“Take over,” he instructs, lifting his hands from the controls.
She slides into place, her shoulders squared and tense as she takes the helm. One of her hands rests on the wheel, and the other slaps the radio on the dash. “Swift to engines, report when ready,” she says. She’s trying so hard to sound authoritative.
“Engines ready,” the engineer’s voice declares a second later. “On your mark.”
Swift nods. “Minimum thrust on my count. Three. Two. One.”
The ship lurches forward, and I glance over my shoulder again to catch the jets of mist as Bao surfaces behind us, already nosing forward to keep up. It doesn’t take much. A few strokes of his legs, and a hundred and fifty tons of young Reckoner is on our tail. He’s been growing at an alarming rate, and he’s nearly half the size of the ship now. For a moment, I feel a flash of pride surge through me, like my kid’s just won first place in a fifth grade track race.
Swift rolls her head until her neck pops, and I notice Chuck and Varma exchanging glances. This is usually where things go south. When Swift has manual control of the engines, she can’t keep them steady.
Her hand shifts from radio to throttle, then back to radio again—she’s forgotten to hail the engine room and instruct them to make the switch. “Swift to engines, prepare to transfer control to me on my mark.”
“Ready,” the radio cracks.
“Three. Two. One.”
The Minnow bucks so forcefully that I stagger forward, grabbing a handrail to stop myself from stumbling into Lemon and Code. Our pace slows to a drift, a low rumble shaking the tower beneath us.
“Engines to helm, adjust to match engine spin immediately or relinquish control, confirm decision,” the engineer demands.
Swift lunges for the throttle and throws it down. The machinery underneath us groans, but the engines catch, and the ship lurches forward again. “Swift to engines, adjustments made.”
The ladder from the belowdecks rattles, and two seconds later, Santa Elena clambers up into the navigation tower to join us. She’s got her hair pulled back and that one coat on, the long black number that makes her look especially commanding.
“Captain on deck,” Code mutters to Lemon, and there’s a joke inside those words, something that makes her mouth twitch into a tiny smile.
“I had a feeling it was you,” Santa Elena says as she circles around Swift. She folds her hands behind her back, peering out the rear window to catch a glimpse of Bao.
Swift keeps her head down, her gaze focused on the controls.
I can feel myself tensing up in the captain’s presence. I press back against the wall I’m leaning on and pray that her attention doesn’t swing my way, that she doesn’t question my presence on the bridge. We haven’t talked about Bao’s training in weeks. Any time she feels the need to give orders, they come through Swift. I don’t know if she’s noticed the stagnation, and I know I’m going to pay dearly on the day that she does. But until then, Swift’s bad driving is more than enough to distract her.
“Orders?” Swift asks the captain, letting one hand slip from the wheel.
Santa Elena glances down at the compass on the dash. “Eastern heading, cruising speed.”
We’re heading West right now. Swift grits her teeth and yanks the wheel hard. Everyone in the tower reaches for a handhold as the ship swings around, its hull plunging deeper into the ocean as we lean into the maneuver. Swift pumps the throttle forward a tad, giving us a boost of extra speed that sinks us hard and sure into the turn.
I would have thought that the captain’s presence would throw Swift off, but she’s piloting better than ever with Santa Elena breathing down her neck. I guess there’s something about the pressure that she exerts on her crew. When the captain’s not around, they don’t feel as compelled to perform. But when Santa Elena’s eye is on you, you’re at your best or you’re out, no questions asked.
Swift hauls the boat straight as we line our sights on the eastern horizon. She cranks back the throttle and lets the engines spin down to cruising speed.
Then a plume of mist jets out of the sea in front of us, and a primal fear grips me so tightly that I almost lunge forward and wrest the wheel from her.
We’re headed straight for Bao.
Swift’s hands shake on the wheel, and Santa Elena leans in close. “Graze him,” she says, like it’s a joke.
“No,” I breathe, before I can think better of it, and the captain’s attention snaps around to me.
“Problem, Cassandra? Your beast not smart enough to get out of the way?”
“He hasn’t been trained to respond to threats—I don’t know how he’ll respond. I don’t know if he’ll respond.” It’s a fight to keep my voice even, a fight I’m desperately losing. I can’t give orders, can’t tell Swift to deviate or slow or anything that I want to scream into her ear. I can only stare down Santa Elena, doing my best to hold her fiery gaze, and pray that she doesn’t extrapolate from what I just blurted.
“Swift?” the captain calls.
“Yes, boss?”
“Hold course.”
I push myself off the wall and dive between Code and Lemon, stumbling up to Swift’s side. I’m waiting for someone to step forward and yank me back, but no hand lands on my shoulder and no shove comes to push me away from her. “Slow down a little, at least. Could you do that?” I hiss.
She glances at Santa Elena, who nods back.
Swift strains against the wheel, her grip sliding just a bit as she reaches for the throttle and cranks the ship back into a drift. We’re still bearing down on Bao, but we have time on our side now. “I’d appreciate it,” she grunts, “if you didn’t breathe right in my ear.”
“You hit him hard, we’re dead. You glance off him, we might live, but it’s doubtful.” I watch Bao out the front windows, see him stop and wait, his head weaving back and forth as he tries to make sense of his imprint ship heading straight for him.
Reckoners aren’t born with fighting instinct. They’re trained into it. He won’t attack the ship. He wouldn’t—it’s not in his nature. But a spark of doubt ripples through me as I see him snap his beak and blast another spurt of air through his blowholes. Bao’s always fallen on the less predictable end of the spectrum. Maybe today’s the day he shows us what an unregulated Reckoner truly is.
Grazing him wouldn’t be enough to put a dent in the ship, but his claws are razor sharp, definitely strong enough to slash the hull. Nothing that will sink us, but Santa Elena’s put us on a collision course that could get the Minnow crippled.
We’re seconds away from impact as his head disappears below the boat’s stern, and we’re bearing just a little too far starboard for my taste. “Port,” I snap at Swift.
She doesn’t adjust. Her hands are frozen on the wheel.
I slam down my hands over hers and yank left. The floor lurches underneath us as the ship swings, and out of the corner of my eye I spot Santa Elena flailing for a handhold. An indignant squall echoes out from below us, but there’s no thud of impact and no shriek of claws on metal. We’ve steered clear.
But I haven’t.
Santa Elena grabs me by the throat before I have time to flinch. My feet lift off the ground as she twists and slams me back against the wall, and my world goes dark for a second. A wave of pain crashes over my head, but through it I can see the captain’s bared teeth leering in my face.
“Maybe I’ve let you get too comfortable,” she hisses, fingernails digging into my skin.
I struggle to breathe, my throat convulsing under her grip.
“You don’t touch her controls. You never touch my ship like that again. Next time it happens, I cut a finger off. Each time you go against me, you lose another finger. When you’re out of fingers, you’re out of luck. Am I clear?”
I nod, just a twitch of my head. “Perfectly,” I choke. “Ten chances it is.”