She is like any human child, and she runs with the brats in the space station, coming back filthy but always happy. Lawrence thinks she sometimes leaves to see her mother, but it’s difficult to tell. She waits till he’s asleep.

He wants Jenna, this Jenna, to visit him again, but she never does. He hopes she will and doesn’t get close to anyone. He’s superstitious. Joké may be telling her everything, or maybe she’s always around, just one corner away from his dreams. Maybe there is something he is meant to do to be worthy? Maybe he was a one-night stand for a cosmic being.

Nobody asks him where the baby came from, which makes him suspect he is not the first to have had this experience. His superiors ask for an account, which he supplies. Hal knows and believes. Lawrence has the distinct impression it may have happened to him, without the accompanying baby.

“To alien sex!” Hal says, when he crashes metal mugs together.

“To Joké,” says Lawrence.

On the Ragtime, Larry emerges from his pod, looking left and right. Should take an EVA suit – who knows if the air is venting again?

“Shell? Joké? Anyone?” he says.

“She’s out of range,” says Joké, floating towards him.

“What’s the alarm about?”

“Um, no idea. Ragtime won’t answer me.”

“Let’s go find out, then. We head aft.”

“Action Governor! I’ll take point.”

She will never change.

“Fin, come in,” says Lawrence.

“Yes, go ahead,” says Fin.

“Stay in your pod. We’re going to investigate the alarm.”

“Weapons ready?”

“Fuck, yes. Keep Salvo with you. We need at least one pilot out of harm’s way.”

“Where’s the captain?”

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we’re going to investigate. Out.”

Lawrence hates the situation. Joké knows to maintain silence as they work their way through each node. Ragtime may not be talking to them, but it’s always listening, and always watching. Old-timey god. A god they cannot trust. Lawrence wants to be out in free space, flying or floating with an umbilical. None of this claustrophobic shit.

The alarm stops, just as suddenly as it started. The lights remain red but stop flashing.

Joké stops, looks back at him. What should we do?

The absence of alarms is somehow more frightening than their presence.

“Shell, come in.” Maybe she’s now in range.

“Uncle Larry?” Shell sounds like she’s panting.

“Affirmative.”

“Uncle Larry, retreat to the bridge, right now! Retreat!”

“Where are you?”

“Get the fuck back to the bridge. I’m working my way there. Move.”

“Daddy.” He looks at Joké. Oh, shit.