“We’re all aliens to each other. We’re from different planets. I’m from Earth, Lawrence is from Lagos, Joké’s a Lamber, Fin is from Bloodroot and Salvo is an Artificial. Maybe we didn’t have common enough cause to fight fiercely. Maybe we weren’t smart enough. It doesn’t matter. Here’s what we have left. After twenty hours have elapsed, Fin and Salvo get on board the Equivalence and fly for Bloodroot. Maybe glide it in if the fuel’s depleted, I don’t know. Joké and Uncle Larry, take the Decisive and punch a vector towards Lagos until you run out of fuel, then drift while sending a distress call. There should be sensitive enough relays to get you rescued. But for now, everybody back to their pods and chill. For tomorrow we die.”

Fin says, “Is that supposed to be a pep talk, because I don’t think you’re getting the proper effect.”

“Umm… and I think you forgot Ragtime when talking about aliens,” says Joké.

“Ragtime’s on my shit list,” says Shell. “Where’s my rifle, Fin?”

“Working on it,” says Fin.

“Captain,” says Salvo. “What about you?”

He misses the dynamic in the room. Artificials are good, but not that good.

“I’m going down with the ship,” says Shell.

“We can make room for you,” says Lawrence. “You don’t have to die here.”

“We will not die, we will be as gods,” says Shell.

“I don’t understand,” says Joké.

“The tree of the knowledge of good and evil,” says Ragtime. “I thought you weren’t a poet.”

“Stop trying to kiss my ass, Ragtime. I’m not going to forgive you.” Shell sighs. “I know this ship didn’t get spiked because of my incompetence, and I can live with that. But if my passengers don’t survive, I don’t survive.”

“That’s archaic,” says Fin.

Shell shrugs, decision made.

He hands her a newly printed rifle and floats away.

Hours later, everybody has gone to their pods and Frances stays outside Shell’s, his odd shaggy hair worming in the microgravity. Shell imagines Bloodroot spinning beneath them. It seems like she can just reach out and grab it. Just step out of the Ragtime and go. She is not in her sleeping bag. She is holding her new rifle and waiting, and when the alarm she set beeps she checks the weapon one last time.

“Ragtime,” she says.

“Captain.”

“I’m going out of my pod. Track me and if I am incapacitated take over as captain.”

“Does Rasheed Fin still have authority over investigative matters?”

“The investigation is over, Ragtime. Guilt has been established.” Shell slings the rifle over her shoulder. Only execution remains.