The ship looked like it hadn’t been refitted since the Flood, and it smelled like Noah’s old boot. The crew’s quarters were little more than hammocks slung alongside the keel catwalk, where your sleep was soured by the stench of oil and Aruba fuel. The hull looked like it had been patched with everything including cast-off trousers. The engines rattled. The food quite simply defied comprehension. Slopped onto the plate by the cook’s rusty ladle, it looked like something that had already been chewed and rejected.
Why the illustrious Academy used the Flotsam as a training vessel I couldn’t guess, unless they wanted to teach their students how to mutiny.
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