Kira placed the nozzle of the tank against the door’s lock and opened the valve. A plume of white vapor hid the door from view as the nitrogen sprayed out. For a moment she felt the cold in her hands, and then the suit compensated and they were as warm as ever.

She kept up the spray for a count of ten and then twisted the valve shut.

The metal-composite lock was white with frost and condensation. Using the bottom of the tank, Kira struck the lock. It shattered like glass.

Kira dropped the tank and, desperate to get out, yanked on the door. It slid open, and a painfully loud klaxon assaulted her.

Outside was a bare metal corridor lit by strobing lights. A pair of bodies lay at the far end, twisted and horribly limp. At the sight of them, her pulse spiked, and a line of tension formed in the suit, like a wire being pulled taut to the point of breaking.

This was the nightmare scenario: humans and aliens killing each other. It was a disaster that could easily spiral into a catastrophe.

Where did the Extenuating Circumstances keep its shuttles? She tried to recall what she’d seen of the ship back at HQ. The docking bay was somewhere along the middle part of the ship. So that was her goal.

To get there she’d have to go past the dead crew and, hopefully, avoid running into whatever had attacked them.

No time to waste. Kira took a breath to steady herself and then hurried forward on light feet, primed to react to the smallest sound or motion.

She’d only seen corpses a few times before: once when she was a kid on Weyland, when a supercapacitor on a cargo loader had ruptured and killed two men right on the main street of Highstone. Once during the accident on Serris. And now of course, with Alan and her teammates. On the first two occasions, the images had burned into Kira’s mind until she’d considered having them removed. But she hadn’t. And she wouldn’t with the most recent memories either. They were too much a part of her.

As she approached the bodies, she looked. She had to. One man, one woman. The woman had been shot with an energy weapon. The man had been torn apart; his right arm lay separate from the rest of his body. Bullets had dented and smeared the walls around them.

A pistol protruded from under the woman’s hip.

Fighting the urge to gag, Kira stopped and pulled the weapon free. The counter on the side said 7. Seven rounds remaining. Not many, but better than nothing. The problem was, the gun wouldn’t work for her.

“Bishop!” she whispered, and held the gun up. “Can you—”

The safety on the pistol snapped off.

Good. So the UMC still wanted her alive. Without her overlays, Kira wasn’t sure if she could hit anything with the gun, but at least she wasn’t entirely helpless. Just don’t shoot a window. It would be a bad way to die.