Fleet of Knives (Embers of War, #2)

by Gareth L. Powell

As an engine of war, I hadn’t been designed to ponder mortality—only enforce it.

“I’m a warship, Captain. I don’t do ‘less blunt’.” She arranged her face into a defiant pout. “Now, can you please put my cube back down?”

The Trouble Dog thought about this. “You humans are strange,” she said.

“If you’re going to punch a hole in the universe,” she said while fiddling with her pearls, “you might as well do it looking fabulous.”

The seats were still wrapped in protective plastic film, and the cockpit had that new shuttle smell.

I was proud to be the captain of this incredible machine, proud to call her my friend and sister, and prouder still she’d had the strength and determination to renounce the role for which she’d been designed. Starlight glittered on her hull. She was a creature of vacuum, perfectly at home in the lethal emptiness of open space.

Fuck that.

Thought first rule of space combat was not to crash into other ships. Basic common sense. Day one of training.

Intractable Mutt.

“From where I’m standing, it feels pretty fucking personal.”