If Bastian was being honest with himself, this pale girl with the blue hair made him extremely uncomfortable. Being near her was like standing too close to a bonfire. There was a ball of barely contained rage burning in her chest that leaped out and scorched anyone who came within range. From the looks of her wounds, he suspected she had already sustained the kind of damage that would have left anyone else on the floor, but her attack on the guard had come with such shocking ferocity. There was no sense of weakness or hesitation in the moment she struck. It was as if there was a well of violence inside her that lifted her up and drove her beyond the limits of her body. Now the fight was over though, she seemed half dead. Her face was ashen, like she'd dragged herself up from the depths of hell, and her clothes were coated with blood and grime. From time to time she swayed unsteadily and looked like she was going to pass out.  

'We can help each other,' he told the girl seriously. 'We won't slow you down. We can hold our own.' 

A grey haired woman next to him nodded. 'You're not the only one that's been tortured here,' she said. 

'How many of you have combat experience?' asked the girl. 

Bastian and a few others tentatively raised their hands. 

'I used the forward reconnaissance unarmed style when I was a transporter, but it was a long time ago,' Bastian admitted. 

'I've done some work as a protector,' said the woman beside him shortly. 

The girl shrugged dismissively. 

Bastian found himself feeling mildly offended. In one movement she had assessed them all and dismissed them as nothing. He felt the tiny needle like pricks on his skin as his spines emerged with his irritation. He'd never quite got the hang of separating their appearance from his emotions. 

'It makes sense for us to ally ourselves,' he said. 'Why did you let us out if you didn't want the help?' 

'I said you can do whatever the hell you want!' the girl swayed and placed a hand on the wall to steady herself. 

'You talk big for someone who can barely stand.' 

'Worry about your own problems.' 

Bastian turned to the other prisoners. 

'This is going to be dangerous,' he told them. 'I don't know how many enemies we have on this ship, but I'll bet there are more of them than there are of us. Anyone who doesn't want to take their chances should go back to their cell.' 

He saw some worried looks as some of the other prisoners wavered. One threw a glance back at his cell. 

'You can go back to your cell and wait for them to come and kill you,' said the woman with grey hair derisively. 'But I'm going to fight. We're not unarmed; we have our crafts.' 

The prisoners stood up a little straighter, and Bastian shot her a look of gratitude. 

'Okay,' he said. 'We need to come up with a plan to make sure we keep them running to catch up.' 

'Shock tactics,' said the girl with blue hair. 

Bastian turned and looked back at her in surprise. He hadn't thought that she was even listening. She had her back to the wall and her eyes closed. The hand strapped to her sword dangled limply at her side like a broken toy. 

'You're useless to me if you all die within the first ten seconds,' she said. 'You don't stand a chance in a head on fight. Your only option is to hit your enemy's weak spots and disappear before they have a chance to retaliate.' 

'That's a nice idea on paper, but how are we supposed to do that exactly,' said the woman with grey hair. 

The girl straightened. Bastian wasn't sure if she was feeling better, or had simply used sheer force of will to steady herself. She looked past him to the woman. 

'What's your name, protector?' 

'Carver.' 

'Take some people and hit the engine room, Carver. Destroy anything that's supplying power to the ship and kill anyone you meet.' 

Carver nodded. 

The girl pointed her sword at Bastian. 

'You,' she said. 

'Bastian.' 

'Whatever. You're coming with me to hit the people driving this heap.' 

'Have you got a name?' said Carver. 

'You can call me Regan.' 

Bastian smiled. Perhaps she was looking for allies after all. 

Regan gave him a direct look when she saw his smile. 'It's just my name. There's no need to throw a damn parade.'

***

Trevellian knew something was wrong the instant he saw the guard sergeant approaching him down the corridor. He looked like a surgeon about to inform an anxious relative that he'd done all he could. 

'Sir, all of the cells in the aft section are open, and I found Herrick and Quinn. They're both dead.' 

Trevellian rubbed his eyes. 'I gave explicit instructions that no one should engage Regan alone. I distinctly remember my lips moving and everything.' 

'They were good kids.' 

'But terrible at following instructions.' 

The sergeant glared at him but said nothing. 

'Where are all the prisoners now?' Trevellian asked. 

'She must have taken them up to the upper levels.' 

'We need to put the whole ship on lock down,' said Trevellian. 'Trip the general alarm and get everyone into the vaults.' 

'Sir, that's...' 

'I would strongly advise you to leave that sentence unfinished, you horrible little man,' said Trevellian brightly. 'Because, if you disobey me again, I'm going to smear the walls with your intestines.' 

The guard sergeant saluted and performed a textbook about face. Trevellian found himself hoping that the man would do something to give him a reason to carry out his threat, but he remained disappointingly obedient. 

Trevellian left the guards to regroup and made his way quickly to the upper decks. Alarms started to sound across the ship as he ran. Stressed sailors and researchers with confusion plastered across their faces rushed through the corridors to cram into the storage vaults on each level. Trevellian pushed through the flow of people like a salmon swimming upstream. He silently cursed Regan. It was a clever move to open the holding cells. 

By the time he reached the crisis room on the upper deck, Seline and Kessler were already there. There was a large meeting table in the centre of the room and a screen on the back wall displaying a schematic of the ship. The lower decks were all flashing red. 

'We seem to have been placed in rather a difficult position, my dear.' said Seline. 

'Regan slipped through the cordon and released some of the other prisoners.' 

Kessler rolled her eyes. 'Yet another display of your awe inspiring competence.' 

'I don't recall asking for your opinion, silencer.' Trevellian snapped. 

'Maybe you should have.' 

Trevellian found himself reaching for one of the knives sheathed in his coat. 

'Children, children,' Seline held up her hands. 'Perhaps we might address the situation at hand before we dissect the cause?' 

A guard appeared out of breath at the door. 'Sir, twelve escaped prisoners have reached the engine room. They're trying to sabotage our power generator. We've tried to neutralise them, but they're in there good and tight.' 

'She's trying to get them to kill the lights,' Kessler smiled. 'Clever girl.' 

'How many of the prisoners have you killed?' asked Trevellian. 

'I'm not sure, sir, perhaps three or four.' 

Trevellian sighed. 'And now their crafts have died with them. Oh well, I suppose it can't be helped. Where are the other thirteen prisoners?' 

'I don't know, sir.'