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make out—were, “Too late.”
    He kept his helmet against Mac’s as the decon began, caustic antiseptics misting from the ceiling in a pale green rain. Mac stared back at him through moist glass.
    Hayes gave him a thumbs-up, hoping the insincerity of it wasn’t ridiculously obvious.
    Mac’s eyes were blank and bloodshot. His pores leaked blood in ruby teardrops. Tissue deliquescence and bleedout had already begun.
    Macabie Feya was dying, and there was nothing Hayes could do about it.

O N TOP OF everything else, there was the question of how to spin this unfortunate death.
    The problem preoccupied Kenyon Degrandpre as he reported for his monthly medical evaluation. He was eager to speak to the doctor. Not that he was ill. But the senior medical manager—Corbus Nefford, a Boston-born physician with a long career in the Trusts—was also the closest thing to a friend Degrandpre had found aboard the IOS. Nefford, unlike the cold-world barbarians who dominated the scientific crew, understood the rules of civil discourse. He was friendly but mindful of the subdeties of rank, deferential but seldom distastefully toadying. Nefford possessed a chubby, aristocratic face that must have served him well in the professional sweepstakes back home; he looked like a Family cousin even in his modest physician’s smock.
    Degrandpre stepped into the small medical station and stripped unselfconsciously. Like his uniform, his body was an expression of rank and class. He was nearly hairless, his excess body fat chelatedaway, his musculature defined but not boastful. He wore a Works Trust tattoo on his left shoulder. His slender penis dangled over the faint scar of his orchidectomy, another badge of rank. He stepped quickly into the diagnostic nook.
    Nefford sat attentively at his monitor, never so gauche as to speak before he was addressed.
    Machinery hummed behind Degrandpre’s back, a whisper of hummingbird wings. He said, “Of course you’ve heard about the death.”
    The physician nodded. “A suit breach, I gather. Tragic for the Yambuku staff. I suppose they’ll have to replace the armor.”
    â€œNot to mention the engineer.”
    â€œMacabie Feya. Arrived thirty months ago. Healthy as a horse, but they all are, at least when they first set foot on the IOS. He caused the accident himself, I hear.”
    â€œHe was in open air in poorly prepped protective gear. In that sense, yes, he brought it on himself. But fault has a way of rising up the ranks.”
    â€œSurely no one could blame you, Manager.”
    â€œThank you for the unconvincing show of support. Of course we both know better.”
    â€œIt’s not an ideal world.”
    â€œWe’ve lost two assets that will be expensive to replace. There’s no way to finesse that. However, Yambuku is far from crippled. They can still make vehicular excursions, most of their tractibles are in decent shape, and they have at least one suit of bioarmor that can be brought up to specification fairly quickly. Basic research won’t be interrupted.”
    â€œAnd,” Nefford said, “they have the new gear that Fisher woman brought with her.”
    â€œIs that common knowledge?”
    â€œFor better or worse. The IOS is a village. People talk.”
    â€œToo much and too often.” But Degrandpre expected a certain amount of gossip from Corbus Nefford. Because he was a physician and a section manager, Nefford’s rice bowl was virtually ensured.He could risk saying things others might keep to themselves. “What Zoe Fisher brought with her is an unproven technology foisted on us by a rogue branch of the Trusts. The Fisher woman comes with a vade mecum from Personnel and Devices, and she’s putting herself directly in harm’s way. That worries me. One death is attrition; two would look like incompetence—on someone’s part.”
    The doctor nodded absently, whispering into his