We’re loading shells into the gun. I’m to toss the shells to him from the box they come in and he’ll put them in and shoot the gun. He jams two lumps of wax in his ears and hands me a pair—I do the same. There’s some business with a lever and a kind of trolley-cart that carries the shells over to him and I have to pull them down by hand from the cart, keep the next cart ready etc. The guns are loaded, and he springs up on the X his legs spreadeagled standing on the guns, back bent, aiming somehow. The barrel ends protrude from the deck, but we can’t see anything outside the hold—a targetter has to direct the fire from above. Thrushchurl is up there, not looking especially alarmed, staring through the site, and Silichieh is breathing with his whole body, his thick arms hold him in place over his head as the boat rocks. Another stiff one and the ship groans loudly, feels like it’s listing back.

Thrushchurl sings something and Silichieh instantly yanks a lever firing the first gun—the crash deafens me my ears ringing. He is whirling wheels and adjusting his aim frantically, his face drawn, grinning, his movements electric—the second gun fires, then the third—I am clutching my ears—but I remember to ready the next shells. He fires all four guns, then reloads all like lightning and pulls the one trigger that will set them all off at once, the chamber dips—like a demon Silichieh is laughing reloading and firing all four guns at once again and again, standing right in the crossing of the X as they go off and shunting back with them as they fire.

*

... He’s sitting with his legs out, his belly rolling in and out, his eyes staring, his back to the greasy base of the smouldering guns. I stagger out, shaking my head. There’s cavorting on deck. Feet dance among motionless human forms. The enemy ship is a clot of flames and smoke. I’m splashed with brine as I pass the men dumping buckets to cool the Bremml guns. Numbly I respond as I am waved over to help an eviscerated man who dies under my hands. His eyes are white as snow, in a face the color of grey felt. A few other injuries to see to. I can hear again, mostly. Overhead our stepping grasshopper legs are still unscathed, and lunge and soar driving us forward at our top speed. Saskia is gripping the wheel, her face ashen, her mouth tight, confronting Makemin who lours down at her. She steps toward him raising her fist and he seizes her under the arms and shakes her so hard her helmet flies off.

“We can’t fight them all! at! once!” he roars.