Harvest

The young man whose trembling hand took the steel cup of whiskey was a mutant, his appearance different from ordinary people.

Gill-like slits lined his face, like a shark's, letting him breathe underwater. His ability was a great help in tracking down King Crab.

But this mutant power wasn't without its flaws. For one, he still suffered from the same hypothermia risks as any normal person in the Bering Sea. Underwater was fine, but the moment he surfaced, if he didn't dry off quickly, things got serious.

Then there was the trouble of climbing back onto the boat in rough seas after diving—it cost him a lot of time.

These difficulties limited how much he could actually contribute.

So during the actual voyage, everyone relied on Captain Old George's experience to track the King Crab swarms. Unless they'd gone a long time without finding any, they wouldn't send him down.

In those five days, the young mutant had only gone under twice.

Maybe it was the effect of his mutation, but he was slighter and weaker than the average white man. That put him in an awkward spot among the crab fishermen—useful, but not quite.

As for whether there was discrimination against mutants on the crab boat, Old George had already made it clear: with the labor shortage these days, anyone with hands was welcome, mutant or not.

Just don't get hungry onboard and eat the whole crew for a snack. Beyond that, nobody really cared.

The point still stood—when everyone's in the same boat, there's not that much prejudice.

Unless someone came aboard and just slacked off or asked for trouble. If they got tossed overboard in a big wave, they'd only have their own bad luck to blame.

After that close call, the young mutant clutched the whiskey cup for over twenty minutes before he finally calmed down and rejoined the crab-catching work.

Nobody held the extra rest against him. After all, he'd just cheated death—who could say how fast they'd bounce back in his shoes?

Henry, on the other hand, had downed a whiskey and jumped right back into the work. After five days of high-intensity labor, the crew had built up a solid understanding.

Sometimes they didn't even need to shout—just a glance was enough to know where to coordinate. The trip's efficiency owed a lot to this "Greenie" playing a bigger role than anyone had imagined.

It wasn't obvious in the moment, but looking back, everyone felt he'd fit in perfectly. That saved how much time and boosted how much efficiency?

So on the morning of the sixth day, Annie No. 21 made it back to port safely. They hadn't finished harvesting the last spot's King Crab, but the hold was full—no choice but to head back.

Unloading had its own berth. The fishing companies had people stationed at the dock around the clock once King Crab season started, ready to buy.

At bigger fishing ports, there'd be dedicated markets and auction grounds. Like with bluefin tuna, auctions were held at set times every day.

But in a small place like theirs, bidding usually happened right on the dock.

The crew wasn't done once they hit port. They had to haul the King Crab out of the hold, box them up, and weigh them.

Meanwhile, Old George would haggle with a few fishing companies he usually worked with, talking prices.

They'd usually size up the first few baskets of King Crab and get a rough idea of quality and price. Then they'd go with a whole-boat purchase, and the winning company would stay at the dock to wait for the final weigh-in.

As soon as the results came out, the company would cut a check on the spot and hand it to the boat owner or captain.

Then, after everything was wrapped up and the crab boat was moved to its resting berth, it was time for the crew to settle their pay.

Most of the crew got a fixed salary agreed on before boarding. A few veterans got a cut based on the harvest.

If the captain wasn't the owner, he'd also get a base pay or a share.

That was to keep the old hands motivated. After all, most of the time, a boat's catch depended on their performance.

As the greenest rookie, Henry was the last to get his check. Seeing everyone ahead of him walk away with satisfied smiles, it was clear Old George wasn't a stingy boss.

Even the young mutant flicked his check with a finger and shouted that he was treating everyone to a round at the bar.

When Henry got his check, he stared at the number and jumped. "Boss, did you write the wrong number?"

Old George knew exactly what he'd written. "Kid, you earned it. I saw the rope break—it was from wear and tear. I should've caught that when I checked the gear beforehand.

"So you didn't just clean up my mess, you also saved that kid's arm. The extra I gave you is still less than what the insurance company would've hit me with if I'd screwed up. Take it and don't worry."

"What! I could've gotten insurance money?" the young mutant exclaimed excitedly.

Then a veteran smacked him upside the head and asked, "You want the insurance money, or do you want that arm?"

Realizing what he'd have to trade, the young mutant cradled his injured arm and muttered, "Arm's fine. Arm's good."

Henry pocketed his check with a clear conscience and said, "Thanks, boss."

Nobody said what they'd gotten, but Henry used his superpower to know the number on every check. Even so, his was still the lowest, matching the young mutant's amount.

But for a greenie like him, that number was already more than expected. Nothing to complain about.

With money in their pockets, the men started talking about where to blow off steam. A few with families in town planned to go home and sleep for three days straight.

Old George liked to cut loose before a voyage, just in case he didn't make it back. But since they'd returned safely, he just wanted to go home with his pay, so he didn't join the younger guys.

But he noticed Henry hadn't left either, like he was waiting for him. That reminded Old George of the kid's situation.

He walked over and said, "You don't have a car, do you? Come with me, I'll find someone to take you back to Old John's bar. If you want to cash that check, I can take you to the bank too."

"Boss, I was just wondering—can I get on the boat again? I want to make money."

Even though crabbing was dangerous and grueling, according to Old John and everyone else, it was nothing to Henry.

Take the endless shifts that wore everyone out. As long as he could soak up the sun, Henry felt like he had endless energy. That kind of fatigue didn't bother him at all.

He knew what money meant in modern society, and the pay from crabbing was legal. No reason not to earn more when he had the chance.

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