“No,” she said, shaking her head. She felt the urge to grab onto him, but resisted, swaying. “Before, when I was going down to the utility rooms—” When had that been? she wondered suddenly. The day before? Or was it the day before that? When was the last time she remembered sleeping? She felt tired, feverish, swollen—as if her limbs had been deboned and filled with saltwater. “I was going down to the utility rooms,” Park repeated, struggling to follow her train of thought. “And I felt—like this. Strange. Like I didn’t know where I was.”

Sagara was staring at her with his brows furrowed. But he stayed silent.

Park put a hand to her temple and said, “And I saw a stranger. Earlier. A man, watching the fight in the mess hall. I think he has something to do with this—”

“Hey,” Sagara said sharply, when Park half-sagged into him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her eyes were fluttering; suddenly the darkness felt too oppressive, as if she couldn’t look at it any longer. “I’m sorry . . .”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just tired,” Park said, fighting back a yawn. “I just need to sleep.”

He was lowering her to the ground. “Something’s wrong. I’m taking you to Chanur.”

“No,” she said. “Not Chanur. We just need to get out of here. And sleep.”

Her grasp on full consciousness was weakening rapidly—and Sagara was warm and solid. She nearly said to him, “Carry me,” the way she’d made Glenn carry her when she was too tired as a girl, but then her knees were buckling and he was saying in her ear, “Park. Stay awake. Park!”

“The man,” she said groggily. She had to struggle to say it without slurring. “He was tall, blond. A stranger. He had a flight suit on . . .”

All at once Sagara’s hands were seizing her, lifting her up. “What did you just say?” he asked harshly. “Park, what did you say?”

There were voices at the end of the hall. “What’s going on?” someone was saying. Sagara didn’t answer. In the wavering utility light Park could see a shadowy figure approaching them. She couldn’t recognize it—her mind was receding—and there was a weird disconnected pain in her palm, where she’d dug her nails in, a throbbing that radioed feverish waves of hurt throughout her body and sent the signal to some conscience far away.

“What’s going on?” someone asked again.

You tell me, Park thought. I’m tired of always trying to find out. Then her head touched the floor, and she was gone.

16.