The jolly ship

  has seen better days. Yesterday, for one.

  The great steel bulk of the thing stands an angle, nose planted in a dune. The upper deck, where the machinery of the engine emerges in a mass of cams and gears, is still and silent. Important bits that ought to have been whirling with furious purpose are instead splayed and twisted from powerful detonations. The bottom of the ship has been systematically carved open to create a new entrance, great plates of discarded hull metal lying beside it. Around the ragged gap the sand is churned by wheel ruts and boot tracks.

  Several parts of the cruiser are still on fire. Cheery orange-red flames lick from the shattered windows of the bridge, while towards the aft end a large blaze burns with the characteristic blue-white of viscid, sending up a plume of greasy black smoke. The smell of the stuff, that metallic ozone stink that's omnipresent in the City, brings me an unexpected pang of homesickness.

  I prod Mercy. She lets me down, and I have to cling to her for a moment as pins and needles assault my numbed extremities. I hop up and down swearing to myself for a few moments.

  "Murder?" Mercy says.

  "You see anything moving around down there?"

  She leans closer, squinting, then shakes her head. "Murder."

  "Me neither."

  It looks like the aftermath of a fight, one where the winners have had a chance to clean up a bit. For one thing, there are no bodies among the wreckage, though some broad discolorations on the sand might be bloodstains. For another, parts of the ship itself have clearly been looted. All the treads from the great tracks are missing, and I definitely remember there being a few more guns about the place.

  This bodes very poorly. If I was looting a captured ship, supplies of food and water would be at the very top of my list, so it stands to reason if the attackers got around to disassembling the there's nothing left down there to soothe my ragged throat.

  "Gray?" I mutter. "Any thoughts?

  it is difficult for me to perceive your surroundings beyond a short distance. i take it the ship has been destroyed?

  "Pretty much."

  dying of thirst in the desert seems the obvious course, then. if you could order mercy to return the skull to the temple?

  "Has anyone ever told you that you're ?"

  frequently.

  Shit. I have to at least check, don't I?

  "Okay," I tell Mercy. "I'm going down there. Follow me and be as quiet as you can. If we do find anyone, no murder unless they're actually trying to kill me, all right?" I can't afford to antagonize any possible assistance, whether it's Navy or desert cannibals. "But be

  to murder if I tell you. Understand?"

  "Murder," she says, nodding, and then to my surprise adds, "Protect."

  "Right, exactly." I take a deep breath, procrastinating a few more seconds. "Okay. Here we go."

  I'm trying to be stealthy about it, but there isn't really an unobtrusive way to shuffle down the face of a sand dune. I crouch in silence for a while at the bottom, looking for movement, but the ship seems as dead as Gray's tomb.

  Finally, black knife in hand for all the good it will do, I skitter crab-wise toward the big rent in the side and drop into a crouch behind a discarded slab of metal. Mercy runs lightly across the surface of the sand and kneels beside me. I motion her to stop and close my eyes, listening.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Flames crackle from both ends of the ship. Underneath that sound, though, I can hear voices, not close enough to make out the words but definitely at least two people. From the sound of it, they're having an argument.

  " quiet," I whisper, and edge closer until I can hear what's being said.

  "-- told you there was another compartment," someone is saying.

  "Prob'ly just another damned closet full of rags," a deep voice rumbles. "Never seen a ship with so little worthwhile scrap."

  "There might be a body!" another voice says excitedly. "Waste not! Slaughterborne will praise us for contributions to the common pot!"

  "We'll find out if you get those damned bolts off," the first voice says.

  Fifth-worshipping cannibal lunatics, . Fuck me. My mouth can't get dryer, but my heart is pounding as I slowly raise my head for a look.

  The rent in the hull opens onto the hold, mostly empty now except for smashed crates and bloodstains. The three cannibals are gathered by one wall, where a metal panel hangs loose from a pair of bolts. One of them, a big man with a bare chest, spiked shoulder pads, and a wild tangle of green hair, is working with a bolt-cutter. Two women watch over him, the older one swathed in bug-leather and goggles and the younger wearing only an interlocking tangle of belts across various parts of her anatomy. Both hold long spears with barbed heads, and between them they have enough knives to outfit a cutlery shop.

  These are the people whose notional mercy I'm going to throw myself on? This plan is looking worse by the minute.

  "Murder?" Mercy says in my ear.

  "Wait a second --" I mutter.

  The panel falls away with a clang, drawing curses from the two women as they shift backward. Behind it there is, indeed, another compartment. It's maybe big enough to fit a coffin, but somehow three people are squeezed into it. A large figure in a hooded cloak faces away, blocking the opening, while behind him crouch a man and a woman in the same loose, cheap prisoner's outfits I'm still wearing.

  The younger cannibal woman cackles with delight. "Better than a body! Fresh meat!"

  The older, not seeing the point in bantering with dinner, simply thrusts her spear. It takes the cloaked man in the back, but instead of sinking into flesh it stops dead, catching on something. He must be wearing armor under that cloak. The woman dances back, expecting a counterattack, but her opponent simply remains crouched in front of the other two, shielding them with his body.

  "Get him out of the way," the older woman snarls. Her companion with the spiked shoulder pads grunts and tosses his bolt-cutter down, cracking his massive knuckles.

  At this point I make an impulsive decision. A lot of my decisions are impulsive, if we're being honest; in my line of work you learn to trust your gut, and my gut is telling me that there are two sides here and I know which one I want to be on. I don't think of myself as a hero, but … you know, is kind of over the moral event horizon, right? So I hiss to Mercy, "Stay put and when I say murder, ." Then take a few rapid steps away from her and clear my throat before I can think better of the idea.

  ***

  "Um, excuse me? Hello?"

  The three cannibals turn to face me. I give them my best shit-eating grin.

  "I was just ," I go on, "for the sake of argument, is it at possible to avoid bloodshed here?"

  They're staring at me like they don't quite believe this is happening.

  "Like, is there any way I could persuade you not to kill those people, and instead to give us some food, water, and a means of transportation and send us on our way with good wishes? We'd appreciate it. And a good deed never hurt anyone!"

  "Fucking mad bastard," the big man rumbles.

  "Prison ship," the older woman says. "What do you expect?"

  "Can I kill him?" the young woman giggles.

  "Just try not to spill too much."

  So much for diplomacy. She takes a step forward and I take a step back. I shout, "Murder!"

  Mercy vaults into the hold, a huge smile on her face. Her hands are already thinned to razor edges, and she does a little pirouette toward the big man, blades zipping around in circles like a mincing machine. He squawks as deep cuts appear on his chest, then gurgles as one of them finds his throat. Crimson sprays.

  "What the ?" the old woman has time to say, turning to face this unexpected threat. Mercy turns her spin into a high kick, foot-blade extending to pop the cannibal's leather-wrapped head clean off. It spins gaily through the air, blood painting spirals on the walls, while her body sits down heavily before toppling over.

  The last cannibal drops her spear and draws a knife in each hand, smiling almost wide as Mercy. "Watch me, Glad-of-war," she screams. "Accept my soul when I fall in glorious strife!"

  Steel scrapes against whatever Mercy is made of as she parries, backing up with each exchange of blows. The cannibal has forgotten me completely, and her back is invitingly open. The black dagger is heavy in my hand. But I hesitate -- stabbing young women in the back has not, to date, been a big feature of my life. It seems impolite? And yet --

  Mercy thrusts. The cannibal sidesteps and brings her blade weapon down on Mercy's forearm above where it becomes a blade, shearing through with surprising ease. Apparently unperturbed by this, Mercy brings her knee up into the young woman's gut, her kneecap lengthening into a long spike. The impact doubles the cannibal over, and for a moment the pair of them form a frozen tableau. The cannibal smiles wide, blood gushing over her teeth.

  "Thank you, Lord-of-battle," she mumbles, "for a … worthy … death."

  Mercy lets her slide to the floor.