I recognize Code as the boy who spoke out when I wouldn’t. Chuck’s a heavyset Islander girl with what looks like engine grease patterning her bare arms. Lemon’s all skin and bones in contrast. She twitches when Code leans over her to swipe a slice of bread off Swift’s tray.

Swift catches his hand, and I notice the Minnow tattoo across his index finger. “Son of a bitch,” she growls. “I can’t even sit down for two seconds with you people.” She squeezes hard, and Code yelps while the rest of the table collapses into raucous laughter.

They’re a lot friendlier than I thought they’d be, and for a moment I catch myself hoping that their camaraderie will win out over their ambition. Swift’s relaxed around them—she still postures and pushes, but there’s a genuine spark in her eyes as she ribs at the other lackeys. Could it be that she actually trusts them? Only one of them can captain the ship someday, and these five are in the running for some reason or another. There’s something in each of them that Santa Elena finds valuable.

Which means there’s something in each of them that’s dangerous.

But it’s so hard to see them as a threat when they’re like this. They’re just a bunch of teenagers joking around, tossing food back and forth like they’re in a high school cafeteria instead of the galley of a pirate ship.

On the shore, we measure pirate lives in the percentages posted every time a Reckoner takes down a ship. Seventy-six percent dead. Forty-three percent dead. The gauge of a beast’s effectiveness. Durga died with an eighty-three percent average. Or something slightly less, since in her last fight she batted a solid zero. But on this ship, the monsters we created our Reckoners to fight against have faces and smiles and souls—and that makes them even worse.

And these five are the same age as me. I wonder where they all came from, what choices and circumstances drove them to a pirate ship. For most of them, I have no clue. There’s some sort of inside joke circulating the table about Chuck being a runaway princess, the daughter of an Islander millionaire, but there’s no way of confirming if it’s based on fact without inserting myself into the conversation. And if two Reckoners are interacting, you never get between them.

It isn’t until Chuck’s curious eye settles on me that I get dragged into the discussion. “Hey, pet project, where you from?” she asks, and Swift shifts uncomfortably, her spine rigid.

“The Southern Republic of California,” I say after a moment’s pause.

“Proper SRCese shoregirl,” Swift sniffs.