The Abyss Surrounds Us (13 page)

21

The crowd parts. That's the first surprise. The second is that Swift takes the time to wait for the captain's approval before sprinting after me. I see Santa Elena nod to her as I glance back over my shoulder. My bare feet pound against the trainer deck as I leap through the hatch and take off down the hall.

“Cas!” Swift bellows from behind me, and it's like a spur in my side. I skid around a corner and scramble up a set of stairs.

I still don't fully know the ins and outs of the
Minnow
, but I know where I can go to escape her. It's somewhere on the ship's second level, near the stern, nested between a set of heating pipes that run down into the engine rooms below. Swift's bootsteps come thundering up the stairs just as I spot it. I open the door, throw myself inside, and slam it behind me.

The harsh scent of ammonia and other weird cleaning solvents washes over me as I clutch the handle of the janitorial closet's door. It feels so familiar, like no time has passed since the first hours I spent on this ship. If I root around on the floor, I'll probably find that little blue capsule again. It's tempting.

The handle jerks under my grip, and I hear Swift grunting on the other side of the door. “Goddamn it, Cas,” she groans, but I keep my hold. “What was that shit you were trying to pull back there? Do you want us both killed?”

I'm so out of breath, so disoriented that it takes me several seconds to reply. “You held me back. You stopped me from—”

“You wouldn't have saved him. You would have just gotten us killed along with him. Jesus, Cas, he
needed
to die. He tried to kill us.”

“No one
needs
to die,” I gasp. “You're so messed up, all of you.”

“Cassandra Leung, you're a filthy hypocrite and you know it.”

“Leave me alone,” I scream. I don't want to hear anything she has to say, not after what she's just done. It's like the nightmare when we hit the bucket, all over again. Swift takes the captain's side no matter what. She's killed for that woman, and she'd die for her.

“You fucking listen to me, Cas. All your life you've killed people like Code. You've sent beasts at us that shred us, that swallow us—you measure their success by the percentage of death they deal. And you do it because they attacked you first. There's no difference between what the captain just did and what you, as a trainer, do
every goddamn day
.”

“You—”

“What was I supposed to do? Let you tackle Santa Elena? Let you push her into the water with your killer beast?”

“You could have—”

There's a hollow thud on the other side of the door, like Swift's just punched it. “There was nothing I could do but save your stupid life, like I always do. Every—every single—”

I can feel a storm building inside me, a fury that won't quiet. Swift has the nerve to compare Reckoner justice to the brutality I just witnessed. She's nothing but the captain's pet, a dog at the end of a very short leash. She's seen nothing of the world I know. “You've never once saved
my
life, you piece of shit,” I growl. “Everything you do, you do to save your own neck.”

I expect her to scream back, but there's nothing but empty silence on the other side of the door. I keep my fingers winched tight around the handle, ready for her to wrench it open at any minute, but there's only stillness.

Then I hear her sigh faintly, the metal between us warping the sound until it rings. “Did it ever occur to you that your neck might matter to me at least as much as mine? Actually, probably more than mine?” she says.

I freeze, suddenly aware of how my breathing has slowed. I'm trying to picture her on the other side of the door in this moment, but an image doesn't settle. She could be standing, arms folded, wearing that confident smirk that she always puts on when she's teasing, but I seriously doubt that's what's going on. The Swift I picture on the other side of the door is the one that she doesn't let the captain see. Her forehead's pressed against the metal, or maybe buried in her hands, or maybe she's got one hand clutching the handle of the door, waiting for that opportune moment to twist it open.

I don't know what to say. I
knew
she cared for me, but I didn't expect her to come out and say it like this. Sleeping with her arm folded around my waist feels like an eternity ago, a frozen moment in time that I can't fathom going back to. After everything that happened this morning, what did she think this would accomplish?

“Swift,” I start, but I don't know what to finish it with.

“Forget … forget I said anything. It was off base. I—”

“Swift, I'm a goddamn prisoner on this ship.”

“I know. I—”

“We aren't on equal footing, not in the slightest. You realize how messed up this is?”

“Cas, I didn't mean I want to—”

“I'm in no position to be thinking about any of that shit right now. I've got bigger problems to deal with than you and your feelings.”

“I know,” she snaps, and there's the thump of her fist again.

I hear voices farther down the hall. People are starting to disperse from the trainer deck and move back to their stations. The
Minnow
will be underway soon.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said anything. Forget it,” Swift groans. And then her footsteps fade down the hallway, and I finally let my grip slip from the handle of the door.

I guess I've been fooling myself into thinking it couldn't get much worse, but clearly the
Minnow
has surprises up its sleeves that I couldn't predict. This morning, I had Swift and Bao—the girl and the beast, the beings whose lives were entangled with mine, who were completely on my side. Now Bao's a maneater, and Swift …

Well, she probably doesn't want anything to do with me at this point.

I can't go back to the trainer deck. Not after what happened today. Code's blood probably still stains the floors, and there's no way I'll be able to sleep in my nest there without nightmares of Santa Elena and a raised knife. And Swift's bunk is out of the question.

There's one room on this ship that I know is completely unoccupied, that I know locks from the inside. I shudder at the thought of it, but with no other options, it's only a matter of seconds before I've hauled open the hatch of the janitorial closet and dashed down the hall to the row of trainee bunks. Code's is the leftmost door, positioned closest to the aft of the ship, and of course the door's unlocked, because I deserve some luck at this point. I swallow the images that haunt me, step inside, and slam the hatch behind me.

Though the layout is nearly identical to Swift's bunk, the room feels nothing like hers. For one thing, Code kept his laundry in a plastic sack instead of strewn about the floor. It's organized and bright in here, an outward reflection of the guy who, up until about an hour ago, occupied this bunk. I lock the door behind me and start to poke around in the hidden nooks and crannies, breathing in the details of the navigation lackey, the little pieces that used to make up Code. His clothes are all stacked and folded neatly in the drawers. Maybe he was brought up in a civilized place, or maybe I've just gotten way too used to Swift's laundry-related barbarism.

But he didn't make his bed. The blankets are rumpled, the pillow askew, and I start to wonder if Santa Elena let him spend his last night in here. The thought seems ludicrous, but then I spot the long smear of blood trailing across the sheets, the painted marks of the stump left behind when the captain sliced off his index finger.

Code slept here right before he died.

I reach down and drag the blankets off the bed, tossing them in the corner of the room. Next come the sheets, which I strip off and let fall to the floor. My stomach twists every time I brush up against them, but I fight the revulsion and shove everything into the laundry bag. I'll probably throw it off the back of the ship later, but for now I collapse on the bare, lumpy mattress, bury my head in my hands, and groan until the noise rattles my skull.

Swift and Santa Elena both told me today that I'm no better than them, and the worst part is I'm starting to believe it. I try to remember Dad's lessons on the ethics of Reckoner upbringing, the years of scholarly debate that finally settled into wholehearted support of the industry. Reckoners aren't meant to be aggressive creatures. They only become aggressive if triggered by an attack. It's right there in the name. They're the
reckoning
that comes crashing down on anyone who attacks their imprint ship, the retribution that deters attacks in the first place. No one in their right minds tangles with a Reckoner-escorted ship, and the seas have never been safer because of it.

But those arguments seem meaningless now.

Dad raised me to kill and justify. I've watched Reckoners destroy ships from afar. I've been standing behind the laser projectors, pointing them at targets that I never attached to faces. Maybe Swift's right. Maybe I've lived a life of convenience. The world out here is cruel and brutal, and shoregirl thinking doesn't account for shades of gray.

What did I become when I resolved to bear whatever the
Minnow
threw at me?

And what was I, to start with? These pirates may be captors and thieves, but they only kill the people who fight back. Their murders are defensive. Every Reckoner attack I've ever facilitated was meant to be utter annihilation. I think of the cabin boys, the cooks, the people on this ship who never lift a finger against us. If I turned a Reckoner on this boat right now, they'd fare no differently than the captain herself.

Swift is right.

Santa Elena is right.

My life's a waking nightmare, and the dead boy's bed I'm lying in is just the icing on the cake.

Bao can go the rest of the day without any supervision. Sure, it's an interruption in his training regimen, but so is being fed a traitorous lackey. My stomach aches and my head is throbbing. I should get up. I should go to the mess and scrounge up some food.

Instead I curl up in Code's bed and will myself to sleep, trying to ignore the voices outside, the engines below, and somewhere off in the distance, the calls of the monster I raised.

22

I wake in a muddled, overslept haze to the all-call crackling on. “We'll be docking with the Flotilla in three hours,” a voice announces. I still haven't figured out which of the crew lends her voice to the announcements. “Report to stations for instructions.”

I roll over, and my empty stomach keens.

Two minutes later, someone pounds on the door. “Cas, I know you're in there,” Swift calls. Her voice is choked and hollow, like she's holding something back. She's probably holding a lot back. “Captain wants you on the bridge. Got you some food and shit. Leaving it here. See you in five.”

I wait until her footsteps fade down the hall before crossing to the hatch and yanking it open. Sitting outside in a neat pile is a water bottle, a few protein bars, and a set of clothes that, under closer inspection, appear to be almost folded. I gather them up and lock the door behind me.

I make my way up to the navigation tower a few minutes later, still chewing on the protein bars, which must have been sitting in the
Minnow
's stock for all five of the years that Swift's been aboard this ship. Crew members rush back and forth around me, making preparations for the docking. They hardly notice me. I guess I've finally become part of the landscape.

When I climb the ladder into the navigation tower, the four lackeys are the first thing that greet me. Chuck and Varma seem curious, Lemon looks distant, and Swift's trying to burn holes in the floor with her stare. The captain stands at the navigation instruments with Yatori, muttering to the helmsman in low tones. When she spots me, she gives me that shark smile I've come to know so well. It repels me, but I step forward anyway.

“Cassandra, glad to see you out. Got a bit of a surprise for you today,” Santa Elena says, clapping her hands once for emphasis. She's decked out in her best leathers, looking fit to swashbuckle her way back to civilization. If she's mad about me stagnating Bao's training, she doesn't show it.

My meager breakfast churns in my stomach.

“We're rolling into the Flotilla in full regalia today, Reckoner and all.”

Panic floods me. Bao's unpredictable, and putting him in a busy environment is the last thing we need right now. Reckoners are introduced to the complexities of ports in stages. Even in the Reckoner-free harbors of a floating city, Bao's curious enough that there's no end to the trouble he could get himself into.

“We'll set his beacon to get him patrolling and see where it takes us,” the captain continues. “If he starts to cause a ruckus, we'll rein him in. But in the meantime, I want the world to see what we've got. He's ready. It's time for a show of strength. Nothing fancy, mind you. But the fact that we have a beast bonded to our vessel's going to be enough to get everyone talking, and that's exactly what we're going for.”

I can't contradict her. Any urge I have to speak out against her gets pushed back down my throat by the thought of Code's blood billowing in the water. Of the crack Bao's beak makes when it slams shut. Of the captain slamming me into the wall of this room. All I can do is nod again, short and curt, and wait for her to dismiss me.

But Santa Elena's grin widens, and I want to wipe it off her face even more. “You've been doing well aboard this ship, Cassandra. It's time you got some time off it. You'll get shore leave while we're docked. I feel like you could benefit from a day away.”

She can't have said what I think she said. Santa Elena's letting me loose? In an entire city? I don't even know the Flotilla's layout—I could get lost in there so easily.

I could get lost and never return.

And just as the thought is settling in, just as the hope is kindling in my chest, I feel the chill of metal around my wrist and hear the light
snap
as the handcuffs lock into place.

Should've expected that. But Santa Elena doesn't ask for my other wrist to bind to the one already locked in. Instead, she beckons Swift.

“Oh no,” Swift protests.

“She's been your charge from day one, Swift. That isn't changing just because she's getting off the boat for a bit.”

“Boss, you can trust me to make sure she doesn't run off. C'mon, this is the first time I've had leave in months. I'm going—”

“I take risks, Swift, but not stupid ones. Give me your hand.”

And two seconds later, I'm handcuffed to the one person on this entire boat that I can't even look in the eye right now. Chuck and Varma whisper to each other over in the corner, and I can see them barely holding back their laughter. They stand up straight when the captain's glare finds them.

“Both of you are on treasury duty today,” Santa Elena says. “Make sure salaries go out before we dock—I really don't want a mutiny on my hands in the most popular port this side of the meridian.”

They accept their orders with quick, cocky salutes and plunge down the ladder. I hear a cackle float from below as their footsteps patter away.

Santa Elena turns back to us. “Report time is noon tomorrow. Cassandra, if you somehow get it in your head that you're going to make an escape attempt, know that I will hunt you down and bleed you out, and there are only so many places to hide on a floating city. Enjoy leave.” She claps me on the shoulder, then disappears down the ladder.

“Well,” Swift huffs.

There's not much else to say. And Santa Elena hasn't even given us the luxury of cuffing us
after
we descended the ladder. Truly her sadism knows no bounds. Swift and I end up working it so that we go down side by side, wedged together in the tiny chute, which is uncomfortable, to say the least. Several times I elbow her, and I bet she thinks I'm doing it on purpose by the end. But the fact of the matter is, it's
really hard
to go down a ladder handcuffed to someone you don't want to talk to.

When we get to the bottom, Chuck and Varma are waiting for us with several cloth bundles slung over their shoulders. Varma holds one up. Swift's name is scrawled on it in blocky, childish print that I recognize as her own handwriting immediately. “Your winnings,” he says, tossing it to her.

Swift catches it with one hand, and I don't miss the slight bounce she gives it as she evaluates the weight.

Chuck nudges her as she walks past, tossing her mane of wavy hair so that it slaps Swift in the face.

“Oh come on,” she yelps, but the mechanic lackey only laughs.

“Have fun, you two,” Varma calls over his shoulder as the pair of them disappear around the corner.

I've never seen Swift go redder. “This can't be happening,” she mutters under her breath. “Okay, look. I have business I need to take care of at the Flotilla, so you're gonna have to just shut up, play cool, and come along for the ride.”

“I shouldn't leave Bao—” I protest, but Swift silences me with a jerk of her wrist that causes the handcuffs to bite into my flesh. “Ow, Jesus!” I yelp.

“This is non-negotiable. The Flotilla's our biggest stop on the trade chain—that's why we get paid here. I
have
to—” She cuts off, her face souring. “Never mind. Just work with me, okay?”

I nod. There isn't much else I can do.

We go to one of the midlevel decks to keep an eye on Bao while the ship makes its approach. He spots the Flotilla looming on the horizon and swims out ahead of us, blowholes flaring curiously, but then the trainer deck beacon flashes on, and he returns to the
Minnow
's wake like a well-behaved dog. Santa Elena is giving the signals herself this time. She wanted the feeling of rolling into port with a Reckoner at her beck and call. It gives me the afternoon off, and there's no way someone else will make a pass at Bao with the captain on deck. All that remains is for him to handle being in port like a properly trained beast.

He's never had a problem with the ship's Splinters, so it's no surprise that as we draw closer, he pays little attention to the smaller ships that dart around in the distance. Some are ferries, carrying crew to and from massive smuggler ships that anchor out on their own where their autonomy is unquestionable. Others are fishing vessels returning from the net stands, loaded with enough meat to feed a hundred families for a week. My lip curls when I spot one of them dragging a bundle of neocete carcasses.

The Flotilla towers over us as we creep closer.

I've seen pictures of this place in textbooks, usually in the context of the justification for the Schism. Dividing the world into smaller states was supposed to ensure that governments were small enough to take care of all of their people. But some people still slipped through the cracks and floated out to sea, and the currents coagulated them into the floating cities, the fringe civilizations that live off both their wits and their availability to the pirate trade.

The Flotilla's a Jenga game of shipping crates piled on skeleton hulls piled on what looks like real concrete foundation but must be something far lighter. The pile winds its way up into towers that steam and smoke in the noon sun. It's a place that's been carved out of salvage and wrought into something alive, something that rises and falls with the sea, a breathing being in its own right. Though it towers above us, it also splays out into a winding network of docks, like a cephalopoid's arms, that host a veritable armada of pirate vessels.

I've never seen so many hunter ships in one place before. They slumber right next to each other, just waiting for a crew to wake them, to take them out and blaze their guns. I can feel an old impulse rising inside of me, the one that orders me to point projections, to direct Reckoners at the largest threat. Unleash a fully grown, fully trained Reckoner like Durga on this place,
with all of the ships in such tight quarters, and we'd squash a good percentage of the NeoPacific's infestation within hours. But everything here is bristling with heavy artillery, and I know that it'd be a waste to pit a single Reckoner against it.

It's not like Bao would be up for the challenge anyway.

Or me, for that matter.

There's some sort of nervous energy thrumming away in Swift. She keeps on fidgeting with the sack of cash, her eyes fixed on the looming Flotilla. If it wouldn't take me along for the ride, I'd push her over the side of the boat. In all of her twitching and glancing and picking, she hasn't bothered telling me what's eating her. I don't want to ask. Being chained to her is bad enough—it only gets worse if we have to have a conversation.

The
Minnow
prowls into the Flotilla's inner harbors. We've gotten docking permissions at a prime slot, and I have no doubt that Santa Elena paid an arm and a leg to get us such a prestigious spot, just so she can show off her new pet. Bao follows quietly behind us, and already people are lining up along the docks, scrambling over haphazard stacks of crates and rickety platforms that balance on barrels and slabs of foam. Their eyes are wide, and some are already snapping pictures with their phones. When Swift spots them, she tugs me back from the railing and into the shadow of the ship's interior.

Because of course we can march into the harbor with an unregulated Reckoner, but god forbid a presumed-dead girl turns up alive and well in the background of a viral video. It's not like anyone would recognize me anyway—all of my hair is hacked off and I'm dressed in Swift's clothes. It's been months since the
Nereid
went down. Everyone's probably given up on me by now.

When did I start thinking that?

The realization doesn't bowl me over or anything. It's something that's always been there. Everyone at home thinks I'm dead. They think the pirates killed me when they sacked the
Nereid
, or else I took the pill when I was captured. Nothing's given them reason to assume otherwise. No one's looking for me anymore.

And it's sort of freeing, being a dead girl walking. As the docking arms extend and bring the
Minnow
in, I feel lighter. There's an itch building in me, a longing for something other than the ship's deck below my feet. I want solidity and stillness and everything I've lost at sea. I want to run without running out of hallway.

That's obviously not happening with my wrist chained to Swift, but I can dream.

As the
Minnow
puts down its ramp and the crew pours off the ship, Swift guides me through the crowd, her knuckles white on the bag of money. She's so protective of it that I can't help but wonder if it's been ripped from her hands before. Swift wasn't always one of the top dogs on this ship. While she hasn't told me much about the time before Santa Elena raised her out of the ranks, looking at the way she guards her sack of cash, I'm starting to think that the captain's favor was sorely needed.

We spill out onto the dock, and immediately Swift takes off, dragging me after her. I yelp when the cuffs bite into my hand, but nothing's slowing her down now. She charges for a set of rickety steps at one end of the dock and thunders up them, climbing furiously for the upper levels of the city. I barely have time to look down, and given how much the stairs shake underneath us, I don't think I want to. I glance back over my shoulder at the
Minnow
, and then we're around the corner. For the first time in months, the ocean is out of sight.

Not out of mind, but it's good enough for now. I can feel a pressure releasing from my back, though I still have a niggling sensation that urges me to check on Bao. Leaving him back in the harbor without any sort of trainer supervision is probably the captain's weird idea of a show of force. Hopefully he doesn't wreck all of the shit before I get back from wherever Swift is dragging me.