Between

Chapter Twenty-Five

Engine room 4 aboard the OSV Nightjar, approximately 781 miles off the mid-eastern coast of Corzibar

"What's our status, Sharp?"

Chief Engine Operator Leonard Sharp had his hand and forearm practically wedged between two very large gears in the stern end of engine room 4 when Silas came through the heavy bulkhead door. The man, who was pushing sixty years old, grunted and winced at the same time a heavy clunk came from somewhere behind the gears. It took him another few seconds to wrestle himself free, and the Captain had a brief moment of panic when he realized the man might be stuck. Once he had finally freed himself, Sharp grunted again and shuffled over to a box on the west wall, dragged a lever down, and then swung a great iron door closed over the exposed gears. The corners of Silas' lips quirked into a grin at the old man's grumpy expression once he had finally looked at him.

"Damn thing won't budge an inch," Sharp croaked, clearing his throat and spitting into an old barrel to his left. "I can get 'er in place but soons as I go about startin' 'er up she falls back out. Need a smaller pair o' hands in here's what we need."

Silas sighed. Leonard Sharp was a particularly obstinate man who had a difficult time working with others. He'd been working on engines since before Silas himself had even been born. The Captain had made several attempts to place apprentice operators with him, but so far Sharp had frightened all but one of them off. The one who hadn't demanded reassignment had been killed several months earlier by an explosion in the auxiliary boiler room. Since then, Sharp had grown even more grouchy than usual. He suspected, though he would never say it to the old man's face, that the loss of his last apprentice had hurt him more than he would ever admit.

"We're moving along just fine on the two engines, Sharp," Silas replied in the calming tone he made a point to use whenever he was around the EO. "Don't stress yourself out. I've also heard we're making good progress on the hydrojets. The word is we may be able to use them on our return trip this time."

Leonard Sharp hacked and rolled his eyes.

"'Scuse me, Cap'n," he grumbled, "but you been sayin' that we is gettin' close on them jets for most o' the past year. I'll believe it when I see it, Sir."

Recognizing he had chosen the wrong battle to fight, Silas relented and changed the subject.

"I'm sure I can find a crewman who can help you out, Sharp. But you have to let them help you instead of yelling and grumping at them the whole time, is that understood?"

"There ain't no crew on board small enough to get at what I need to get at Cap'n," laughed the EO with a wheeze. "Not 'less you wanna fetch me one o' them kiddos from the cargo bay, and I ain't exactly the world's best at babysittin'."

"No children, Sharp," Silas promised with another smile. "But I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, though, I need you to jump over to the hydro bays and help the guys there get the replacement duct-work installed. I want to prioritize the hydros in case we run into bad weather."

"Bad weather, Sir? Someone spy a ravager on the horizon?" Sharp cocked a bushy grey eyebrow and Silas suddenly realized he had said the wrong thing. No doubt Sharp would be telling everyone around him about his storm sailing experience once he made it to the hydro bays. It seemed every sailor in the navy had heard at least one of Sharp's dramatic tales—many of them multiple times. Mentally, he cringed. Those poor, poor souls.

"Just keeping prepared," Silas responded carefully, his eyes darting around for a moment to avoid Sharp's excited expression. "This is a bad time of year to be making a crossing, as you know."

"Indeed it is, Sir!" Sharp boasted, his chest puffing out. "Why, one time I was—"

The Captain held up a hand to cut him off—something only he seemed to have the ability to do successfully.