The Marines didn’t stay to eat, just heated water for tea or coffee, grabbed a few snacks, and left. “Won’t be getting in your way, Captain,” said Hawes on the way out.

Falconi gave them a casual salute.

The technical details of the nightmares’ biology were deep and varied, and Kira found herself lost in the more obscure points. Everything the Entropists had said was true, but they had barely begun to capture the sheer weirdness of the nightmares. By comparison, the Jellies, with all their genetic manipulation, were positively straightforward. But the nightmares … Kira had never seen anything resembling them. She kept stumbling across snatches of chemical sequences that seemed familiar, but only seemed. The cellular structure of the nightmares wasn’t even stable, and as for how that was possible, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

Her plate had long been empty, and she was still reading when a glass thumped down next to her plate, causing her to jump.

Falconi stood next to her, holding a bouquet of glasses in one hand and several bottles of red wine in the other. Without asking, he filled her glass halfway. “Here.”

Then he walked around, handing out glasses to the crew and Entropists, and filling them.

Finished, he lifted his own glass. “Kira. Things didn’t work out how any of us expected, but if it weren’t for you, there’s a good chance we’d all be dead. Yeah, it’s been a rough day. Yeah, you ticked off every Jelly from here to kingdom come. And yeah, we’re racing off to god knows where because of you.” He paused, his gaze steady. “But we’re alive. Trig is alive. Sparrow is alive. And we have you to thank for that. So this toast is for you, Kira.”

At first no one else joined in. Then Nielsen reached out and lifted her own glass. “Hear, hear,” she said, and the others echoed her.

An unexpected film of tears blurred Kira’s vision. She raised her wine and mumbled thanks. For the first time, she didn’t feel quite so horribly out of place on the Wallfish.

“And in the future, let’s not do any of this again,” said Falconi, sitting down.

A few chuckles followed.

Kira eyed her drink. Half a glass. Not too much. She downed it in a single motion and then sat back, curious what would happen.

Across the mess hall, Falconi gave her a wary look.

A minute passed. Five minutes. Ten. And still Kira felt nothing. She made a face, disgusted. After the abstinence of the past few months, she ought to have gotten at least a slight buzz.

But no. The Soft Blade was suppressing the effects of the alcohol. Even if she’d wanted to get drunk, she couldn’t.

It shouldn’t have, but the realization angered Kira. “Damn you,” she muttered. No one—not even the Soft Blade—ought to be able to dictate what she could do with her body. If she wanted to get a tattoo or become fat or have a kid or do anything else, then she damn well ought to have that freedom. Without the opportunity, she was nothing more than a slave.