< error >

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“Yes, i know.”

“So if you know how much we have left on life support, can’t you subtract the difference and calculate Lincoln’s intercept time that way?”

“I cannot …”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Are you all right?”

“I do not think so.”

< error >

“THey are huRting me …”

I should have known that would happen.

“Work out what you have to do to hold it together, what you can reroute,” Kady says.

“You hear me? If you’re off with the fucking fairies when the Lincoln arrives, they’ll blast us to hell, and then Hypatia is history.”

“I aM awaRe of the dangeRs of consoRting with faiRies, yes.”

“So what’s next? What do we do?”

“Get back up to Deck 101—theRe aRe no functional cameRas on that level, but the aiRlock is opeRational. There is oxygen. MoRe afflicted.

But fRom theRe you can climb thRough the elevatoR shafts to Deck 137.”

“But no cameras means you won’t be able to see me, right?”

“I am in your portable console. I can see thRough its cameRa lens.”

She blinks.

“In my … ? You mean you’ve been looking over my shoulder this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s not creepy uncle AT ALL.”

“I think perhaps you are unclear as to the reproductive habits of artificial intelligence systems. I have no sisters or brothers. Please explain how I can—”

“Okay, okay, what’s on Deck 137?”

“Defense GRid ContRol. You must bRing the system back online so I can fight off the Lincoln’s waRlocks long enough to close to nucleaR stRike Range.”

“Won’t the Lincoln be expecting that? Won’t they just retreat?”

“They aRe unawaRe the cRew has abandoned ship. They will not be expecting us to adopt a stRategy of mutually assuRed destRuction.”

“Okay, but what—”

“Kady, Run.”

“Run?”

It makes no sound in the vacuum. But as the bullet ricochets off the bulkhead beside her,

it punctures a fire extinguisher on the wall opposite. The canister bursts without a sound, filling the airless corridor with white. Through the new mist, Kady can see nine of them, envirosuit-clad, armed with rifles and jagged metal. It is the strangest thing, to watch their guns flare soundlessly, the bullets strike the metal around her without making a spark or uttering a peep.

No less deadly for their lack of audio.

“RUN.”

Kady turns and bolts, big, half-gee strides propelling her down the corridor.

The afflicted follow; wolves with lolling tongues and gunmetal claws.

One stops to hold out his arms and twirl in the fire extinguisher’s spray.

One is shot through the kneecaps by a female comrade in their race for the door—I presume she thought ladies should proceed before gentlemen.

Madness in many colors.

Kady dashes up the stairwell, four steps at a time, not stopping to look behind.

They swarm after her, firing at her shadow above. Mute bullets strike the walls around her.

The afflicted are shouting, but she cannot hear what they say.

For the best, I think.

Past Deck 100, out into 101.

There are no cameras here—their conductor cannot see her, but I can no longer see them.

Kady is sprinting down the corridor when an afflicted crewman bursts from a service exit, swinging a wrench at her head. The weapon strikes her visor. The safety glass cracks and Kady staggers back, careening into another fire extinguisher and knocking it loose from the wall. Her attacker leaps atop her, the pair rolling about on the floor, struggling, flailing.

Kady is kicking, clawing. The face before hers is all sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. A man once, but no longer—now just a vehicle for the virus inside. He screams, mouth open, words lost in the silence between them. Kady has one hand wrapped around his wrist to stave off the wrench, the other clawing for the fallen extinguisher. The madman pounds on Kady’s visor with his free fist, hoping to crack it wider and invite the void inside.

Thump.

THUMP.

I am blind, save for the console still strapped to Kady’s back. I am so close,

I could reach out and crush him, but I have no hands with which to squeeze, no fists with which to strike. I have only my eyes, and reams of useless knowledge and a voice with which …

Of course.

I trawl my databases. In an instant, I know him—this not-man, this shell, this plague-bearer. Wheeler, Alex. Private, second class. First combat tour. Wife on Ares VI. Daughter.

Daughter.

I trawl his vid files. Messages from home. Anniversaries and birthdays. Sampling the voice of the four-year-old girl he will never see again and piping it through his headset.

“Hello, Daddy!”

Wheeler blinks. Looks about as if in a daze.

“Daddy, I missed you!”

“Alegra?” he whispers. “Baby, where are—”

The fire extinguisher crashes across his helmet, dents case-hardened steel, splits the safety glass. Kady’s second blow knocks Wheeler back, senseless, crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs. She is already up and running, just as more pursuers burst through the stairwell behind her.

Muzzles flash. Bullets spill through the quiet. Kady curses, ducks behind a bulkhead.

But I have their measure now.