In the docks and warehouses of Old Hackney Captain Anastasia had heard every race abused and sexual practice accused and deity offended, but even she looked up at Sen’s outburst. Sen sucked the burn on her forearm. ‘Dorcas, if you covered up a bit more,’ Captain Anastasia suggested. Sen scowled and pushed her goggles up on to her head. Her face was greasy and smudged with smoke. Her hair smelled of burned insulation. The two women were at work on the power linkage to number-two impeller. It was cramped, intricate, high-voltage work. It involved power tools and welding guns. Sen usually loved working on the ship, wielding electrical tools like Sharkey his shotguns – with bravado and serious purpose – but today the work felt like emergency surgery on a sick and dying creature. The ship had been wounded again and again and could never be whole again: number-three impeller was gone. Lost. The impeller, and the ship’s weighmaster and planesrunner. Sharkey and Everett. Sen did not like to stop too long to think about Sharkey and Everett, or the great wound to the ship, like a missing foot.
