The Glass Galago by A. M. Dellamonica

 
    The taxikite banked as it approached Constitution , wheeling in an arc that encompassed it and two other great ships of the Fleet of Nations. Temperance led the formation, sharkskin hull slick and seawet, decks staffed by sinewy, heavily-armed veterans. Her figurehead wore a necklace of blood pearls, over a hundred of them, one red bead for every vessel she had ever sunk.
    Breadbasket , to her starboard side, was three times larger but far less martial, clad in the greenery of her abovedeck park and towing a skirt of grain barges that bobbed in the sea as their crops ripened. Her masts were living trees, sheathed in sails of spidersilk. Aft, her serpentine tail rippled sinuously, providing a boost to propulsion as well as steerage.
    Behind the triad of lead ships were hundreds more. Sails of canvas, silk, woven reed, and even fur snapped in the wind; the seagoing city was making a leisurely crossing of the southern deeps, as it did every year, before hurricane season. Ferries darted between the big vessels. Kites circled above, wheeling raptors with fares their prey.
    Their kite bounced a little, the struts of its wings flexing as the driver caught a last gust of wind, gliding down to Constitution ‘s landing deck. He got the door open smartly, bowing to the young sailor seated beside Gale Feliachild.
    â€œCharge the Courier Service for the ride,” Gale said, giving the driver a government chit and nudging her first mate out of the taxi.
    â€œFair weather, Kir,” he said, answering as if Parrish had spoken. He pocketed the chit and, by way of a complicated manipulation of the kite’s ribs, rearranged its silky orange wings into a flaccid balloon. Throwing back his head, he breathed fire into the apparatus, inflating it. He would be aloft again in minutes.
    â€œBeen aboard her before, Mister Parrish?” Her first mate was having a look around Constitution , taking advantage of the height of the cab pad.
    â€œAt Graduation, yes.”
    Temperance had been built to terrify, Breadbasket to comfort and nurture. Constitution , meanwhile, was dressed in the formalities of governance: white rails, gleaming decks, smartly lettered signs, and a flag for every island nation represented by the Fleet Convene. The ship was steeped in quiet importance. Its lifeblood was information, borne by the uniformed messengers trotting everywhere.
    One young officer who’d been sprinting after their cab stopped short before them. Parrish drew attention wherever he went: he had a sensual beauty that brought stares from people of every age. But this woman wasn’t flirting. If anything, she seemed shocked.
    â€œFair morning, Septer Birch,” Parrish said.
    The woman pushed on, silent, her jaw set.
    â€œNot a friend, I take it?” Gale asked. Perhaps Parrish had broken her heart. He couldn’t be as pure as he seemed.
    â€œWe served together, before I was discharged from the Fleet.”
    â€œI’d meant to get that story from you by now.” The captain of Gale’s personal sailing vessel, Nightjar , had tapped young Parrish to be his successor. She was in the first stage of getting to know him. But the seas on their last journey had been bad. Long nights at the ropes, turbulent seas, and howling winds: there had been regrettably little quiet, no time for conversation.
    â€œI’d meant to share it.” To her surprise, he laughed. “I’ve worked out why you were so fussy about my clothes. You want to be taken for my servant.”
    â€œI don’t fuss.” She’d got him several tailored outfits: doublets and breeches, black with copper embroidery at the collar. They were expensive, suggestive of wealth and power. Gale herself was clad in nondescript grey. “Besides, people stare at you however you’re dressed.”
    â€œAnd ignore you regardless.”
    That was true. In childhood, her parents had her enchanted—cursed, really—so that people