I wonder how long that alien weapon stays active. Will people ever be able to live there again, or has the planet been permanently ruined? But that trail of thought leads to Momma, and the truth about Corvus’s enlistment, and Pol’s frozen body in the cryosleep chamber, and a whole lot of other things I can’t deal with. Even the sad blue eyes of that soldier I spent the night with still haunt me, and I’ve already forgotten his name.

So I turn back to my bottle.

When the door opens, my head whips up so fast that the cockpit spins around me. There’s a bitter taste in the back of my mouth, and my eyes are filled with grit I can’t blink away. Shit, I must’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. I sit up straight and clear my throat, trying to look as sober as possible as I turn to see which of my siblings has interrupted me.

Lyre stands in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest. My vision is too blurry to make out much of her face in the dim light, but given the stance, I can imagine her familiar frown of disapproval. Just like Momma’s. I grimace, reaching for my bottle, and curse as I find it empty.

“What do you want?” I try to snap, but the words blur together in a mess of drunken syllables, which only makes me angrier. I shouldn’t be angry—this is the first time I’ve spoken to my sister since we left Titan, I realize with a jolt—but I can’t help it. I thought we were all in mutual agreement to be alone. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Early morning, actually,” she says, annoyingly calm in response to my sharp tone. She glances at the fallen bottle and back up at me. “You should have woken me up if you weren’t in a state to fly. I can take the wheel for a shift.”

“I’m in a fucking fine state, thanks.” Despite my words, exhaustion pulls at my eyes and limbs, reminding me that I am due for a rest. I sigh and push myself to my feet.

Once I’m upright I instantly stagger, the room lurching around me. Lyre scoots out of my way without a word. I lean against the dashboard for support and place one shaky foot in front of the other, reminding myself that she’s watching me. But as I move toward the main deck, my boot catches on the slight step, and I stumble and fall hard on one knee.

“Shit,” I mutter, and cover my mouth as bile rises in the back of my throat. I breathe hard through my nose, eyes shut, willing myself not to vomit. Not now, not here. Not in front of Lyre. I must look pathetic.