He fidgeted there in the coffin-like space for several minutes, while he waited for the terminal to establish a link. He briefly opened up his spacesuit’s comms to check in on Martinez and Perez, but they were busy talking sports, so he turned it off again and waited.

The terminal chimed eventually, and a confirmation request appeared. Ty tapped the screen, and a moment later the same avatar he had encountered in Unity appeared before him.

‘Mr Whitecloud,’ acknowledged the voice behind the avatar.

‘There was another Consortium agent on the Mjollnir, and now he’s dead,’ Ty yelled, without any preamble. ‘What the hell is going on? Just how many of you people are on this ship? And . . . how the hell do I even know you’re really a Consortium agent? In fact, what proof did I ever get?’

The avatar gazed back, silent and calm and so clearly artificial, while whoever was behind it tried to put together a response.

‘We’re aware of your encounter with Leo Olivarri,’ the synthesized voice finally responded. ‘Olivarri was in reality an agent for the Freehold Senate – not for the Consortium.’

Ty stared at the screen, befuddled. How could they have found out about Olivarri’s death already? How—?

‘No.’ Ty shook his head several times, slowly at first, then more violently. ‘No, that’s bullshit. I talked to him! He told me he was a Consortium agent, and I asked him why he’d approached me, when you had already contacted me. He didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. So I know he was telling me the truth. He had no idea who you were – and now he’s dead!’

There was another long pause, and Ty imagined whatever shadowy figure lurked behind the avatar trying to come up with a plausible response.

‘It’s possible,’ the avatar said eventually, ‘that whoever killed him might target you next.’

‘None of what you’re saying makes any sense!’ Ty shouted at the tiny screen. ‘If he was really working for the Freehold, then who killed him? Yet another Consortium agent?’

He pounded the hard plastic of the screen with one fist, feeling pain like hot needles being rammed into his knuckles. He was breathing hard, hyperventilating, fast using up the airlock’s limited supply of air. He sobbed with frustration, and felt hot salt tears trickle down his cheeks.

‘Listen to me,’ he spat, both hands now gripping the sides of the screen, as if framing the face of the avatar. ‘Show yourself. Do you hear me? Show yourself. And tell me who the hell killed Olivarri . . . and if it had anything to do with your talking to me!’

‘Nathan?’

It was Martinez, his voice sounding tinny from within Ty’s discarded suit helmet. He grabbed up the helmet and opened a channel.