There were three decks to the Deucalion in all, with over a hundred different partitioned rooms spread throughout each of them. Park eliminated the idea of searching the crewmembers’ cabins entirely: it was impossible for anyone not to notice a stranger living in their twelve-foot-long cubicle, and anyway the only ones with the authority to unlock the crewmates’ quarters were Wick, Sagara, and Boone, along with any androids who were acting as their delegates. She thought briefly to go find Jimex and requisition him for her search—but when she stopped by the medical bay, he was nowhere to be found. Neither were Ellenex or the security android Dylanex. So Park decided to comb the obscurest parts of the ship alone.

She had to be sure, she thought as she hunted around tall crates and lumpy shapes in the murky gray light. She could not have a repeat of the utility rooms, not in front of Fulbreech—which was why she hadn’t let him come. She had to be sure. She could not scrabble madly, desperately for answers again, with him looking on with pity and bewilderment. She would rather have a hidden assailant jump out at her and force her to use her measly, one-day self-defense training than have to face that.

And she could not have her sanity being called into question. Not with everything else going on, everyone else acting irrationally. Holt, Ma, Keller, Hunter—fighting, violence in the mess hall—the androids failing the simplest commands, behaving strangely. How long would it be before this mental wildfire claimed the rest of the ship?

And who’s to say it hasn’t already? a little voice clicked and chattered in the back of her brain. The insane did not know they were insane.

She felt sick, queasy with lack of sleep and sour paranoia. She was looking in the ship’s least-used corners, starting with Deck B: the cargo bays, the storage facilities, the supply closets. If there was a stranger—and there was, she told herself adamantly—then he would be here. Here in the uninhabited spaces of the ship.

But the more she searched, the more her inner panic rose. She began to question herself. Surely a stowaway would have blankets, stolen food. The man couldn’t have lasted so long without leaving a trace. And yet there was nothing. Crates and shelves loomed over her like shadowy cairns, as if she had stepped onto some strange, ancient trail, edged by indecipherable markers—or a burial ground. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Had she merely glimpsed someone unremarkable, and imposed an imagined unfamiliarity onto them? It couldn’t be—could it?

She peered around the boxes of preserved fruits, squinting at the floor for signs of disturbance. She wished there were dust in space: handprints or scuffs in dirt would really help her case right about now. But the ship’s filtration and purging systems took care of all that. And if it didn’t, then Jimex did, cleaning the ship with laser focus every day.