“Absolutely not.” She held up a finger. “For one thing, that suit’s the only thing holding your innards where they should be. It’s not coming off until you get to a hospital.” She held up a second digit. “And for another, I’m not entirely sure I can trust you, or that you’re entirely sane.” She let her hands drop to the blanket. “There could be lasting psychological damage. So, you’re staying there until the suit’s flushed all the crap out of your bloodstream, and we can work out the best course of action.”

“When you say ‘we’, you mean you and the crew?”

“Yes.”

My head throbbed. “I thought you were on my side.”

She laughed. “I’m your friend, you know that.” The laugh guttered like a dying flame. She looked down at the fists clasped in her lap, where the nails were digging into the skin of her palms. “But we have never, ever, been on the same side.”

Thirty-Six: Sal Konstanz

THIRTY-SIX

SAL KONSTANZ

I saw the barman fire his shotgun at me, and felt again the sting as a pellet took a bite from my arm. Mulch leered across the room. He wanted to take my ship. I wanted to shout at him but, before I could open my mouth, he morphed into Sedge, his frozen face rimed with frost. I leaned over him, trying to breathe warmth and life into those blue features, trying to let him know I was still alive, but he changed again, becoming Childe, and his mechanically enhanced fingers closed over my face…

The bridge console chimed. Curled semi-comfortably in the command couch, I had been drifting in and out of a restless and fidgety sleep for several hours, my thoughts eddying with the almost subliminal howl of the void beyond the ship’s external hull.

The console chimed again. I rubbed my eyes. Somebody wanted access to the bridge. I checked the security feed, and when I saw Preston waiting, I reached out and reluctantly released the locks. I sat upright and straightened my clothes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Were you asleep?”

I scowled at him. “What time is it?” My mouth felt drier than an old leather boot at the side of a desert highway.

“A little after eight.”

“What do you want?”

Preston scratched the side of his nose, looking nervous. “To talk?” He moved his weight from one foot to the other, like a child desperate for the toilet. I stretched my neck, rolling my head from side to side. The vertebrae crunched and crackled.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“There seems to be a certain…” The back of his neck reddened.

“A certain what?” Sleeping in my clothes had done nothing for my mood.

“T-tension,” he stammered.

“Tension?”

“Between us. As if I’ve annoyed you.”