The odd business was, though, that the blood didn’t stay on the Ghostie armour. It didn’t slide off it, either. I watched it shrink down into patches, and then smaller patches, like the armour was soaking the blood into itself. It should have changed colour, or become less transparent, less Ghostie, but it didn’t.

If anything, it was harder to see than before.

24

24

I left the bits of him in the bone room, sealed the door, took my crossbow in my right hand and started moving back through the Queenie, always scouting out a spot I could squeeze into if I knew someone was coming. Considering it was in the middle of action, the ship was graveyard quiet. I thought about what I’d done, and how easy it had been – not just easy in the way the blade had parted the head from the neck, but easy in how I’d not had to think twice before doing it. I knew I’d sworn to get back at Bosa, and a mind for vengeance will put a spur into the meekest of us, but it wasn’t just that. I’d sliced his head off because in that moment I couldn’t think of anything simpler or more beautiful to do. It was as if someone had written:

1 + 1 =

and then left chalk next to it, so I could finish it off.

And I wondered how much of that was to do with me, how much to do with the lightvine, and how much to do with the armour. And another part of me wondered if I was better off not knowing.

The second one wasn’t as straightforward as the first. I came around a twist in the corridor and there was another of those black suits at the end of it. There was a woman’s face in the visor. She slowed, narrowing her eyes, knowing something was out of place, but not quite seeing me for what I was. I froze, so that she wouldn’t have the motion of my disconnected parts to help her, but I was a shade too late. She brought up her crossbow and levelled it in my direction, still squinting. She barked out something, but again I didn’t get more than a muffle of it.