“Natalya was right,” Chanur spat. “You’re fucking insane, Park. And we don’t need you. You’ve always been more trouble than you’re worth.”

“Don’t do this,” Park heard herself say—but her voice was flat, wooden. Unconvincing. She almost didn’t blame Chanur when she fired.

There was a pop in the air as the gun went off; the sound was so small and brief that it seemed silly, like the celebratory sound of a balloon. Park closed her eyes and thought of nausea, of the corkscrew feeling in her head again; she felt the gravity of the ship flip just as the bullet whined past her; she rushed up toward the ceiling and smacked into it, hearing Chanur scream as her body collided against a vent. The gun had flown out of her hand.

Then Park thought down, jerked her mind viciously in that direction; and the ship flipped again and she landed on her face. There was the crunch of cartilage, a warm, coppery taste in her mouth; she ignored it and looked once more at Chanur, who was lying dazed on the ground. The gun had landed near Megex’s still body, spinning idly in the dim light.

Park dove for it, rolling haphazardly and snatching for it all along the way; she felt the cold, comforting weight of the gun settle into her palm like the hand of an old friend and thought, Please don’t let me kill her.

She rolled upright and raised the gun—but stopped, just before firing. The gravity distraction had given Jimex and the others the opportunity they needed; four of them were holding Chanur’s limbs down like they were the handlers of some kind of medieval torture device. Jimex was sitting on her chest. He did not look back at Park before he raised his two clasped hands above his head—a kind of club—and then swung them down with terrible android strength. Once. Twice.

There was the sound of a breaking melon. Some hard, hollow thing shattering.

A cloud of blood. Chanur made a sound that Park would never forget, not until the day she died. She caught a glimpse of her from around Jimex’s torso: the ruin of her face, her head smashed open, raw and bloody. The transparent jelly of her eyes. She gave a single, wracking scream and looked at Park—and the hatred in the look reached out at her like light traveling down the end of a tunnel. Park lowered her gun and tried to look away from it.

Jimex brought his fists down one last time, methodical, crushing the pulp of Chanur’s brain with all the force of a pneumatic hammer blow. The doctor gave a wet, choking gurgle and fell back, twitching like a pinned insect. Her nerves fired off one last time—a stupid, empty, violent curling contraction—and then she slumped back and died.

Park turned her head to the side, feeling as if she ought to retch.