“We’re not in fucking transit phase. We’re here.” Thora steps so close to Peregrine that a real person would reflexively step back. “Wake us up.”

Santi thinks of the memory house, a jagged spar clutched in Thora’s hand. He touches her shoulder. “Maybe we just need to ask him in the right way.”

“We shouldn’t have to ask him. He’s supposed to initiate it.” Thora spins, gesturing wildly to the blank panels at the other end of the room. “This room—it should be full of information about our mission. But it’s not ready, because Peregrine thinks we’re still traveling. That’s why it’s under construction.” Thora laughs, bitter and knowing, like she’s appreciating a clever joke at her own expense. “Listen to how he talks. Do you think they’d design an interface to work like that? He’s fucking broken. Peregrine, are you functioning normally?”

Peregrine looks at Santi, lost. “Something happened.”

“Something happened.” Thora steps closer again. “That’s what you said to me on the beach, when you collapsed. I thought you were having a stroke. But—you’re not a person. How could you be having a stroke?”

“Not a stroke,” Santi says. “A catastrophic error.” He remembers the beach, the way the ground shook like the city was coming apart. He looks at Thora. “There was a collision. I felt it. You felt it. Peregrine—the computer systems must have been damaged.” Dread is building in him, a claustrophobia that has nothing to do with the walls of this half-darkened room. “He knows we’re here, but he can’t shift out of transit phase. He can’t wake us up.”

Thora stares into Peregrine’s eyes. “So what, you’re just going to let us starve?” She points at the video screen, her hand shaking. “Look at us. I thought the jumpsuits were baggy. But we’re fucking skeletal.”

Santi follows her gaze. His unkempt beard hides it, but now he sees it in Thora’s face: the unnatural prominence of her cheekbones, the pallor of her skin. It’s an uncanny contrast to the version of her that stands in front of the screen, vibrant and alive.

“The supplies,” he says to Peregrine. “Oxygen, food, water. There must have been more than we needed for the journey here, or we’d already be dead. How much do we have? Enough for the journey back?” Five years gone, so at least five years more. We’d be stranded until we found a way to replace them, but maybe we could figure it out—

Peregrine shakes his head. “Fuel and supplies for return—sent ahead. To planet. Crew—pick up—on arrival.”

Santi exhales. “All right. But there was a safety margin?”

Peregrine nods.

Thora snorts. “A safety margin we’ve been burning through for four point nine years.”

Santi ignores her. “How long do we have left?”

Peregrine’s face flickers. “One month.”