I stretch my arms up toward the sky, where the first faint lights of the stars are starting to peek through the hazy cloud layer that’s settled over us, and remind myself of what’s important. I have to survive. Bao has to survive. And, after what happened today, I think it’d be kind of nice if Swift survived this mess too.

My clothes are drenched, and the chill of the night is settling in. I leap off Bao’s head and plunge back into the water, swimming to the trainer deck in a few quick strokes. The Reckoner turns tail as soon as I’m clear and submerges, his dark form plunging deeper and deeper below us. If he were still a pup, I’d be worried, but Bao’s fully bonded now, and he always comes when I call. I haul myself up onto the trainer deck and drag the LED beacon back to its usual resting place.

My eyes fall on the syringe of cull serum. Santa Elena had this on the ship the whole time. Only IGEOC agents are supposed to have this stuff, and somehow it ended up on the Minnow. And Code stole it. He knew what it was, what it was for.

And there’s something more, something I noticed that’s itching at the back of my mind. Swift knew what it was too.

I pick up the syringe and pitch it out into the inky November sea. One more mystery to unravel later.

I need dry clothes, so I lock the trainer deck’s hatch behind me and make my way to Swift’s room. She still isn’t back yet, and for a moment I worry that Code overpowered her before she could get him up to the captain’s quarters. I’ve got to start having more faith in her if I’m ever going to pay her back for saving me. I pull open her hatch—unlocked, like she always leaves it when she’s not there—and step in.

Swift’s room is starting to smell like home. There’s always that scent—the one that sticks in your memory but doesn’t really surface until you find it again and all of a sudden it’s crashing over you like a wave. I guess I’ve collected a lot of these scents over the years: the sickly sweet smell of amniotic fluid from Mom’s lab; the rough, earthy tones of a Reckoner’s hide; and now this, the sort-of-musty, sort-of-woody odor that characterizes the little nest Swift’s carved for herself in the middle of a den of pirates.