She went still, her dark hazel eyes sliding to the bent syringe on the floor. “I need to sit down,” she said. “And you”—she pointed a shaky finger at him—“you need to start from the beginning. After that, you can sync up with the Salvager for a tow, then I’m taking you and whatever this sick shit is back to MSC.”

Clearing his throat, he gave a tiny nod. “Okay.”

It was kind of an affirmation, just enough to calm her down and just enough to be a lie.

“JAX? Release her.”

“Sir, I detect elevated levels of both—”

“Let her go, just do it.”

The Servitor took a step back, its clamp-like “hands” loosening. The woman tumbled forward, sneering, and snatched up one of the tipped folding chairs. She righted it and sat down hard, dropping her face into her hands for a long moment. Soon, she stood again and collected the syringe, studying it briefly before snapping off the needle and sliding the tube into her pocket. Smart, the voice inside him sneered. Smart and prepared. Troublesome. Rayan didn’t disturb her, but he felt something stirring in the ship, a dark echo, a familiar hum in his head that was both of him and not of him. Someone else was waking up.

Oh no.

“So?” she groaned, finally staring up at him. Her cheeks were pale, streaked with tears. “Start from the beginning.”

Outside the galley doors, down the corridor, he heard the distinct lurch of the heavy storage-bay doors unlocking. The mechanism stuck a little as it gave, they could all hear it, and their heads turned simultaneously toward the portal leading deeper into the Brigantine. The sound resonated like a low howl through the hull, sending a tremor through his legs.

Rosalyn Devar’s eyes widened as she sat up straight. “What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” he told her earnestly, trembling at the footsteps that came toward them. “The others are waking up.”

10

Rosalyn had been there before, in that breathless, deep panic that seemed to flatten out time and sharpen the senses. It wasn’t calm, exactly, but a falling away of every noncritical thought and impulse. She had been there before, curled up on the floor, in pain and shock, faced with what felt like the impossibility of the next moment coming, and the next, and the next after that. Rosalyn looked down at the bulge in her pocket where she kept the syringe. She had been there before, but this time there was no running away.

“JAX,” Rosalyn heard herself say. Her own voice sounded distant, as if emerging from underwater. “Reseal this door, please. Lock it tight.”

Walters was gone. Dead. She was alone on a ship full of strangers and some kind of biological threat. There was nothing left to do but focus and survive.