There were other minor injuries amidst the human crew, but they had been lucky—Ambel counted heads—that none of them had gone over the side. Now he looked up and wondered if Galegrabber had survived while grabbing this particular gale, for the sail was now nowhere in sight.

‘Any sign?’ he called up to Boris, who was surveying die surrounding ocean through binoculars.

‘Not of the sails,’ Boris replied. ‘But the Moby is still afloat. They must have got their cables off the sargassum in time.’

Ambel nodded, turning to the rest of the crew, who were now mostly wandering around the deck in a daze. Their reaction was understandable—none having ever experienced weather quite that heavy, nor needed to cling onto a deck that was pitched near vertical. But this disorientation of theirs had gone on long enough.

‘All right, lads!’ he bellowed. ‘You three—Pillow, Davy-bronte and Sprout—I want the pumps up on deck and working right now. The rest of you, get down below and sort out the mess. Get everything that needs drying out up here hung on lines. Peck, I want you down below checking the racks and cogs. If Galegrabber comes back any time soon, I want everything ready and working. Take some hands with you, if you need them. Anne, I want a hull check, stem to stern—don’t miss a plank.’ They all stared at him, still a little bewildered. He clapped his hands together with sounds like gun shots, and began striding along the deck. ‘Come on, this isn’t a bloody holiday cruise! Move your arses!’ Crew members scrambled in every direction, but some still hadn’t realized he meant what he said. ‘Pillow, what are you gaping at! I see no pumps up here!’

‘But, Captain—’

Ambel picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him towards the nearest open hatch. Pillow hit the edge, then tumbled down inside, letting out a yell as he hit the deck below.

‘Any more questions?’ Ambel demanded.

There were none.

Over the ensuing hours, his crew pumped hundreds of gallons of sea water out of the bowels of the ship. Lines tied between the masts were loaded with soaked clothing and bedding. All this occurred to the sound of Anne’s tap-tapping as she checked the hull’s planking, and the constant clanging and occasional ‘Buggering buggered up bugger’ as Peck set about replacing one of the mast cogs which had sheared off all its teeth. Most tasks were completed by the time evening began to descend, and Boris set about lighting the recently replaced lanterns all around the deck. Ambel, who had just applied his Captain’s strength to the task of removing a stubborn cog from its shaft, came out on deck to see the Moby heading towards them, towed by its ship’s boat, which was rowed by Drum alone.

When the other Captain came within hailing distance, he called out, ‘I’ll be coming along with you!’

‘Why’s that?’ Ambel asked.

‘Out that way, the way you’re heading.’ He pointed. ‘Sprage tells me that’s where the spaceship is. Probably in the Lamarck Trench.’

‘Spaceship?’

‘Vrell’s—that bastard Prador.’

‘I see,’ said Ambel. ‘It caused this?’

‘Nope, seems the other spaceship did that,’ Drum replied.

‘Uh?’ was Ambel’s response.

Drum explained what he had learnt from Sprage about Vrell, and about the new spaceship above them, and what it had already done and might yet do. Even more so now, Ambel wanted to get to Erlin. He was grateful when, in the morning, a bedraggled Galegrabber and the Moby’s sail returned, with muttered curses, to occupy their masts.

It took Janer a moment to recognize the vicious drumming sound. Clutching a glass of a more refined version of seacane rum than he was accustomed to, he stepped out of the bar area recently opened on the first level of the stern deckhouse. Glancing to one side, he noted some of Bloc’s Kladites—probably set to watch those frequenting the bar—now peering over the side. He moved to the rail to take a look himself, then halted. There was something sitting on the rail.

It looked like a partially plucked crow that someone had nailed in place because it had been dead for a week or more. Then it turned its head and regarded him with pink, blind-looking eyes, before honking loudly and winging raggedly away. It left behind it the stink of decay.

‘Lung bird,’ explained Ron, stepping up beside him.

‘I know what it was,’ Janer muttered.

‘We’ll have to get off here soon, before things get too hectic,’ Ron added.

‘Hectic?’ Janer queried. ‘Because of lung birds?’

Ron led the way to the rail and pointed a thumb downwards. ‘No… them.’

Janer peered over the side to see one of the hull laser turrets swinging back into its hold position. Pieces of some pink anguine form thrashed, still steaming, in the sea, then a shoal of leeches dragged them down. Janer squinted, puzzled, sure that he had seen a limb amongst those remains, yet the swarming creatures were rhinoworms, which were limbless. Further along, he saw another laser turret fire, then distantly he heard one from the other side of the ship.

Ron pointed out towards the lily-like plants all around the ship. ‘Breeding area, that. There’ll be thousands of the leggy buggers.’ He took his comlink from his pocket and spoke into it. ‘How we doin’ there, John?’

From the link a tired voice replied, ‘I will get it, but I can’t give you any estimate on the time. The programming is rather convoluted.’

‘Okay, keep at it.’

Ron put the link away, then seeing Janer’s querying expression said, ‘Bloc is behaving very strangely and being stupidly uncooperative. He’s refused to give us access to the ship’s computer systems, even though that’ll get us out of this mess. Maybe he’s frightened to hand over any further control.’

‘And why would access to the ship’s computer systems help?’ asked Isis Wade, who had just joined them.

It had been Wade who had kicked in the door and suggested rather loudly that here were facilities it seemed a shame not to use. He also served the first drinks, before starting up a metalskin barman that had been stored under the bar. The place had become a regular watering hole for Hoopers just coming off-shift from clearing up the mess below—there had been little damage to the hull itself, much to Captain Ron’s surprise.

Ron glanced at the Golem. ‘As you know, there’s more to this ship than Windcheater would be happy about. Now, that John Styx is a clever one, knows more coms coding and programming than probably even you, Wade. He used to do that stuff on Klader before the Polity AIs got there, and before he fell off a mountain… So he tells me.’

‘And the relevance?’ Wade asked.

Ron gestured down the entire length of the Sable Keech. ‘Only the front half is grounded on the bottom. Once Styx cracks Bloc’s codes, we should be able to start the engines in reverse, and maybe that’ll pull us back into deep water.’

‘Engines,’ said Janer, nodding. Other Hoopers had already speculated that might be what was concealed under the enormous sealed housing forward of the rudder hydraulics. ‘What sort of engines?’

‘The usual kind—does it matter?’ Ron then downed a large slug of rum before heading back into the bar.

Isis Wade followed the Captain, but Janer stayed observing the two organic sails, Huff and Puff, winging out over the sea. He watched them for a moment, then gazed up ahead into the rigging. All the fabric sails were reefed and everything above appeared skeletal. The Golem sail, Zephyr, stood motionless like some folded piece of iron equipment affixed on a spar. Janer patted his hand against the gun concealed under his jacket, and considered the dangerous game Isis Wade was playing. Should he allow it to continue? He lowered his hand; any intervention might be provocative in the present uneasy circumstances. Better instead to wait and watch. He returned his attention to the sea, and watched Puff scoop up a great spaghetti tangle of writhing pink shapes. Then he glanced down again and saw a man-length rhinoworm, with thin newt-like limbs, attempt to climb the hull, before being lasered into smoking segments. He supposed he should not be surprised that this world had yet to reveal to him all its teeth.