He waved the young man off. Such a worrier. They had the advantage now. She was outnumbered, this salvager. Piero reached through their shared network, through Mother, trying to calm Rayan, reassure him, let him know they could work together to outsmart the woman. His thoughts were more open now, but jumbled. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“You . . . you were pounding so loud on the door. It sounded angry.”

Piero nodded, then reached up and slapped the boy gently on the side of the head. “You locked me in the dorms, you motherfucker, of course I was angry. What was I supposed to do? Even jerking off gets old.”

His eyes slid to their visitor. Prisoner. She hadn’t struck him again, so she was either cautious or naive. Possibly both. He tried to smile, and wondered just how gruesome it looked. Very, he hoped.

“Ah. Pardon my language,” he said to her, winking.

The woman recoiled, but did not lower the fire extinguisher clutched in both hands. That explained the white vapor all over the place and the godforsaken stinging in his eyes.

“Help me up, Rayan, my head is killing me.”

Rayan clapped a hand over his arm to help lever him up, but the woman took a big step forward.

“No,” she said, kicking the crowbar away from his side and across the galley. Clever. “You can stay right there.”

“And I thought I had a temper,” he murmured to Rayan. Inside, he felt his chest growing hotter with irritation. But he remembered that they had need. Mother had need. He glanced briefly at the glowing VIT on her arm and swallowed to keep from spitting at her. They needed that thing; the one on his own arm had gone dead. Useless.

Why hadn’t Rayan tricked her into removing her helmet? The oxygen levels were stable, and just one gulp of spore-filled air would put her on the path to Mother’s embrace. His eyes slid warily between the two now, his faith in Rayan dimming. Something was wrong.

“What is this, Rayan? I thought we were friends. She’s been here five minutes and you trust her more, eh? Do you even know her fucking name?”

“It’s Rosalyn,” the other man said, exasperated. “And . . . I don’t trust her. But I don’t trust you either, Piero. I . . . don’t think I trust anything anymore. Listen.” He swiveled on his knees and looked up at the woman, Rosalyn, his eyes glittering and huge. “He’s bleeding so much, can I just get him to the med bay, please?”

The woman stepped back, still brandishing her makeshift weapon, and squinted at them.

“Does it matter? I mean . . . doesn’t that stuff keep you alive no matter what?”

“It doesn’t mean he can’t feel the pain,” Rayan shot back. “I can do something for that, at least.”