Without warning, a hatch opened in the ceiling further down the bay, letting in a harsh square of reddish light. It gleamed on three more spiral arrangements of what Lee was now certain were bombs. A head appeared at the end of a flexible neck. It was a rat-weasel, all arrowhead skull and big, tufted ears, with a technical-looking monocle over one bulging eye. It saw them and withdrew instantly in what Lee parsed as alarm.

“That’s torn it. Mal, this was a stupid idea. What was the plan?”

“The Nissa have a contact here. They said the Fishnet would alert their contact to come find us. Then all we have to do is get to Khan, and the Nissa will drag us out. Hey presto.”

“They didn’t bother to tell me any of that.”

“Lucky I asked, then. Frankly, they’re crap at explanations.” Mal was at her side again, squeezing her arm. “They assume you know stuff, a lot of the time. They’re big on self-sufficiency, where they come from.”

Lee was watching the hatch, waiting for a rodent death squad to drop down. “You saw where they come from, you said.”

“When they took me from the dinosaur place, the first time,” Mal confirmed. “Peaceful, underpopulated. All green and natural. Nice retirement option, right?”

“Except the universe is ending, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Except that, right.”

“Visitors from the distance, undertake no aggression.”

There was just enough light for Lee to exchange glances with Mal. The voice had been artificial, human, almost-female.

“Also, conduct yourselves with a minimum of confusion, as on the detection of your presence woeful consequences would transpire.”

“You had better be our contact,” Mal grated.

“Your surmise is accurate.” And it was tempting to poke fun at its broken English, except it meant the creature was impressively streets ahead of either Lee or Mal linguistically. “I now intend to enter the bombardment chamber and entreat no violence from you.” The calm, flatly melodious tones jarred with what was actually being said.

A moment later, the head reappeared, and then the rest of the creature plus a friend, slipping through the hatch with a fluid agility. The foremost of the rat-weasels was wearing what Lee uncharitably decided resembled someone’s show-offy wedding cake—complete with layers and way too much icing. At its back was another of the creatures, like a Terminator-style death cyborg. She only revised her opinion when it became clear the creature’s function was to translate.

For a moment they were monsters: inhuman without being animals, the Beasts from the Uncanny Valley. Lee felt a spike of some emotion that had no precise name but partook equally of fear, revulsion and existential dread.