If the gunshot piqued the raider's interest, the ship starting up throws them into a frenzy.

  There's no neat lane leading out through the camp -- clearly the cutter isn't meant to go anywhere until everyone's cleaned up a bit. But bits of chitin and fabric aren't much of an obstacle to a sandship, and Quarter doesn't even try to avoid them. We edge out from the spot by the cliffs and curve past the blood cauldron, heading for the patchwork tents. But we're still moving at barely a walking pace; anyone who wants to can jump on board to have a little chat.

  Confusion, therefore, is vital. Fortunately, I’ve found a whole sack full of confusion in the armory. The exact design of the little metal balls is unfamiliar to me, but the operating principle is simple enough for cannibal cultists. Yank out pin, hurl toward whatever you feel is insufficiently in flames.

  Those ball-playing skills from the City at work again! Who knew a little practice would come in so handy.

  The first bomb sails into a cluster of tents, and the result is everything I could have hoped for. It goes off with a and a blossom of evil orange fire, which rises into a billow of blue-black smoke. What tents aren't blown apart are left burning, and several raiders are engulfed in flames as well. I rush over to the other rail and heave one in the opposite direction, aiming for the guys with the big spikes by the cauldron. They dive for cover.

  "" Mercy shouts excitedly over the din. "Murder, murder, murder!"

  The ship starts to bump and shudder as tents, boxes, campfires, and occasionally people start to vanish under the bow skirts and get churned beneath the treads. The tone of the engines shifts and shifts again, Quarter working through the gears to get us up to speed. Cannibals are running alongside now, waving and shouting to their fellows. Some of them start throwing things at us, their blades and spears clanking off the hull. I respond with a firebomb and they scatter. Theo's rifle cracks over and over.

  At least some of that clanking, it turns out, came from grappling hooks, which I notice only when the first cultist hauls himself over the rail. We're trailing a line, and several raiders are climbing up with the smug courage of people assured a place in their god's hall, win or lose. As I watch, a woman loses her grip and falls screaming under the treads.

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  "Mercy, cut the rope!" I shout. "Theo, behind you!"

  Theo turns from the rail, swears violently, and snaps off a shot at the big man now advancing up the deck. She misses, but Mercy is already in motion, dancing around him in a pirouette that seems to just coincidentally carve her blade-arm through his throat. He topples against the rail, knife still waving, then goes over the side. Behind him, another man is still climbing up, but he stiffens and drops away at another crack from Theo's rifle. Mercy slashes through the rope and two more cannibals scream as they fall from the side of the cutter into its churning wake.

  We're coming up on the edge of the camp with its rough line of bikes and trikes. Quarter steers for a gap, plowing a couple of vehicles aside with a ragged clanking of metal. I hurl a fire bomb in each direction, aiming for the biggest trikes and groundcars, and two very satisfying pyres blaze up behind us as fuel tanks start to cook off.

  Then, finally, there's nothing ahead of up but sand dunes. Quarter shifts again, the cutter's engine clatter rising to a fever pitch. Fountains of sand erupt from the rear skirt as we pick up speed.

  But we aren't the only ones. Even as we pull away I hear engines roar to life behind us, and lights snap on through the billowing dust and smoke.

  "Which way to your people?" I ask Theo.

  "North!" she yells back.

  I shout this to Quarter and the cutter executes a gentle curve, tracing an arc through the sand. This gets us clear of our own dust cloud for a moment, and I can see the camp falling away behind us. It's still burning, but that hasn't stopped a small fleet of raider vehicles from heading in our direction. I drop the bag of firebombs -- only two left -- and hurry down the stairs into the control room.

  "They're coming after us," I tell Quarter.

  "I can see that," he snaps. He's standing between two massive levers, with a bank of other controls in front of him. There's an eyepiece descending from the ceiling that must connect to a rear-facing periscope.

  "But we can outrun them," I say encouragingly. "Right?"

  "Ought t' be able to."

  to be able to?"

  He taps a gauge among many gauges. "Not gettin' the pressure we should from number two tank. If I take it t' flank I'll strip the gears."

  "That's … that's bad."

  "Aye." His eyes are fixed on the instruments.

  "Can we fix it?"

  "You a fuckin' engineer an' didn't tell us?"

  I'd played one, once, to bluff my way in to a factory and swipe some paperwork. Mostly I'd memorized a lot of big words and worn glasses.

  "I have to admit that I'm not," I say.

  "Then I doubt it," Quarter snaps. "We're lucky if nothin' blows."

  "They're going to catch us," I saw. "What do we do?"

  "How th' fuck should I know?" he shouts. "I'm doin' three people's jobs already!"

  "Sorry." I pull the periscope to my eye and stare at the specks of glinting metal getting larger by the minute. "Rhetorical question."