Their second dinner on board the Atalanta, the five women had gathered at the round table of the canteen to properly discuss the backup crew, all a little green around the gills. Seasickness was one thing—space sickness quite another. It’d taken most of the first day for gravity on the corridor ring to activate, and longer for the crew to acclimatise. Hart had been the worst affected, followed by Naomi, who had thrown up into waste bags, hoping the plastic held. Hixon and Lebedeva had stomachs of steel, evidently, and Naomi suspected Valerie had felt queasy but would never show it.

“I’m just as surprised as you are,” Valerie had said about the appearance of their unexpected stowaways. “Though I shouldn’t be. It makes sense logistically. I had it in an earlier version of the plans myself, but it was nixed for being too expensive and too heavy. Guess they gave Lockwood a last boost.” She’d made a sour face.

Hixon had twirled a strand of limp pasta on her fork.

“Can we send them back? Or drop them off on Mars?” Hart had asked.

Valerie had shaken her head. “We’re stuck with them until Cavendish, sadly. Can’t send cryopods on the launch shuttle—and we need that for ferrying parts down to the surface once we arrive. We don’t have enough spare food to send ’em back defrosted anyway.” A pointed look at Naomi.

“I’m on it.” Naomi had put her fork down, despite her plate being half full. The chemical aftertaste turned her stomach. They had limited astronaut rations, but they wouldn’t last long.

“So looks like they’re with us until the bitter end. Worst-case, we can hold ’em hostage if Earth ends up being difficult,” Valerie had said with a too-bright smile.

“It won’t come to that,” Hart had said sharply.

“Course not. Everyone down there is all bark, no bite. Not like we’d actually hurt them. But they wouldn’t know that, now, would they? The think pieces say I want to kill all men anyway.” Valerie had waved her fork before sticking it in the silver pouch and stabbing a piece of barely warm vat-grown beef covered in thick, globular gravy. She’d been too impatient for a plate.

Lebedeva watched them all, eating her food in steady, even bites. “They are just bodies.” She had given a shrug, lips turning down.

“Easy for you to say,” Hixon had said. “You don’t know them. Not like us. And especially not like some of us.”

Naomi had kept chewing, eyes on her plate.