With any trim at all—Aminata pardoned herself, a shitty childhood habit, by trim she of course meant luck—she would seem to rescue Abdumasi Abd from the brute.

Down below Gerewho heard her footsteps, and knelt by Abd’s tear-stained face to deliver his final threat of mutilation.

He never got the chance.

Abd said something to his torturer. Aminata saw his lips purse and his throat move.

Gerewho flinched back in shock.

She couldn’t see past his iron fullmask, but he dropped the cane rod and fell onto his ass to scramble away from Abd. Aminata blinked and played with the focus. What just happened? Had Abdumasi Abd been holding a centipede in his mouth?

Lieutenant Faroni burst into the cell. “Midshipman Gerewho!” she roared. “What in the name of fuck is going on here? King’s shriveled balls! What have you done to my prisoner? Let him down now and report to the Commander of the Brig! And send me an apothecary, this man needs ointments!”

The moment was lost, except in Aminata’s gut. She felt like she’d pounded bad tequila, a sick curiosity. What did the words mean? What did Abd know?

“Mister Abd,” Faroni said, with fervent concern, “I’m your advocate, I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed. What the fuck is this contraption?”

Innocently she pulled the Lever in the cell wall. Aminata kicked a footswitch to grant the Lever’s request, and a pellet of opiate gum rolled down into Faroni’s hands.

“Ah,” Faroni said, “opiate, good, this should help with the pain. Here—”

“Please help me!”

Abdumasi Abd clawed at Faroni’s uniform jacket, trying to burrow inside. In pitiful scratchy Seti-Caho he mewled, “Kindalana, help me be strong!”

Kindalana. Hm. Aminata noted the name down for follow-up.

“I can’t tell them,” Abd gasped, “Kindalana, please, I can’t tell them!”

“Hush, hush, shhh.” Faroni stroked his bushy hair. Gently she pushed the opiate gum past his teeth. “Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.” And condition him to associate Faroni’s appearance with pleasure.

Gerewho came stomping in, ripped his mask and pig-blood–stained apron off, and fell gasping onto the ready bench. Aminata bounced an eyebrow at him—hey, remember you’re a sailor?—and he snapped a salute. “Midshipman Gerewho, reporting for debriefing, mam!”

“What did he say to you?”

“Noises.” Gerewho shoved the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and pressed away the sight of Abdumasi Abd’s skeletal screaming face. “He just made these noises and they, mam, they frightened me.”

“What noises?”

“Yammer ah oo teen? Ya loot ian? Something like that.”

“You responded sharply, Midshipman.”

“I know. I can’t explain it.” Gerewho’s shoulders bunched. “Perhaps it’s taint, mam. He triggered some sort of racial memory.”