Meanwhile (in a sense)…

  Elsewhere…

  The sea

  Not far from the coast of New Thrimp

  A world as yet unnamed

  -Holly-

  ‘Do you think we should do something? ’

  ‘Like what? Fall on someone?’

  ‘I- there must be something we can do! We can’t just sit here and watch!’

  Holly was exhausted. As far as she was concerned her part was over. She barely had the strength to peer out over the rim of the crow’s nest to watch the fighting below.

  ‘Ask Ken if you’re that bothered. He’ll tell you the exact same no I’m telling you.’

  After running from Gennara, she had hung out over the side of the ship, clinging blindly to the railing, for what seemed like hours, unseeing, unsure whether she was being hunted; trusting in her comrades and her luck to keep her from Gennara’s vengeance.

  Diving deep enough to go unseen, she couldn’t feel fatigue in her muscles. She had hung there as long as she dared, knowing that if she stayed too long, her grip would simply fail, without warning. When she reached the point at which hanging on longer was probably more dangerous than risking exposure, she had had no choice; she braced herself for a spear to the head, and surfaced.

  The spear never came. Nor did the shouts, nor the stamping of boots rushing towards her that she had been expecting.

  The deck was empty. She could hear distant thuds and voices, but it sounded more like people working than a great battle. For a moment, she wondered whether it was already over.

  Whatever the reason for it, she grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Slipping up under the railing, she darted across the few yards from the railing to the mast and, with what strength she had left, she jerkily heaved herself up the skinny rope ladder, past the silent, twitching form of Marco—she considered stopping to remove his drug-gag, but it was kinder to keep him unconscious—until eventually, the back of her neck prickling with fear of being seen, she reached the crow’s nest at the top. She had expected to find it empty.

  Instead, it contained Billy.

  The relief of finding herself back with one of her own people had been overwhelming. She broke down, clinging to him, moaning that she wanted to go home, that she wanted this to be over. His response had been to hug her back and give her his prisoner-shirt to wear—it was rough, wet and foul-smelling, but she appreciated the gesture if not the garment—but he didn’t tell her they’d be home soon. They both knew it would be a lie.

  Instead, he told her all that had happened down in the hold, from being woken by Saskia right up to the point when they had burst up out of the hatch. Once the prisoners were out, Billy said, he had bolted across the deck and scurried up the mast, just like her. He seemed to think of it as a brave, genius move: from up here, he said, he could relay live information about the battle back to Ken and the others. He made a token effort to put it nonchalantly, but Holly could tell he thought he was being impressive.

  It wasn’t impresive. It was downright idiotic. Even in her current state, she could see that. If he had gotten himself killed, he would have severed contact with the others, effectively leaving them all stranded and ruining the entire mission. But berating him for that was Ken and Igor’s job. Holly didn’t have the strength. She simply nodded, which seemed to deflate him a little, and then stopped paying attention to him.

  Her job was finally done, but the penance of surfacing still had to be paid. She lay down across the platform of the crow’s nest, gently placed her head between the posts supporting the handrail where she could peer down on the unfolding conflict below and vomit if she needed to, then waited for the convulsions and nausea. Her fate was in the hands of others now.

  The deck below was eerily quiet. Distantly, she realised that she had always assumed that after the prisoners emerged the battle would be a roaring melee, full of shouts and booms and fire and crashes and chaos. The reality was anything but.

  The Polity had been caught completely unprepared; they were surprised, intoxicated, slow, stupid and unco-ordinated. The escaped prisoners, by contrast, operated with deadly efficiency. They moved mostly in silence, in groups of four, spreading across the deck and attaching themselves to any Polity sailors they came across. Three restrained while a fourth garrotted; so long as they weren’t interrupted it was devastatingly effective, as testified by the Polity coprses already lying splayed out or curled up on the planks. It wasn’t so much a battle as a series of disparate four-on-one executions.

  There were shouts—the prisoners occasionally called out requests for backup, and the Polity bellowed with terror and defiance—but the sounds were dull and distant, carried off by the wind before they reached her.

  Holly watched as two of the prisoners pinned Lady Broadwood to the ground, one taking each arm. This was the woman who had snapped the wooden beams over her own back, she reminded herself, simulating the cracks of Holly’s bones while she screamed, and Marco… She shuddered. Those memories, she knew, would trouble her for a very long time.

  Yet despite her resentment of the woman, she would take no pleasure in watching Lady Broadwood die. Yes, she was one of them, another part of the great evil machine choking the life out of the people of Thrimp. Yes, she had played a part in that sick, abusive farce they had forced her to participate in. Yes, it was right in principle for her to die.

  But she had made Holly laugh. Not that that made her a good person, but… She had stopped Belle making a fool of himself, too. Then she’d overdone it on the amberlace and had to have a lie down. Just like a hundred other people Holly had spent happy evenings with. Before she had seen that, the Polity had been a faceless evil. Easy to hate. But Belle and Lady Broadwood had given them a face, a human face, and evil with a human face was harder to hate. It was still right for the woman to die. She just…

  Holly was almost glad she was too sick and exhausted to think deeply about it. Besides, it was out of her hands now. It didn’t matter how she felt about it. She kept watching, if only to give her mind a distraction from the foulness of surfacing.

  Powerful as Lady Broadwood was, she was also slow and dizzy from the amberlace; the prisoners wrestled her down by sheer bodyweight, one prisoner on each of her mighty arms, grappling it as thought it were a person in its own right. Another sat astride her stumpy legs, pinning them down.

  Before the fourth could get the rope around her neck, however, she roared and the two prisoners on her arms slowly rose, clinging, dangling from her fists. They were raised high in to the air.

  Then Holly gasped as the arms smashed back down into the deck, splintering it. They rose again, unencumbered, and smashed back down again. And again. And again, leaving two messy holes in the planking where the prisoners had fallen. She knuckled herself back to her feet as the remaining two prisoners fled.

  Holly tracked them as they passed along the ship; they ran past two four-man squads, each restraining and strangling a Polity sailor; they pressed on, clearly seeing no need to intervene. As they passed a third, however, they stopped, perhaps in response to a call for help.

  Details were difficul to make out from this height, but Holly easily recognised Lady Subtletouch. There was a rope being tightened around her neck from behind by one prisoner but she had grasped two others; each had their face and head engulfed by one of her enormous, grotesque hands. They must have been restraining her arms, just as they had with Lady Broadwood, unaware that her knuckles bent both ways, only for her to simply flex her fingers backwards, into that inhuman reverse-fist, and grip them both by the head. They were writhing and thrashing; Holly refused to imagine the damage those long, flexible fingers and the black talons that tipped them were doing. One screamed and the woman with the rope abandoned her garrotting and started trying in vain to pull the monstrous hand from her comrade’s head. The one holding her legs also abandoned his post and started trying to do the same for the other entrapped prisoner, who had stopped moving. For a moment, it seemed as though Lady Subtletouch had the better of them.

  Then the other two arrived. They ignored her hands; instead, they tripped her and pulled her down onto her back. Then they started stamping. First they targeted the shoulders, causing her to release her victims, one of whom collapsed, twitching. The hands were pulled in for defence and within moments she was invisible beneath the pounding feet of five people. The fallen man lay where she had left him, his head a dark, wet mess.

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  Elsewhere, prisoners fell, in perhaps equal number with the Poltiy corpses, but they outnumbered the Polity by more than four to one—with every kill, the ratio skewed more and more in their favour.

  They were winning.

  Holly leaned out over the side of the crow’s nest to retch; a celebratory vomit, she thought to herself darkly. She was looking down the mast towards Marco, checking he wasn’t directly below her, when she saw a figure on the rope ladder.

  It was climbing fast, rushing spider-like up the twisting, knotted ropes with ease. Whereas Holly had clumsily spun her way up, always off-balance with the ladder rotating madly with every step, this climber kept their balance centred, placing each foot and hand with assured accuracy. They were already past Marco and ascending with speed; they would make the crow’s nest in seconds.Holly could only see the top of the head. She couldn’t tell who it was, but given how easily it climbed the ladder she was certain it couldn’t be a prisoner.

  ‘Billy,’ she hissed; then again, louder.

  His eyes were unfocused, staring off into the distance. His mind was off in Lefty. Or Righty. Whichever one this wasn’t. ‘Billy!!’ With a shaking hand reached over and tapped his leg but he just loosely flapped a hand in response, as if to shoo away a fly. She could hear the rhythmic creaking of weight on the rope ladder now as the climber approached. ‘Billy!’ she hissed again, jamming her fingernails into his thigh.

  He flinched and let out a high-pitched noise.

  ‘What-’

  ‘There’s someone climbing the ladder,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Polity.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Oh sh- hang on hang on, I’ll ask Ken what to do.’

  His eyes began to drift apart again. ‘No! Billy, there’s no time, you need to-’ She dug her nails into his thigh again and scratched, startling him back to attention. ‘There’s no time! They’re here, we need to knock them off!’

  ‘What?? What are you talking about, we can’t fight!’

  ‘Come on, Billy! Just bash their fingers or kick them in the head or something! Quick!’

  Billy stood, his face a rictus of terror and disbelief. He crouched and edged towards the point where the rope twisted and strained at its anchor in the platform, right by the entrance-hole.

  The rope stilled and a slender hand gripped the edge of the platform.

  As Holly waited for Billy’s heel to come stomping down on it, a second hand appeared. The climber was at the top of the ladder now—the point where they were most vulnerable. If they got into the crow’s nest…Billy needed to knock them off now. This was the only chance, but he was just standing there.

  ‘Billy!’ she shouted, looking round. He stood frozen by the entrance hole, staring down through it, his mouth elongated and quivering in horror.

  Holly would have to do it herself. Fighting her own body for control, she scooted over and say by the hole, one leg raised ready to stamp down through it. She looked down, straight into the upturned face of the invader.

  Inches away, two huge eyes stared back at her, swirling vortices of colour. They were red-rimmed and wet with crying.

  Ilya.

  ‘Holly,’ she said, rapidly, her voice tremorous. ‘Holly please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!’

  She froze. Billy looked at her uncertainly.

  One downward kick. Whether it hit hands or head or shoulders wouldn’t matter—she could knock Ilya off the ladder easily. The girl was small, weak, with had no offensive capabilities that Holly knew of; even if she stayed there on the ladder, she couldn’t hurt them. They only had to block the entrance and eventually the prisoners below would notice her there. Holly could even call down to them. All she and Billy had to do was block the entrance hole.

  ‘Holly please, I can’t fight. They’ll kill me. They’ll kill me, please!’ Her voice was ragged and desperate. ‘Please!’

  She was right. The prisoners would trample her, just as they had trampled Lady Subtletouch. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Which was exactly what she deserved. She, too, was one of them; another cog in the evil machine. Holly didn’t even like her.

  And yet…

  Damn it, she thought, the whole point of her being here was to hurt them! Everything she had done so far, everything she had been through, was part of the plan to hurt them, and now she was…

  ‘Holly please I’m scared, I’m so scared, Holly please!’

  She sighed.

  Her job was over. She had done her part. Killing Ilya would take conviction and fortitude and hardness of heart, and she had none of those left. Someone else could kill her.

  She moved aside and let her up, as Billy gawked in confusion.

  -Saskia-

  When she had been sharpening them down in the hold, scraping a stone along her own bones had made Saskia shudder; but now, up on deck in the midst of battle with the Urge driving her on, she found she was able to grind those same boneblades against another person’s vertebrae without so much as flinching.

  She completed the motion and moved on without pausing, the Urge burning away any doubts.

  She had never killed before. Leading up to today, she had been terrified by the thought, certain that she would freeze at the crucial moment, unable to take on a deed so powerful, so final. To make another person’s life stop. She naturally avoided conflict—she wasn’t even good at arguing, never mind killing.

  But when the moment had come, she had just… done it. With the Urge driving her, it had been easy. It was mindless, instinctive work: the Urge told her what to do; her body complied. All she had to do was not put up any resistance, and it all flowed naturally, one action into the next. When it was over, the memories would remain, and she suspected that they might be something she would have to deal with, but she pushed the thought aside; now wasn’t for thinking and worrying. Now was for doing the task in front of her. Now was for killing.

  The four who had been restraining the woman she had just finished off moved off in search of their next victim. No one spoke. There was no need. Elsewhere, another call for help rose and she strode towards it, full of certainty. Something else needed to be killed. That was her job. She would do it.

  She crossed the ship, taking in the sights and sounds of panicked, surprised people being efficiently assassinated.

  They were doing it. The plan was working. They had caught the Polity almost completely unawares. The sleepy, drug-addled sailors simply goggled in disbelief, barely defending themselves as the ruthless escapees fell upon them. They were keeping the Polity on the back foot, giving them no time to sober up… They had the momentum. Some of them had looted weapons from their kills, making the next kills easier. She felt a brief flash of excitement at the prospect of a quicker and easier victory than she had dared to hope for.

  Then, rounding the corner of the little hut in the centre of the deck, she saw the bodies.

  They were prisoners; three, lying sprawled and broken, each at the end of its own long, bloody skid-mark. Slowly looking up, her gaze followed the red trails back to their point of origin.

  A figure rose above the crowd, head and shoulders taller than those surrounding her. Her teeth were bared, one arm drawn back, holding a long, oaken spear. She was at the centre of a circle of attackers, who feinted towards her, but never attacked, staying out of the range of the spear. They stood locked in a stalemate.

  It looked as though there were enough of the prisoners to overpower her if they rushed her, but as Saskia approached, she saw that the woman was not alone; she sat astride some kind of horse—no, not a horse, it had no head… some kind of horse-like Goblin—and at her back was another Polity crewman, powerfully-built with a shiny bald head and an enormous tail that rose up behind him, poised to strike. His eyes were wide with fear, darting from prisoner to prisoner, trying to watch them all at once. Saskia was surprised to see that tears ran down his face. The Goblin slowly turned as the attackers circled, and he kept his back to it.

  Suddenly the Goblin danced forwards; the prisoners in its way jumped back but the spear lashed out with a speed Saskia had never seen in a human being, striking three times in a moment faster than she could blink. It was thin and smooth, designed to pierce flesh and be withdrawn again quickly, without resistance; one man fell, clutching his chest, while a woman beside him stood held in place by the spear still piercing her shoulder; with the same incomprehensible speed, the Goblin crashed one mighty foot into her, booting her off the spear and propelling her into the prisoners behind, who scattered and fell. The Goblin-rider was already looking to her other side, aiming a second spear downwards at any who might try to take advantage of the split-second opening. The man with the tail covered her back.

  Saskia gaped, and understand why the crowd of attackers held back. Two prisoners had just been killed in under a second. Saskia hadn’t even had time to flinch.

  Danger poured off the woman. Whereas the man behind her was clearly terrified, her eyes blazed. Saskia found herself taking an involuntary step back, every instinct telling her to fear the woman. The prisoners hemmed them in, being careful not to get too close, but if she kept lashing out and picking them off like that…

  She remembered Igor’s words in the hold. They couldn’t afford to get into a war of attrition. Every minute that passed allowed them to sober up, get their feet under them, regroup. If more Polity came now, the prisoners would have enemies on both sides. It had to be finished now.

  She blocked out the fear—there was no place for emotion here, she was here to kill—and forced herself to think analytically. From her position at the back of the crowd, she immediately saw a solution.

  There was enough coiled tension in the standoff that it would only take one good opening. The woman only needed to be knocked off balance long enough to allow them to rush her. Once they were on her, it would be over. All it needed was an opening…

  For something heavy to hit her at speed. Something like a body. She would undoubtedly see it coming and skewer it, but the weight and momentum would stagger her and her Goblin, and the waiting throng of prisoners would do the rest.

  It would need a run up.

  She took a few steps back.

  She hadn’t noticed her. Saskia checked to the sides; no one approaching. The way was clear. More steps back. The empty deck opened up between her and the crowd. She would need enough space to reach full speed. Then, she would have to launch herself over the heads of the prisoners. Only the enhanced muscles of a Skyborn could do that. It had to be her.

  She swallowed. This was what needed to be done. This was her job.

  I’ll die, she thought. It was a distant thought, a small voice. Like the other thoughts, the fear of the woman, the uncertainties about killing, she pushed it down. Now wasn’t for thinking and worrying.

  I’ll die.

  Before she agreed to the mission, she had known she might die. That had always been part of it.

  But I’ll die.

  This was what was needed of her now. There was no time to hesitate. Hesitation meant failure.

  Actually die. For real.

  It had to be now!

  She took another step back.

  I don’t want to die…

  She tried to ignore the voice but It chimed in her ears, growing more insistent. It pulled at her, forcing her to recall the real meaning of the word.

  Die.

  She hesitated.

  The empty stretch of deck between her and the crowd suddenly seemed longer. Unfriendlier.

  She looked up as the Goblin danced and the spear lashed out again, forcing more prisoners back. The snarling woman cast her gaze about her and for the briefest moment, her eyes met Saskia’s. The woman’s eyes moved on, but the effect of that fraction of a second of contact hit Saskia like cold water to the face. They were the eyes of someone who could ram a sharp stick of wood through her body without turning to look. Someone whose arm could snap out and make everything she’d ever done, everything she was, everything she thought, knew, believed—her favourite coffee cup, her mastery of blood-chemistry, all the work she’d put in preparing for this, the way she raised one eyebrow and made Igor laugh—all count for nothing. Make her die.

  All of a sudden she felt small and weak, no more able to run towards that deadly enemy than she could put her own head in a fire.

  And that was when she realised:

  The Urge was beginning to dim.