She pounded the deck beside her with both fists. The anxiety rose in her like some thing, like a bastard child got by rape. The unresolved emotions in her were a place, immediately demanding, and she felt that she looked down upon her present upset as the dying were said to look down upon themselves from some high and unresolved corner.

Her hands pained her where she had pounded the deck.

A Chaplain is supposed to ease anxiety, not cause it!

Chaplain—she had searched the word out once and the readout had surprised her: Keeper of the sacred relics.

What were Ship’s sacred relics?

Humans?

Slowly, she forced herself to relax in the darkness of the shipside cubby, but her mind remained a blur of unanswered questions, and once more she caught herself gasping for breath. In sudden dizziness, she saw a memory image of herself touching a dial in the Scream Room. Just a glimpse, and across from her, that twisted clone face . . . those wide terrified eyes . . .

Did I turn that dial? I have to know!

She hugged her knees to keep herself from pounding the deck.

Did I turn that dial myself or did Oakes force my hand?

She held her breath, knowing that she had to remember. She had to. And she knew she would have to destroy Oakes, that she was the only one who could do it.

Even Ship cannot destroy him. She peered up into the cubby’s darkness. You can’t do it, can You, Ship?

She felt that someone else’s thoughts spun in her head—dizziness, dizziness. She shook her head sharply to rid it of the feeling.

Nothing . . . is . . . sacred.

Violent trembling shook her body.

The Scream Room.

She had to remember what happened there! She would have to know her own limits before she went after someone else’s limits. She had to face the blank places in her mind or Oakes would continue to own her—not her body, but her most private self. He would own her.

Her hands clenched into fists against her legs. Her palms ached from the bite of her own fingernails.

I must remember . . . I must . . .

There was one fogged memory and she clung to it: Jessup kneading her maimed flesh with oddly gentle fingers whose deformity she had not even minded.

That memory was real.

She forced herself to open her clenched fists, relax her legs. She sat cross-legged on the mat, sweating and nude. One hand went out in the dark and groped for one of the bottles of wine she had taken from Ferry. Her hands were shaking so badly she was afraid she would crush a glass—besides, that would require her to stand, turn on lights, open a locker. She uncapped the raw wine and drank straight from the bottle.