The Abyss Surrounds Us (4 page)

6

“We have a proposition,” Santa Elena starts. “Wait, not necessarily a proposition—strike that. ‘Proposition' implies that you can either accept or decline, and I'm really not giving you a choice here. We have … an arrangement.”

I can't focus on anything but the pup, the happy, warm baby Reckoner curled in its sac. It's nearly ready to hatch, the swell of its body pressing against the membranes that hold it. Its head is nearly tucked into itself, the droll reptilian beak flush against the sac walls. It's a terrapoid.

Just like Durga.

I can't think straight, can't even begin to piece together what's happening. Reckoner production is highly regulated. It needs to happen in a controlled environment like Mom's lab, where every stage of growth can be monitored and any embryos with defects can quickly be eliminated. It shouldn't
be possible for pirates to create a Reckoner without that
kind of equipment. It shouldn't even be possible for them to obtain one.

But here lies proof to the contrary.

“We're a little tired of going up against beasts like your Reckoners,” Santa Elena continues. “We think it's time to even up the playing field, and thanks to a fortuitous set of circumstances and some careful planning, we've finally got our chance. You have a very particular set of skills and the convenience of being presumed dead, and we've got a long winter ahead of us. While the ocean traffic slows and thins in the cold months, you're going to hatch our little monster, raise it up right, and put it to work for us come next summer's hunting season.”

I've been so good about not crying up until now. My eyes sting, and I shift my gaze to the ground. The implications are sweeping over me like a tidal wave. The Reckoner trade is founded on principles of balance. Ecological balance that keeps them from devouring the oceans' biospheres and destroying oceanic life as we know it. Economic balance that ensures the Reckoner industry is profitable and competitive. Political balance that allows for Reckoner justice to be unquestionable on the open seas. It took decades to establish those balances, but a single pup on the side of the pirates could unravel all of that. And I'd be responsible.

“If it wasn't clear already, your life is tied to the beast. If it dies, you follow. I don't feed useless mouths on this ship. If your training fails, I'll slit your throat and dump you into the sea.”

It takes everything I have left not to laugh. Five minutes ago, I was ready to die for my industry and my family. But now the balance of the NeoPacific is in my hands, and the last thing I can do is die. Somehow, impossibly, these pirates have gotten hold of a Reckoner pup.

And even if it means surviving when I shouldn't, I have to find out how.

It's the last smidgen of value my life has. I may have failed as a trainer, but the universe has a twisted way of providing second chances. Even if the last Reckoner I train is a pirate-born perversion, I can do some good by figuring out the pirates' source and getting the information back to shore.

So I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the wooden floorboards, on the tassels of a carpet that once lay on the floor of a lounge in the
Nereid
.

Santa Elena stands again, her heels squeaking as she pivots to face her protégées, and I glance up to see what she's about to do. “Swift, you did an excellent job identifying her and bringing her aboard.”

“Thanks, boss,” she says, returning her captain's sharp-toothed grin.

“Since you seem so dedicated to making sure this endeavor goes just as planned, I'm putting Cassandra in your charge.”

The word “no” leaves both our mouths simultaneously—mine whispered, hers groaned. For a second, our eyes meet. We glare. I can't be stuck with this girl. Give me any other person on this ship, give me
Santa Elena
for god's sake. Anyone but her.

Santa Elena grins wider. “I don't want you to misunderstand this, Swift. This is a
big
opportunity. You could really impress me here. But I don't want to be unfair to the rest of you, so naturally there's a bit of risk involved.”

Swift blinks.

“If Cassandra here fails me, you'll be punished equally. Make sure she succeeds.”

And for the first time since they dragged me onboard this boat, I smile. Swift can't do shit to me with Santa Elena watching, with her fate entwined with mine. It's like the captain's just given me my own personal guard dog.

But before I can let the feeling get to my head, I spot the looks curdling across the other four protégées' faces. The resentment. The ambition. Whatever this opportunity means for Swift, it's setting them back in some way.

And suddenly I feel as if I'm in the crosshairs of all four of them. From the looks of it, Swift can fend for herself. But I need a monster to stand between me and these people, and all I've got right now is a half-baked pup and a pirate girl who's looking at me like I'm a cloud of Reckoner shit.

There's far too much at stake for me to let that shake me. So I'll weather it.

I straighten my spine and meet the captain's gaze as she stalks back to her throne. Santa Elena flops into her seat, kicking her heels off and picking at something stuck between her teeth. “That'll be all,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Swift, make sure your new pet gets fed.”

The pirates filter out of the room in groups, some chatting, others slapping each other on the back. The lackeys all move in a knot, save for Swift, who ducks to the captain's side and mutters something quick in her ear. Santa Elena shoots back, her voice low. I wait until the other four lackeys make their exits and then approach the throne, my arms folded over my chest.

Swift steps down and grabs me by my elbow before I can get a word out. She tugs me out through the wooden doors and I feel like I should be looking for steam rising from her half-shaved head.

“I'm supposed to give you a tour of the ship,” she says. “Captain says to treat you like new blood.”

“I—”

“Captain's wrong,” she hisses, her eyes flicking down the corridor to make sure no one heard her. “You don't belong here.”

“There's something we can agree on,” I reply, trying to wrest my arm free. It doesn't work.

Swift narrows her eyes. “Look, I don't know if you're keen to how things work around here, so I'll lay it out simply. Santa Elena picks the best from the ranks to be her trainees. She teaches us the ins and outs of leading this ship and pays us a cut above the rest. And one of us is going to take her place someday. I fought tooth and nail to get where I am on this ship, and I wouldn't give two shits about you if my own neck didn't depend on it. But the captain's gone and made this one of the perverted hoops I have to jump through if she's ever going to name me as her successor. So if you could just shut your mouth, work with me, and not try to off yourself again, that'd be great. That'd really do me a favor.”

We're alone in this empty hall, with the captain locked away in her throne room and the other crew members dispersed. I'm starting to pick up Swift's patterns. She's a squall, a tantrum of hatred and stubbornness when someone's around to watch. But when it's just her—just her and someone she considers so far beneath her that their presence isn't worth acting for—Swift's just a survivalist.

I can almost respect that.

Almost.

I feel skewed, as if someone's taken my values and tugged them so far away from me that it seems ludicrous to reach out and try to grab them again. I can't be empathizing with these people.
Survive
, I remind myself. Everything is secondary to keeping myself alive. If I play my cards right, I can escape this boat, and no one will ever know what I had to do to get there.

So I'll play Swift's game until the time is right.

“I don't exactly have a choice,” I tell her, making another attempt to break her grip. She lets me go this time, but her hand immediately drifts down to the gun on her belt. The imprint of her fingers lingers on my flesh, and I cringe.

“Right. Fine. Basics of the
Minnow
. Follow me.”

I wait for her to grab me again, but it doesn't happen. Swift stalks away, and I realize this is the first time she's turned her back to me. She seems smaller. My gaze flicks to the nape of her neck, to the place where a guillotine's blade would fall, and I spy a little smudge of ink. Her Minnow. Santa Elena's words come back to me all at once, and in that moment I understand a little bit more about Swift.

If a brand on the back of her neck is how she sees the ship, we have a lot more in common than I first thought.

7

Swift's introduction to the ship is about as half-hearted as I expected. First she leads me up a ladder to the main deck and breezes through the ship's arsenal, including the two massive guns at the fore and aft. Phobos and Diemos, she calls them, then warns me never to call them that around the captain. I stare up at them, fighting to keep my expression unchanged as I remember their fury, the blaze of the guns pumping as they drove round after round into Durga's hide. My eyes burn, and I squeeze them shut before anything escapes.

Then it's on to the Splinters, the needle-like gunboats tucked against the
Minnow
's hull by a set of pneumatic braces. Swift introduces them like a tour guide at an art museum, but her boorish accent keeps the impression half-baked.

I lean over the railing to get a good look at the Splinters. I've seen ships like this escorting vessels too small to have Reckoners. They're tiny and terrifyingly fast, and Santa Elena didn't need to deploy them to take down the
Nereid
.

I lean a little farther, letting the railing take my full weight as my gaze shifts to the night-dark ocean flying by beneath us. For a moment, I feel weightless. For a moment, I forget.

Then Swift yanks me back by the collar and gives me a warning look.

There's a beat of awkward silence. She glances around the deck, the wind whipping her hair as she searches for something else to point out to me, then shrugs. “There's more, I guess,” she says. “But I'm starving, so who cares?”

She leads me back down the ladder and through the maze of lower levels, nodding here and there to indicate heads, bunks, and supply closets. I could complain about how fast she's breezing through the ship's layout, but my stomach has other matters on its mind. The promise of food has it grumbling and growling, reminding me that it's been nearly an entire day since I last ate. Back home, I miss meals left and right when I get caught up with work in the Reckoner pens—I guess I've gotten good at suppressing hunger. The idea of a hunger strike flickers into mind, but I brush it aside. If I'm going to survive on this ship, I'll need all the strength I can get, and something tells me if I refuse to eat, Swift will simply cram the food down my throat.

We finally arrive at a hatch in the fore, which Swift opens with a rough twist of the wheel. The smell of food and spices hits me like a freight train, and my eyes and mouth begin to water simultaneously. Swift steps through the hatch, and a welcoming roar rises from the crew gathered inside. Rather than climbing down the short ladder, she leaps forward, her boots slamming into the wooden floor with a heavy thud. She turns, that familiar feral grin on her lips as she beckons me.

I clamber down after her, and it's like descending into the lions' den.

In Santa Elena's lair, I knew my value, knew that the sway she held over her crew protected me from them. But here I'm nothing but meat. I forget my own hunger in the hungry eyes that follow me as I dart to Swift's side.

“Quit acting so skittish,” she hisses. “They can't do shit to you. Not while I'm around.” There's something uncannily warm about the way she says it.

Off to the side of the mess there's a table with a jumbled assortment of food. Most of it looks far too fresh to be any
thing prepared on this ship. Spoils from the
Nereid
's kitch
ens, most likely. There's a stack of plastic trays next to it, and Swift grabs two. “Load up,” she says, pushing the second into my hands. “This is the best meal we've had in weeks, and it ain't lasting.”

I grab the fresh fruit first—it's probably my last chance
to get it until this ship restocks, whether by trade or by
force. There's what's left of a pork roast too, though it looks like wild dogs have ripped it apart. I shovel some of the rich meat onto my tray, and add a few of the wilting greens that the pirates have dumped onto a silver platter.

As an afterthought, I carve off a slice of the rapidly disintegrating cake that teeters near the edge of the table. The words
Welcome to Paradise
are scrawled atop it in elegant
handwriting. It was supposed to commemorate our first
island stop—I remember sneaking a peek in the kitchen the night before Dur—

I rein in my thoughts before they get out of hand and follow Swift to a small table where the four other lackeys sit. She shoves Varma across the bench, and I slide in after her.

“Gonna introduce us?” he asks. He flashes me an easy smile. At this range I can finally tell that the smear of ink on his cheekbone makes the shape of a small fish.

“God's sake, Varma—you've already met. Cassandra, these other losers are Code, Lemon, and Chuck,” Swift says through a mouthful of food.

I recognize Code as the boy who spoke out when I wouldn't. Chuck's a heavyset Islander girl with what looks like engine grease patterning her bare arms. Lemon's all skin and bones in contrast. She twitches when Code leans over her to swipe a slice of bread off Swift's tray.

Swift catches his hand, and I notice the Minnow tattoo
across his index finger. “Son of a bitch,” she growls. “I can't
even sit down for two seconds with you people.” She squeezes hard, and Code yelps while the rest of the table collapses into raucous laughter.

They're a lot friendlier than I thought they'd be, and for a moment I catch myself hoping that their camaraderie will win out over their ambition. Swift's relaxed around them—she still postures and pushes, but there's a genuine spark in her eyes as she ribs at the other lackeys. Could it be that she actually trusts them? Only one of them can captain the ship someday, and these five are in the running for some reason or another. There's something in each of them that Santa Elena finds valuable.

Which means there's something in each of them that's dangerous.

But it's so hard to see them as a threat when they're like this. They're just a bunch of teenagers joking around, tossing food back and forth like they're in a high school cafeteria instead of the galley of a pirate ship.

On the shore, we measure pirate lives in the percentages posted every time a Reckoner takes down a ship. Seventy-six percent dead. Forty-three percent dead. The gauge of a beast's effectiveness. Durga died with an eighty-three percent average. Or something slightly less, since in her last fight she batted a solid zero. But on this ship, the monsters we created our Reckoners to fight against have faces and smiles and souls—and that makes them even worse.

And these five are the same age as me. I wonder where they all came from, what choices and circumstances drove them to a pirate ship. For most of them, I have no clue. There's some sort of inside joke circulating the table about Chuck being a runaway princess, the daughter of an Islander millionaire, but there's no way of confirming if it's based on fact without inserting myself into the conversation. And if two Reckoners are interacting, you never get between them.

It isn't until Chuck's curious eye settles on me that I get dragged into the discussion. “Hey, pet project, where you from?” she asks, and Swift shifts uncomfortably, her spine rigid.

“The Southern Republic of California,” I say after a moment's pause.

“Proper SRCese shoregirl,” Swift sniffs.

I don't dare correct her. It means nothing to this bunch that I've spent my whole life with one foot in the sea. They're so
narrow
that it makes me want to scream, but I just avert my gaze and shovel another bite of roast into my mouth.

“What're you doing being a trainer on a vessel like that bucket, then?” Code chuckles. “You're a friggin' kid like the rest of us.”

I hesitate again. I don't know how much to give him—I know every word is a weapon that could just as easily be turned against me. “Grew up doing it,” I finally say. The fact that this was my first solo mission can wait. It weakens me in their eyes, and I know I'm weak enough to start. I want them to underestimate me, but I won't be a joke to them. And I don't need Swift to have any less faith in me than she already does.

Code nods, satisfied. “You're quieter than Lemon on a good day, ain't you?”

In the blink of an eye, Lemon snatches her knife off her tray and turns it on Code, her lip trembling.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” Varma yelps, lunging across the table and latching onto her wrist. “Lemon, look at me. Look at me. Code's a worthless piece of shit—it doesn't matter. Look at me.”

As he tries to calm the other lackey, Swift grabs me by the arm and hauls me off the bench. “It only gets worse from here,” she mutters into my ear.

I was only halfway done with my food. I make a mental note to pay more attention to eating and less attention to the company next time. Swift pulls me to the galley's hatch and clambers out of it. I follow, regretting how easy it is to just go wherever she pulls my leash.

Once we're out in the quiet of the hall, her brow furrows. “Captain didn't specify where you're supposed to sleep,” she muses.

Swift's thought process is practically etched across her face. She knows I can't be stowed in the crew quarters or anywhere else where someone could get to me. If there's a chance the other lackeys might kill me just to sabotage her, she needs to put a locked door between me and them. But the last time she left me locked away in a closet by myself, I nearly got away with taking that pill. There's no way she'll risk me finding another way to off myself.

We arrive at the inevitable conclusion at the same time.

“You're bunking with me,” Swift declares.

And I swear, there's a part of her that almost enjoys it.

Before I can protest, she's started off down the hall. I jog after her, trying to form a counterargument. Swift can't be serious about this. She can't actually expect that I—

But no, she's hauling open a hatch and stepping into a dimly lit, cramped room. It's consumed by the bed built into one wall, the floor carpeted by scattered clothes, a few drawers jutting out haphazardly. The room couldn't look more like her if it tried.

“I'm not sleeping on your nasty-ass floor,” I warn her.

“No,” she agrees. “You aren't.”

My gaze drops to the bed.

I hate how much sense it makes. No one's going to cut my throat with Swift sleeping three inches away. And if she's scared I'm going to try taking the easy way out again, there's no way I could get away with it without her noticing.

But first I have to change out of the wetsuit. I tug at the zipper on the collar, and Swift catches on. “I grabbed some stuff from the sunk bucket,” she says, nodding to a sack in the corner. “Was supposed to be for me, but I guess it'll do the trick for you too.”

I somehow doubt that. Swift's definitely a size bigger than me. I peer into the bag of clothes, pulling out a striped T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. That might work. But underwear is another matter entirely—every bra Swift grabbed is two cup sizes too big.

She rolls her eyes when she sees me wrinkle my nose. “Didn't know I was shopping for two. Don't blame m—”

“I blame you.”

I decide to just go without, for now. Turning my back to Swift, I unzip my wetsuit and peel it off. The neoprene feels like it might take some of my skin with it, and I wince. I probably shouldn't have left it on for so long, but I didn't have a choice. I strip off my bikini top and cram the shirt hastily over my head, glancing over my shoulder when I've got it safely on.

Swift stands with her arms folded, her back to me.

I didn't expect her to be considerate.

I guess she's just a walking, talking division of self. In front of her peers, in front of the captain, she's an entirely different person. She puts on this big-shot persona to scare off anyone who dares run up against her. But it seems like I'm not a threat worth her mask.

I finish changing and ball up my wetsuit. This used to be my uniform, a sign that I was trained to command monsters. Now it's just a hunk of neoprene and fabric that smells of sea and blood. I pitch it into the corner, adding to the heaps of dirty laundry.

Swift doesn't bat an eye when she turns around and sees it. It's probably not the worst thing cluttering her floor. Her gaze shifts to me. “You look like a deflated balloon,” she sniggers.

Maybe I'm at the end of my rope. Maybe this day has been too goddamn long and started with my favorite Reckoner getting her innards spilled into the NeoPacific. Maybe I'm stuck on a goddamn pirate ship with my life tied to raising a monster to do the exact opposite of everything I stand for. Maybe I'm done being quiet and small and underestimated.

Maybe that's why I punch Swift.

She staggers backward, catching herself on the bed. My fist feels like it's on fire, but it's nothing compared to the sheer triumph that floods through my body. The imprint of my knuckles is rapidly fading from her cheek, but it's
there
.

Of course she lunges, her hands slamming into my shoulders, throwing me against the half-open drawers. I wait for the next blow, but none comes. She hesitates, every part of her body held in tension, then crawls into bed and rolls over, facing the wall. Doesn't pull the blanket up over her, doesn't say anything. From a typhoon to stilled seas in the blink of an eye.

Adrenaline took me over for a second, but I'm getting my body back bit by bit, in bruises and aches that I can feel forming everywhere. Out of options, I sit on the edge of the bed, testing to see if she'll snap at me. But Swift is drawing long, slow breaths now, the kind that bring you teetering over the edge of falling asleep. My gaze lands on her Minnow tattoo peeking out from behind her uneven blonde hair, on the ink that marks her loyalty and what it means to her.