Fleet of Knives (Embers of War, #2)

by Gareth L. Powell

Lying there, in the shadow of the ruined wall, I stared into the sky and thought about George, about the war, and about the people we’d lost. About how life accumulates its hurts upon us the same way asteroids find themselves weathered and pocked by cold barrages of interplanetary dust.

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

“We’re all running from something, Sal.” She took a noisy sip. “People like you and me don’t belong anywhere. Wherever we are, we’ve always got one eye on the exit, one foot out the door.”

I frowned, still unconvinced. From the floor, tiny black eyes beseeched me. “Much work,” Mack squeaked plaintively. “Many fix.”

With the lights off, I had felt threatened by shadows, besieged by the primal fear of being unable to spot a lurking predator. When Lucy turned them on, I had hoped the brightness would make me feel better. Instead, I simply felt exposed and vulnerable—but I guess that’s to be expected when you’re being stalked around an alien derelict by carnivorous monsters. You’re not going to feel comfortable until you’re out of there, whatever the lighting situation.