While she lingered in the observation dome, the ship’s crew and passengers were sweating it out in the mess hall. Waiting as the astrogation officer—or AO—made observations, comparing star charts, spectra, and navigational information to determine the ship’s position.

Probability.

Space travel wasn’t for the faint of heart. Turalon could be anywhere, tens, hundreds, or thousands of light years from the nearest star. Lost. Condemned to a lingering death in the cramped warrens contained within Turalon’s hull.

Falise stared anxiously out at the billions of stars, the unfamiliar swirls of nebulae, the inky black voids created by dark matter. None of the constellations were familiar. This was a whole new view of the Milky Way, one that alternately filled her with wonder and dread.

What if we’re lost?

The thought pierced her like a thrust dagger. The thing that each and every one of Turalon’s crew and passengers had been fearing from the moment the ship had inverted symmetry back in Solar System.

She didn’t realize that she’d lifted her hand, was chewing at the joint of her thumb. Forced herself to lower her arm, to raise her chin, and glare out at the galaxy. But that didn’t stop the thumping of her heart, or the worry that slipped around her guts like a liquid serpent.

She heard his arrival, could see who it was in the observation blister’s reflection: Cinque Suharto. Her family rival stepped into the room, stopping at sight of her. Said, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Thought I would take a look for myself. Where are the others?”

“Still crowded into the Crew’s Mess, waiting for word from the captain. Same for the riffraff down on the Transportee Deck.” Cinque stepped in, stopping beside her to contemplate the view. He wore a midnight-black outfit tailored to his massive frame; an inky cape added to the effect. Like her, he had been engineered to be his family’s perfect progeny. At nearly two meters, he was a striking man. The perfect image of a male, well-muscled, every curve in proportion, his dark brown skin almost radiant with health.

She shot him a sidelong glance. Yes, he’d chosen the expensive suit. The one made of fibers that shunted light down and out at the heels so that the fabric seemed to have depth, as if it sucked light from the room. When he wore it, it added to the air of menace Cinque liked to project. But why he had chosen . . . ? Ah, yes. If it turned out that they were lost, he was positioning himself for the inevitable struggle to be the last one standing.

Falise fought a shiver. She never liked being close to Cinque. Not that she held any Suharto in high regard, but, like her, Cinque had been chosen for this mission for a very specific reason: he had been sent to win. No matter the cost.

They all had.