“Two months at null g,” Soledad said, but her voice and the grayness of her face were clear. Two months at the Ring.

“Yeah,” Stanni said. “Any word on Bob?”

The fifth of the team—fourth now—was still back on the Cerisier. It turned out he and Ren had both been having a relationship with a man on the medical team, and security were rounding up the usual suspects. Most times someone went missing, it was domestic. Melba felt her throat going thick again.

“Nothing yet,” she said. “They’ll clear him. He wouldn’t have done anything.”

“Yeah,” Soledad said. “Bob wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a good man. Everyone knew about everything, and he loved Ren.”

“Could stop the passato,” Stanni said. “We don’t know he’s dead.”

“With esse coisa out there, dead’s the best thing he could be,” Soledad said. “I’ve been having bad dreams since we flipped. I don’t think we’re making it back from this run. Not any of us.”

“Talking like that won’t help,” Stanni said.

A woman walked into the galley. Middle-aged, thick red hair pulled into a severe-looking bun that competed with her smile. Melba looked at her to try not to be at the table, then looked away.

“Whatever happened to Ren,” she said, “we’ve got our job to do. And we’ll do it.”

“Damn right,” Stanni said, and then again with a catch in his voice. “Damn right.”

They sat together quietly for a moment while the older man wept. Solé put a hand on his arm, and Stanni’s shuddering breath slowed. He nodded, swallowed. He looked like an icon of grief and courage. He looked noble. It struck Melba for the first time that Stanni was probably her father’s age, and she had never seen her father weep for anyone.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She hadn’t planned to speak the words, but there they were, coughed up on the table. They seemed obscene.

“It’s okay,” Stanni said. “I’m all right. Here, boss, have a roll.”

Melba reached out, fighting herself not to weep again. Not to speak. She didn’t know what she’d say, and she was afraid of herself. The alert chimed on her hand terminal. The diagnostic was finished. It only took a second to see that the spike was still there. Stanni said something profane, then shrugged.

“No rest for the wicked, no peace for the good,” he said, standing.

“Go ahead,” Melba said. “I’ll catch up.”

“Pas problema,” Soledad said. “You hardly got to drink your coffee, sa sa?”

She watched them go, relieved that they wouldn’t be there and wanting to call them back, both at the same time. The thickness in her throat had traveled to her chest. The sweet rolls looked delicious and nauseating. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths.

It was almost over. The fleets were there. The Rocinantewas there. Everything was going according to her plan, or if not quite that, at least near enough to it. Ren shouldn’t have mattered. She’d killed men before him. It was almost inevitable that people would die when the bomb went off. Vengeance called forth blood, because it always did. That was its nature, and she had made herself its instrument.

Ren wasn’t her fault, he was Holden’s. Holden had killed him by making her presence necessary. If he had respected the honor of her family, none of this would have happened. She stood up, squared herself, prepared to get back to the job of fixing the Thomas Prince, just the way the real Melba would have.

“I’m sorry, Ren,” she said, thinking it would be the last time, and the sorrow that shook her made her sit back down.

Something was wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Her control was slipping. She wondered if after all she’d done, she simply wasn’t strong enough. Or if there was something else. Maybe the artificial glands had begun to leak their toxins into her bloodstream without being summoned. She was getting more emotionally labile. It could be a symptom. She rested her head on her arms and tried to catch her breath.

He’d been kind to her. He’d been nothing but kind. He’d helped her, and she’d killed him for it. She could still feel his skull giving way under her hand; crisp and soft, like standing at the bank of a river and feeling the ground fall away. Her fingers smelled like sealant foam.

Ren touched her shoulder, and her head snapped up.

“Hi,” someone said. “I’m Anna. What’s your name?”

It was the redhead who’d been talking to the naval officer a moment ago.

“I saw you sitting here,” she said, sitting down. “It looked like you could use some company. It’s okay to be afraid. I understand.”

She knows.

The thought ran through Melba’s body like a sheet of lightning. Even without her tongue touching her palate, she felt the glands and bladders hidden in her flesh engorging. Her face and hands felt cold. Before the woman’s eyes could widen, Melba’s sorrow and guilt turned to a cold rage. She knew, and she would expose everything, and then all of it would have been wasted.

She didn’t remember rising to her feet, but she was there now. The woman stood and took a step back.

I have to kill her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The woman’s hands were half raised, as if that were enough to ward off a blow. It would be simple. She didn’t look strong. She didn’t know how to fight. Kick her in the gut until she bled out. Nothing simpler.

A small voice in the back of Melba’s mind said, She’s one of those idiot priests looking for someone to save. She doesn’t know anything. You’re in public. If you attack her, they’ll catch you.

“You don’t know me,” Melba said, struggling to keep her voice calm. “You don’t know anything.”

At one of the tables nearest the door, a young officer stood up and took two steps toward them, ready to interfere. If this woman got her thrown in the brig, they’d look into Melba’s identity. They’d find Ren’s body. They’d find out who she was. She had to keep it together.

“You’re right. I apologize,” the woman said.

Hatred surged up in Melba’s mind, pure and black where it wasn’t red. A swamp of obscenities rose in her throat, ready to pour out on the idiot priest who was putting everything—everything—in jeopardy. Melba swallowed it all and walked quickly away.

The corridors of the Thomas Princewere a vague presence in the unquiet of her mind. She’d let the thing with Ren throw her. It stole her focus and led her into risks she didn’t need to take. She hadn’t been thinking straight, but now she was. She got into the elevator and selected the level where Stanni and Soledad were checking the electrical system, chasing down the failing component. Then she deselected it and picked the hangar.

“Stanni? Solé?” she said into her hand terminal. “Hold it together for me here. I’ve got a thing I need to do.”

She waited for the inevitable questioning, the prying and suspicion.

“Okay,” Soledad said. And that was all.

At the hangar, Melba authorized the flight of her shuttle, waited ten minutes for clearance, and launched out the side of the Thomas Princeand into the black. The shuttle monitors were cheap and small, the vastness of space compressed into fifty centimeters by fifty centimeters. She had the computer figure the fastest burn for the Cerisier. It was less than an hour. She leaned into the thrust like she was riding a roller coaster and let the torch engines burn. The Cerisierappeared in the dusting of stars as a small gray dot that hurtled toward her. The ship, like all the others in the flotilla, was in the last of the deceleration burn to put them at the Ring. Somewhere out past all the glowing drive plumes, it waited. Melba pushed the thought from her mind. It made her think of Stanni and Soledad and their quiet fears. She couldn’t think of them now.

Impatience to arrive made it hard to start the flip and the deceleration burn. She wanted to get there, to be there already. She wanted to speed into the Cerisierlike a witch on a broom, screaming in at speeds that wouldn’t have been possible in atmosphere. She waited too long, and did the last half of the jump at almost two g. When she docked, she had a headache and her jaw felt like someone had punched her.