"You untethered," the little girl said. "You went in without a tank. You fought a long-neck inside its stomach."
Gin winced a little. "So you heard."
Tamsin folded her arms. "Don't do that again."
He looked at her shiny, furious eyes and softened. "I'll try not to."
That seemed to take some of the force out of her anger, though not much. She thrust the pouch at him anyway.
Gin caught it and opened it carefully.
Inside were a few dull pieces of copper—twisted fittings, a palm-sized plate, not much compared to the load she'd been carrying when he first saw her.
"I thought you lost all of it," he said.
"I lost most of it," Tamsin muttered. She looked away, embarrassed for maybe half a second, then lifted her chin again. "I grabbed what I could. Part of it is yours."
Gin looked from the metal to her face.
"You don't owe me for that," he said. "You made it out. That's enough."
Her expression hardened in that stubborn, familiar way.
"A Rell repays a debt," she said.
Something tightened in his chest at that.
He closed his hand around the copper. It wasn't much, but it had weight to it. Effort. Intention.
"Then I'll take it," he said quietly. "Thank you, Tamsin Rell."
She gave one short nod, sharp and satisfied, like a matter had been settled properly.
Then she turned and jabbed a finger into Jakk's side.
"And you," she said. "You were supposed to be there before he jumped in."
Jakk barely reacted. "I got there."
"Late."
"He was just too fast."
"That sounds like an excuse."
Jakk looked down at her. "It is."
She made an aggravated sound through her nose. "Next time, don't make the sinkers clean up after you."
Then she spun and stomped off, boots squeaking against the metal floor.
The room was quiet after she left.
Gin watched the doorway for a second, then glanced at Jakk. "She likes you."
Jakk looked at him. "She yelled at you first."
Gin smiled despite himself.
For the first time since leaving Hull-9—since the trench, since the island had started following him into sleep—he felt something settle in him.
Not praise, exactly.
Something stranger than that.
Recognition.
Not for what he could carry, or endure, or fix. Not because he was useful. Just because he had done something, and someone had seen it.
It felt better than he wanted to admit.
He tucked the pouch into his jacket with more care than the scrap was worth.
"Get some rest," Jakk said, stepping back. "Medic says you can leave once you stop looking like your legs belong to someone else. Captain wants a word before you disappear. About rules."
Gin let out a tired breath. "That sounds promising."
"Try not to make it worse."
"No guarantees."
By the time Gin stepped off the salvage boat and onto Khelt's dock again, his leg was aching, his ribs still complained when he moved wrong, and his Rimark chips were heavier with salvage pay and hazard bonus.
His bones still hummed with the shark he'd eaten.
For once, the rest of him felt full too.
By evening, the entertainment ring had come back to life. Dim lights. Salt in the air. Smoke. Cheap music trying its best against the noise of voices and metal and drink.
Gin ducked into the same bar where he'd first found Jakk collapsed across half the room like discarded cargo.
He stopped just inside.
No Jakk.
The place felt off without him. Too open in one corner. Wrong in a way Gin hadn't expected to notice.
The barman slammed down a mug in front of someone, wiped his hands, and looked over.
"You looking for the big one?" he called.
Gin made his way between stools. "Tall, unfriendly, smells like bad fuel and poor decisions?"
The barman snorted. "That narrows it less than you'd think. But yes. He was here."
"Was?"
"He came in after that stunt with the shark looking like something had gotten under his skin." The barman shook his head. "Didn't say much. Didn't ask for a drink."
Gin stopped. "Didn't ask for a drink?"
"That's when I thought he might be dying."
Gin frowned.
The barman leaned one forearm on the counter. "Then he asked where the fishing boat was."
Gin looked toward the door again.
He knew the word by now. Fishing, on Khelt, had very little to do with fish. It meant fast boats and beast-hunters. Going after things in the water before they took a bite out of the Hull—or bringing back monsters they could strip for parts.
"He took a hunt?" Gin asked.
The barman nodded once. "On purpose. Sober, too, near enough. Didn't even finish the water I gave him."
That made Gin blink.
"In all the time I've known him," the barman went on, "I've never seen that man head for a shift like he actually wanted to be there."
He jerked his chin toward the side dock.
"If you move now, you might catch him."
Gin was already turning.
The smaller beast-hunter skiffs sat apart from the main salvage berths, lean and narrow in the falling light, all sharp lines next to the heavier bulk of the Hull.
He spotted Jakk right away.
Jakk was bent over a compact boat, checking lines and testing the mount on a deck-fixed Pike-Cannon. Everything about him was brisk, efficient, locked in.
An open half-barrel sat nearby.
Gin felt oddly relieved. There is the Jakk I know, he thought.
"There you are," he called as he came down the dock.
Jakk looked up in the middle of a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Working," he said.
Gin glanced at the barrel. "Clearly."
Jakk followed his look. "Brinefurnace burns ethanol. Hydrarchy doesn't hand out any booze. So I source my own."
Gin nodded solemnly. "A practical system."
Jakk made a noise that might have been annoyance and went back to securing the barrel into its bracket.
Gin stepped onto the deck.
Jakk turned immediately. "No."
Gin kept going until he was fully aboard. "I wasn't asking."
"This isn't a tour."
"I know."
"It's a hunt."
Gin shrugged. "I know that too."
Jakk straightened slowly, already looking tired of him. "Then get off the boat."
Gin rested a hand on the rail. "I helped with the shark. I want to see how real professionals take on those beasts."
"No."
Gin tilted his head. "You always this welcoming?"
"Yes."
That almost got a laugh out of him.
He looked around the skiff, then back at Jakk. "I won't get in the way."
"You will."
"Just a little."
Jakk stared at him.
His expression didn't soften, but it shifted.
Only slightly.
"Bad idea," he said at last.
Gin nodded. "Most things worth doing seem to start that way."