“Your name is Rayan?” Rosalyn asked slowly, sweeping her eyes behind him, keen to know if the rest of the crew was hiding in the cockpit with him. Her pulse hammered, but she could control this if she just played it safe. Strange as he appeared, the researcher did not seem hostile, and she might still negotiate her way back onto the ship with Walters.

“That’s me,” he said, laughing, almost goofy. What the fuck. He ducked his head shyly and nodded toward the cockpit. “I had JAX keep an eye on your ship; we scanned you when you docked. You’re the salvager, so that makes you Rosalyn Devar.”

“And my pilot is Dave Walters,” she replied. Clear and slow. The internal systems on the Salvager 6 would record all of this, and if this went south, the recovery people back on the station needed a perfect file. Otherwise they would be walking straight into a trap, just like she had. “He’s listening in right now, and he wants to come aboard and see what’s going on in here. He’s worried that I might be in danger. I’m not in any danger, am I?”

“Devar! Shut up! It’s not much of an ambush if you tell them what’s coming . . . Shit, shit, shit!”

Rayan’s eyes blew wide. “Oh. No, that’s not good. Please, tell him not to do that.” He flinched, his eyes flaring even brighter, so bright they were nearly two beaming white lights. Muttering in another language, he smacked the side of his head. She took the opportunity to sidle closer to the air lock bay. Walters wouldn’t be much help in the ship, but if he successfully opened the doors, they might have a chance of fleeing back to the Salvager. “Please . . .” Rayan’s head flew up. “You have to tell him to stay where he is.”

“Did you hear that, Walters?” she asked, licking her lips nervously. “Rayan wants you to stay put. He’s injured, major damage to the top of the skull.”

“How major?” Walters was out of breath and still fumbling. Any minute now he would be finished suiting up, and then Rosalyn needed to be at the air lock door, ready to make an escape.

She looked again at the splintered skull, the bits of flesh and black hair tufted up around the edges, and the pulsating blue net of something covering it like a strange bandage.

“Catastrophic,” she breathed.

“Is he staying away?” Rayan asked, insistent now and advancing on her. The walls around them glowed brighter, dazzling and sapphire. The Servitor followed obediently behind Rayan, clearly no help to her at all.

“Yes,” she lied. “He’s not going to board, he promises. I promise, too.”