Park felt all of the air leave her lungs at the sight of him. She said, barely hearing it: “Stop.”

Sagara heard her and paused, his clenched fist wound back and ready to be launched in the direction of Fulbreech’s face. Fulbreech looked at Park, then Jimex on the ground, and turned white. “Holy shit,” he said finally, staring at the syringe. “You would have killed me.”

“Who’s to say I won’t?” Sagara’s whole body was tense, poised as he was on the balls of his feet. “Where are the others?”

“Natalya’s in the bridge, trying to get in contact with our families,” Fulbreech told him in a rush, holding up his hands. “Boone’s also there, prepping the ship for takeoff. Chanur’s patrolling Deck C, keeping an eye on Taban. And Wan Xu is supposed to be patrolling this deck, but—” He cast an awkward glance at Jimex, who said, “I put him in the closet.”

“What, dead?” Sagara asked with flat non-surprise.

“Asleep,” came the serene response. “He is very physically weak.”

Now the android clambered to his feet and dusted his uniform off, picking something off his sleeve conscientiously. “It was lucky that I went first,” he said, oblivious to whatever else was going on; he removed the syringe from his neck and offered it out to Sagara, who snatched it back. “Real harm would have been done otherwise.” Then he rotated his body toward Park and said sympathetically, “You have been through much, Park. Are you all right?”

All at once she felt a cluster of tears fight up her throat; she pinched them back and nodded. She wanted to run towards Jimex, fall into his arms, cry for days. She wanted to make sure he was all right: she knew now that he was not the android she’d befriended when she first boarded the ship, but she felt the same fierce worry for him all the same. And love. She dashed something traitorous away from her eye and said shakily, “I’m all right, Jimex.”

Fulbreech was looking at her, even while being menaced by Sagara. Park was suddenly aware of how she must look: there was ice encrusted in Sagara’s hair and clothes, and she had to look the same—like a frozen, bloody corpse, the victim of some accident that had left her to be excavated from wintry gutters, or from the Antarctic ice. Park looked away from him and said to Jimex, “Where are the other androids?” She remembered Natalya’s gunshot. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Three are dead,” Jimex answered, in a sad, distracted way. He straightened his cuffs. “Philex, Allex, and Timex. The rest are in hiding. Officer Severov has decided all synthetics aboard must be destroyed.”

Park wanted to touch him—then felt the acute understanding that it would mean something different, now. “I’m so sorry, Jimex.”