Rosalyn glanced down at him. She felt him struggling and must have thought his one screamed word was for her. In a way it was. Time slowed. He looked up at her, beautiful but afraid, clinging to the safety rail just inside the rover bay. She had looped one arm around it and then the other, finding a strong grip, but not strong enough. Space would pull them out, destroy them, turn them to icy dust.

Time slowed.

He was in the galley just outside the cockpit. Piero was kicking all of their asses at crazy eights. I hate this game, he had said, throwing down his terrible hand. Why can’t we play tarneeb?

Misato had offered to switch games but Piero wanted to keep fleecing them. It was just a big show, a way to one-up them all. Piero was like that. He was being confrontational because Rayan had found something shady on his tablet. The Italian had been drinking grappa, and it smelled so foul coming out of his mouth that Rayan thought it must be paint thinner. Piero left his tablet open, and Rayan saw one of the banking tabs. How could he have that much money and still work exploratory jobs for Merchantia? Who would bother? Well, besides Misato, but she was weird that way. Piero was a mercenary; mercenaries didn’t do charity.

What’s this? Rayan had thought it funny. Piero, you’re loaded. When we get back you’re taking me somewhere nice on Tokyo Bliss Station.

Don’t look at that. Why would you look at that? What are you, a spook? Mind your own business.

It was such a harsh response. So defensive.

I didn’t mean anything by it. Relax.

Shut up, you relax. Hand me the bottle, cazzo.

The voices got bad during crazy eights. Not just bad, intolerable. Every time he tried to play a card, a small voice inside him suggested something else. It was like he was going mad, like he could suddenly read minds. The voice would tell him what card Edison was about to play, and then it would happen. Again and again he was right. This isn’t real. This isn’t possible.

The round ended and Piero won, then stood, doing a ridiculous dance, pretending to hump Edison’s head out of his sight.

He’s going to go get his bottle of wine. He wants to celebrate.

Who’s up for a drink, eh? Piero had done just as the voice predicted. It didn’t make sense. It was maddening, as maddening as the headaches and the strange dreams. Every night he dreamed of a lady all in blue, tentacles reaching out for him, strangling him until he shrieked and flew awake.