Ariana and Malachi turned and turned in a circle, neither one breaking free, neither letting go. When Ariana’s back was to me, without thinking, without letting myself reconsider, I lifted the gun, and I fired. The shot spun me backward; I hit a console with such force it sent waves of pain through my battered back and legs. Malachi and Ariana moved at that same moment, still locked together in a desperate struggle, and the shot missed Ariana by centimeters. Panya screamed as the projectile sliced across her upper arm. Behind her an eruption of red blossomed on Dag’s chest.

The projectile exploded on impact. It tore Dag’s arm from his shoulder and propelled him backward through the open door of the glass room, dragging Panya with him. A cloud of his blood enveloped them as they bumped into the floating tangle of corpses.

Malachi caught Ariana’s jaw with a lucky blow that shoved her away from him. He grabbed the nearest chair, twisted to give himself leverage, and kicked her solidly in the back before she could recover. The force of the kick pushed her through the doorway; she thumped into Panya and Dag.

Dag’s heart still pumped blood from his wound, but weakly, weakly, and there was no light of awareness in his expression. Panya, trapped between them, her screams now fallen to whimpers, tried to push Ariana away.

Ariana grabbed her by both wrists. “Are you going to stop making a fuss now,” she said.

Panya spit in her face and kicked at her legs. “I’m not infected! Get her off me! Get her off me! Zahra! Help me!”

But even as she was screaming and fighting, splattered with Dag’s blood and bleeding slowly from the wound on her arm, there was a ripple of movement on the curve of her shoulder, along the line of her collarbone. The small bead elongated to a short, squirming line.

Malachi moved toward the panel to shut the door, wiping a spray of blood from his face.

“Malachi,” I said, my voice shaking. I raised the gun.

He looked at me. “What? Zahra, what are you—”

“You’re covered with her blood.”

“I know, I know, but you need help.”

“She broke the skin on your arm. She spit in your face.”

“I know,” he said again, more urgently. “We need time. I can—”

Panya screamed. She thrashed at Dag’s body, her arms whipping through the cloud of his blood, and she was screaming, screaming, and somehow through her screams I could make out what she was saying: “It’s coming out, oh fuck, it’s coming out!”