“O positive,” she read out. “There you go, Lieutenant . . . Charles, is it? Done deal.”

A strange look flickered across the lieutenant’s face. Levering himself up, delicately, he motioned for her to follow him a few feet away, into the corridor. Wassman was disinclined to follow at first, but was forced to comply when Charles carried on regardless, stepping over a black woman who was leaned up against a bulkhead, nursing a hand with some nasty-looking burns.

“Lieutenant!” barked Wassman. “I really don’t have time for this.”

Charles stopped, sighed heavily, and rolled his eyes before turning to face her.

“What is your problem?” Wassman demanded.

People were beginning to stare. Most of the men and women in the room were too lost in their private struggles to notice the scene by the door, but those who were nearby, such as the woman with the burned hand, were turning to watch.

Lieutenant Charles sighed with exasperation. He tried to lean in as if to talk discreetly. “You misunderstand me, Doctor. I didn’t mean blood type. I meant type of blood.”

Wassman scrunched her eyes shut, then blinked twice, rapidly.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Type of blood?” She gestured with her hands—which were sticky with gore—to emphasize her lack of comprehension.

He grimaced with distaste and rolled his eyes toward the black woman on the floor.

“Type of blood,” he murmured. “Don’t you see?”

What little concern she had felt for the man abruptly disappeared, and she just gave him a cold stare. Before he could say anything else, she turned away.

Charles reached out to grab her elbow and was stunned when she spun around and slapped him across the face. It was a hard, stinging blow. He gasped and, without thinking, slapped her back. His blow wasn’t particularly firm, but the slap galvanized everyone who saw it.

Someone grabbed a handful of his shirt. It was a Chinese American sailor.

“Get your hands off me, you damn coolie,” Charles shouted. He made a fist and drove a fierce uppercut into the man’s chin, angling the blow to drive the jaw sideways.

Before the man had even hit the deck, though, another of Wassman’s shipmates came at him. A white man this time, with a padded sleeve covering one arm. His other arm was fine, though. Wassman watched as it drew back and the hand formed a fist. Charles flinched as the blow came in.

The office housed the ship’s Training Department. It was packed with VR gear, computers, screens, and office equipment. They had to break it down and get it all off the ship in less than forty minutes.

Seaman Davidson wasn’t really helping with his endless stream of questions.

What’s that?

What does it do?

How’s it work?