“I want to,” he said, darting forward. She went rigid and he backed away, looking crestfallen. “Yes, the Foxfire controls us; it tries to, anyway. It was just a few spores at first, a fungal infection, probably started just in the lungs, but now it’s everywhere, growing and spreading, and it’s doing the same inside us. Bit by bit we’re losing ourselves to it. It talks to us.”

His eyes flared almost white hot again and he swore, clutching his head.

“I take it this ‘Foxfire’ doesn’t want you helping me?”

“Yeah,” Rayan sighed, shaking out the pain. “I’ve been fighting it, but I didn’t know if the others were, so I tried to keep them locked away. I coded the ship and sent the hail. Oxygen levels are fine, I hacked JAX to report whatever I wanted. The Foxfire would’ve just spread to a rescue crew, but salvagers have those suits, right? Those are equipped with powerful filters, decontamination protocols . . . so I thought you’d have a fighting chance at least.”

Rosalyn went quiet, studying him for a long time. The door to her right groaned, a sudden weight slamming against it. Bang, bang, bang. She jumped, and so did Rayan. Her mind began spinning—she still had no plan, but Rayan could be an ally if she played it right. If he was telling the truth, of course. But how could she trust him? If that blue Foxfire stuff was trying to control him, then maybe it would make him lie, too.

She needed to know more. So much more. She wouldn’t know enough before whatever or whoever was behind that door broke through the manual locks. Rosalyn hurried toward the cockpit. This wasn’t her usual ship, but they all used similar technology, issued by the same company. An unlocked plastic case sat next to the cockpit bay, a standard-issue emergency kit. The blue mass had formed over it, making it just a blue lump, as if purposefully trying to conceal what was inside. Rosalyn shoved that thought aside and knelt, swiping away the growth. To her surprise it was thin and vine-like, the glowing blue spores breaking up and into the air as she touched them. Behind her, she heard Rayan give a moan of pain. The flowers . . . the glow . . . Were even their pain receptors linked?

It sounded like he murmured, “Oh, please hurry.”

The banging started up again, harder this time. Rosalyn groped blindly for what was inside the crate, fighting the low light in the galley. She powered on her overhead light, finding what she was looking for.

“What do you think he has?” Rosalyn called over her shoulder. “A door jammer? A wrench?”

Rayan was quiet for a second and then said, “It’s big and metal.” Another pause. “Like a crowbar.”

Great.