Her breath hitched in the back of her throat. She was still reasonably sure he hated her, but in this moment, she thought he might see her more clearly than anyone on this ship. Before she could respond, the hallway reverberated with the sound of running.

Caledonia raced from the room with Pine hard on her heels, seeking the source of the noise.

Her name rushed toward them. “Caledonia!”

Nettle.

The girl skidded to a furious stop. Her hair was wild, her cheeks flushed a tawny rose, and her small body was puffed up and ready for a fight.

“What is it?” Caledonia demanded.

“That brick of a boy locked Oran in the hold!” Nettle cried. “He should be in the med bay, but I just found out he’s been in the hold since he came aboard.”

Caledonia was already running. She raced straight through the galley and down a level toward the hold, where she found Sledge planted like a tree.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

Nettle was right. He should be in the med bay. He’d been covered in dozens of tiny stab wounds, abused in myriad other ways she couldn’t see. He should be resting where someone could give him proper care.

Sledge stared down at her, angry betrayal scrawled across his features. “He’s the Steelhand, and he doesn’t belong on this ship.”

“He just helped save my crew,” Caledonia countered. “He had one of those cans open before we even got there. He has as much right to be here as anyone else.”

“You want to know why he had that can open?” Sledge shouted. “Because he designed it!”

It was the truth, and it was a terrible one. The Steelhand would know the weakness in his own design. But he’d used his knowledge to free a third of her crew before they arrived. He wasn’t the same person he’d been in Aric’s fleet. He couldn’t be.

“He’s my crew,” she asserted. “A former Fiveson like you’re all former Bullets. Or does that only apply to the people you know?” As she said the words, she heard Triple’s voice accusing her of the same, and the air froze in her lungs. “Move aside.”

Sledge moved, but only just, forcing her to press between him and the wall.

The hold, deep in the belly of the Beacon, was a splinter of a room cut in half by a narrow hallway. On either side, dimly lit cells with barred doorways and steel walls were stacked from end to end. None of the rooms bore a porthole, so the only ventilation was provided by a sluggish fan set into the wall at the far end. It was stuffy and warm and smelled distantly of sweat.

As Caledonia entered, Oran groaned from where he sat slumped against a wall in a cell near the door.

“Oran,” she snapped. Irritated, though not at him.