The text of a simple mayday broadcast flowed across the virtual screen. It gave the ship's model number, serial number, latitude and longitude—if I remembered the map of Stateless correctly, we were closer to the island than I'd thought—and stated that "survivors" were located in the "main cargo hold." I suddenly had a strong suspicion that if we'd bothered to search the rest of the hold, we might have found another panel, hiding two fist-sized red buttons labeled BEACON and FLARES—but I didn't want to think about that.
Somewhere up on deck, a siren started screaming. Kuwale was dismayed. "What did you do? Trigger a fire alarm?"
"I broadcast a mayday. I thought flares might get us into trouble." I closed the panel and started rebuttoning my bloody shirt, as if hiding the evidence might help.
I heard someone heavy running across the deck. A few seconds later, the siren shut off. Then the hatch was wound halfway open, and Three peered down at us. He was holding a gun, almost absent mindedly. "What good do you think that's going to do you? We're sending out the false-alarm code already; no one's going to take any notice." He seemed more bemused than angry. "All you have to do is sit tight and stop fucking about, and you'll be free soon enough. So how about some cooperation?"
He unfurled the ladder and came down, alone. I stared up at the strip of pale dawn sky behind him; I could see a fading satellite, but I had no way to reach it. Three picked up two pieces of discarded rope and tossed them at us. "Sit down and tie your feet together. Do it properly and you might get breakfast." He yawned widely, then turned and yelled, "Giorgio! Anna! Give me a hand!"
Kuwale rushed him, faster than I'd seen anyone move in my life. Three raised the gun and shot ver in the thigh. Kuwale staggered, pirouetting, still moving forward. Three kept the gun aimed squarely on ver, as vis knees buckled and vis head sagged. As the shot's reverb faded from my skull, I could hear ver gasping for breath.
I stood and shouted abuse at him, barely conscious of what I was saying. I'd lost it: I wanted to take the hold, the ship, the ocean, and wipe them all away like cobwebs. I stepped forward, waving my arms wildly, screaming obscenities. Three glanced at me, perplexed, as if he couldn't imagine what all the fuss was about. I took another step, and he aimed the gun at me.
Kuwale sprang forward and knocked him off his feet. Before he could rise, ve leapt on him and pinned his arms, slamming his right hand against the floor. I was paralyzed for a second, convinced that the struggle was futile, but then I ran to help.
Three must have looked like an indulgent father playing with two belligerent five-year-olds. I tugged at the gun barrel protruding from his huge fist; the weapon might as well have been set in stone. He seemed ready to climb to his feet as soon as he caught his breath, with or without Kuwale's slender frame attached.
I kicked him in the head. He protested, outraged. I attacked the same spot repeatedly, fighting down my revulsion. The skin above his eye split open; I ground my heel hard into the wound, crouching down and pulling on the gun. He cried out in pain and let it slip free—and then half sat up, throwing Kuwale to one side. I fired the gun into the floor behind me, hoping to discourage him from making me use it. Another shot rang out, above. I looked up. Nineteen—Anna?—was lying on her stomach at the edge of the hold.
I aimed the gun at Three, stepping back a few paces. He stared at me, bloodied and angry—but still curious, trying to fathom my senseless actions.
"You want it, don't you? The unraveling. You want Mosala to take the world apart." He laughed and shook his head. "You're too late."
Anna called out, "There's no need for any of this. Please. Put the gun down, and you'll be back on Stateless in an hour. No one wants to harm you."
I shouted back, "Bring me a working notepad.
Anna crawled back from the edge; I heard a murmur of angry low voices as she consulted with the others.
Kuwale limped over to me. Vis wound was bleeding steadily; the bullet had clearly missed the femoral artery, but vis breathing was ragged, ve needed help. Ve said, "They're not going to do it. They'll just keep stalling. Put yourself in their place—"
Three said calmly, "Ve's right. Whatever value anyone puts on my life… if Mosala becomes the Keystone, we all die anyway. If you're trying to save her, you've got nothing to trade—because whatever you threaten, it's forfeit either way."
