She was drifting above the navigational display, naked, cramped in a rigid fetal knot. Her eyes were open, but fixed on something Kurtz would never see. Her fists were bloody, clenched like stone, and her brown hair, loose now, drifted around her face like seaweed. Very slowly, very carefully, he swung himself across the white keyboards of the command console and secured his suit to the navigational display. She’d gone after the ship’s communications gear with her bare hands, he decided. He deactivated the work suit’s right claw; it unfolded automatically, like two pairs of vice-grip pliers pretending they were a flower. He extended his hand, still sealed in a pressurized gray surgical glove.