Oh, God. "Look, I don't know what's happening down here, but you can't want to stay here, nobody in their— I mean— Jesus, where are you?"

No answer. Only Fischer.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," Scanlon says, pleading.

And then, "I never meant for— I mean I didn't—"

And then only "I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

And then nothing at all, except the darkness.

* * *

Eventually the lights come back on, and Beebe beeps reassuringly on its designated channel. Gerry Fischer is gone by then; Scanlon isn't sure when he left.

He's not sure the others were ever there. He swims back to Beebe, alone.

They probably didn't even hear me. Not really. Which is a shame, because there at the end he was actually telling the truth.

He wishes he could pity them. It should be easy; they hide in the dark, they hide behind their eyecaps as though photocollagen is some sort of general anesthetic. They warrant the pity of real people. But how can you pity someone who's somehow better off than you are? How can you pity someone who, in some sick way, seems to be happy?

How can you pity someone who scares you to death?

And besides, they walked all over me. I couldn't control them at all. Have I made a single real choice since I came down?

Sure. I gave them Fischer, and they let me live.

Yves Scanlon wonders, briefly, how to put that into the official record without making himself look like a complete screwup.

In the end, he doesn't really care.

* * *

TRANS/OFFI/300850:1043

I have recently encountered evidence of... that is, I believe...

The behavior of Beebe Station personnel is distinctively...

I have recently participated in a telling exchange with station personnel. I managed to avoid outright confrontation, although...

Ah, fuck it.

* * *

T minus twenty minutes, and except for Yves Scanlon, Beebe is deserted.

It's been like this for the past couple of days. The vampires just don't come inside much any more. Maybe they're deliberately excluding him. Maybe they're just reverting to their natural state. He can't tell.

It's just as well. By now, the two sides have very little left to say to each other.

The shuttle should be almost here. Scanlon summons his resolve: when they come, they're not going to find him hiding in his cubby. He's going to be in the lounge, in plain view.

He takes a breath, holds it, listens. Beebe creaks and drips around him. No other sounds of life.

He gets off the pallet and presses an ear against the bulkhead. Nothing. He undogs the cubby hatch, opens it a few centimeters, peers out.

Nothing.

His suitcase has been packed for hours. He grabs it off the deck, swings the hatch all the way open, and strides purposefully down the corridor.