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The door depressed with a sigh, and slid open. In the room beyond, cramped living quarters, one pallet and sink with medical supplies lining cabinets that reached to the ceiling. Across the ceiling lay a schematic of the Mona Lisa, but half of it was dark, the rest flickering.

In the middle of the room, behind the pallet, stood one sweating, thin, sallow man, about five ten, in whites that weren’t white any more. Brilliant blue eyes. Looked a bit rodent-ish, like he’d happily gnaw on something, anything, until he’d chewed it all up. But entirely unharmed. Wearing a stink she recognized as fear, mixed with the usual too-long-without-a-shower reek.

He held a small pistol. Aimed at them. Despite the man’s poor physical condition, his hands didn’t shake. His stance reflected military training: two-handed grip, bent slightly at the knees. Unfazed by the firing squad two feet from him.

“Drop the weapon.” Lopez tightened her finger on the trigger.

The man’s bright gaze darted from Marine to Marine, assessing them, before he reached some decision. He licked his lips like a gecko. Lowered the pistol, transferred it to his left hand, and set it on the floor while raising his right arm as if in a parody of surrender. Stood there, waiting.

“Identify yourself,” Lopez ordered flatly.

A relieved smile, although Lopez thought she’d detected an underlying, undeserved confidence. Already had a growing sense he was putting on a performance for them.

“Doctor John Smith, Chief Medical Officer of the transport ship Mona Lisa.” When they didn’t move, he added, hesitantly, “Er, you can lower your weapons.”

Lopez smiled, hoping it came out as grim as Benti claimed. “John Smith” her ass. “You didn’t offer us ice cream. You didn’t even say ‘please’. What’s in it for us?”

“Ice cream?” he said, incredulous.

Some guffaws from behind her, but Smith looked at them like he’d entered a room full of crazy people. She could see he wasn’t someone who liked playing the fool. Resented her already, even if he came off as polite.

“Yeah, ice cream.” Had five dead and wasn’t above taking it out on a stranger. “We want ice cream.”

Smith backed away a little, said, unsmiling, “I’m not the enemy . . . please?”

Lopez lowered her rifle. The others followed her lead. Smith let out that breath he’d been holding.

Okay, fun was over. Time for business.

“What happened here?” she asked. “How’d you wind up in that room?”

Smith shrugged, gave a helpless little laugh that still seemed like acting to Lopez. He picked at some dead skin on his left palm with his right hand. Worried at it. “What do you think happened? Ship like this, only one thing ever happens. Prisoners got a chance, rioted, overwhelmed the guards, and took over the ship. I was lucky to be in here when it happened.”

“Lucky,” she echoed, rolling the word between her teeth. Her own scars were itching. Again. “ ‘Prison ship.’ That’s the story, huh?”

He frowned. “It’s not a story. The prisoners escaped, took over the ship.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. This guy was slick. Lopez liked slick as much as she liked mysteries.

“You know, you’re the first person we’ve found. You might be the only human survivor on this ship.” Put all the emphasis on human.

Smith bared his teeth, neither smile nor grimace. “The only human—”

“Uh-huh,” Lopez said, and gave a nod to her Marines. “Go to it, boys.”

MacCraw and Percy pushed past him to investigate the room, MacCraw giving Smith a good knock with his shoulder. They could smell the bullshit too. Good. Mahmoud collected Smith’s gun and patted him down roughly, coming up empty.

“Policy on the taking of Covenant prisoners change, Smith?” Lopez asked, prodding. “I don’t think we got that memo.”

Smith’s eyes were slits. “It wasn’t a widely circulated memo.”

“No fucking kidding,” giving herself props for getting him to admit something. More than she’d gotten out of Rebecca or Foucault.

Something made him change tactics; she didn’t know what. Saw it in a sudden