He peered at the display. “Is that Uthera?” he asked. “Not encouraging. I’ve served on Flood watch on one hulk after another for almost a century, a thousand light-years and more from here. Now … Uthera! My well-deserved reward for serving Builders. But you! I had heard rumors. Released from your Cryptum…”

“Our situation,” I interrupted, with the gentlest command voice. “Tell me what you know.”

“Well, for one, we’re in a Burn,” he said with an unhappy click.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“No ancillas, no armor…” He examined his hands and curled his fingers as if they were unfamiliar. “Weak as newborns. A Burn is a thema or margin arc lost to the Flood. This entire system is infested. Likely every surrounding system as well, for dozens of light-years.” He dropped his shoulders. “Once you trained me, Didact. I have failed. I am yours to punish as you see fit.”

I have difficulty forgiving those who have brought harm to those I respect and admire. But Sharp-by-Striking was a pitiful shadow of what he had once been.

As for myself—

Little better.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” I said. “You know this hulk and what it’s capable of?”

He drew himself up again and took a deep breath.

“A Builder reject, stockpiled against direct orders to scuttle and send to salvage. It should have been recycled long ago. Instead, it’s been put to use where success was unlikely, to replace newer, far more expensive ships. I’ve served on several. Hard duty, Didact.” He swallowed and grimaced. “Builders are ever driven by power and profit. I did my best to serve the ecumene.”

“No doubt,” I said.

Now Sharp turned his own self-loathing into cold, outward anger, an old tactic among Warriors who had survived defeat. “Someone has to have ordered this one into the Burn, against any sensible plan. If there are other vessels … they might have all been overtaken, commandeered by the Flood, used to spread contagion.” His eyes narrowed and he groaned deep in his chest. “We’re on a plague ship!”

The look of utter horror on his features unsettled my innards even more than the fluctuating gravity. “We don’t know that,” I said.

“The others … Still in stasis. They might be infected!”

“We don’t know that, either.”

“In the early stages of infection … all you might see would be a tiny patch, a blemish, a single tendril!”

He coughed and then doubled up in a spasm. Clearly he had been treated badly before being discarded. The air was getting worse. My own lungs and throat felt tight.

Sharp’s spasm subsided. “My weakness has passed, Didact,” he said. “It is good to serve you again. If you will have me.”

We regarded each other for a somber moment. Sharp-by-Striking in his best days had been a serviceable commander. Something of a talker, however.