Park felt her own lips moving aimlessly, forming shapeless words to herself. It felt as if her brain had turned to wet cement. Wick was—dead? Killed by this stranger? Shit, was all she could think. Shit, shit, shit. She couldn’t even muster the energy to feel grief. Could she have done something? If she’d told others about the stranger sooner—if she’d told Wick—

“He was a good man,” Park said aloud. Her slow-moving brain told her that it was the correct thing to say, under such circumstances.

Boone’s expression didn’t change. “Now he’s a dead one,” he told her. “And we’ll all be next if we don’t catch this bastard.”

In a stupor, she began to follow him out of the room, squinting against the lights of the medical bay, the red glow of panels indicating empty rooms. She felt drunk; colors swayed and shifted in a nauseating fashion. No one else was in sight—not Fulbreech or whatever android she’d heard standing guard earlier.

When had the power come back on? Park wondered dazedly. At least they wouldn’t have to hunt for the murderer in the dark. “How did he kill him?”

A muscle in Boone’s jawline twitched. “Blunt force trauma,” he grunted. “Split his head open like an egg.”

“Did he—suffer?”

Boone’s body was stiff and taut, like a bowstring stretched to its limit. “I don’t think so,” he said finally, speaking with some difficulty. “But I don’t know.”

She shook her head as they made their way toward the white circle that indicated the medical bay’s exit. “And who’s commanding officer now?”

Someone stepped into the pale dazzle of the threshold, blocking their exit. “That would be me,” they said.