The bridge was dark but not empty.
Hayes could hear it working.
Wet tearing. Then the smaller sound—teeth on bone, unhurried. Two shells left in the tube. He made himself count them again.
He started down toward the lower decks, boots finding the slick places where the deck plating had become something else. The nibbling stopped. Across the compartment something scraped, once, then again, closer.
Academy voice: Stay on the task. Keep it simple.
His squad had gone in six other pods. He had no idea which decks they were on. He hoped they were already dead. Dead was quieter than this.
The scraping ceased. A stone's throw. He knew it had him.
He ran for the living-quarters hatch.
The screech behind him was not a warning. It was announcement. Every step the hatch receded. He spun and fired on instinct and instantly hated himself for it.
The muzzle flash painted the thing in the corridor.
Larger than the others. The slug had only dimpled it.
One shell left.
He hit the hatch, slammed the leaves, and the pressure wave told him how close the miss had been. He jammed the last shell through the handles like a bar. The first impact from the other side rang the metal.
He took the stairs.
Forty-eight hours earlier
System 626. Mining vessel, public story. Research ship, the part they didn't put in the briefing. Distress call, then silence. Main power dead, ship tumbling. Seven one-man injection pods. Captain's last order: rendezvous medical wing if you get separated.
Debris field. Pod Six took the hit. Kid inside still had vitals. Trajectory still good—he'd come in near the bridge.
Good luck, kid.
Medical wing. Aid locker.
She had 52% air and the sound of something finishing a meal the way Bandit used to finish a bone—nothing left, not even the idea of stopping.
The ripping ended.
She reached for the latch.
Then the claws started on the locker door.