On the back wall, a knot of cabin boys and girls takes me in with wide eyes. None of them look older than thirteen, and Santa Elena’s boy is among them. I can’t tell which is the bigger spectacle for these kids: the monster pup, or the shoregirl dragged aboard to hatch it.

A pit of dread builds in my stomach. The pup’s in its purse, which keeps it in stasis. It’s safe and warm, fed by the rich fluids that cradle it. The second it’s exposed to the outside world, it needs constant care and attention. We usually have a rotating staff when the pups hatch back home—a night shift, an early day shift, and a late day shift. Twenty-four hour supervision.

With my life tied to this baby monster, I can’t afford to do any less than that.

“I’ve collected the tools you need,” Santa Elena says as we draw near. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a track jacket, her hair bound back in a ponytail, a far cry from the elegant woman who lounged in the throne room last night.

For a second, I hold the captain’s gaze, and I’m sure she sees the questions in my eyes: How do you know what we need? How did you get this equipment? How did you get this pup?

But she only smirks. “Your knife is there. Turn it on any of my crew and I’ll have lead in your skull faster than you can blink.”

She gestures to a bank of instruments spread out on a workbench. Whatever her source, she’s clearly done her research. There are tubes and bellows for clearing the baby’s airways, towels for wiping it down, an adhesive thermometer to monitor its temperature. And then there’s the blade,
gut-hooked and wicked looking, designed to carve the leathery skin that forms the sac.

I take it in my hand, testing its weight. I’ve only ever been the one holding the knife once, a year ago. I remember what Mom said to me as she hovered over my shoulder, ready to swoop in the instant my wrist twisted the wrong way. “Make the cut along the lower edge of the purse,” she told me. “Let the fluid drain before the pup does.”

But we had Tom with us, holding up the other end of the purse while Mom guided me through the work, and technicians on the sides, ready to swoop in with the care the pup needed. I need more hands than I have here, but no one’s stepping up to help. Swift’s fallen back to the captain’s side, and none of her crew look interested in anything but watching me struggle.