Bao is, without a doubt, the most dangerous thing in the NeoPacific.
And he answers to me.
27
Chuck escorts me back to my “cell” minutes later. I guess now that there are people out there looking for a prisoner, Santa Elena’s decided it’s time to start actually treating me like one. I settle into my nest of mops and sprays, wondering if anyone actually uses any of this stuff. I’ve seen some of the younger kids in the crew on deck duty, I suppose, but everything in here always seems like it’s exactly where I left it.
My arms feel like jelly, and I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep almost immediately. When I wake up, there’s an air freshener can digging into my back like a wedge. I can’t believe I passed out right on top of it. I pull it out, squinting at the label.
Lavender Meadow.
I haven’t smelled anything remotely like a lavender meadow since the day I got dragged onto this ship.
With no windows in the closet, I lose track of time. Occasionally a crew member will toss a meal through the door and escort me to the head, but I sleep so much in between that I can’t tell if they’re coming at regular intervals. It’s never a lackey, never Swift, never someone I can ask how long it’s been, if there’s pursuit on the horizon, if the captain’s said anything about letting me out of this room.
All I can do is wait and listen to the rumble of the engines beneath my back. We’re always fleeing now. The captain must be trying to put as much distance as possible between us and the Flotilla, to get us out in the open sea where we’ll be nigh impossible to reach. But there are satellites in the sky above us, the last gasps of pre-Schism space programs that watch the oceans with hawkish eyes. If the SRC commissions a sat to track us down, there’s no way we can hide.
I keep waiting.
And finally the door opens, and it’s Swift standing there, but it’s not the Swift I’ve known. That spark, that hunger I used to see in her is gone. She looks like an empty shell, her hair limp, her eyes hooded, and all she tells me is, “It’s time.”
As we jog down to the trainer deck, the all-call crackles on. “Radar has picked up an aerial attack inbound. Four SRCese quadcopters. All hands on deck. Let’s knock these birds out of the sky.”
The pursuit has caught up.
“The Minnow’s artillery will handle the brunt of the attack, but we want you prepped just in case there’s an opening,” Swift explains as she unlocks the hatch and lets me scramble through ahead of her. “We also need Bao near the ship. We don’t want him to take too much damage, and they can’t fire anything heavy at us when we have a hostage onboard.”
I cross to the counter where I left the duffle with the Otachi. Swift watches me, her fingers drumming on her biceps as I strap on the devices one by one.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask as I winch the velcro tight around my wrists.
Confusion flickers over her face, as if she doesn’t know the answer to my question. Then she steps forward and draws an earpiece from her pocket. “I’ll be on Phobos, on the main deck. If you need me to do anything, this is a direct line, okay? I … I promise it won’t be like last time.”
I take it from her palm, shivering a bit when my fingers brush her skin. “You’re on my side.”
“You’re the only one on my side. What else am I supposed to do?” she says, and she’s only half-joking. She jogs back to the door, then glances over her shoulder.
Our eyes meet.
I want to say something, want to wish her luck or make her stay. I want to make these seconds count, because if something bad goes down here, they could be our very last. And Swift seems on the cusp of spitting something out too. Her lips twitch, but she inhales sharply before any words start to form, and then she bolts out the door without even saying goodbye.
I call Bao in with the beacon and slip Swift’s earpiece on, wincing as I adjust the moldings to the shape of my ear. It’s silent now, but if I press against it and speak, the device will read the vibrations in my skull and pipe my voice straight to her. No matter how much chaos surrounds me, she’ll hear me loud and clear, and there’s a little bit of comfort in that.
A blast of sea wind hits me, and I shiver. It’s an overcast day. Maybe that’s why the quadcopters have chosen now to strike. I squint up at the clouds, as if I could spot a four-rotored shadow creeping up on us from above. But the only shadow approaching is Bao’s beneath the waves. I spot him circling deep below us, drawn upward by the light and noise of the beacon.
The earpiece buzzes to life, and I almost lose my grip on my handhold. “Keep him submerged for now,” Swift tells me. “Only bring him up if we need him.”
“Got it,” I tell her, and kick the beacon, flipping the switches to order Bao to dive.
“Inbound is less than a minute out. Splinters away at my mark,” the all-call snaps. “Three. Two. One.”
Two sharp cracks echo out on either side of the Minnow as a pair of sleek white hulls fall away. I stick my head out the port-side door just as Varma wheels past with Chuck sitting primly in his copilot seat. They swing wide around the back of the ship, and as they come back around, the guns slide out of the Splinter’s needle-like nose, poised and ready to kill. The second Splinter comes flying around the Minnow’s keel, and I realize that they’re circling us. The ship may corner like a speedboat at a good clip, but the agility of the smaller craft can’t be matched, and Santa Elena knows the Splinters are our best defense.
There’s an awful stillness settling over the sea, and again I look up at the clouds, hoping to spot some sign of the impending attack.
“Inbound on starboard,” the all-call screams. “Engines to full, all crew brace for immediate ignition.”
The Minnow surges forward, and I dive for the nearest handhold. We’re running, running far faster than I’ve ever seen the ship move. The engines below my feet scream, and when I lean out over the edge of the deck, I spot Bao’s figure keeping pace with us in the depths. He’s gotten so big, I marvel.
Rotors scream to my left as four glistening black quadcopters drop from the sky in formation, their hulls streaked with SRCese gold and red. A screech echoes from a set of speakers embedded in them, and in one voice the four declare, “Unregistered vessel, on the authority of the Southern Republic of California you are being ordered to stop and transfer the citizen you have unlawfully kept aboard your ship. Failure to comply will be interpreted as an act of aggression and will be met with uncompromising force.”
The all-call screams back, in a voice that’s unquestionably Santa Elena’s, “Suck my dick! Here’s your compliance!” and the whole ship rattles as the big guns unload.
The Splinters weave across the waves, rounding out on the other side of the quadcopters, their barrels pointing skywards just as the pursuit opens fire.
The quadcopters’ guns blaze as a clatter of artillery fire rains down on the Minnow’s upper decks. I roll away from the open doors, pressing myself against the wall by the hatch. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the flash of hundreds of brass casings pouring into the sea.
The Splinters’ barrels light up, crosscutting the Minnow’s fire, and the copters’ engines shriek as they drop back. Their formation changes—they spread out around us, two of them shifting their fire to chase the Splinters, but Varma’s a step ahead of them. He disappears around the prow of the ship.
Is he using us as cover? I wonder.
Then a thud rolls through the deck beneath my feet. Phobos fired, and the copter chasing Varma takes a direct hit to one of its rotors. The whole bird screams as it tries to compensate, spinning wildly and sinking so low that its underbelly skims the top of the waves. Another shell slams into the water, and the third strikes the cockpit, exploding with a blast that casts long shadows across the trainer deck floor.