Maizy Sark lay unconscious, unmoving, in her bunk as Sherry Templeton and another medic fussed over her, adjusting dosages, inserting IV lines and correcting readouts. Once in a while the little Wolf would twitch or mumble, but otherwise she showed no signs of life.

The door to the observation area whirred open, and Madison and the others looked up as Templeton breezed in and went to Whitney. "Okay, we've got her on an even keel and she's responding to light stimuli," the Fox reported, "but we're getting some odd readings from her."

Madison's unease grew. I knew it.

"What's that mean?" Whitney enquired of the medic.

"Her neural patterns are a little ways off from normal," Templeton went on, ears rotating, "and her heartbeat is irregular. But, judging from what the captain tells me happened down there on Pomatta, I'd probably be the same way."

"She certainly wasn't all that normal anyhoo," Whitney mused.

An announcement suddenly came over the ship's PA system. "Attention all bridge personnel. We are clear for departure. Please report to your stations immediately for blast-off."

Brewster cleared his throat from the back of the room. "See you lot in a bit," he said, stretching, and left.

Templeton carried on to Whitney. "Anyway, we're keeping her under close observation. Hopefully we can get her back on her feet soon. It'll just take a while."

Whitney nodded. "Thank you."

Madison looked back into the sickbay at Maizy, lying in the middle of a tangle of IV lines and electrodes, the screens displaying her condition showing those odd readings. Madison wasn't a medical unit, but even she knew they were wrong. Templeton was wildly understating the situation. "Those readouts are highly anomalous," she said to the medic.

Templeton affected a weary smile, as if Madison were a curious kit asking if she could wave a magic wand and cure Maizy. "They're not as bad as they look," she chirped. "Don't worry about your teammate. We're doing all we can."

Madison wasn't convinced. She wasn't entirely sure Whitney, Milan and Henriette were either, but the others seemed to be keeping their observations to themselves. Madison could understand that; it looked to her like Templeton wasn't someone who could be argued with. She was clearly in charge here and no yipyaw was going to tell her otherwise.

Whitney exchanged glances with everyone, including Madison, and nodded again at Templeton. "We'll leave it to you, then," she told her.

Templeton nodded happily. "Wonderful. We'll inform you if anything changes."

"Looking forward to that," Whitney said, half to herself, and made for the door with the others in tow. Madison shot one more troubled look at Maizy, and followed them.

With the Laika away from Pomatta and heading for home by drive-space, Brewster rejoined the group in the mess, where a salvager was chattering incessantly about the vein of volainium that had been unearthed by the excavation effort. Madison had since muted the audio receptors in her ears, but switched them back on when she noticed the skinny mutt sliding up next to her. "Hey."

"Hey," Madison said with a smile. "You're missing story time."

"So, anyway," the salvager, a burly-but-attractive Polar Bear with shortish red hair stuffed into a Volvo baseball cap, was saying, "we never expected to hit such a dense lode. I mean, I've seen it before, on a previous run..." She singled out Milan. "You remember that, Irglova? The job back on the moon near Acadia?"

"Ah, yes," Milan said with a slight smile. "That seam of ruby rhyolite when we were digging up that probe." He took a sip of his fizz-shake. "Good times."

The salvager, Serena Breyer, took an enthusiastic mouthful of reconstituted pasta and chortled. "Anyway, we managed to get three trucks' worth of the stuff. Dunno what the OSA has planned for it, but hey. You don't ask."

Whitney laughed and held up her glass of fizz-shake. "To not asking."

"To not asking," everyone echoed, touching whatever they had in their paw to the glass.

Madison sipped at her own drink and turned to Brewster; he was saying something. "Everything okay with Maizy?" he asked her.

Madison shrugged. "The medics seem to have it together."

Brewster snorted. "Medics. They think they're right all the time. My younger sister had a mild skin inflammation once, and the medic kept telling her it was fleas. We all had to get treated and she was prescribed one of those special shampoo products. Our folks were fuming when they found out that all she needed was a bit of moisturiser."

"I'm thinking the medics on an OSA vessel are a little more up to snuff," Madison replied, wary of OSA programming affecting her reply.

Brewster twitched his muzzle. "Nah. I've seen a hundred just like Templeton. All smiles and chirps, especially when they can foist a new product on you."

Madison didn't have much to add there. "I don't have much experience with medics."

Brewster nodded in understanding. "No. Well, you wouldn't have, would you?"

Madison took another sip of her drink. "Though if Templeton's in any way representative of those in that profession, then I'm happy about that. She was infuriating to talk to."

Brewster chortled. "I'll drink to that. Except, I, uh, don't have a drink."

Madison passed hers over to him. "There you go."

Brewster opened his mouth slightly, and looked a little repulsed. "Really?" he asked pointedly, eyeing the glass as if it were preparing to attack him.

"Don't worry," Madison said with a reassuring smile. "I don't carry any pathogens in my mouth."

Brewster blinked. "That's... that's okay, Madison. I'll just get my own." He stood and left for the serving area.

Madison looked back to her glass, confused. It would have been perfectly safe for him to drink from. She shrugged and took it back, slurping at it.

Maybe she'd smiled wrong.

Back in the dormitory, Madison lay on her back in her bunk, boots off and Gromit shirt on, occupying herself with running a few equations through her logic core. The job on Pomatta was behind her now, and there were no orders or objectives taking up space in her head. For the meantime, she was free to kick back, and she was doing just that. Henriette and Brewster were out in the commons watching more of the InTense Games, while Milan and Whitney were still in the mess with Serena Breyer's team. They'd all agreed to meet up for a game on the basketball court later, something that Madison was looking forward to, but it was quiet right now. She checked her charge level, and found it to be in the mid-fifties. Hmm. Definitely a good opportunity to recharge before going on the court. She closed her eyes and stretched out, rolling over and burying her face in her pillow, not caring that she was still mostly dressed. She knew she'd dream of Jeff, but she'd be okay. Brewster had made her feel a little better on that front. She snuffled and breathed out, letting the waking world go.

No sooner had she dozed off than she was violently awoken by someone shaking her. She gasped and sat up, her systems coming back online in a rush. Brewster was sitting on her bunk, and he stood as she got to her socked feet. "Madison, something's happening," he was telling her urgently.

Madison blinked. "What? What's happening?"

"I don't know, but the security lot are running all over the place," Brewster went on. "All I can tell you is, it looks bad."

"What can we do?" Madison asked him, knowing precisely what the problem might be.

"Stay here," Brewster said, glancing periodically at the door leading to the crew commons. "Everyone's being recalled to the crew deck. Whitney and Milan are on their way up."

Madison's self-preservation routines were starting to spike, to warn her of possible danger – the synthetic equivalent of being afraid. Hypothetical scenarios were lining up in her mind, none of them quelling the alert but all of them possible and lurid.

Mostly involving Maizy.

Panicked chatter reached the dorm, and Henriette shoved the door open. "They're here," she panted. Behind her were Whitney and Milan.

"You okay?" Brewster asked them.

"We're good, Brewski," Whitney replied, bafflement and a tinge of fear on her pretty face. "We saw a bunch of guards rushing off in the direction of the medbay."

Madison's head reeled. It's Maizy.

"Maybe they've run out of paw sanitizer," Milan offered. Nobody laughed.

"Attention all stations," came another PA announcement. "All nonessential personnel are to sequester themselves in the crew commons and await further instruction. This is for your own safety. Security Two and Four to infirmary."

The hiss of radio chatter and the thud of guard boots on deck from the direction of the commons accompanied the announcement.

"Two teams?" Henriette cried, her ears twitching furiously. "What the hell's going on over there?"

Nobody had any answers. "Nothing we can do," Whitney said, taking charge. "Our only option right now is to stay put until we can get a handle on things. Or the captain gives us that handle. Either way, we're stuck here." The Raccoon ambled to her bunk nearby and sat down on it. "Think our basketball game may have to wait." Her tone was calm, but Madison knew she was anything but inside. Milan seemed to be best attuned to this; he went with her, and sat down beside her. "It'll be okay, Whit," Madison heard him whisper, and he kissed her on the cheek. She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes, her face never losing that rigid composure.

A sudden commotion from the crew commons brought everyone's attention in that direction. Henriette ran to the door, followed by Brewster. "Stay here," he told Whitney and Milan, who both seemed content to follow that directive, and Madison followed them out.

The commons area was tightly packed with arriving crewers, but most of the attention seemed to be on a Fox security officer yelling into his radio. "Say again, mate. It's in the what?" He frowned as he listened to the reply. "How many dead, did you say? Repeat that! Garvey, can you hear me?" More chatter. "What happened to Templeton? She's what? Mate, mate, I'm losing you." The chatter suddenly cut off, and unease rippled through those listening in. The guard looked up at them. "Think we're having some comms issues. Everyone stay calm."

"Better do as he says," Henriette told everyone.

"Uh, people?" A quiet voice cut in, and heads turned towards a young-looking Retriever in engineer's uniform; she was staring at the security screen next to the main door, which offered a wide view of the corridor outside.

And there was someone out there.

Madison moved closer to the monitor, along with several others, for a better look. "One of the guards?"

It wasn't.

The figure was slight, wiry, and clearly lupine. It was dressed in an OSA shirt, pants and boots, and it was standing motionless in the corridor, some distance from the camera.

Then it looked up: straight, it would seem, at those watching.

"Maizy..." Henriette whispered.

"What's wrong with her face?" Brewster breathed. "It's covered in..."

Madison tensed. Maizy's muzzle was painted with splashes of something dark, showing up as a deep ultramarine on the blue-tinted monitor, mostly around her mouth. It was all over her shirt as well, and down her pants, on her boots.

Dripping on the deck.

"She's moving," the engineer cried as Maizy started to walk forwards.

Towards the door.

"Oh, this isn't going to be good," Brewster whimpered.

Maizy moved out of view – and the door began to shudder as something threw its weight against it. Something powerful.

The guard was babbling frantically into his radio. "We have a situation on the crew deck! Any and all units who can hear this, respond immediately!" he yelped. A reply stuttered back, but Madison didn't hear it. The door was her primary focus as it continued to rumble. She felt Brewster next to her, and put an arm around him involuntarily, closing her eyes.

But Maizy's face was still there.