Her bleak thoughts were interrupted by a commotion on the other side of the room. Fulbreech and Natalya Severov entered the dining room together, arguing in low voices. Park watched their entrance with veiled interest. She hadn’t spoken to Fulbreech since the catastrophe in the escape shuttle; hadn’t even given herself much time to think on it. His gesture for her had been powerful, of course—even she had to acknowledge that. But she didn’t know what to do with it. What to feel. How to face him and express the proper gratitude—if gratitude was what he even wanted.

Perhaps that was why he turned to Natalya, she thought. She might have greeted the proposal a little more warmly. And they had never come to a meal together before. Park surreptitiously scanned them for any signs of assignation: rumpled hair, slightly unzipped decksuits. No, none of that, but just because their clothing was immaculate didn’t mean they hadn’t coupled. Severov, exacting as she was, was the type to demand intactness, the upkeep of appearances. She was, as Boone often said, a hardass. Park knew a little of what that was like.

“You must feel the same way,” Natalya was saying. Though the woman was summer-skinned and golden-haired, her voice always made Park think of winter: she was always so crisp and biting. “There are bots who can make maps, you know. Those drones you use—soon enough they’ll have models able to do your job for you. In spite of you.”

“Luckily for me, there are none on this ship,” Fulbreech said, in a tone that indicated he was tired of the argument. “Look, Natalya, all of our jobs are outdated. You can’t take that out on the bots. We just have to accept the situation for what it is and be grateful for the time we have before ISF puts us to work doing something the robots can’t do. I expect that, after Eos, they’ll put me in the Art sector or something.”

“You’re wrong,” the surveyor retorted fiercely. “Not all jobs are outdated. The combat jobs are safe—they won’t ever trust clunkers with guns. And the psychologists.” At this she threw a venomous look at Park, who stared vacantly at her food to indicate she wasn’t listening. “Bots haven’t figured out how to do that properly yet. I’m not even sure our humans have.”

Fulbreech didn’t look over at Park—carefully, it seemed. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Was there anything else you needed?”

Natalya scowled and turned away. “No,” she replied in her brittle way, walking off toward the food dispensary. “That’s all, Kel. I just hope you see things for how they are.”

Park watched Fulbreech watch her go; she told herself that her interest was merely an observer’s interest. A spy’s interest. She ignored the tight, sour feeling in her chest.

Then Fulbreech turned and caught Park’s eye. His face was tired, but it brightened when he saw her, and he came striding up to Park’s table with the same cheerful, guileless friendliness he’d approached her with for the last ten months. “Anyone sitting here?”