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.