“At least fifty,” Gin said, and Mark swore. “Who are they? Where the hell did they come from?”

Something nudged Maren’s shoulder. Suriya had taken a half step back, bumping into her, and Maren glanced over her shoulder to see what had startled her leader.

The first figure, the one they’d assumed was Holly, had raised its hands to its helmet. It was twisting it, unlocking it.

What does he think he’s doing? The air isn’t breathable.

Time slowed down. Maren could hear her heartbeat echoing in the suit, punctuated by short, sharp breaths. The speakers in her helmet had fallen quiet as the others waited, equally silent, equally tense. The other being’s helmet unlocked, and he lifted it off his head in a smooth motion, exposing his face.

Maren recognised him. She didn’t think she’d ever spoken to him—if she had, it must have been a brief hello as they passed in the hallways—but he was definitely familiar. Sandy-brown, curly hair framed a wide face with a light, short beard. He’d been part of the crew working in station 334 before it had gone into hibernation. That meant he’d come from Station 488, their sister station on the first third of the planet, where their surplus crew had been spending the past month.

“Greg?” Suriya sounded incredulous. Maren wondered if she, too, felt as though she were dreaming.

Then Greg smiled, showing two rows of beautiful white teeth, before opening his mouth completely, as though he intended to show them his tongue. Maren’s nausea returned in a rush as long black tendrils poked out of his mouth. They stretched towards the three-person crew above him, as thick as fingers, wet, and inky black. Saul opened fire.

Maren flinched and threw her hands up to block her ears, even though her helmet was in the way, as Saul’s gun fired round after round into Greg. Two hit his head, and three hit his torso. The tall man stumbled backwards, arms pinwheeling. The horde of suited strangers all turned their helmets, watching their leader, as Greg regained his balance.

The left half of his head was gone. Squinting, Maren glanced at the hole, prepared to turn away if there was too much gore for her to stomach. To her shock, though, there was no gore at all. No blood, no skull fragments, no gelatinous brain pulp… just black.

Living black. It was the same substance that had come out of his mouth, and it was writhing, bubbling, and expanding to fill the hole. Where it touched the edges of his tattered skin, it fused and changed colour to match Greg’s complexion then grew inwards, knitting his head back together. An eyelid appeared, then an eyeball popped into the space behind it. Hair grew. Flesh sealed together. When the squirming skin finally stilled, Greg looked as if he’d never been shot at all. His mouth spread wider into a huge grin, and he laughed—a dead ha, ha, ha, ha so void of humanity that hearing it come from a human mouth felt surreal.