“Why make peace when you can make a little mayhem?”

-Captain Emile Dryden, 188 U.E.

 

The Tits Up closed in on Last Leg, one of the furthest islands of the archipelago. Its rumbling engines quieted to a low hum.

Torch watched the barren island from a window, knees drawn up to his chest. It was small, only a couple kilometers across, with patches of shrubby trees that struggled to thrive in the meager soil. He could already make out Dryden’s ship, the Sea’s Rebuke, on the near shore, a black boil that seemed to expand and contract like an exposed muscle.

Torch’s biomech arm lay in front of him. He scratched his aching stump, sucking on his lips to avoid verbalizing the pain.

Thunder roared inside his head. Gunfire. Artillery shells. Screams. Death.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed in sharp hisses through his teeth.

No tears for the dead, he thought. Save them for the living. No tears for the dead. No tears.

Dryden’s crew milled about on the shoreline, finding shade under improvised parasols or catching fist-sized crabs in the azure waters. He couldn’t see the captain himself, although he had never met him before, so he wouldn’t know what to look for.

“Yin, Torch, Stephan, get to the cargo hold,” Quintilla called over the farshout. “We’ll be landing in a hot minute. Make sure you’re prepared for a fight. Dryden’s a rabid bastard. Kazzul, be ready to fire on my mark.”

Kazzul took the Tits Up for a spin around the island. Torch jammed his prosthetic into place with a sharp sting of agitated nerves and wriggled his fingers to make sure it was properly connected. He stood with a sigh, heading down.

He was halfway down the stairs to the crew deck when the ship careened sharply to the side. He stumbled, nearly fell, and caught himself on a step. A deep rumble went through the metal, followed by a displeased groan.

Torch shut his eyes. Prayed to gods he didn’t believe in. Waited for the hot wash of fire on his skin, to feel his bones shredded to nothing, to hear the screams of his comrades.

No tears for the dead. No tears for the dead. No tears for the dead.

Long seconds passed, and he was still alive. The ship straightened out.

Quintilla caught him by the back of the neck, hauled him down the stairs. “Hurry up, now!” she shouted down his ear. “Looks like Dryden’s a little jumpy. Fired a warning shot. Kazzul had to make some evasive maneuvers.”

They met up with Stephan on the crew deck, fiddling with his pistol as he tried to load a fresh magazine.

“What was that?” Stephan asked.

“Warning shot,” Quintilla repeated. “Nothing to worry about. I expected this sort of thing.”

Stephan’s frown didn’t ease up.

“What?” Torch said, putting on a grin. “Scared of a little gunpowder?”

“I’m scared of dying. So, by extension, yes.”

They made it to the cargo hold, where Yin already waited. Kurko was absent, as he still hadn’t recovered from his injuries. Kazzul slowed the engines to a crawl, eventually coming to a hover, and Torch felt a sharp jolt as the ship struck land.

The ramp lowered, letting in sun and hot air. Dryden’s crew—well over a dozen—looked up from their tasks to observe the Tits Up.

Torch had a rune ready on his lips in case he needed to reduce someone to red rain.

The captain went first, kicking off her boots before stepping into the sand, one hand on her revolver. The rest followed.

The Sea’s Rebuke lay some twenty meters away like a beached whale. An Aqithi bio-ship. It was bulky and fat, living tissue covered in natural plating, great guns protruding from vestigial wings. A lot of guns—some strapped on haphazardly like an afterthought. Sloppy craftsmanship. He could have done better.

Still. That ship could blow the Tits Up into tiny smoldering pieces at such close range before they could do anything about it.

He caught sight of a lubbard—a woman, he thought—reclined in a sun chair beneath a parasol. Her deep blue skin glistened with beads of water, slender curves covered only by slips of sheer fabric hardly classified as clothing. A multitude of purple frills cascaded over sharp collarbones—a proud mane that framed a delicate face. Her dark eyes followed them as they approached. A slight smirk played on her thin lips.

Dryden’s crew were all armed to the teeth. A few of them had drawn their weapons, fingers itching at the triggers. Garbed in soiled work clothes and caked with dried blood, they made a stark contrast to the refined lady overseeing them.

A man separated himself from the rest of Dryden’s crew and came forward. Tall, with shaggy hair and an unkempt beard. He was naked from the waist up, wearing only a pair of loose linen pants. The bare torso was marred with a patchwork of lumpy scars and clumsy tattoos. His nose had been sheared clean off, with only a weeping scab to mark its absence.

The man could only be Emile Dryden.

He walked up to Quintilla, arms extended, as though he were meeting an old friend.

“Captain Wenezian!” Dryden said. They stopped an arm’s length from each other. “How glad I was when I heard you wanted to meet with me. Always had an eye on you, but it’s so hard to make time for workplace chit chat these days, you know? When was last time?”

“When you murdered Captain Bruge’s pilot in Sweet Devil,” Quintilla said, her face a tense mask. “I backed you up when Bruge came for your head, I believe.”

Dryden’s face lit up. “Ah, yes! That little weasel had it coming. Saw him eyeing my boots. You’ve got it the wrong way round, though—you backed Bruge.” His eyes took on a hard edge.

Quintilla shrugged. “Same difference. We all switch sides so many times it’s hard to keep track of who’s friend and who’s foe.”

“So it is. Now—”

“One thing before we get started,” Quintilla said. She raised her hand, made it a fist, and pointed at the water.

The Tits Up fired one of its great guns with a deafening boom. A spray of water shot out of the sea, washing over the shore and dousing Dryden’s scrambling deckhands. Torch ducked down, breathing hard, a thousand rounds of ghost gunfire echoing inside his skull.

After it all settled, a dozen firearms were aimed at the captain.

Yin drew her swords. Stephan fumbled for his gun. Torch straightened and whispered a Baku rune, kept the spell at his fingertips.

Quintilla made no move for her own piece. She stared Dryden down, unflinching. “There. Now we’re even. If you want to keep that ugly mug atop your shoulders, don’t shoot at me like that ever again.”

Dryden laughed. He waved at his crew to lower their guns. “Rand told me you were a powder keg, but I always expect disappointment. I think we might be able to have some fun together.”

“I’m not here for fun—I’m here for business. So let’s get down to it.”

“Why can’t they be one and the same? I know you want those tablets of mine.” He snapped his fingers. The female lubbard bent over and heaved a large satchel into her lap. She pulled down the leather, revealing four bronze plates.

Quintilla nodded. “And I’ve got the coin to pay for them. So let’s talk.”

Dryden sucked his yellowed teeth. He wagged a finger in Quintilla’s face. “See, there’s the thing. I’ve no want for coin. I prefer to take rather than barter. My crew feels the same.”

The captain slapped Dryden’s hand away. “Then why accept the parlay in the first place? Does wasting my time make you happy?”

Dryden smiled. “A little, I’ll admit. Seeing you squirm like a busy bee with its wings pinned to a corkboard. But I didn’t have you come all the way out here for nothing. I’ve got a proposal.”

“Then spit it out.”

“A contest,” Dryden said. He spun around, arms raised, feet throwing up sand. “A test of strength. Captain against captain. You win, I give you those silly little trinkets. I win, you hand me over that money, and your ship, and pray to the Deep Gods that a ship comes along before you all die of thirst.”

“That’s a terrible deal,” Quintilla remarked, crossing her arms.

“Yes, I can see that,” Dryden said, frowning. “You’re damaged goods.” He reached for her ruined left hand.

She shirked away. “I could still put a bullet through each of your testicles from ten meters.”

“I have no doubt of that. But that looks recent. And you look pale. My thinking is, blood loss got you tipsy. My thinking is…” He shook his head. “You’re doing all you can to keep your feet under you.”

“I could fight,” Quintilla said. “Doesn’t change the fact that the terms are rotten.”

“I’ll fight him,” Torch said.

The captain looked back. “What?”

Torch stepped forward. “I’ll fight.” His stump itched.

Dryden walked past Quintilla, approaching Torch. The man towered over him, a head-and-a-half taller.

A brute. A bully.

Torch had stood up to those before. They never changed much.

“Look at you,” Dryden said. “Snappy thing. Can’t say I’ve heard of you.”

“Torch,” Torch said.

“He’s my demolitions expert,” Quintilla explained. “And he’s not dueling you.”

“I can do it, captain,” Torch insisted. His throat was dry, and his hands itched with the need to kill something. To make something hurt like he was hurting.

“If you lose, we’ve got no money, no ship. I can’t take that risk.”

Torch kept the captain’s gaze. He had a fire in his gut that set his blood boiling. “I can beat him, captain. Give me a shot.”

She was silent.

“He seems confident enough,” Stephan said.

“It’s a risk,” Quintilla shot back.

“You’re not exactly risk-averse.”

She cricked her neck. “True enough. Fine. Beat this clown, Torch.”

Dryden laughed and clapped his hands together. “Great! Oh, happy, happy.” He snapped his fingers at his deckhands and a pair of them rushed off, coming out of the bio-ship with a fuel cell. They spread the red anima in a large circle between the two ships, which let off thin fumes.

Torch walked into the circle. The rest of the crew stepped back. As soon as Dryden entered, the deckhands ignited the anima, setting the circle afire.

The scarred captain threw his head back and howled. Sinewy muscles flexed, stretching pink scars taut.

“I haven’t had a good duel in ages,” he said. “I hope you’re looking forward to his as much as I am, little man.”

“I am,” Torch said, unable to stifle a giggle. “We’ll see who’s little once I take you off at the kneecaps.”