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“There,” Benti said, rising to her feet and wiping her bloody hands. Blood never bothered her, only where it came from. “He’s stable. For the moment.”

“Good to talk?” the sarge asked her.

Benti twisted her lips, unwilling to commit to a yes or no. “I gave him a cocktail—painkillers, and an upper. He can talk.” Yep, he could talk, although it wasn’t going to be one of those scintillating discussions you remembered the rest of your life. Besides, the sarge had never been good at polite conversation: one reason Benti liked her.

She caught Lopez’s eye, knew the sarge understood. Mr. Doe could leave them at any time.

Benti stood back as Lopez crouched down. “See that?” Lopez pointed to a tattoo and indentation on his right arm, across the edge of Mr. Doe’s tricep. Prison barcode, with a scar where they’d implanted the tracking chip.

“Interesting.” It didn’t really interest Benti, but you had to humor the sarge sometimes.

Mr. Doe spoke up. “Marines. You’re UNSC.” His voice broke, too long without water and use.

“You’re safe,” Lopez said.

Benti frowned. Mr. Doe was also at the ass-end of the galaxy, light-years from anything unclassified. But I guess you don’t complicate a dying man’s life.

“Thank God,” he wheezed. The tension that had gripped and defined him until then slipped away. “Thank God.”

They were attending his funeral, Benti realized. Her, Lopez, Clarence, MacCraw, Singh, and the rest. Forming an honor guard around a man who might or might not deserve it. For once, MacCraw had fallen as silent as Clarence, thank goodness. She’d been about to nickname him “Jackdaw.”

“What’s your name?” Lopez asked. “Where are you from? What ship?”

Too many questions for Mr. Doe. He coughed, as though clearing his throat, but the cough didn’t stop. Blood, dark and fresh, dribbled down his chin. Benti knew what that meant. Everyone did. She shot a glance at Clarence, who met her eye. It wouldn’t be long now.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Doe wheezed, the words hard to utter. Even Clarence, who usually didn’t give a crap, was leaning in, trying to hear him. “I don’t know where we are, I don’t know.”

“What ship?” Lopez repeated.

Mr. Doe’s reply sounded like “moaning lizard” to Benti. That had to be wrong.

“The what?”

“The Mona Lisa.” And then: “You don’t know, do you? You don’t know.”

Lopez smiled, which, Benti had told her before, on leave, was grim and not at all reassuring and the main reason men fled at the sight of her, but still she wouldn’t give it up. No way Mr. Doe wouldn’t see his own death there.

“I don’t know because you’re not telling me. Tell me, and we’ll get you off to the infirmary, and you can sleep.”

“I would tell you all kinds of things,” Mr. Doe said, stumbling over the words. “If I had anyone left in the world. This is where I’m supposed to say, tell my girl I love her, that sort of thing.” A terrible, pitiless laugh from Mr. Doe, then, that contracted his eyes, his chin. A laugh that convulsed him, brought blood fresh through the bandages. “I know I’m dying. I know I’m dying. But that’s okay.” A clarity in his eyes, despite the kindness of the drugs. “I’m clean. I’m here. I won’t come back. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

It surprised Benti when Lopez took his grime-covered, bloody hand. Somehow Benti thought Lopez would pay for that touch. Benti was used to touching people when they were vulnerable, understood what it meant. Lopez really wasn’t. He’d just been this thing that talked before. Now how did Lopez see him?

“What do you mean, you won’t come back?” Lopez asked.

Like a thunderbolt, a lightning strike called up unbidden: the shimmering image of the ship’s smart AI, Rebecca, appeared beside them, also kneeling. So sudden that Benti had to suppress a sound of surprise, almost lost her balance, and Lopez pulled away a bit.

Rebecca was in her warrior avatar, looking like half-Athena, half-Ares, with a feathered Greek headdress and ancient armor. Rebecca looked so good that Benti almost clapped.