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Margaret had tuned the crying boy out, but he suddenly grew louder. The suit comms were on a private channel — the young sailor couldn’t hear Tim’s statement of doom, but perhaps he’d read the look on Clarence’s face.

Two options, neither of which promised success: save herself, or try to save these men? She clenched her jaw tight, and made her decision.

“Gas the cells, knock these men out,” she said. “We know the infection has mutated. One or more of these men could have the strain that makes those strange coc.o.o.ns. We put them under, get samples from all of them before we administer the yeast.”

Tim shook his head. “We need to get the h.e.l.l off this boat is what we need to do. We’re still clean. Can’t Secret Agent Man call in an evac for us? Let’s get out of here before some psycho kicks in the door and swings a wrench at our heads!”

She took two steps toward him. She meant to stand face-to-face, but forgot about the clear visors, which thwapped together.

“Feely, we need to see exactly what strains these men have. We’ll get tissue samples from each of them, then you divide the yeast, just like I told you to. In a day or two, you’ll have enough yeast for us to take it ourselves. We need to act now, because these men can’t wait.”

“What we need to do next is save our own a.s.ses, Margaret.”

“How about we save the world, Feely? Can you stop being a selfish little p.r.i.c.k long enough to focus on that?”

He couldn’t hold her stare. He looked off, sniffed, then nodded his head.

“Voice command,” he said. “Feely, Tim. Activate gas in cells three, five and six.”

The men couldn’t hear him, but they knew something was up. Austin and Chappas stood. Chappas pounded on the gla.s.s, screaming to be let out. The scream didn’t last long. Colorless, odorless gas filled their tanks. Within seconds, Chappas and Nagy slumped to the floor.

Margaret looked at Austin Conroy. The boy was still crying, his cheeks puffed out, his lips pursed into a tight little pucker. He was holding his breath. Wet, pleading eyes stared at Margaret.

Tim looked away. Margaret did not.

The boy held on for almost thirty seconds, but his crying broke his lips apart and he drew in an unwanted breath. His sobs slowed, then stopped. He fell back onto his bed.

“All right,” Margaret said. “Let’s get to work.”

TIMELINES

That b.i.t.c.h was crazy.