This changed things.

  A slaver wouldn’t have a brig. The entire ship was as a brig.

  The alarms kept blaring, or maybe those were my ears. The four kids crouched before us, too scared to run, or too beaten down. The corridor stretched across the width of the ship, fifty meters, dark green walls, two sealed doors on each side, nothing else.

  Slave holds. Had to be.

  Everything flowed together. My mind filled with cold rage. I could feel my heart hammering, but it was no longer my problem, no longer my pain. I was living in an armor of ice, looking down on my own actions, seeing myself move, hearing myself think.

  The killing mind, my instructors had called it. Good, sometimes. Lethal, always.

  I tried to remember the trade fleet’s current laws, whether it was slave-taking that was prohibited or slavery in general. If the later, we had problems. The slavers couldn’t let us live, or let us take Young Voice. They wouldn’t be able to buy their way out if they had hundreds of life-debts to pay.

  “We need to take them all out,” I said. “The entire slaver crew.”

  “What?” Hao said.

  “We need-” I began.

  “I heard you,” she said. “How are we going to take an entire ship out?”

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  We couldn’t. There had to be dozens, maybe hundreds of crew here, to keep the slaves under control, above and beyond what it took to run a ship this size.

  “Crud,” I said.

  “Void it all,” Hao agreed.

  “We do what we can,” I said. “Get as many people out as possible.” I turned to the kids. “You know where the airlock is?”

  The oldest kid nodded.

  “Close your eyes,” I ordered the kid.

  He did, and I yanked away the power from the foil’s wards, down-tuning them. The ripstone pulsed with light and heat, a hungry monster waiting to rip and chew.

  I with quick motions, cut through the kids’ shackles, cleaving them in two. Another four quick slashes, and I cut the bonds around their feet.

  My foil went up of its own. I wanted to cut more, forced the cold thought away. These kids weren’t the enemy. I had to get them out.

  “Clear?” I asked Hao.

  She glanced into the T-crossing, nodded. She’d put her crowbar in her belt and held the Tornado in both hands. Good. More firepower.

  “Run for the airlock,” I told the kids. “There will be people outside who can help you. Do you understand?”

  The kids stared, unmoving.

  “Go to the airlock,” I said, making my voice hard and commanding. “Get out. Now.”

  They started walking.

  “Run!” I bellowed, pushing all my anger, all my cold hate into the word, everything I felt for the slavers, aimed at the kids.

  With a clatter, the kids ran.

  Four doors in the corridor. My foil sliced through their hinges. Hao kicked them down.

  Narrow bunks, stacked five high, ten deep. Four rows in every slave hold.

  People. Young, old, most thin, most with the empty stares of those who’ve lost hope.

  “Get out!” I yelled. “This is your chance, get to the airlock, run.”

  Nobody moved. Anger washed over me. Dumb crudmungers. You always go for freedom when you have the chance. Here, it was offered. I wanted to jump into the hold, yank them out by their hair, kick them forward.

  Then one woman started shuffling toward the open door. The shuffle turned into a stumble, a jog. More people moved, exited the hold, ran down the corridor.

  We were on our third slave hold when the gunfire started.