She and Marina Fyodorovna have been walking together for a long time."

The navigator had such an existential longing in his eyes that the Squirrel suddenly felt sorry for him. She imagined who he saw in front of him — very small (about forty meters, and also slouching!) a dark-skinned girl with shaggy hair sticking out in all directions, in baggy overalls stained with tar and sacrificial blood, skinny and looking like a tousled sparrow because of the curls sticking out in different directions. Even a "calf" wouldn't want to work with a pilot like that-and how did Ball hire her in the first place?"

"Working" on the air inevitably means "trusting your life."

"Get out of defeatist moods," the Squirrel threatened herself. "Otherwise, I'll leave you without a walk to the sea. And without dinner. No, I can't go without dinner, I'm already skinny, and I'm losing weight... I'm going to make you eat the fattest and nastiest rat you can find in the park."

"Are you worried about the size of the crew? We won't have much time for conflicts."

"No, it's just... just women!" Sasha muttered. "And how did I agree to this?!"

* * *

Women or not, there was not and could not have been another ship in Pier Arden that would have taken Sasha on board. So the navigator decided it was best to deal with the administration of his dormitory as soon as possible — a semi-benevolent institution supported by the deductions of the Navigation Fraternity — and come on board. To climb onto the "Glare", which was already lying in the cannon chute, it was necessary to bypass the loader and get up from below, from the cargo lock.

Sashka did not see the usual port activity in the wide-open gates. Obviously, everything had already been loaded in the morning. A tall, broad-shouldered and very full-bodied lady of about forty was sitting on a wooden box propped on her butt, smoking a cigar and polishing her short nails with a bar. On the woman's belt hung a huge cleaver, almost square, like a butcher's knife — Sasha almost whistled. He had never seen a woman carrying one before. Especially in the port: drunkenness is not far from trouble here. Most preferred to leave their swords in the captain's safes.

"Белобрысов?" she asked, looking up at him with brown eyes narrowed from the sun. There were dark freckles around her eyes, visible even through her tan; the lady's light brown curly hair was held back on her forehead with a white headband, for some reason without a single hieroglyph or rune.

"That's right," Sasha said. "And you're Treasurer Berg?"

"That's the one. Willkommen and so on," Berg smiled briefly, showing large teeth; Sasha would have called them "horse teeth" for another person, but here they suggested predators. "Have you served in the Navy, Mr. Navigator?"

"Yes," Sashka nodded, thinking how unusual it was to appoint a purser to the executive officer, who, if anything, could not take the ship out himself; however, it was not at all unheard of: if something happened to the Ball, Berg would remain the executive officer, and either the pilot or the navigator would take command.... Sashka dismissed this thought with horror: in an amicable way, three officers of the watch are not enough for a brigantine. It's better not to even imagine how they will manage without the captain. And with a pilot like that gloomy little sparrow girl. Has she ever been on the air?

"And what kind of ships?" Berg asked.

"One of our ships is the Alexander Nevsky and the Jeanne D'Arc, and once I sailed on the allied brig Jennifer," Sashka listed. And a few coasters in between when I was stuck on the Outskirts.

"How did you manage to stay on the Outskirts without hiring?" Berg asked with cheerful sympathy.

"The ship was wrecked," Sasha shrugged, "The Admiralty chose not to pay for our passage home, but pushed the matter to the local commandery. They didn't shake their pockets either, they preferred to plow on the spot. Well, the skipper still pulled the strings, and the junior officers got stuck, including me."

"Have you even visited Natalia? Have you seen the waterfalls?" The bursar continued to interrogate her in the same friendly way, but there was something in her voice that made Sasha want to cringe.

"I didn't have time," Sasha replied independently, "we've never gone this deep.... But I've studied the Isthmus from beginning to end.

"I've been to the Isthmus too," Berg agreed approvingly. Sasha wanted to escape from here at full speed, before it was too late. "Yes, I didn't serve in the Navy: more and more frei," she meant free employment. "I've been on the air since I was fifteen. And almost all this time with Marina Ball. You, young man, are very lucky: it's better not to find a captain all over the air, even in the military fleet, even in the free one. If you can stand at least a couple of flights under it, you'll become such a specialist that you can go to the admiral's flagship right now."

Sasha ignored the last sentence — Berg obviously did not know that he had flown out with a "wolf ticket" — but her other words, especially the more than short story about her career, made Sasha think.

The phrase "free hire"-not "rogue traders"-was a euphemism for privateering. Just ten years ago or so, when Sasha was entering the Academy, the last big war in the colonies ended. In it, United America fought with its numerous metropolises, and the ORC (United Russian Principalities) they participated on one side, then on the other. This sometimes led to funny curiosities, especially regarding the prisoners. It had been quiet on the air for ten years, and, as the newspapers said, the brave age of piracy and all kinds of privatisation had finally come to an end. Well, that explained a lot: for example, why the "best captain in the whole broadcast," M. F. Ball, has been driving for ten years, and why Berg herself has such an amazing collection of scars on her neck (covered with hair, but still visible) and her left little finger is missing. Well, the sword is so good. A former pirate, no doubt about it.

Then Sasha felt his heart sink: he finally understood what Ball meant when she spoke about the specifics of courier service. Contraband— that's for sure; or maybe worse.

On the other hand, she said at the same time that he, as a navigator, would not have to deal with anything like that. While he was thinking like that, Berg finally got up from her crate and climbed into the small hatch designed for the crew; Sasha got up after her, feeling the viola case, hung on his back like a guitar, uncomfortably hitting his ass.

The muzzle smelled of salt and algae (of course, no one spent fresh water on launching, they were pumped directly from the ocean), metal heated over a long day, and, of course, ozone. The brigantine stood on struts, and a rope ladder hung from the deck to the bottom of the cannon.

Berg climbed up surprisingly easily, the huge cleaver did not interfere with her at all. Sashka followed her with a little less grace, but still managed not to bump into the walls of the gutter and not lose his dignity in any way.

Half of the deck was flooded with sunlight, half had already gone into shadow — the sun was gradually sinking behind the hills. On the equator itself, a huge black cat was sitting and washing: almost knee-deep to Sasha. The cat lowered its paw, raised its intelligent yellow eyes to the newcomers, and meowed with displeasure.

"It's Boarding, Marina's cat," Berg explained with pleasure. "You fat, lazy brute," she said gently. "Die absheulich wichtige Bestie, ich sage (Черная, отвратительно умная скотина, я говорю!)

The boarding party opened its toothy mouth and gave an infectious, wide yawn, as if confirming the bursar's words. It's a pleasure," Sashka saluted the cat slightly, like a senior officer to a junior. Keep on watch, Mr. Cat, I won't bother you.

Berg put her hands on her waist.

"I've always said that if they don't teach you how to sail properly in our navy, they'll teach you manners for sure!" and she smiled more fangily than any vampire. Sasha thought once again that he didn't have a choice anyway.