Onward she climbed. Gradually Park’s sense of unease—and her conviction that she was in the wrong part of the deck—grew. The air here was humid, warm, almost stale—and she remembered how cold and lightless the trek had been the first time. She had the eerie feeling that the floor and walls were moving around her. Not rotating, as some parts of the ship did, but . . . heaving?

A trick of the light, she told herself, ignoring her damp palms. A consequence of not having Reimi around to conduct maintenance on the lighting modules. The flickering panels cast shadows on the walls that made it look like they were shifting. Respiring. It didn’t help that the air was so muggy and damp, as if she were walking into the gullet of something alive.

Something darted at the corner of Park’s eye. Her head snapped around—but there was nothing there.

Don’t run, she told herself, aware of the irrationality of the thought. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following her.

She crept onward, now shuffling a little in the lambent gray light. Park’s heart was rapping quickly in her chest; she strained to hear the sounds of the others, of proof that there were still people on the ship. That she hadn’t suddenly been cut off from the world of the living.

The tunnel crooked left, then right, then left again. She was going in a zigzag—no, a circle. Park’s internal compass spun crazily, and soon she lost all sense of familiarity or direction. She looked around for some landmark, some way to steady herself; when she tried to pull up the ship’s map on her inlays, METIS, the ship’s computer, informed her that it was an experiencing an error. No directions could be offered—and no one else could be reached.

The air grew warmer and wetter. Park’s sense that the walls were breathing persisted: the floor felt a little spongy under her feet, and the gray walls had a sheen like old meat, the pipes and panels that traced them like viscera. Her stomach lurched a little; she imagined the taste of blood was in her throat.

Down the hall, there was a scuttling.

Park turned and looked back in the direction she had come. “Hello?” she said. She was aware of how feeble her voice sounded; how uncertain and pleading it was. But at this point she would have taken any answer, as long as it was someone she knew. Even the appearance of Boone, with his burliness and electrolaser gun, would have been preferable to being alone and lost for a moment longer.

But there was no answer. Only more scuttling, like the tapping of spider feet, closer and louder. Even though there was nothing there.

Park turned and began to run.

The scuttling sound followed her, seemingly right on her heels, along with an acute sense of pursuit—as if someone’s regard, full of intent, was arrowing down the corridor after her. Park had to keep herself from screaming. She was, suddenly, too afraid to look behind her.