Edison put out a hand to silence her. Rather than the usual swift attack on Rosalyn’s helmet, Misato didn’t seem to notice her at all. Or she saw her, but quickly lost interest. Instead, she drifted by them, as if pulled along by an invisible string or an intense magnetic force. She said nothing, immune to their wide-eyed staring as she marched down the walkway toward customs and processing.

“Misato?” Rosalyn stage-whispered. “What’s happening to her?”

“She’s being called somewhere, summoned,” he murmured. She hadn’t actually expected a coherent answer from him, but was grateful that he hadn’t gone white-eyed and spooky. Taking his hand, she pulled him forward, following in Misato’s trail.

“I can’t explain it,” Edison went on. “It’s calling me, too, but it’s . . . like there’s a time delay. Each word bounces around in my head for a while. It doesn’t sound anything like the Foxfire I’m used to. It’s Mother, but coming in a hundred different voices.”

“What did that sound like?” Rosalyn asked, trying to keep Misato in range. She was going faster now, walking with real purpose.

“Mother but flat, no emotions,” he said. “Still a woman’s voice. She sounds . . . kind. Worried, almost.”

“Right, I wouldn’t fall for that.”

“Stay close,” Edison told her, latching onto her arm. “We’re going to need each other.”

Rosalyn wasn’t complaining. The thought of being alone and hunted by Foxfire-infested people in that massive space station while it went into core breach made her stomach burn with anxiety. Clinging to the bigger, stronger Edison at least allowed the illusion of safety, or the illusion of prolonged survivability odds. The vast dark echoed around them, safety lights illuminating the path forward, blinking yellow, then green, then back to yellow. She had no idea where to look or for how long, convinced that danger could be and was lurking in every possible nook. The other ships might not be empty, she thought, glancing at them with hostile suspicion. They could be filled to the brim with white-eyed, crazed passengers just waiting to tackle her and bring her into the cluster.

She froze, certain she saw a shape move among the windows hanging above them, where the Servitors and ground crew organized and cleared incoming and outgoing ships.

“Up there,” Rosalyn whispered, pointing with a nod. “I saw something move. My AR isn’t picking up a signal, but I don’t trust anything anymore.”

“I’ll watch Misato, you watch our backs.”

“And then? We’re not exactly armed,” she reminded him.