“This is Captain Lilian Putnam Ngahere of House of Wisdom.” She cleared her throat. “If you have received this message, you may already know what has happened. We are recording this not to excuse what we are about to do, but to explain how we came to the conclusion that it was necessary. We don’t know if we’ll be able to transmit it.”

Mum shifted in her seat and looked directly at the camera. The torn edge of her collar brushed her cheek. “We assume you are investigating the aftermath of what has happened over the past twenty-four hours. We will tell you what we can. Right now, we have the ship quarantined behind its security web. It is too dangerous to attempt a rescue mission.”

To see my mother’s face again, to hear her voice, it was like a nova in the center of my chest, a racing pain radiating outward through the long-healed fractures in my bones. She sounded so much like herself, and not like herself at all. Absent was all of the enthusiasm she had carried into her work, the razor-sharp intellect approaching smug superiority, the fervor with which she had argued, the teasing laughter she had reserved for my father and aunt and her closest friends. She was drained of all spark. She sounded defeated.

Captain Ngahere said, “House of Wisdom has been attacked by a person or persons unknown. The method of this attack appears to be a blood-borne, neuroengineered pathogen or device capable of complete neurological control over targeted individuals. We don’t know the source or the purpose. Most of the infected succumb immediately, many from self-inflicted wounds suffered during an initial stage of infection. Others pursue actions meant to deliberately infect others. But others . . . once the unknown agent has successfully subdued them, this is what it does.”

The captain turned the tablet to give the camera a view of the bridge. The screens were lit up with maps and navigation information, feedback from the ship’s systems and engines. There seemed to be rather more than a healthy number of flashing red warnings on every display.

And all along the curved banks of terminals there were people at work. None of the crew were speaking. None of them were so much as glancing at their neighbors. None of them turned their heads or looked around at all. Only their hands moved, skating lightning-quick over panels and screens. Every one of them performed their task without glancing down.

It was confirmation of what we had already suspected, but it was still a deeply unsettling sight. There was Jessamyn, twelve years old, with her hands skittering over the navigation controls as though she had flown the ship a hundred times before. Her mouth was slightly open, giving her a fixed expression of surprise. She did not blink.