Free Ship Breaker by Paolo Bacigalupi

know why you saved his ass,” Pima said. “All he does is hit you.”
    Nailer shrugged. The island’s undergrowth was surprisingly thick, and he had to push it aside to keep it from whipping him in the face as he forced through. “He didn’t used to. He used to be different. Before all the drugs and before my mom died.”
    “He wasn’t that great before. He’s just worse now.”
    Nailer grimaced. “Yeah, well…” He shrugged, stymied by conflicted emotions. “I probably wouldn’t have made it out of the oil room if it weren’t for him. He’s the one who taught me to swim. You think I don’t owe him something for that?”
    “Depends how many times a day he cracks your head.” Pima made a face. “You give him enough chances, he’s going to kill you.”
    Nailer didn’t respond. If he thought about it too much, he didn’t know why he’d saved his father, either. It wasn’t like Richard Lopez made his life any easier. Probably it was because people said family was important. Pearly said it. Pima’s mom said it. Everyone said it. And Richard Lopez, whatever else he was, was the only family Nailer had left.
    Still, Nailer couldn’t help wishing that he’d ended up with Sadna and Pima, and not Richard Lopez. He wondered what it would be like to live in their shack all the time, and not just when his father was sliding high. To know that he wouldn’t have to leave after a day or two and return to his father’s place. To live with people you could count on to protect your back.
    The undergrowth opened. They stepped out amongst the tide pools and jagged rocks of the island’s tip. Granite intrusions poked above the water and formed a sort of breakwater that defended the island from some of the worst of the new storms. Pima started scooping up storm-stunned croakers and small redfish, throwing them into her bucket. “There’s a lot of fish. More than I thought.”
    Nailer didn’t answer. He stared at the rocks beyond. Between them, something reflected like glass, glinting and white.
    “Hey, Pima.” He tugged her shoulder. “Look at that.”
    Pima straightened. “What the hell?”
    “That’s a clipper ship, isn’t it?” He swallowed, took a step forward. Stopped. Was it a mirage? He kept expecting it to evaporate. The white boards and fluttering silk and canvas remained. “It is. It has to be. It’s a clipper.”
    Pima laughed softly behind him. “No. You’re wrong, Nailer. That’s not a clipper ship at all.” Suddenly she dashed past him, sprinting for the ship. “That’s scavenge!”
    Her laughter floated back to him on the wind, teasing him. Nailer shook himself from his stupor and dashed after her. A whoop of joy escaped his lips as he ran across the sand.
    Ahead, the gull-white hull of the wreck gleamed in the sunlight, beckoning.

8

    T HE SHIP LAY on its side, swamped and broken, its back snapped. Even destroyed, it was a beautiful thing, utterly unlike the rusting iron and steel hulks they tore apart every day.
    The clipper was big, a ship used for fast transit and freight on the Pole Run, over the top of the world to Russia and Nippon. Or else across the rough Atlantic to Africa and Europe. Its hydrofoils were retracted, but with the carbon-polymer hull shattered, Nailer could see into its workings: the huge gears that extended the foils, the complex hydraulics and precision electronic systems.
    The ship’s deck was tilted toward them, showing a Buckell cannon and the high-speed reels for the parasails. Once, when Bapi was in a good mood, the man had told Nailer that the big cannon could send a sail thousands of feet into the air to catch high winds that would then yank the ship up onto its hydrofoils and take it skimming across the waves at speeds faster than fifty knots.
    Nailer and Pima stopped short, staring at the looming wreckage. “Fates, it’s beautiful,” Pima breathed.
    Even dead it looked like a regal hawk, cracked and shattered, but with a beauty still inherent