He was hungry and thirsty. Wet. They didn’t have shelter or clothes, and the only gun they had, they’d need to haul around a dead man to shoot. Until his body got cold, anyway.

“Well, fuck,” he said. “Where do we go from here, right?”

Clarissa extended a thin arm, pointing her pale finger to the sky. There, struggling behind the clouds and stratospheric debris, a perfect, pale disk. “Luna,” she said. “Staying on the planet’s going to mean dying when the food runs out. And the water.”

“I was thinking that too.”

“There are yachts. I know where the family kept them. But it’s a spaceport for rich people. Tons of security. We might need help breaking in.”

“I know some people,” Amos said. “I mean, y’know. If they’re still alive.”

“That’s a plan, then,” she said, but didn’t move. Her slur was going away, which meant she probably wasn’t bleeding into her brain. So that was one problem he didn’t have. Amos shifted, lying back on the dead man’s rib cage, the crown of his head touching hers. A little rest seemed like a fine thing, but they’d have to get moving soon. It was a long walk back to Baltimore. He wondered if they could find a car. Or, failing that, a couple of bicycles. His ear was starting to lose its angry throb. He’d probably be able to walk soon.

In the black sky, the pale circle dimmed behind a thicker roil of cloud and ash, then vanished for a moment before struggling back.

“It’s funny,” Clarissa said. “Most of human history, going to the moon was impossible. A dream beyond anyone’s imagination. And then, for a while, it was an adventure. And then it was trivial. Yesterday, it was trivial. And now, it’s almost impossible again.”

“Yeah,” Amos said, “well…”

He felt her shift, tuning her head as if to see him better. “What?”

He gestured up toward the sky. “Pretty sure that’s the sun. I get what you’re saying though.”

Chapter Twenty-seven: Alex

His head hurt. His back hurt. He couldn’t feel his legs. It was all distressing until his mind came back enough for him to realize it meant he hadn’t died. The medical bay chimed, something cool pumped into his arm, and his consciousness faded away again.

When he woke this time, he felt almost human. The medical bay was huge. Easily five times what they had on the Rocinante, but smaller than the full, multiunit hospital of the Behemoth. The anti-spalling coating on the walls was the soft brown of bread crusts. He tried to sit up, then reconsidered.

“Ah, Mister Kamal. Are you feeling better?”

The doctor was a thin-faced, pale-skinned woman with eyes the color of ice. Her uniform was MCRN. He nodded to her more out of social habit than because he was feeling better.