The Abyss Surrounds Us (The Abyss Surrounds Us #1)(43)

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said anything. Forget it,” Swift groans. And then her footsteps fade down the hallway, and I finally let my grip slip from the handle of the door.

I guess I’ve been fooling myself into thinking it couldn’t get much worse, but clearly the Minnow has surprises up its sleeves that I couldn’t predict. This morning, I had Swift and Bao—the girl and the beast, the beings whose lives were entangled with mine, who were completely on my side. Now Bao’s a maneater, and Swift …

Well, she probably doesn’t want anything to do with me at this point.

I can’t go back to the trainer deck. Not after what happened today. Code’s blood probably still stains the floors, and there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep in my nest there without nightmares of Santa Elena and a raised knife. And Swift’s bunk is out of the question.

There’s one room on this ship that I know is completely unoccupied, that I know locks from the inside. I shudder at the thought of it, but with no other options, it’s only a matter of seconds before I’ve hauled open the hatch of the janitorial closet and dashed down the hall to the row of trainee bunks. Code’s is the leftmost door, positioned closest to the aft of the ship, and of course the door’s unlocked, because I deserve some luck at this point. I swallow the images that haunt me, step inside, and slam the hatch behind me.

Though the layout is nearly identical to Swift’s bunk, the room feels nothing like hers. For one thing, Code kept his laundry in a plastic sack instead of strewn about the floor. It’s organized and bright in here, an outward reflection of the guy who, up until about an hour ago, occupied this bunk. I lock the door behind me and start to poke around in the hidden nooks and crannies, breathing in the details of the navigation lackey, the little pieces that used to make up Code. His clothes are all stacked and folded neatly in the drawers. Maybe he was brought up in a civilized place, or maybe I’ve just gotten way too used to Swift’s laundry-related barbarism.

But he didn’t make his bed. The blankets are rumpled, the pillow askew, and I start to wonder if Santa Elena let him spend his last night in here. The thought seems ludicrous, but then I spot the long smear of blood trailing across the sheets, the painted marks of the stump left behind when the captain sliced off his index finger.

Code slept here right before he died.

I reach down and drag the blankets off the bed, tossing them in the corner of the room. Next come the sheets, which I strip off and let fall to the floor. My stomach twists every time I brush up against them, but I fight the revulsion and shove everything into the laundry bag. I’ll probably throw it off the back of the ship later, but for now I collapse on the bare, lumpy mattress, bury my head in my hands, and groan until the noise rattles my skull.

Swift and Santa Elena both told me today that I’m no better than them, and the worst part is I’m starting to believe it. I try to remember Dad’s lessons on the ethics of Reckoner upbringing, the years of scholarly debate that finally settled into wholehearted support of the industry. Reckoners aren’t meant to be aggressive creatures. They only become aggressive if triggered by an attack. It’s right there in the name. They’re the reckoning that comes crashing down on anyone who attacks their imprint ship, the retribution that deters attacks in the first place. No one in their right minds tangles with a Reckoner-escorted ship, and the seas have never been safer because of it.

But those arguments seem meaningless now.

Dad raised me to kill and justify. I’ve watched Reckoners destroy ships from afar. I’ve been standing behind the laser projectors, pointing them at targets that I never attached to faces. Maybe Swift’s right. Maybe I’ve lived a life of convenience. The world out here is cruel and brutal, and shoregirl thinking doesn’t account for shades of gray.

What did I become when I resolved to bear whatever the Minnow threw at me?

And what was I, to start with? These pirates may be captors and thieves, but they only kill the people who fight back. Their murders are defensive. Every Reckoner attack I’ve ever facilitated was meant to be utter annihilation. I think of the cabin boys, the cooks, the people on this ship who never lift a finger against us. If I turned a Reckoner on this boat right now, they’d fare no differently than the captain herself.

Swift is right.

Santa Elena is right.

My life’s a waking nightmare, and the dead boy’s bed I’m lying in is just the icing on the cake.

Bao can go the rest of the day without any supervision. Sure, it’s an interruption in his training regimen, but so is being fed a traitorous lackey. My stomach aches and my head is throbbing. I should get up. I should go to the mess and scrounge up some food.

Instead I curl up in Code’s bed and will myself to sleep, trying to ignore the voices outside, the engines below, and somewhere off in the distance, the calls of the monster I raised.





22


I wake in a muddled, overslept haze to the all-call crackling on. “We’ll be docking with the Flotilla in three hours,” a voice announces. I still haven’t figured out which of the crew lends her voice to the announcements. “Report to stations for instructions.”

I roll over, and my empty stomach keens.

Two minutes later, someone pounds on the door. “Cas, I know you’re in there,” Swift calls. Her voice is choked and hollow, like she’s holding something back. She’s probably holding a lot back. “Captain wants you on the bridge. Got you some food and shit. Leaving it here. See you in five.”