Fathom by Cherie Priest

and make sure we are unaccompanied.”
    “You check ’em,” she said, her back turned away from him. She’d found a box on a counter and she was distracted. She flipped the lid open, and it chimed that eerie tune he’d heard on the decks above. She shut the lid and it stopped.
    As far as José could tell, there was nothing inside it.
    “Can’t you—?”
    “I thought you weren’t going to order me around.”
    “I’m not,” he insisted. “But if you’d prefer to put your little play box away and trade it for something much more valuable, then you should cooperate with me.”
    The words were hard for him. They were strange when he lined them up and put them before her, because he was not accustomed toasking. He was the captain, and he shouldn’t have to ask for anything. He ought to tell her what to do, and she ought to do it.
    But Arahab had warned him, and he was cautious.
    It was easy to believe that this was a new breed of woman, different from the kind he’d known and commanded half a dozen lifetimes before. It was easy to believe that something fundamental had shifted; but José knew better. Women don’t change. Men don’t change. Only the trappings of their interactions look different.
    Until he could learn the boundaries and specifics of those trappings, he made a point of being gentle and conciliatory. He thought it would be better to study the rules and commit them to heart before making demands and giving orders. She was only a woman, after all, and he was a man and her captain. The authority was his to wield or leash.
    Besides.
    He found her crassness and stubbornness charming, or so he told himself. In the back of his mind, he could imagine her in the fuller, dirtier clothes she would’ve worn in another time. He closed his eyes and he saw her on the deck of a ship less cheerfully decorated, in a distant century. He was seized by the impulse to find her a costume, even something ridiculous, even something inappropriate and incorrect. His mind could fill in the blanks and erase the imperfections.
    When he opened his eyes again, she was still toying with the music box.
    He hated the little song it burbled. He reached for it, intending to take it away from her and smash it; but he changed his mind and left her there to play.
    After all, she was only a child.
    José wandered back through the narrow wood corridors that shone with polish like no pirate’s craft had ever seen. He passed a corpse or two but he didn’t pause, since he’d already admired her handiwork. Every day he came to know her better, and every dayshe reminded him that she was only a girl—and she was maddening, infuriating and spoiled.
    To give credit where credit was due, at least she did not expect José to do the spoiling. She was willing to take the things she wanted without his assistance, and maybe that was why he gave her such a long rope: not to make a noose, but to tether himself to her swiftly shifting form. She wanted it all, but was willing to take it for herself. He could respect that.
    It was difficult, though. She was sitting on a very fine line. On one side, he wanted to hate her. He wanted to tear her apart with his bare hands. On the other side, he wanted to worship her.
    He sloshed back and forth between his desire and disdain, clinging to her beauty as if it would anchor him somewhere sound.
    Up the stairs, and past the one that was slick and staining dark, José watched the corners and the shadows in case they were not yet alone.
    It was an idle sort of reconnaissance. No one was left, and the other partiers in their other boats had made enough noise to hide the assault.
    José wondered who brought the boat to anchor in the first place. No one he had seen looked sturdy enough to work a ship. Not the lady in the beaded dress, and not the faux piratical fellows in their preposterous garb—none of them looked capable of hoisting a sail or steering a rudder.
    He decided that it didn’t matter.
    He stepped onto