Two sharp cracks echo out on either side of the Minnow as a pair of sleek white hulls fall away. I stick my head out the port-side door just as Varma wheels past with Chuck sitting primly in his copilot seat. They swing wide around the back of the ship, and as they come back around, the guns slide out of the Splinter’s needle-like nose, poised and ready to kill. The second Splinter comes flying around the Minnow’s keel, and I realize that they’re circling us. The ship may corner like a speedboat at a good clip, but the agility of the smaller craft can’t be matched, and Santa Elena knows the Splinters are our best defense.

There’s an awful stillness settling over the sea, and again I look up at the clouds, hoping to spot some sign of the impending attack.

“Inbound on starboard,” the all-call screams. “Engines to full, all crew brace for immediate ignition.”

The Minnow surges forward, and I dive for the nearest handhold. We’re running, running far faster than I’ve ever seen the ship move. The engines below my feet scream, and when I lean out over the edge of the deck, I spot Bao’s figure keeping pace with us in the depths. He’s gotten so big, I marvel.

Rotors scream to my left as four glistening black quadcopters drop from the sky in formation, their hulls streaked with SRCese gold and red. A screech echoes from a set of speakers embedded in them, and in one voice the four declare, “Unregistered vessel, on the authority of the Southern Republic of California you are being ordered to stop and transfer the citizen you have unlawfully kept aboard your ship. Failure to comply will be interpreted as an act of aggression and will be met with uncompromising force.”

The all-call screams back, in a voice that’s unquestionably Santa Elena’s, “Suck my dick! Here’s your compliance!” and the whole ship rattles as the big guns unload.

The Splinters weave across the waves, rounding out on the other side of the quadcopters, their barrels pointing skywards just as the pursuit opens fire.

The quadcopters’ guns blaze as a clatter of artillery fire rains down on the Minnow’s upper decks. I roll away from the open doors, pressing myself against the wall by the hatch. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the flash of hundreds of brass casings pouring into the sea.

The Splinters’ barrels light up, crosscutting the Minnow’s fire, and the copters’ engines shriek as they drop back. Their formation changes—they spread out around us, two of them shifting their fire to chase the Splinters, but Varma’s a step ahead of them. He disappears around the prow of the ship.

Is he using us as cover? I wonder.