High Seas Hijinks

The lifeboat was not, Clive discovered, a long-term solution. It had no engine, no food, and a slow leak that meant his wool was getting progressively soggier. After drifting for what felt like hours, he spotted the cargo ship again — still lit up, still floating, apparently having survived the animal uprising.

"Back to the scene of the crime," Clive muttered, and paddled toward it.

Climbing back aboard was easier than expected. The crew was busy dealing with the aftermath — recapturing animals, cleaning up coconut debris, and filing what Clive imagined was the strangest incident report in maritime history. Nobody noticed a wet sheep hauling himself over the railing.

The ship was a maze. Clive wandered through corridors that all looked the same, past doors marked with numbers that meant nothing to him, until he found something interesting: a parrot.

Not just any parrot. This one was perched on a crate of limes, had feathers the colour of a traffic light, and was watching Clive with the sharp, calculating eyes of someone who'd been around.

"A sheep," the parrot said. "On a cargo ship. In the middle of the ocean."

"And you're a parrot on a crate of limes," Clive replied. "We've both made choices."

The parrot cackled — a proper, full-throated laugh that echoed off the metal walls. "I like you. Name's Captain Squawk. I've been on this ship for three years. Stowed away, same as you. Never been caught."

"Three years? How?"

"Rule one of the sea, woolly: look like you belong. Even when you absolutely don't. *Especially* when you absolutely don't."

Squawk became Clive's guide. The parrot rode on his head — which Clive objected to, but Squawk ignored him — and steered him through the ship's routines. When to move, where to hide, which crew members were observant and which ones couldn't spot a sheep in a phone booth.

"Galley's clear between two and four AM," Squawk whispered. "That's when we eat."

"We?"

"You think I've been surviving on limes for three years? I have a system, Clive. Respect the system."

They raided the kitchen that night. Clive ate canned peaches straight from the tin while Squawk demolished a packet of crackers. It was, Clive reflected, the best meal he'd had since leaving the warehouse.

The peace lasted two days. Then the storm hit.

It came fast — the sky went from blue to black in what felt like minutes, and the waves went from gentle swells to walls of water that made the ship groan. The crew scrambled. Orders were shouted. Things that weren't tied down became things that were flying through the air.

Clive, because he was Clive, ended up on the bridge.

He didn't mean to. He was trying to find somewhere stable to hide, took a wrong turn, and walked straight into the nerve centre of the ship. The captain was at the wheel, white-knuckled, barking commands. Nobody noticed the sheep.

The control panel was right there. Glowing. Inviting. Full of buttons that Clive had absolutely no business touching.

"Don't," Squawk said from his shoulder.

Clive's hoof was already moving.

He hit something — he'd never know what — and the ship lurched hard to starboard. Alarms blared. The captain spun around, saw Clive, and his face went through about six emotions in two seconds, none of them good.

But before anyone could react, something surfaced off the port side. A submarine. Its periscope was spinning, its hull was rising from the waves, and it was directly in the ship's path.

"BRACE!" someone screamed.

The collision was spectacular. Metal on metal, a sound like God crumpling a tin can. The ship shuddered. The submarine rocked. Crates toppled. Clive was thrown across the bridge and into a fire extinguisher, which he grabbed and held like a teddy bear.

When the chaos settled, the submarine's hatch opened, and a group of very wet, very angry sailors climbed out onto the hull, shouting in a language Clive didn't recognise but understood perfectly. The tone was universal: what the hell just happened?

"Time to go," Squawk said.

Clive didn't need telling twice. While the crews argued across the gap between the two vessels, he scrambled down the side of the cargo ship and onto the submarine's hull. It was slippery, freezing, and smelled like the inside of a machine. The hatch was still open.

Clive looked at Squawk. Squawk looked at Clive.

"After you," the parrot said.

Clive dropped into the submarine.