The Abyss Surrounds Us (3 page)

4

The girl keeps my hands twisted behind my back as she hustles me toward the pirate ship, forcing me to step over the bodies that litter the hallways. Their uniforms mark them as the
Nereid
's crew, and the guns in their hands mark them as the ones who put up a fight.

Her captain leads the way, the rocket launcher stowed in favor of a submachine gun that she cradles like a newborn child. In the early August heat, her brown skin is dappled with sweat, and she has her wildly curly hair bound back underneath her hat.

I don't know what's going on. All I know is that yesterday I'd never seen death up close and now I'm surrounded by it.

“Lock her in one of the closets. We'll deal with her later,” the captain says. Gunfire rings out from somewhere down the hall, and she rolls her eyes. “Sounds like this bucket's putting up more of a fight than anticipated. I'll go see what needs shooting.” She pivots and strides back into the depths of the ship, her coat flapping behind her.

The girl shrugs, then pushes me forward again, gentler than when the captain was watching. We come to a ladder hooked onto one of the lower decks and she nudges me onto it ahead of her. Her hand drops to the pistol in her waistband, just in case I'm thinking of making a break through the gap between the two ships' hulls.

I'm not. I descend onto the pirate ship, my hands shaking on the cold metal rungs, and the girl follows me.

“Why?” I ask as my captor jumps from the ladder, landing slightly off-balance on the ship's deck. She just grabs me by the wrist again and tugs me toward another hatch, another ladder. Once again, I go first.

The ship's interior is more well-lit than I expected. I'd call it homey if it weren't for the bullet holes in the walls and the pirate girl marching me through it. Probably has something to do with the strips of wood plastered to the walls in a halfhearted attempt at paneling.

We come to a heavy steel door at the end of the narrow corridor, which she twists open and shoves me through without another word. My head cracks against a low shelf and I yelp loud enough that she pauses. We make eye contact—her in her sleek body armor with a gun tucked in her pants, and me in my soaking wetsuit.

“You're going to be useful,” she says, and no more than that. She slams the door behind her, leaving me with a throbbing head in what I'm just now realizing is a janitorial closet.

And the pill is still in my collar.

She didn't bind my hands. I reach up with shaking fingers and tug the zipper, flaying open the hidden pocket. The little blue capsule tumbles into my palm, and I sink to my knees in the tangle of mops and cleaning solvents.

My heart is thundering, and I feel as if every inch of my being is rearing away from the promise of death that sits nestled in my hand.

Do it now. Do it fast.

My whole arm is shaking.

How can I know for sure that this pill is the only solution? What if I could escape? What if the pirates aren't after trade secrets? My mind runs wild with possibilities, with options so much better than a quick death.

I tug at the ends of my limp, damp hair, trying to rein in my thoughts. The things I know for sure form such a short list. The
Nereid
is taken. Durga is dead. I've been captured by pirates. My name is Cas Leung. I smell like Reckoner blood.

And there's so much I'm not sure of. They might be sinking the ship right now, killing all of the people onboard. They might be stripping it and leaving it disabled in the middle of the NeoPacific. I wonder if Mr. Kagawa is still alive. I wonder what usefulness the pirate captain has planned for me.

I wonder if I'll ever see my family again.

I should have grabbed my phone instead of the beacon. There was never any hope of beating these guys, not with our Reckoner bleeding out. I used my last seconds of freedom in a futile attempt to spare Durga from an agonizing death and buy the pirates' mercy, and I couldn't even do that. I could have called home, could have told my family that I love them.

If I take this pill, the last they'll ever hear from me—the real me, not some missing persons report—is a call from last night when I was too preoccupied with Durga to ask about anything going on in their lives.

Footsteps sound in the hall outside, but no one opens the door. They must be finishing up now. The boat's engines start to hum and the floor underneath me feels less steady. I shudder, clutching the pill in my fist. The ridges of the raised lettering on the capsule dig into my skin. Six characters in total.
EpiTas
. Half of a Spartan phrase.
E tan e epi tas. With your shield or on it.

Come back alive and victorious, or don't come back at all.

That's our way. That's our principle. That's how we protect our industry, which in turn protects the clients that commission us. If we can't defend them, we're worthless. If we can't defend ourselves, we're worthless.

Other Reckoners have fallen. Uli, off the coast of the Philippines, killed by heavy shelling. Kou, near the Dominion of South Africa, strafed by harpoons. And now Durga, by the Southern Republic of California, slaughtered with nothing but a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher.

Their trainers all did the right thing. Their trainers all took the pill.

Durga is dead. Dear, sweet Durga, the big, dumb, playful turtle who loved her ship more than anything, died falling apart from the inside, unable to protect herself from the pirate captain's rockets. Her body has probably settled on the floor of the NeoPacific. A whole ecosystem of bacteria and scavengers will gather to break down what's left.

It's only natural that I'm supposed to follow her there.

Hours must pass. My muscles ache, but I stay frozen on the floor, staring at my clenched fist and trying to conjure the thought that will bring it to my lips.

Every fight I've ever assisted in ended with a sinking pirate vessel, with my dad clapping me on the shoulder as I changed the beacons over to bring our Reckoner down from her seething, righteous frenzy. He would have known what to do today. The pirates wouldn't have won.

I wouldn't be sitting here with the capsule in my hand.

Nausea churns at my stomach, and for a moment the stench of Durga's blood almost overwhelms me. I dig my fingernails into the flesh of my arms, fighting to keep my last meal down. If I don't do this now, the pirates will use me. Whatever that means. They could force me to cough up information on every Reckoner my mother has ever engineered, every beast my father has ever trained. They could get me to confess weaknesses in our monsters, weaknesses in our facilities, anything that could give them an upper hand.

It's clear enough. I'm worth more to the industry dead than alive at this point.

The ships that can afford to commission a Reckoner are safe to carry the most valuable goods and people across the NeoPacific. Kill the monster, and the boat's practically gift-wrapped for you. If the pirates make me help them, I'll be compromising the safety of every single one of those ships and all of the trainers aboard them.

Including my father. Including Tom.

For them
, I think as my fingers curl open.
For them
, I think as I raise the capsule to my lips.

For them.

The closet door slams open, light floods in, and the girl who dragged me in here lunges forward, slaps my hand away from my mouth, and sends the pill flying.

5

Her hands are around my wrists before I have a chance to scrabble for the capsule. “Don't you dare,” she growls, twisting my arms behind my back. “Captain wants you.”

I glance up to find a tall, slim boy in the doorway who's holding a pistol, horror written over his features. His eyes flick to where the pill landed, then back to my face. There's a tattoo etched across his cheekbone, but in the dim light of the closet, I can't figure out what it is.

“Varma, give me a hand here,” the girl says as she attempts to wrestle me to my feet.

I keep my legs limp. I've blown my chance at ending my life—the least I can do is make it as hard as possible for the pirates to get what they want from me.

Varma loops one lanky arm around my waist and lifts. “C'mon, shoregirl. On your feet,” he urges.

I twist my head to face the girl holding my wrists, a snarl rising in the back of my throat. She winches her grip tighter, as if daring me to say something. “Have some dignity,” she hisses.

“What's the deal with your hair?” I spit back.

It's the last thing she expected. I savor the look of utter confusion that flickers across her face. “What do you mean,
what's the deal with my hair?
”

“Watch it, Swift,” the guy warns.

I hang my head, speaking through my teeth. “Did you get bored one day and hack half of it off? You look like you've had a close call with a weed whacker.”

Swift releases one of my wrists and grabs me by the hair. Guess I've hit a sore spot. She tugs viciously upward and I cave, bringing my feet underneath me at last as I try to keep her from yanking my hair right out of my scalp.

I glance at Varma just in time to catch him mouthing, “The fuck's a weedwhacker?”

Maybe it was stupid to goad her, but there's only so much she can do to me if the captain wants me. She'll push me around and rough me up, but it's all posturing, like Reckoners do sometimes when they're starved for attention. And the easiest way to put a beast in its place is to snap back.

They wrestle me out of the closet and down the ship's narrow passageways to a pair of elegant wooden doors at the aft. I can hear voices on the other side, voices that stop when Varma knocks.

“Come in,” someone calls.

Varma pushes the door open, and Swift shoves me in before her. She twists her fingers viciously around my wrist and gives my hair one last yank before she releases me, and my skin burns. I wince, but do my best to brush it off. Another rule of Reckoner training: you can't let them see if they hurt you.

The room is vast, probably once a bar or a lounge before it was torn out of whatever yacht it came from and repurposed. Now it's a throne room, choked with the pirate crew. They throng around a dais in the back of the room, where the captain lounges in an ornately carved chair.

So not only have I been captured by pirates—I've had the misfortune of being taken in by theatrical ones.

And their queen seems to have fully embraced her flair for the dramatic. She's wearing a crimson evening gown; I almost fail to recognize her as the woman who killed Durga. Gone is the wide-brimmed hat and long coat that cut her intimidating silhouette, but she's intimidating now in the same way that bonfires are. When her eyes meet mine, I can't help but shrink back a little. Looking at her is like looking into hell itself.

“Welcome aboard the
Minnow
, Cassandra,” she says. She must have searched the
Nereid
's file system, must have pulled data to find out exactly who she's taken prisoner. “I'm Santa Elena. You can call me that, or Captain. Swift here is a big fan of ‘boss,' but I don't think we're quite on those terms yet.”

Everyone in this room could kill me, and most of them look like they want to. Swift and Varma have joined their captain on the dais. They stand next to three others at Santa Elena's right, and I start to understand the hierarchy on this ship a little more. The pirates that crowd the room are the regulars, the muscle. On Santa Elena's left sits a child. He can't possibly be more than ten years old, and I'm stumped about his role until she ruffles his hair, a soft smile breaking over her cruel features. He has to be her son—by blood, it looks like, given the golden brown skin and wide nose they share.

But the five to the captain's right are different. They're all kind of young-looking compared to most of the crew, and unlike some of the crowd, their eyes never leave Santa Elena. Something sets them apart—some favor of the captain has elevated them to this position.

It seems like they're her protégées. It'd explain why Swift is such a showoff.

“You're quiet,” Santa Elena purrs. She hauls herself upright and stands, the dress falling elegantly around her ankles as she steps from the dais and approaches me. “I'd imagine you're bursting with questions. Can't hurt to ask them.”

I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of my curiosity. I wonder why I'm here, why the Reckoner trainer was the only one worth kidnapping on a ship that carried so many wealthy tourists, but the first words that leave my mouth are “What happened to the
Nereid
?”

“Depends. If someone responded to the distress call, there's a very large chance that the passengers will be rescued before the ship sinks. If not … ” She doesn't need to finish the sentence. The devilish smile that spreads across her face tells me everything I need to know. “And we killed the crew that resisted, of course. We have to be efficient about these things.”

“What did you take?”

I catch the slight twitch of her upper lip, see her resist the urge to sneer at me. “You. Cash, and a few finer goods. Food, to replenish our stock. No electronics—we don't want anything that could be sending out a signal. The dress is new. Do you like it?”

I draw my lips tight. My wetsuit is drying out and starting to itch, and I have to fight to keep myself standing as still as possible.

“When I ask a question, I'd like you to answer, Cassandra.” She lashes out and grabs the collar of my wetsuit, dragging me toward her until I'm staring up into her deep brown eyes.

I can't blink. Not now. “It's beautiful,” I tell her flatly, and it isn't a lie.

Her fingers go slack, and as she draws back, I notice a tattoo of a small fish over her heart. Santa Elena doesn't miss the way my eyes travel. This time she really does smirk. “Like it? Every loyal member of my crew has the ship's namesake inked on their body somewhere important. See, for me this ship is my life, my beating heart. So my Minnow is right here.” She folds a hand over her breast. Her smile turns goading. “Maybe you'll earn yours someday.”

I don't have the words nor the courage to tell her that's never going to happen. I grit my teeth and stand a little straighter, fighting to keep down the question that's burning inside me. She wants me to say it, wants me to cave to her will, and I can't let her have her way. I've got to show her that no matter how long she keeps me on this ship, she's never going to get me to bend to her.

One of her lackeys on the dais, a skinny white boy with jet-black hair, relieves me of my burden. “You gonna keep playing with her or let her know why she's here, Captain?” he asks, and several people in the crowd hiss with surprise.

Santa Elena grins wickedly, and for a second I worry that she'll pull out a gun and shoot the boy right here to make an example out of him. “Points for bravery, Code,” she says, stepping back up on the dais and settling primly on her throne. “Johan, Yue, bring it on out. Let's shed some light for our guest.”

Two of the pirates push through the crowd into a back room and return moments later, hauling a cylindrical object the size of a refrigerator. It's mounted on wheels and covered with a black cloth that sways ominously as it trundles forward. They push it in front of the dais, and Santa Elena leans forward, grabbing the hem of its cover.

She yanks it off with a flourish, and I want to sink to the bottom of the ocean in that instant.

Floating in the tank, lit by warming lamps that cast a brilliant red glow around the room, is a leathery purse, and inside that purse is an unborn Reckoner pu
p.