Bee wouldn't hold still for Willis to treat her battered hands. She fought the burly medic the whole time he bear-hugged her to the infirmary and when he finally did get her in there she tried to make a run for it. Myra barely shut the doors in time—and getting her on the table was another ordeal.

Willis held her by the wrists, urging her to settle down as she struggled against him. She was surprisingly strong, a wiry sort of muscle, but really no match for him. With all her wriggling, though—

"I could just drug you and strap you down!" Willis barked, softening his grip as his shout snapped her out of her frenzy. For a moment the two locked eyes. A stillness went over her. She sagged back onto the padded table, Willis easing her down, then curled up on her side and let the tears flow, staring aimlessly with red-rimmed eyes.

Willis calmed himself by tending to her fingers. He was glad he didn't have to sedate her again considering what she'd been through already. She'd broken the skin on her knuckles, tore up a few good chunks against the metal grates, but no serious damage. There wasn't much blood but bruises would form.

They'd need to keep a close eye on her in the foreseeable future. He and Myra could work out a recovery plan for her later—for now he would just try to keep her stable, prevent her from hurting herself anymore.

All the damned stars seemed to have something against the girl.

#

Buttercup refused to eat after she learned of Hargrove's death. The thought of food turned her stomach. All she could do was sleep and cry. For a day and night they kept her in the infirmary, Willis standing vigil with Myra as company, but Bee hated it in there and wanted back into her room. At least there she had the illusion of privacy even if she knew Myra would always be watching.

The fog of sadness tinged her every waking moment. Bee thought she'd steeled her heart to such pain long ago. Anything bad she felt before just became fuel for the rage she carried inside her. Back then she could believe she'd find him someday, tell him all about his terrible crimes, and force him to beg before she killed him. Of course, back then she knew nothing—not even his name. He was just a child's memory.

Now that he was real she couldn't even bring herself to think his name.

She just felt so tired. It didn't seem possible anymore. All her troubles for nothing. All the death—for nothing. Hargrove. Mother. Who knew how many other innocents on Surface. She was too small, too insignificant, to do anything about any of it.

Bee rolled over on her bunk to face the wall, her back to the door. She knew it would normally be time for her to wake up for morning drills with Truly but they'd left her alone for—how long? A day at least, she thought. They brought her food she wouldn't eat, usually Silver or the Captain, once Ferro. No one seemed to know what to say. Not that any words could make things better.

She closed her eyes again, sank into darkness.

A piercing scream woke her up, some kind of feral blood-freezing screech. When Bee sat up in bed she realized the noise came from her. A nightmare she'd already forgotten.

"Bee?" came Myra's concerned voice.

"Sorry. Dreaming."

"Don't be, I'm here for you. You want to talk? Or go back to sleep?"

She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes in a hot flood. "I'll dream again."

"I'll stay up with you."

Bee nodded, tears dribbling off her chin. "I can't stop thinking about Hargrove." Her voice cracked at his name. She swallowed and wiped her face with the sheet, embarrassed. "And every time I think of that it reminds me of—of him."

"I know, honey. I'm sorry there was nothing we could do."

"I read about space exposure."

"Bee, you shouldn't—"

"Shouldn't what?" Bee hissed, flashing an angry glare up toward where she knew the camera was. "I shouldn't know how he died? How he probably held his breath before they vented him? I shouldn't know how his lungs popped inside him before he lost consciousness—"

"You shouldn't torture yourself, Buttercup."

"It's my fault!" she cried. "I killed him! If I'd just told him where I was, if I'd just left that phone, if I'd just... Hargrove...." She trailed off sobbing, the agony of her choices too much to bear.

"There there, child, there there," Myra said, fully aware nothing she could say would ease the girl's pain. "Just breathe. Just breathe. This is only a moment in time. You'll get through."

"I don't want to get through, I want to go back. I want to take it all back, all of it."

"The past has passed. What matters is now."

"It's too much," Bee whispered, slumping back to the bed. "I can't."

Myra fell silent as the girl wept quietly. Before she could speak again Bee, calming down some, lifted her head from the pillow. "Will you sing for me?"

"Sing?" Myra asked. "You want music?"

"No," said Bee, smoothing her hair back before settling against the pillow again. "I want you to sing for me. I don't want to sleep yet and I like the sound of your voice. Can you?"

"Well, I've never—" The AI hesitated, unsure. "Like a lullaby?"

Bee sniffed. "Anything."

After another few moments of silence Myra began to sing in a slow rhythmic contralto. She sang of travelers sailing the space between stars, of what they hoped to find in their travels, of hopes and wishes and even prayers. The song filled Bee's thoughts, settled the churning waters in her mind enough to let her slip into a peaceful slumber. She dreamt of distant stars twinkling in welcome of the weary travelers, warming them with their shimmering rays of light.

#

On the screen in his quarters, the Captain watched Myra and Bee as they spoke. He tried to shake off the adrenalin Bee's hair-curling shriek had caused, as it seemed Myra had the situation under control. Wiping his face with one hand, Victor yawned and flopped back on the bed, half-listening to their conversation. Poor girl was a wreck.

He almost nodded off when Myra started singing. Victor jerked awake again, stunned. She'd never sung before in all the years since her creation. He didn't teach her, he knew that for a fact. Such a beautiful voice. Sorrow touched his heart, a sharp shock that took him by surprise. He clenched his jaw to keep it from trembling.

The screen vanished along with the song.

"Victor." Myra spoke gently. She must have closed it.

"You're singing," he managed, his voice catching.

"She asked me."

"Seems to have worked."

"Yes, she's calmed down for now. But I can't really help her unless you let me speak to her as me—the real me, the whole me. The one you're talking to now. I need to connect with her, build trust, not just... interact. She can't trust me without knowing me fully."

"I know, Myra. I know."

"Look at me."

Victor rolled over to face her on the bed. She lay on her side with her head propped up on one elbow, a fist resting lightly against her temple. A sheet draped over her waist left the rest of her body revealed, pleasant curves inviting his eye to trace along her naked form.

"Just how I remember you."

"How's this?" Myra said, and her supple body wrinkled with age to match his own almost sixty years. Crow's feet tracked creases from the corners of her eyes and radiant copper hair faded among silver waves, the dusky red-brown of her original color still peeking through. She smiled at him and her skin folded in places where before it held the tautness of youth.

Victor reached out one hand and caressed her cheek. "Magnificent." But his fingers felt only the faint warmth of a painfully convincing hardlight projection instead of the face his brain insisted was there. He pulled back his hand and a rueful grin played around his lips. "Wish I could have seen it happen on my own time."

"We can help her, Victor. We can give her another chance."

"I know that. Let me be selfish for a moment longer. You're mine, I don't want to share you."

"You must have a heart of stone."

"Until now you've been my personal private project. They don't know you're... real. But I do—and all too well, Myra. Swear to me you'll behave and you can do your work. This doesn't mean I'm giving you free reign over the ship again but prove to me you can keep your word and we'll put full clearance back on the table."

She huffed. "Oh, you know I just don't like being cooped up. I get bored and you've got too many rules for me. But now I've got something to keep me fully occupied."

"Myra, please. Just tell me you'll be true to me. That's all I want to hear."

Her answer came reluctant, half-serious. "Alright, I swear it."

His eyes found hers. "Swear to me."

Myra's body smoothed back to the young peach-skinned woman and she crawled across the bed to Victor, her blue eyes locking with his as she undulated toward him. The sheets moved with her—a trick of the gravity, he knew, just Myra pulling puppet strings. A kind deception.

"I swear you'll have no more trouble from me, Captain Victor Anson," she said, each carefully enunciated word bringing her closer. "My hero. My love. My husband."

Victor closed his eyes and sank back into the sheets as hardlight lips trailed tingling kisses down his neck. He couldn't help but focus on the sensations still missing—the wetness left by her lips and tongue, the tender pinch of teeth on flesh, her breath tickling the hairs on his chest—but he let himself be fooled.

#

A loud thunk next to the bed startled Bee and she rolled over still half-asleep to see her loaner nullsuit's helmet ricochet toward her after bouncing off the floor. She caught it, barely. Standing in the open doorway was First Officer Truly, fully suited. He threw the rest of her suit at her and rapped his armored knuckles against the wall, the heavy ring of metal on metal shattering her morning stupor.

"Alright, alright!" she shouted over the clanging, clapping her hands over her ears until he stopped. "What's wrong with you?"

"Let's go," was all he said before he vanished behind the closed door.

The stiff white nullsuit floated straight at her on an impossible trajectory, its limbs contorted at cruel angles. She'd expected it to fall on the ground in front of her—still used to thinking in terms of Surface. Out here things were different. Normal rules didn't always apply.

Bee caught a fistful of the fabric and pulled the suit in, crumpling it to her chest. Squeezing it tight with both hands, she pulled her knees up, buried her face in the cool silky fabric, and let out a muffled scream until her lungs burned for air.

#

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