A now-familiar voice spoke behind me. “That vomiting, purple-eyed child was right.” I turned. Translator Dlique, dressed as she had been last night, when she’d visited me.

“Right about what, Translator?” I asked.

“Raughd Denche really is a horrible person.”

At that moment, two Sword of Atagaris ancillaries came rushing onto the concourse. “You, there, halt!” said one, loud and emphatic. I realized, in that instant, that they might very well not recognize Translator Dlique—she was supposed to be locked in the governor’s residence, she was dressed like an Ychana, and like all of the Undergarden this space was erratically lit. I myself wasn’t in full uniform, wore only trousers, gloves, and partially fastened shirt. It was going to take Sword of Atagaris a moment to realize who we were.

“Oh, sporocarps!” Translator Dlique turned, I assumed to flee before Sword of Atagaris could see who she was and detain her.

She had not turned all the way, and I had only had the briefest moment to begin wondering at her using “sporocarp” as an obscenity, when a single gunshot popped, loud in the confined space, and Translator Dlique gasped, and tumbled forward to the ground. Unthinking, I raised my armor, yelled “Sword of Atagaris, stand down!” At the same moment I transmitted to Station, urgently, “Medical emergency on level one of the Undergarden!” Dropped to my knees beside Translator Dlique. “Station, Translator Dlique’s been shot in the back. I need medics here right now.”

“Fleet Captain,” said Station’s calm voice in my ear. “Medics don’t go to the—”

“Right now, Station.” I dropped my armor, looked up at the two Sword of Atagaris Vars, beside me now. “Your medkit, Ship, quickly.” I wanted to ask, What do you think you’re doing, firing on people? But keeping Translator Dlique from bleeding out was more immediately important. And this wouldn’t be entirely Sword of Atagaris’s fault, it would have been following Captain Hetnys’s orders.

“I’m not carrying medkits, Fleet Captain,” said one of the Sword of Atagaris ancillaries. “This is not a combat situation, and this station does have medical facilities.” And I, of course, didn’t have one. We’d brought them, as a matter of routine, but they were still in a packing case three levels down. If the bullet had hit, say, the translator’s renal artery—a distinct possibility, considering where the wound was—she could bleed out in minutes, and even if I ordered one of my Kalrs to bring me a kit, it would arrive too late.

I sent the order anyway, and pressed my hands over the wound on Translator Dlique’s back. Likely it wouldn’t do any good, but it was the only thing I could do. “Station, I need those medics!” I looked up at Sword of Atagaris. “Bring me a suspension pod. Now.”