She cleared her throat and nodded, finding that she had packed her kit from pure muscle memory. Testing nodes, atmospheric readers, blood and tissue containers, hover cuffs . . . Everything was exactly where it should be in the rectangular metal case engraved with DEVAR on the lid.

As promised, Rosalyn swayed on her heels a little as the Salvager 6 made physical contact with the Brigantine. Walters had piloted them carefully, and it was so soft that she barely heard the impact of the two ships gently touching. It would take gradual, manual adjustments from Walters to position the crafts air lock to air lock. She listened to the soft hiss of the external jets as he used the piloting joysticks to find alignment.

“Just bring them home,” she whispered, closing her kit and latching it. She stood and tucked it under her right arm, bringing it across the main chamber to the far wall and the long, waist-high metal shelf there. The main chamber of the Salvager 6 was used for storage and general prep. All of the crates of salvaging equipment, food, and first aid and emergency supplies were strapped carefully to the walls. She tidied up the mess she had made preparing her field kit, returning the crates to their designated slots on the wall and securing them.

The chamber to the right was sealed, but it would serve as living quarters during their mission. Rosalyn looked at the closed door to that room for a moment, tightness gathering in her chest. She would be alone with Walters every night. The same panic had washed over her on the first missions with Owen and Griz. They hadn’t seemed to even notice her, and gradually she stopped worrying that they were a threat. But Walters? If only Alexia were there with them, it would make it so much easier. Did she at all trust him? Did she know him? She had known Glen, or thought she did, and that hadn’t meant anything in the end.

When he had slammed her against the wall, hurt her, it was like looking into a stranger’s eyes.

Rosalyn shook her head and stumbled to the door, jamming it open. She could hardly breathe. Leaning against the wall, she forced air in through her nose and down, blowing it out slowly, repeating the exercise until her panic ebbed.

Pushing away from the wall, she walked into the kitchenette. Just beyond were two separate rooms, hardly bigger than shower stalls, which would serve as their bunks. Separate bunks. Her eye went at once to the heavy-duty locking mechanism on each and the attached keypads. She could lock herself inside and, no doubt, only a number code synced between her VIT monitor and the security panel would open the door.

It would have to do. It was enough.