The boxes. Why push them up against the doors that way? The crew were all certainly dead, but maybe, Rosalyn thought, just maybe, the captain was still afraid and wanted to make sure whatever was in the cargo lock didn’t get out. Perhaps he hadn’t barricaded them in out of guilt, but fear.

The memory nagging at her before arrived, blistering in its clarity—she was back on Earth, in Montreal, at the lab with Angela while she introduced Rosalyn to all the newest xenosamples they were working with. Angela, direct and precise as usual, held up tube after tube, explaining to Rosalyn just what the substances inside might do for their project.

There was a little crayon smudge on Angela’s white sleeve, the only hint of sloppiness on an otherwise immaculate person. She had kids, five, but she was always on time, always staying late. Once or twice, Rosalyn caught her on the VIT during lunch, giving her kids long-distance story time. Busy the bee goes, “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Dizzy the dog goes, “Woof, woof, woof!” . . .

“This is from Callisto,” she remembered Angela saying, a blue- tinted, clean tube pinched between gloved thumb and forefinger. “And frankly, I have no idea what it does. Not for long, though. We’ll get on it tomorrow. Just . . . be so, so careful, Roz, like I said: We really don’t know what any of this is yet.”

Rosalyn heard Owen’s vacuum start up again, and it startled her. She dropped the tube, watching it sink slowly into the human muck at her feet. It couldn’t be the same kind of sample cylinder, and those were all so similar looking anyway. Montreal was at least five hundred million miles away. And then “Sexy Sadie” twanged through the hold again. It rang longer this time, and she heard more of the words. Kind of an odd choice for a wife’s ringtone, she thought. Now Rosalyn saw a sheen of sweat on Owen’s face as he raced to answer the call. He hurled her an apologetic look, but Rosalyn suddenly felt only sympathy.

Owen’s ringtone was stuck in her head. She could recall the lyrics perfectly after so many hours on the job with him. She didn’t remember the song being so condescending to the woman; maybe the Late Nodes’ grittier take on the words brought out the darker vibe.

Rosalyn looked at where the tube had disappeared. A little cylinder of secrets. She glanced back at Owen then, wondering just what his strange secret might be. He seemed so happy, so bubbly, but weren’t those smile lines carved awfully deep? Why did his face look taut now, as if he might at any moment break into tears? The raw truth of a human body could be hideous, and the mind? Uglier still.

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