There was an eye-searing burst of green light. Park felt the lightning current surge through Holt’s flesh, buzzing against her fingertips. Someone’s hand—Jimex’s—clamped over her shoulder and jerked her fiercely back; she let go just as the physicist folded to the ground like a wet paper bag. Something thick and damp slapped against Park’s face; to her horror, she tasted blood. No, it was her own blood, she realized. She’d bitten her lip.

Boone’s gun swung around to point at her. He said something, shaking, but his voice was a muffled, silly sound, as if he were talking from underwater. There was a charred smell in the air.

Holt lay at Park’s feet, twitching. His arms were crooked up into the air, like a corpse in rigor mortis. For all she knew, that was what he was. Park opened her mouth but didn’t scream. She felt the liquid dripping down her face and closed her mouth again.

Jimex stepped out in front of her. He said something indistinct to Boone, who turned and began resealing the utility room, his gun now dangling loosely in his left hand. His motions were abrupt, agitated; he fumbled with the panel housing the door lock. Jimex drew Park backward by the hand, then knelt to check Holt’s pulse. He stood up again and said something to her.

“What? What?” Park said. Then: “I can’t hear you.”

Jimex’s face drew closer. His face was as unmoving as a statue’s; his gray eyes were flat and calm and wary. “Eric Holt is alive,” he said. “He requires medical attention. You need to alert Dr. Chanur.”

Park looked at him uncomprehendingly. Jimex’s grip on her arm tightened. “Please,” he said softly. “You are in danger. He might shoot you, too.”

Boone was turning around again, cursing. His eyes looked wild; his hand seemed to spit arcs of green lightning. He caught sight of Park standing there and said, “Park. You saw. I had to do it.”

Park found herself shaking her head; she felt as if she were watching herself from a great distance. “You didn’t have to,” she answered numbly. “You—killed him.”

Boone’s eyes hardened. It was then that she felt the edge of danger, darting through her like a line of heat. She looked at Jimex again, who was watching her steadily.

“Dr. Park,” he said. “Please run.”

—

Park ran. The Deucalion was shifting its trajectory again; the proton storm was waning. It was time to land. Park’s body pedaled stupidly through the air as gravity lifted and dropped intermittently, like a series of sighs. At points she found herself swimming through the corridor, sweating as she plunged towards the medical ward.