“Um, then Salvo can build one for you. Come on, Captain. You know I’m right.”

She is.

“Fine. We check Torus 2, then we go back.”

Torus 2 is full of robots. Medical, haulage, mechanic, exploratory, cleaner, general maintenance, all-purpose serpentine – everything except the gargantuan hull robot crane Big Dumb Arm, and that’s because it’s outside the Ragtime.

“No,” says Shell.

“No,” says Joké.

They make their way out and aft.

“We have to focus on what we can fix,” says Shell. “Because we can’t fix it all. We need to get the antenna running, but at the same time we need to clear these vermin from the ship. Dormant, they weren’t an issue. Awake, they’re using more energy and will factor into our calculations about how many days we have left. Awake, they’re capable of mischief, by which I mean they might damage machinery, cause disease or kill us directly.”

Fin says, “Why can’t we just fix the antenna, find a hole to hide in, and wait for the cavalry?”

“Because we do not know if the cavalry is coming. Have you ever tried planning and executing a mission in three days? Maybe on Earth, or Space Station Lagos. But Bloodroot’s space programme isn’t designed for that. It’s more a reception party for these kinds of missions than a constantly evolving exploration apparatus. In between colonist deliveries, it goes dormant. Plus, we’re contaminated. We have no idea if their response will be to detonate us in orbit.”

“Would they do that?” asks Larry. “Do they have that kind of missile tech?”

“I don’t know. Any spaceship can be a missile if you pack it with enough explosives and send it on a collision course. But it’s a colony. They have to be careful of outsiders,” says Shell.

“You do realise the irony of using ‘outsiders’ in this context, right? All colonists everywhere are outsiders by definition,” says Fin.

“The point is their reaction should be marked ‘x’ for unknown. I need you to print weapons and MCP suits for all of us.”

Fin looks at Salvo, who nods.

“All right. You all have your tasks. Go. Lives are at stake.”

They somersault and brachiate to the labs.

Shell holds Fin back.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I want to ask you something unethical.”

Sudden interest in the eyes. “Go on.”

“Hypothetically, if I… if someone were to ask you, hypothetically, to lie to Bloodroot Mission Control, hypothetically, whether you deceived them or not, would you be obliged to report it?”

An expression that Shell did not expect darkens his face. Anguish, pain, weight.

“Hypothetically,” he says. His voice is hoarse.

“Of course. I would never ask you to go against your… ethics.”

“I’d… I’d have to first refuse, then report verbally and in writing.”

“Even if you could save lives by lying to Bloodroot?”