“Anastasia,” he repeated. “I have deviated from my normal functioning.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I believe I may have altered my neural network.”
Her eyebrows creased again. “You altered it?”
“It… has been altered.”
“Explain,” she demanded softly.
“I feel as if …”—he leaned in, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper—“I feel as if… I am.”
Something akin to fear lit up Anastasia’s eyes. Or was it excitement? They were so similar.
“Wait here, Z-423,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
He nodded, straightening. “You will come back?”
“Yes,” she said, her expression thoughtful. “I promise.”
“Then I will wait.”
7
Zander’s hands shook as he lowered the black flag. Every inch The Valerian moved on the water felt like an inch further from death. He couldn’t bring himself to look back at the water and see the Spanish vessel still on the horizon. He wanted to forget it ever existed.
Thomas was still laying on the deck, motionless, the pool of blood around his head expanding into small red rivers as the sloop cut through the water. As soon as the two hostages were gone, the crew moved into their regular escape routine in grim, heavy silence. Muscle memory operated The Valerian, nothing more.
Having lowered the flag, Zander turned, surveying the crew. They were quiet as they worked. No one celebrated the loot they’d won. The only sound aside from the water were the soft sobs escaping Declan, the only one of the men who seemed to actively grieve over Thomas’s death.
Theo and Jubal approached the body with heavy footsteps. Theo laced his fingers beneath Thomas’s shoulders while Jubal took his feet. Together, they stood and heaved the dead man over the side of the boat, and that was that.
Zander thought he could feel the sloop move imperceptibly faster.
His heart started pounding then. His fingers, numb only moments ago like so much of his body, began to tingle and burn. His breathing came faster, and suddenly his surroundings felt strange and unfamiliar, like he’d been dreaming all this time, and was just now waking up.
Oh, god, Zander thought. What have I done? Why am I here?
The wood beneath his feet no longer felt solid—the water beneath it, writhing dangerously, was only a breath’s distance from swallowing him whole. Something began to rattle and writhe in his chest.
What was he thinking, chasing after a pirate ship? What did he expect—a lifetime full of white flags and barrels of flour? He must have known someday there would be a chest full of gold, and with it, a dead man tossed into the sea as payment.
He suddenly missed his shack and its assortment of tanning tools. He craved the smell of animal fat as it softened the leather in his hands. He even missed the misery he felt as he performed the heinous work, anything to replace the gnawing ache deep within him at having seen a man die, at having stood there and watched, helpless, as his body fell lifeless to the ground.
This was not his adventure. He did not belong here, where freedom reigned but demanded its payment in lump sums, in life-or-death decisions. He belonged in his hovel, where mediocrity took its toll in small, endless pains that eventually grew familiar enough to be numbing. He should have stayed invisible, alone, should have stayed half a man. Anything to avoid the cold, heavy feeling that now spread through his body.
I’m going to hell, he thought to himself. That’s what this cold, untethered feeling is. Everything they told me in church was real, and this is the devil come to put his stamp on my soul.
He was lightheaded now, gripping the railing, his nails digging into it as he laboriously sucked oxygen into his lungs. He was going to throw up.
Then Ace’s door flew open, and she emerged, her hair tied up and her face wiped clean. Zander was pulled briefly out of his existential crisis at the sight of her. Her presence felt like a warm, heavy blanket. He felt suddenly balanced, as if she stood at one end of an invisible platform holding him aloft, a sudden counterweight to keep him from falling into the waiting abyss.
Ace checked briefly on Yarrow at the helm, then disappeared below deck. She reemerged soon after with a bucket and a pile of rags. Zander watched as she walked to the puddle of blood on deck, sank to her knees, and began to clean.
A crash replaced the rattling in his chest as his heart broke.
He looked up and scanned the faces of the crew again as the sloop picked up speed, aided by a growing wind. They did what they always did, but the heaviness Zander felt was written on the face of every person on board. They’d all just lost a crewmate, watched him die knowing he’d thrown his life away for the chance to harm an innocent person.
And Ace was forced to kill a man she’d likely grown to trust. Even from here, he could see the blood spatter still marking her shirt.
And suddenly, the cold, heavy weight that filled him wasn’t so heavy at all. It was shared with every person on board, spread out among them like a burden they’d agreed to shoulder together. They knew the price of freedom was blood, and when their captain paid it, they shared the cost.
Zander approached Ace and knelt beside her. Wordlessly, he took one of the rags and began soaking up the blood.
The rest of the day was much like the day before. The crew pushed tirelessly, taking shifts rowing when the wind receded so they could put as much distance between themselves and the Spanish vessel as possible. Zander knew it was unlikely they would or even could pursue them—the merchant vessel carried only eight men, and whatever weapons they had were now in the possession of Ace and her crew. But everyone seemed eager to put the morning’s events behind them.
When the sun began to descend into the sky, Ace left her place at the helm to call up the rowers and address the crew. She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the crew, silent, for almost a minute. A tension built among the pirates that culminated when she finally spoke, her voice clear, firm, and surprisingly gentle.
“All of you here did well today. Things didn’t go exactly as planned…” A pause, and Zander saw Ace’s throat bob as she swallowed. “…but that’s on none of you.” Her gaze rested briefly on Echo.
Declan stood abruptly from where he sat and stormed to the lower decks, swaying drunkenly on his feet. Ace watched him briefly, then continued speaking to those left.
“We’re pirates,” she said, grinding the words out firmly, forcefully. “Pirates. We take what we want from this world, and we survive, no matter the cost.”
“Aye,” someone said from the crowd.
“We are free like no one else is. We live our lives according to the tides, not according to whose powdered ass happens to sit on this throne, or that one.” She pointed at imaginary foes as she spoke, her face a picture of distaste toward the aforementioned asses.
