Page 70 (1/2)

“That’s the combat alarm,” he said. “What do we do?”

A voice bellowed over the speaker system, making them both jump.

“General quarters, all hands man your battle stations.”

The blaring alarm returned at full volume.

The floor suddenly bucked up beneath them, tossing them into the air. Margaret landed on Candice’s body — both she and the corpse fell to the floor. Monitors, tools and equipment rattled down all around them. Margaret found herself staring into Candice Walker’s empty skull, the concave impressions of where her brain had once been reflecting the lights from above.

Candice … the hydras had made her immune …

The hydras. Margaret had to save the hydras.

She jumped to her feet, as did Tim. A canister had fallen to the debris-cluttered floor. He picked it up and clutched it to his chest.

Margaret pointed at the canister. “That the yeast or the hydras?”

Tim flashed a glance at it. “It’s the yeast.” He looked down, around, a move made awkward by the bulky helmet. “The other one has the hydras … where is it?”

A cold vibration in her chest; if they lost that canister, she’d have to go back into the holding cells — in the midst of all this insanity — and draw blood from Edmund. She turned, looking for the canister amid the fallen equipment and scattered supplies. The morgue module looked like an earthquake had thrown it to and fro. Candice’s body lay on the floor, half on and half off an overturned autopsy table.

An excited voice blared from the s.h.i.+p’s speaker system.

“All hands to battle stations, we’re under fire from the Pinckney. Repeat, under fire from the Pinckney. All hands to battle stations! This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.”

The s.h.i.+p lurched again, hurling her across the module. She slammed into a wall, felt her head bounce off the inside of her helmet. Lying on the floor … left shoulder stinging … someone yelling … she smelled smoke.

How could she smell smoke? She was in the suit …

The stinging in her shoulder. She looked, saw a piece of torn metal jutting out, blood trickling down the blue synthetic fiber of her suit. A hole … six inches long, ragged …

She was exposed.

Hands pulled her up, hands far stronger than Tim Feely’s. Margaret found herself staring at Clarence. He, too, was wearing a suit, but there wasn’t a mark on it. He had his pistol holster strapped to his right leg.

“Margo! You okay?”

She glanced at her shoulder. No, she wasn’t okay.

Clarence pulled her close, looked at the shard of metal. “It’s not deep. Hold on.” He reached up, grabbed it, gave it a light tug — the sting intensified for a second, then eased off.