The Abyss Surrounds Us (The Abyss Surrounds Us #1)(34)

I let my focus shift back to the five trainees crowded around the helmsman, a stout old man named Yatori. He’s spitting out some lecture about the ship’s mechanics, his voice stuck in a nasal drone that nearly puts me to sleep. Chuck and Varma look bored too. As an enginesmith and a helmsman’s apprentice respectively, they’ve heard this spiel about powering the Minnow’s engines at least a hundred times before.

Swift, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to pop, like everything the helmsman is saying is completely over her head. I can understand most of it—stuff about currents, about the way the ship handles in different types of water—but Swift looks like she needs to be taking notes to get all of it down, and I start to feel sorry for her. I know she’s clever, but this kind of learning just isn’t her style, and she has so much riding on her ability to memorize this stuff. Any good captain should be able to pilot her own ship, and if Swift ever wants to fill Santa Elena’s shoes, she’ll have to be passable at helming the Minnow.

I watch the little tattoo on the back of her neck snap up as Yatori calls on her.

“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.