Even as he said it, his hair was standing on end.

“Huh!” Fourth cried, leaping and spinning. The man kept staring off into the black behind them. “Who’s there?” To the others, he asked, “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Soukup asked, staring into the black distance down the hallway.

Fenn shone his light, kicking up the illumination and narrowing the focus. Nothing but abandoned hallway could be seen. “This entire deck, along with the Transportee Deck, was opened to vacuum when Captain Orten and First Officer Sakihara realized just how screwed they were. First, they let the transportees suffocate, and then they froze the corpses to preserve them. Added them one by one to the hydroponics over the years as the organic molecules broke down.”

“Fascinating,” Soukup whispered. “And so terribly efficient.”

Fenn rolled his eyes, catching movement. Like a reflected glisten, it flickered and vanished into the corridor wall. “Fucking phantoms,” he muttered. “Come on. Sooner I can get you to the command deck, the sooner I can get off this shit-sucking wreck.”

Fenn led the way, past the stained and brown-streaked sialon walls, the dark inspection ports, and dead holo stations. At the companionway, he climbed, catching the odd flickers and enduring the feeling that time was moving sideways, siphoning parts of his soul away.

At the hatch, he stopped. “This is the hatch they kept closed. Beyond is the Crew Deck, and above it, the Command Deck.”

He physically undogged the hatch, leading them in. Lights flickered, then cast a dull urine-yellow illumination. Pointing at the wall, Fenn said, “There’s the famous writing. Line after line of cursive written atop other lines of cursive. How many thousands of hours did they spend here? What in hell was in their minds as they wrote these phrases? Like this one.” He indicated with a finger. “What does this mean? ‘With each breath, we inhale the lifetimes of the Dead.’ Or over here, ‘I am vacuum. A cloud of emptiness.’”

“It covers the entire wall,” Soukup whispered to himself, reaching out to run a finger along the chaos of overwritten script. “So thick it’s almost solid.”

“And the floor and ceiling,” Fenn pointed out, noting that Soukup’s First was scanning, bending close to record the scrawl.

“Malfunction,” Third said in a monotone, straightening. “Data . . . incongruity.” She seemed confused, not that her face projected anything, but her eyes had slightly crossed.

“Elaborate,” Soukup said, turning to the white-haired woman.

“Potential malfunction. Observed a female. Age early thirties, black hair.” The Third’s head tilted slightly. “Image . . . projection? Partially there. Walked into wall. Confirm, Second?”

The Second, the monitor, who was supposed to keep track of the entire team, said, “No woman walked into wall. Malfunction confirmed.”

The Third seemed to freeze, paralyzed, her hand partially lifted.

“What’s that about?” Fenn asked.