FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The easy roll of the morning tide swayed the Wu Wei beneath Bolo's paws. His legs bunched in reflex, keeping his balance steady atop the lilting craft. He cast a glance over one shoulder at the other boats crowding the harbor, most of them manned by otters whose easy perch astride their bows he had learned to imitate. However much he tried, though, he'd never manage their easy grace. Swimming and boating was written in their DNA; water was in their blood as surely as ice was in his own.

He turned his gaze back to land, toward the butter-white beaches and the resorts that sprouted beyond them like stacks of white dinner plates. They were fat with tourists who even now would be slouching toward breakfast, sodden and heavy with rum and headaches, but hey, it's vacation, honey. And eventually, the tourists would wander from their hotels, blinking in the piercing sunlight, and look for the boats that would take them out on the water they were here for. He trailed his fishing gig in the water, the four barbed prongs cutting tiny wakes.

The tourists would not choose his boat first. Not his yellowing little brinebucket wallowing in the shallows. No, they would head out to the proper docks and throng around the otters, waving their hands or their wallets. The otters always got the rich ones, and as far as Bolo was concerned, they could have them. The richest were A-types, the ones who had decided that they knew more about boating than you and would tell you about it the whole time, the ones who would call you bro and then start spitting insults at you because they didn't have the genuine experience they expected. They went for sleek boats, sleek gear, and sleek guides, and they'd pay for them.

"Hey Bolo," shouted a broad-shouldered otter who perched aside his catamaran with easy grace. Ink inscribed sickle-shaped patterns in his fur. "Maybe you'll get lucky today. Maybe grandma will let you row all the way out past the lifeguard!"

Bolo ignored it. He hunched his shoulders, feeling the heat of the morning sun bristling in his short-cropped fur.

"Naw, man," another called across the water. "You know what he's hoping for. He just wants 'em to slap a harness on him so he can jump in the water and pull. Ain't that right, Stubbles?"

A chorus of chuckles went up from the otters. It was nothing new. Bolo could close his eyes and let their jibes glance off of him like sunlight off the waves. He didn't have to respond to them. He didn't have to feel anything. The tide drifted under him and he rode it up and down without going anywhere.

"Hello. You there. Doggie. This boat is for hire?" The voice was coarse as sharkskin, thickly accented.

Bolo opened his eyes and squinted into the mirrored sunlight. The speaker stood on the pier--not tall, but broad, built like a cast-iron stove, his girth emphasized by the bright blue tropical shirt that draped over him like a tablecloth. He wore dark sunglasses atop a sleek-furred brown muzzle, fangs sabering either side of his jaw. Wolverine.

"Yeah," he answered hesitantly. Wolverines were not a populous species, but certainly not uncommon back home. Down in the tropics, though, he didn't think he'd ever seen one. "Name's Bolo. Where you want to go?"

Several of the otters hooted over Bolo's shoulder. "Hey there, uncle bear," one called. "Why don't you leave the little pup alone and let a real waterdog take you out. He ain't no otter, you know."

The wolverine turned impassive sunglasses toward the speaker. "I am foreigner, not blind. And I am no bear." He scowled at Bolo. "Impudent little pups, yes?"

Bolo shrugged. "Just doing their job, same as me."

"Not same as you at all. You could take me out to Montgomery Atoll?"

His fur prickled. Every now and then, some tourist who probably knew better wanted to head out to the atoll. "That's a long way," he answered, lowering his voice.

The wolverine showed all his yellow teeth. "So, will probably cost me lots of money, yes?"

"And we're not really supposed to be there, you know."

"You tell me!" the wolverine said cheerfully. "You and me should be up north in nice cold winter, yes? But here are you, and here am I." He grunted with these last words, hefting up a large, heavy-looking black bag as wide as he was. He waded out into the water in his sandals and dumped it over the side of Bolo's boat where it landed with a thump and a clatter. Its weight listed the boat to one side, bobbing it in the water, though Bolo had no trouble keeping his balance. "Besides, out here, no fences, no signposts. Perhaps we just travel near, and if wind takes us there? We scold wind."

"I dunno about this." The bag held fishing equipment, that was for sure. The last thing Bolo needed was his tourism license revoked. The government had been getting stricter about that lately.

The wolverine peered over the boat at the otters down the docks, still shouting and calling for him to come over to see how a real boat moved. "Well, if you are not sure, if you have big job coming later today, I suppose I could hire a different boat boy, give him the money instead. But looks like you could use cash. Saving for new boat, hm?" Beady eyes glittered over the top of his sunglasses. "Help me out, hm? Reach down and hand me bag. I can't get it out myself. Too heavy. Then I will carry it over to one of your friends, ah?" He stood waiting, water around his knees, a knowing smile curling at his muzzle.

The outgoing tide lifted the boat and carried it back a little way as though already ready to go. Bolo sighed and reached out a paw to help him into the boat.

#

The boat bounced across the waves, its engine sawing through the sea. Every now and then it coughed and rattled alarmingly. It had been doing that more and more lately. The engine was on its heels, but Bolo hadn't had the income to replace it yet. Still, he probably had a good six months left on it, enough to get through the tourist season. The wolverine, who had introduced himself as Maksim--like great warrior Maximus, ah?--had perched himself in a chair at the back, slathered zinc oxide all over the fleshy tip of his nose, and was now grinning at the sea ahead as though intending to eat it. "Long way, yes?" he shouted over the wind.

"Long way." Bolo pulled a beer from his cooler and passed it to Maksim, who had gone through three already. Drunk tourists paid better. You had to make sure they didn't get so drunk they wouldn't be able to handle a splash or two in the water, but Maksim looked like he could drink an elephant under the table. "So what brings you down to the islands?"

"I turn question back to you, friend," Maksim said. "What brings nice husky doggie down from land of meat and snow?"

"I'm surprised you could tell I was a husky. Most people have no idea."

"Not surprising! A husky doggie shorn like sheep is strange sight. Why do you cut fur so short? Because of heat and sun? Is not enjoyable, but not so bad as that."

Bolo slid his fingertips over the close-cropped fur of his arm, remembering the first time he'd seen himself in the mirror after his furcut. He'd looked so much smaller and leaner, his muscles wiry and alien. Even more than year later, his reflection sometimes startled him. He doubted his own family would recognize him like this. "It's because of the water," he answered. "It's hard to swim very fast or climb out when you're pulling around sixty pounds of waterlogged fur."

Maksim peered at him over the top of his sunglasses. "Smart boy. More sensible than vain. I approve. But still you do not answer question. Why do you come down here to take rich fat man out on boats instead of nice winter lands with other husky doggies?"

The spray of the water and wind made Bolo squint his eyes, but he didn't want to look away from the sea ahead--certainly not back at the wolverine. Others had asked him that, of course, and he'd always given a non-committal answer. The touring wives, fat husbands, or languidly flirtatious girls at the tiki bars had always asked in tones of self-indulgent interest, as though he were a curiosity to be prodded at, another foreign curiosity in Touristland. But something in Maksim's tone was challenging, as though he didn't expect Bolo to know the answer.

"My family all pull cargo sleds. Sometimes passengers. But everything up north is a fight. You fight the wind and the snow. You fight the sled pulling you back. You fight your brothers and sisters all trying to see who can pull the fastest and farthest. You fight your mother who doesn't want to see you do anything else, who thinks just because you want to stay inside where it's warm, or where you can do something other than run in a straight line through the cold that that makes you soft. Hell, half the year even the night is trying to kill you." He shrugged. "And I'm not a fighter. What's the point?"

"What is point?" Maksim shouted the words as though they had personally insulted him. "Point is life! Do you know why I come down to hot countries? I come because already I beat everything at home." His voice resonated with pride. "I hunt. I kill many things. Even Kamchatka I kill. You know Kamchatka? Wild bear. Huge. Deadly. I kill with no weapons, just paws and teeth. Then I take trophy home. Then fire is warmer. Bed softer. Food juicier. And wife--she too is like Kamchatka. Ferocious, ah?" He gave an uproarious, bellowing laugh that Bolo returned in the form of nervous chuckle.

Maksim leaned back into the chair. "Meaning of story is that wolverine only lives when fighting."

"Fine for some people. Me, I'd rather relax. Enjoy life. You know?"

Maksim snorted. "Is not enjoyment. Is only waiting." He flung his empty bottle over the side of the boat. "Give me nother beer."

Bolo handed one over. "I guess we all have our own ways to relax."

"Hah."

It was a good distance farther to the atoll, and over the better part of an hour, Maksim polished off the rest of the six-pack and began working his way through a second, all the while boasting of heroic hunts and kills he had made, with bow and arrow, with snares, with rifles. Bolo was pretty sure now what was in the bag he'd dumped on board. Fishing gear, probably cyanide hoses. Some poachers used it to stun tropical fish and capture them live. Bolo didn't like it, but it wasn't his business, either.

When the dim humps of the atoll finally clarified into view, he cut the engine. "There it is." He looked back, only to see Maksim slumped in the chair, his eyes closed, sunglasses fallen onto his stomach. "Hey," he said louder. "We're here."

"What?" The wolverine sat upright blinking. "Where is here? I don't see."

"It's that way." Bolo jerked a thumb in the direction of the reef's outline. "Can't go any closer. See?" He nodded toward the bright orange buoy bobbing nearby. It bore a scarred, white sign that read,

Marine Protection Area

Fishing And Boating Prohibited

Violators Subject to Prosecution

Under United States Law

"Enh." Maksim shrugged. "If we get caught, I pay fine. No big deal."

"Yeah. You going to go to jail for me too? Or renew my tourism license when it gets shredded?"

"Sure. Don't worry, little doggie. Many times I have gone to so-called prohibition areas. You say, shit, officer, didn't know I was so off-course. Had a few beers and must have gone off-course--"

"Yeah, that's illegal, too," Bolo said.

"Well. I won't say nothing if you won't," Maksim announced with a generous smile. "Meanwhile, you bring me all the way out here not to go closer? Ha. You want to stick me up for more money, huh?"

"No, that's not--"

"How about one thousand?" Maksim pulled out a wallet gorged with cash. Bolo hesitated. They _had_come all this way.

"No? You are such a tough negotiator, I think maybe you care little for money. Maybe you look down on rich tourists coming down here, thinking they can just buy their way into anything. Fine. Three thousand. Please. Do not shame me by refusing."

Bolo wasn't swayed by the wolverine's words, but three thousand? For that, he could get a fast and reliable new motor, or hell--even make a down payment on a new boat. You didn't fight the current. You accepted what the tides brought you. He nodded, and sputtered his engine to life again. The wake of the Wu Wei sent the buoy rocking back and forth.

The atoll rose before them, a craggy crescent perhaps a mile away, when Maksim called for Bolo to stop. The wolverine stood, shading his eyes with one paw and peering across the waves, then down toward water clear as cellophane. There were few sounds but the water and the peeps, chirrups, and shrieks of the seabirds--plovers, terns, boobies and tropicbirds--that nested on the atoll.

"This is good spot," Maksim decided aloud, and pulled his Hawaiian shirt over his head, revealing a stout, powerful body still thick with winter fat.

"You're not going in the water," Bolo said disbelievingly.

"Of course I go in water. Look at it. Beautiful."

"But it's dangerous here. The sharki--"

"Sharki what?" Maksim flipped open a leather pouch at his belt and withdrew a shining, wicked-looking knife. He bared his fangs and turned the point toward Bolo, his white-smeared nostrils flaring.

Bolo stumbled backward toward the bow of the boat, his fur lifting. The world around him brightened into immediate clarity, the sun hurting his eyes as it glanced off the water.

Then Maksim burst into laughter, deep brays more forced than humor-filled. "You are scaredy-doggie! Knife is not for you." He clasped the knife with his other paw, thick forearm rolling as he squeezed the blade. When he let go, the edge was rimmed with red. "You see? Life is battle. To win, you must not fear the wound, or you will lose to one who does not."

The fur of his left paw had gone dark with blood. Never taking his glittering black eyes from Bolo's, he extended the paw over the sky-clear water and squeezed again. Red ribboned out into the sea.

"You want them to come," Bolo said, the realization lapping over him. "You're planning to kill one."

"Smart doggie!" Maksim's voice was mocking as he bent down to unzip his large, black bag. He withdrew not the cyanide fishing gear that Bolo had expected, but several large, matte-black parts. With efficient precision, he snapped them together, forming a formidable-looking spear gun and reel.

"But--but you can't do that! Sharki are protected, they're--they're intelligent. They have language, societies, they--they use tools!"

"Then will make good fight, ha?" Maksim hefted his spear gun. "Another hunter, Pierre, he kills one with harpoon gun, mounted on side of boat. Coward. Is easy kill when prey cannot fight back. I will do him one better. Besides. Sharki will not be smartest thing I ever killed, ha?" He bent down to strap a pair of flippers onto his clawed feet.

Sick to his stomach, Bolo slumped into his seat. "Please. Don't do this."

Annoyance flashed in the wolverine's eyes. "You want to stop me, go ahead." He stared at Bolo for one long, challenging moment.

Bolo played through the scenario in his head. The wolverine was larger, more powerful. Not to mention armed. Forget not getting paid--in a fight, Bolo had no chance. He could get seriously hurt. It was him or some random sharki, and the sharki had a far better chance of taking Maksim. Sure, maybe Bolo had bent the law a little, but that didn't mean he had to stick his neck out for some sea creature. You don't fight what you can't beat. You let the water carry you past it. He shook his head and looked down.

"Knew you were a smart doggie," Maksim said. He almost sounded disappointed. "Keep ready. Fight is maybe noisy. Maybe more than one sharki come and we have to leave in big hurry." He sat on the side of the boat and dropped backward into the water.

His paws shaking, Bolo cracked open the cooler and helped himself to a beer. The cold soothed his strangely dry throat.

For a long time there was no movement, just the lap of the waves against the hull, the birds inscribing bull's-eyes above the atoll, and Maksim's quiet bobbing and muttering. Then the boat rocked with a sudden swell of water. Something thumped against the keel, tilting the craft sideways, and Bolo called out, "Maksim!" in alarm before remembering he wasn't necessarily on the wolverine's side.

The water stirred, but was still enough for Bolo to make out the round shape of Maksim diving downward, snorkel clipped to the side of his face, his flippers moving in short but powerful strokes. The figure of the sharki was massive by comparison, a grey wedge of muscle and tail and powerful teeth, its long, flexible fins tucked tightly against its side as it streaked toward him. Maksim turned, lifted his paws, and the bubble-arrow of a spear minnowed through the water. A hollow sound thunked beneath Bolo's feet as the shaft struck the bottom of the boat, slowed enough by its journey not to puncture the hull. Maksim had missed.

Bolo clung to the gunwale as his boat rocked. Through the distorted ripples he watched Maksim flail at his side. Was he bitten? No, he was trying to tug an extra spear free of his belt. The sharki rounded in the water, and a series of rapid, hollow clicks sounded from the deep. Bolo had heard those calls before in movies and documentaries about the sharki, but had never heard them in person. He'd no idea what it meant. Maybe a cry of attack, for the sharki's powerful tail propelled it through the water at startling speed toward Maksim, who struggled to reload his spear gun, the butt braced against his chest as he pulled at the rubbers with both paws. He fiddled with it, but the water was too choppy for Bolo to see what he was doing.

The sharki slammed into the wolverine, and the water went dark with blood. Bolo held his breath, his mind buzzing. What would he tell the police? He wouldn't just lose his license and maybe his boat. Not for bringing someone out here, not after what Maksim had tried to do. He forced his breathing slower. Who was to say where they'd been? He could say they'd gone anywhere. Then he hated himself for even having the thought, for wondering how he was going to save his ass when a _person_might be dead.

With a hoarse gasp, Maksim broke the surface of the water, splashing frantically. "Here! Here!" he shouted between pants. In one paw he held up the reel from his spear gun. "Hurry. Tie off."

In too much shock to question the order, Bolo mutely grabbed the heavy reel--and nearly lost it as the drag from the line yanked it in his paws. He clenched it in one paw, and with a few deft loops of the other, cinched the braided line around a cleat. The line snapped tight, cutting at his fingers. He swore and shook them in the air as the line sawed at the gunwale, pulling the Wu Wei to one side in the water.

Wheezing, Maksim clambered up the side of the boat and dropped into it sideways. He held his sides, puffing. "Bastard almost got me. But I got him first. Bam!" He smacked one hand in the other, and blood arced from his paw, spattering the boat with red commas. "Right in side and out back."

"You're bleeding." Bolo pointed to Maksim's forearm, where the fur was darkening now that there was no seawater to wash it away.

"Eh?" The wolverine inspected his forearm with his other paw. "Well, is not good fight without a scar to show the girls, ha?"

Bolo shrugged. He stared doubtfully at the drag line, which hummed as the sharki pulled it back and forth, tugging his boat sideways in the water. "Um, is this going to--"

"It will hold. Is good for twelve hundred pounds. Sharki would tear hole through body before breaking that." Maksim patted him on the back. He resisted the urge to cringe away.

From below the boat came deep moans and hollow clicking sounds. They were coming slower and more quietly all the time. The sharki was calling for help, Bolo thought. It was dying. It was pleading for its friends or family to come and save it. He wondered if they were down there now, circling, trying to figure out how to cut the braided line. Or maybe they weren't here at all. Maybe they were a thousand miles away.

Maksim had stripped away his swimming gear, and then, shirtless, swaggered over to the cooler and cracked it open. His face fell. "No more beer?"

"You drank it all."

"Pfah. Is like water anyway. Not proper for celebration." He rummaged around in his bag and produced an olive-colored canteen. He took a swig, bared his teeth, and held it out to Bolo. "Drink."

"No thank you."

The wolverine's black eyes glittered. "I said drink, boy. In honor of my victory."

"It's not dead yet," Bolo pointed out, but hastily took the canteen and swigged from it when Maksim bared his needle-like fangs. He coughed at the burn of the alcohol. There was hot pepper in it, burning his sensitive nose, and many other flavors--juniper and honey.

Maksim chuckled at him and inspected the line, which was now moving only slowly back and forth. The mournful tones from below had faded completely. Nodding to himself, he unlooped the drag line from the cleat and mounted the reel on the side of the gunwale, clamping it in place. Then he began to reel the line in slowly, taking up the slack. When the line tightened, there was another series of clicks from below, and the cord hummed again, stretching out toward the atoll.

"Oh no, you bastard, is too late now," Maksim crowed. He cranked the reel until the large, grey figure of the sharki surfaced, listing, its dorsal fin lying almost flat at the surface.

Bolo didn't want to look at it, but couldn't stop himself. He moved to the edge of the boat and peered over. There the great body of the sharki floated, perhaps fifteen feet in length, all sleek muscle and hydrodynamic grace. Its gills fluttered like butterfly wings. It rolled its great eye toward him and fixed him with a flat, resigned gaze. He fought the urge to vomit over the side of the boat.

"Magnificent," Maksim said. "You should feel proud, boy. Is a fine prize. I will pay you extra for this."

Bolo's looked away, out to see. "I don't want your money."

"No?" Maksim's voice dripped with astonishment. "Don't feel bad for sharki, boy. He came to taste my blood. If I had not shot him, he would have killed me. And you wanted money enough to take me out here to place where you were not supposed to go. So I share my hunt with you. Here, little doggie. Take it." And he pressed something heavy against Bolo's paw.

It was a pistol, a squared black thing that looked out of place out there in the bright sunlight and open sea. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Maksim's voice was low and steady. "Kill sharki."

"What? No!" Bolo stepped back, nearly falling over the cooler.

"Is going to die anyway. But slow. End sharki's suffering. Shoot right in eye. It will be fine."

"I'm not going to do that. It's your kill. You do it."

"Maybe you are thinking you will be punished for this. A hard working doggie doesn't want to get in trouble. But look around." Maksim looked around the ocean in exaggerated motions. "No one here. No one there. No one for many, many miles. No one to see. No one to hear. Is fine."

Bolo backed up further. "I don't care. I'm not going to do it. I can't."

"You see? Is what concerns Maksim. Maybe doggie is a little too upset. Maybe he thinks he will tell police or coast guard about what we do out here today. Makes Maksim a little nervous. So you take gun. Shoot sharki. Then no more worries, ha? Then we are partners. Is easiest way for you. You do what you have to."

Bolo shook his head. "I don't have to do anything."

Anger glinted in the wolverine's eyes for a moment. His hands squeezed into fists. Then he relaxed. "Of course, of course. Is husky-doggie's life philosophy, yes? No more fight. And husky-doggie will not tell police because then police would want to know what he was doing out here. Why he helped. Such hassle. Yes?"

Bolo nodded in relief. "That's right."

Maksim rubbed at his chin. "Okay," he said finally. He turned to the side, extended his arm, and the gun barked twice, making Bolo flatten his ears.

The corpse of the sharki drifted sideways in the water, its eye staring up at the empty blue sky.

"Come, give me help with this," Maksim said, and bent over the side to pull the sharki in closer.

Shaking, but glad to have the ordeal over, Bolo moved to the gunwale. "You'll never get this thing in the boat. It's too heavy."

"Not as heavy as it looks," Maksim said, and tugged at the sharki's body, rotating it until it lay alongside the boat. "Look, grab behind tail there and give big pull."

Bolo didn't really want to touch the thing, but he also didn't want to give Maksim any further reason to be angry. He leaned over the side and gripped at the sharki's tail as directed. Its skin was coarse against the pads of his fingers, like sandpaper.

Something struck his chest so hard it made his ears ring. He was knocked sideways into the boat, collapsing over the cooler and hitting his head against the hull. His vision blurred. There had been a loud noise, he realized a fraction of a second later. A gunshot. He'd been shot. Maksim had shot him. He tried to take a deep, gasping breath of air but could barely get more than a mouthful. He struggled again and again for a breath.

Maksim stepped into view, paws on his knees, the pistol gripped firmly in his right. "Then again, maybe you change mind, ha? Maybe you decide to tell police after all. Maybe you hope for big reward, get picture in papers, get more customers as big hero who likes to get innocent hunters and fishers in too much trouble."

The breath finally came, deep and cool and pure, and with it a dizzying rush of oxygen. Bolo tried to push himself to his feet, but his right arm didn't work properly. He couldn't make it push. He flopped in the bottom of the boat, bumping his head again.

"Get up," Maksim said, his voice heavy and cold as an anchor. He leveled the pistol at Bolo's head. "Get up or I put bullet in skull."

An unbearable fire spread through Bolo's chest. He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming, but could still hear a faint, puppy-like whine escaping his muzzle. Hot melted metal flowed down his side, chewed into his collarbone. Scrabbling his paws, he managed to push himself up with his left arm. He leaned on the edge of the boat, trying to keep his chest and head still. Every time he leaned to his right or stretched to his left, the pain magnified, sent bells ringing in his right ear. An icy numbness was creeping into his shoulder, making the fire in his chest burn all the hotter.

"Good." Maksim bared his teeth. "Should have shot sharki. Now, no trust between us."

"Please," Bolo begged through a growing dizziness. "Please don't kill me. I'll do anything." He felt himself tilting back. The sun was so hot on his fur. Seabirds circled above him as though expecting a meal. He squinted into the bright sunlight.

"I am not murderer." Maksim's voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Something a water."

Bolo shook his head, trying to clear away the fog. "What?"

The square black barrel of the pistol twitched to the right. "I said jump in the water, doggie. Swim hard, and maybe you reach atoll. Maybe someone come along to save you."

Bolo blinked at the blurry landform in the distance. "It's a mile away. And the water's full of sharki."

Maksim shrugged. "Better than bullet, ha?"

The numbness spread down Bolo's arm toward his elbow. "Can I have a lifejacket?"

The wolverine's grip tightened on the trigger. "No. In water. Now. Or I shoot leg too." He lowered the barrel of the pistol to point it right at Bolo's kneecap.

A wave of dizziness and nausea lifted Bolo and dropped him again. He leaned to one side, feeling the hot, reassuring edge of the boat against his hip. Then he tipped over into the sea. The impact with the water and his instinctive paddling with his injured arm brought a fresh explosion of pain, but the salt water seemed to cool his injury a little, and that coolness sent fingers into his chest and neck. He kicked to the surface of the water, trying to paddle with his feet and one arm. He couldn't brush the water from his eyes, and Maksim was a brown blur against the bright sky.

"Good to swim for atoll now, before you get tired," he called. "Don't come close to boat again. I am watching." He disappeared over the side of the boat and returned after a moment, the glint of a knife in one paw. Muttering to himself in a language Bolo didn't know, he began to saw the sharki's long, prehensile fins away from its body. The sick bastard was taking a trophy.

Bolo paddled in place, already feeling a syrupy weariness spread through him. He ought to make for the atoll now, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the reassuring safety of the Wu Wei. Besides, the area would be thick with sharki. He wondered if they were down there now, circling below his kicking paws, tasting his blood in the water.

Maksim tugged at the spear jutting through the sharki's side a few times as though trying to pull it free. Then he shrugged and cut the monofilament line. He pushed the sharki away with one paw, and the carcass drifted free of the boat.

At least that was something that floated, and the carcass might mask the taste of his own blood, Bolo thought. He swam toward it, having to use both arms to get any real movement. Every time he lifted his right shoulder, pain burst in his chest anew.

"Hey!" Maksim waved the pistol in his direction, baring his teeth. "Do not come near boat."

"I'm not coming near boat, I'm coming near corpse," Bolo said bitterly. "You won't give me a lifejacket, so do you mind if I hold onto this dead body to keep from drowning?"

The wolverine peered at him, eyes glittering. "Okay. But no closer. Is bad sport to shoot helpless doggies. But sometimes I am bad sport."

Bolo clambered up onto the drifting carcass. Its flat, dead eye stared up at him. He shuddered and looked to one side. Gruesome as it was, the sharki's body provided a blessed moment for him to rest his aching body. His feet kicked slowly in the water, and he rubbed his eyes clear with his good paw. Something floated in the water before him--something thin and transparent and barely perceptible. The line from the spear gun. It was still attached to the reel clamped to the Wu Wei--Maksim hadn't bothered to dismount it. But it would be too thin to hold onto. Even if Bolo wrapped his fingers around it, the fine line would probably sever them before taking his weight.

Maksim had moved to the wheel of the boat. The engine sputtered a few times. It was old. After running hot for a while and sitting idle, it would be harder to start. Keeping his eye on the wolverine, Bolo slid over the edge of the sharki carcass. Holding on with his left arm, he used his right, gritting his teeth through the pain, to push down his shorts and kick them free. Maksim glanced in his way several times, but Bolo just kicked in the water, grasping at the sharki's side as though nearly slipping free. When he could, he snatched the floating line out of the water and slipped it through the belt loops of his shorts. Then he rolled them up and wound the line around them several times, making a makeshift handle.

Maksim leaned over the side. "Goodbye, husky-doggie. Am sorry this is how things happened. Good luck swimming for shore. It will be great fight, but worthwhile one, ha?"

"Fuck you," Bolo shouted back at him.

Maksim shrugged and turned away, taking the wheel of the Wu Wei. Bolo slipped down below the carcass and gripped the rope of his shorts as tightly as he could with both paws. The pain now seemed irrelevant, something to ignore rather than to bear.

When the boat reached the end of the drag line, it nearly yanked Bolo's shoulders from their sockets. He yelped in agony, but the sound was drowned by seawater, becoming a gurgle that nearly choked him. He streaked through the water, the pull of it tugging back his eyelids, his ears, and lips. If he couldn't get his head above water, he'd either have to let go or drown. He pulled at the drag line, and for a second, he was skipping above the water, the waves slapping against his belly and thighs with brutal force--just long enough for him to grab a breath before he went under again. Paw over paw, he wound the line around his shorts, reeling himself in inch after inch. He slipped, the shorts twisting in his arms, unwinding, almost yanking free of his grip. This wasn't going to work.

Then the pressure on the line loosened, the saw of the boat dropping in volume as it slowed and stopped. Bolo drifted closer to it. He gasped for air, dizzy and exhausted, and huddled up against the hull.

Maksim's footsteps sounded over the thrum of the motor. A clink as he kicked something--probably the sack for his spear gun. He muttered something in his own language, his tone searching, suspicious.

Moving as slowly as he dared, Bolo pulled himself up the ladder on the far side of the boat and peered over the edge. Maksim was staring out at the sea, back in the direction they'd come, talking to himself.

Bolo hunched down, keeping his ears flat. Collecting the loose line, he quickly knotted it around a handle at the top of the ladder. Then he slid down into the water and ducked beneath the boat. From above, Maksim's steps sounded hollowly as he moved around the small craft. His face appeared briefly in the wave-warped silhouette of the sky, staring down into the water, and Bolo retreated further under the hull. As soon as the wolverine's head disappeared, Bolo swam back to the side again and held tightly to the drag line.

He turned out not to need it--Maksim muttered something in a disgusted tone and moved back to the helm, giving Bolo enough time to grab the ladder and hold on before the boat began moving again.

He pulled himself back into the Wu Wei, the pain in his chest and shoulder now a distant fire. Maksim sat at the wheel, oblivious to him over the sound of the engine. The black angle of his pistol sat next to him on the other seat.

What now? Bolo cast about for a weapon, something he could use to keep Maksim from turning around and using that gun against him. There was the spear gun, but that required two strong arms to pull back the rubbers. With one there was no chance. Keeping low in the boat in case Maksim looked behind him, he crept toward the stern. There was the cooler--nothing in there anymore, since Maksim had drunk all the beer. The black bag for the spear gun. Maybe he could use one of the spears? He slid his paw into one and closed it around something flat, sharp, and heavy. The knife.

Maksim, intent on the horizon, never noticed Bolo crawling up behind him. His head bobbed occasionally. Maybe all that beer was finally getting to him. Bolo stood up behind him. His knees were shaking, and his mind swam around in his skull. His shoulder throbbed with pain. This couldn't be a fight. He didn't have the strength or energy to survive it. He braced the knife against his chest, gripped it with both paws, and fell against Maksim.

There was surprisingly little resistance. The blade slid in about two thirds of the way and stopped. Maksim roared in pain and leapt to his feet, his paw pushing at the wheel as he shoved himself upright in his shock. The boat cut hard to the left, and the gun slid off the other seat and went rattling into the hull.

Bolo collapsed backward as Maksim turned toward him, spewing what could only be profanities in his native language. The knife jutted up from his back like a clockwork key. He groped for it with one arm and roared with pain.

"You--you fucking--how do you get back on boat?"

"Doesn't matter," Bolo said, pushing himself backward toward the pistol. He took it in his right paw, winced, and transferred it to his left. He hoped the safety wasn't on--he had no way of knowing. He'd only ever used a rifle back home, hunting with his family. He pointed the wobbling end at Maksim. "Get off my boat."

"You will not--" Maksim began, and Bolo squeezed the trigger. The shot went wide, as he'd intended, but crunched into something up near the wheel. He winced.

"Get into the water," he repeated.

The wolverine looked around slowly, searching for options.

"Now."

Maksim's shoulders slumped, and his teeth flashed as the knife in his back shifted. "There is no atoll nearby. No place to swim."

Bolo pushed himself to his feet and kicked a lifejacket over to him. "Take it. It's more than you gave me."

"I can't reach knife to take out. I can't put on lifejacket."

"You'll be okay. You're a fighter. In the water."

"But--"

"Now."

Shaking, Maksim put one foot up on the gunwale, and stepped up and over the edge. Bolo held the pistol on him until he swam away from the boat, clinging to the lifejacket with both arms, his stubby legs paddling. "You cannot do this. You are not killer. You have to let me back in boat. Tie me up. Report me. But you cannot leave me out here to die. You are good husky-doggie with family to go back to. You have to do good thing."

"I don't have to do anything," Bolo said. He went back to the helm and sat in his chair. It stunk of wet wolverine. He steered it a good distance away before looking back. Maksim floated there in the water, a tiny brown speck clinging to a bright yellow lifejacket. Bolo didn't look back again.

He woke to the sputtering and coughing of his engine. He must have drifted unconscious from shock or blood loss. The shore out there looked like home, though it was a good distance out. The white wedges of boats glided and circled across the water.

His engine rattled and died. It hadn't lasted the months he'd hoped after all. Well, he'd call for help. He reached for his radio, only to discover a deep gash in its side. So that's where the stray bullet had gone.

The water rolled under the Wu Wei, rocking it gently. Bolo wasn't sure what time it was. Late afternoon. Maksim was probably still floating there in the water, if he hadn't died from his knife wound or the sharki hadn't found him. Repeated attempts to start the engine again proved useless. He opened the compartment and smoke poured out. A cursory inspection was enough to prove repair impossible.

Bolo stood in the boat, shading his eyes with his left paw. The sun would be up for several more hours, but the outline of that shore was creeping farther and farther to the east. The current was carrying him away.

He buckled on a life vest, clipped a bottle of water to it and a whistle, and stepped over the side of his boat. Shore was a long way away, but he'd never reach it by staying here. Fighting the pain, he began paddling toward it. Each stroke of his right arm was a sword cutting into his chest.

He didn't know how long he'd been swimming. The coastline was clearer now, closer, but the current had grown stronger. The tide was going out, carrying him back for every stroke forward. He blinked the water out of his eyes and swam against it.