Though the layout is nearly identical to Swift’s bunk, the room feels nothing like hers. For one thing, Code kept his laundry in a plastic sack instead of strewn about the floor. It’s organized and bright in here, an outward reflection of the guy who, up until about an hour ago, occupied this bunk. I lock the door behind me and start to poke around in the hidden nooks and crannies, breathing in the details of the navigation lackey, the little pieces that used to make up Code. His clothes are all stacked and folded neatly in the drawers. Maybe he was brought up in a civilized place, or maybe I’ve just gotten way too used to Swift’s laundry-related barbarism.

But he didn’t make his bed. The blankets are rumpled, the pillow askew, and I start to wonder if Santa Elena let him spend his last night in here. The thought seems ludicrous, but then I spot the long smear of blood trailing across the sheets, the painted marks of the stump left behind when the captain sliced off his index finger.

Code slept here right before he died.

I reach down and drag the blankets off the bed, tossing them in the corner of the room. Next come the sheets, which I strip off and let fall to the floor. My stomach twists every time I brush up against them, but I fight the revulsion and shove everything into the laundry bag. I’ll probably throw it off the back of the ship later, but for now I collapse on the bare, lumpy mattress, bury my head in my hands, and groan until the noise rattles my skull.

Swift and Santa Elena both told me today that I’m no better than them, and the worst part is I’m starting to believe it. I try to remember Dad’s lessons on the ethics of Reckoner upbringing, the years of scholarly debate that finally settled into wholehearted support of the industry. Reckoners aren’t meant to be aggressive creatures. They only become aggressive if triggered by an attack. It’s right there in the name. They’re the reckoning that comes crashing down on anyone who attacks their imprint ship, the retribution that deters attacks in the first place. No one in their right minds tangles with a Reckoner-escorted ship, and the seas have never been safer because of it.

But those arguments seem meaningless now.

Dad raised me to kill and justify. I’ve watched Reckoners destroy ships from afar. I’ve been standing behind the laser projectors, pointing them at targets that I never attached to faces. Maybe Swift’s right. Maybe I’ve lived a life of convenience. The world out here is cruel and brutal, and shoregirl thinking doesn’t account for shades of gray.

What did I become when I resolved to bear whatever the Minnow threw at me?