She wanted to say something, to proffer comfort, sympathy—a more heartfelt apology. Or commiseration; she had lost a loved one of her own. But Park found herself rendered mute by the coldness, the rawness of Sagara’s anger, so fully buried that she could only sense the edges of it. She had not known a person could feel this deeply and still speak with perfect composure. No wonder she had never been able to read him. He could have been an android—except androids never concocted stories about war. Or death, or love.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, finally, but Sagara did not seem to hear her.

“You see then why I hunt ISF’s enemies so earnestly,” he said. His pace quickened. “Why I’m dedicated to rooting out its saboteurs, its malefactors. I’ve seen what happens when one doesn’t. It’s more than missions failing, worries over not getting paid. People die. And progress is halted—ISF being the only way progress is made in this universe.” He shook his head. “People think me obsessed, dogmatic—a loyal soldier to the end. But I have my reasons for it, just as anyone does.” At this he trailed off, his words loaded with some sort of hidden meaning.

She did not know what to say in the face of his absolute certainty; his bone-deep resolve. She was not sure she had ever felt such a thing in her life. Her causes, if she had ever had any, were never that grand. She was trying to find a way to articulate this when Sagara stopped suddenly. Park, still holding onto his belt, said, “What’s wrong?”

There was a long silence. Finally Sagara said, his voice carefully even: “I don’t recognize this place.”

She let go of him and took a step so that she was standing with him side by side, squinting to make out what his watery light illuminated. They were in what looked like any other tunnel on the ship to her, but when Park looked at Sagara, she saw that he was glaring at the walls as if they had personally slighted him.

“I don’t understand,” Park said.

Sagara didn’t move from his spot. “There should be a right turn here,” he told her.

Park shook her head. “The lights are out,” she said, stating the obvious. “Which can disorient and skew your sense of direction.”

“Not possible,” Sagara said, his voice a hard rap. “The turn is one hundred and eighty-two yards from the pantry. I counted.”

They stood there for a moment, each of them evaluating their surroundings—and each other. Finally Park said, uneasily, “Let’s just continue down the tunnel. I’m sure we’ll encounter the turn eventually.”