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My O2 tank may be almost empty, but my propulsion tank is aces. I ignite the jetpack, which does speed me up but at least also speeds me up in the right direction. That little door open on the side of the Halifax is calling my name, and even when I reverse the thrusters, I still come in hot enough to slam into the interior door. I would've bounced right off it, but I have the wherewithal to grab on to the latch and hold as the outer door seals shut behind me.

I get a blur of faces at the porthole, a flurry of movement behind the interior wall. This is a classic hyperbaric chamber airlock—a tiny room with one door that opens to the outside, one door that opens to the inside. The inside door won't open until the chamber is repressurized and air's pumped back in. Even as the outer door seals shut, I'm still floating. There's no gravity, no pressure, no air.

Which is a damn shame because there's also no oxygen left in my tank. I suck at nothing, my lungs left wanting. I get up to the porthole window, and through the heavy carbonglass and the thick protection of my helmet, it's hard to see too clearly who's on the other side. I bang on the window with a gloved fist, but I know it's pointless. They can't hurry up a hyperbaric chamber. It's a failsafe to prevent someone from getting the bends and gravity sickness with the artificial grav generator, but at this point, I'd trade that for some air. Black dots dance behind my eyes. Glory's chamber can take up to five minutes to normalize, but she's an older model. I can probably hold my breath two minutes?

My feet hit the floor, then my knees. Gravity's back on. I can barely think; my body keeps trying to breathe air that's not there. My panicked heartbeat in my ears doesn't distract me from the emptiness of my lungs, a sensation I've never had before. Screw decompression sickness—I rip my helmet off. Bent over, my body makes a gagging-gasping noise. The air is too thin. But there is air, I think, registering that I can actually hear that dying-choking sound streaming out of my raw throat—no sound waves without air.

My arms give out, and I fall fully on the floor, face against the metal. My body bucks, my shoulders spasming as I gasp at air too thin to fully inflate my lungs. My vision goes red.

The last thing I think before it all goes black is:

CHAPTER TWO

I'm so cold.

No, wait. It's just my nose that's cold. That's odd. I squint my eyes open a fraction, then immediately regret that choice and also every choice in my life that led up to this moment of lights so blindingly white that they pierce straight into my brain and fry whatever remaining thoughts I might have.

"Ama Lamarr?" a voice asks gently.

"Ada," I correct automatically.

"Wow, she's alive." A different voice, one a little farther away, mildly surprised.

"I'm not too certain of that," I grumble. I lift an arm, but that arm feels like a million pounds, so I drop it again. My mouth feels weird. I flop my tongue out—too dry—and try to figure out why everything feels cold again.

Hands grab for me and pull me to a sitting position, a croaking groan escaping my lips. I risk opening my eyes again. It still hurts, but it's better than being in the dark.

I'm on a floor, legs splayed, and a small bald woman with dark skin is crouching in front of me, eyes concerned. She nudges my shoulder gently, and I realize there's a wall behind me. I lean against it, slumping immediately. That takes a lot out of me, so I suck in some air, and that's when I realize where the weird cold is coming from—a nasal tube is blowing pure oxygen into me.

"Here," the woman tells me, thrusting a bottle into my hands. I chug it, and icy liquid slithers down my throat. I'm so tired of cold. I'm so tired in general.

"My name is Nandina Mohammed," the woman says. She's the gentle voice. I like her a lot.

"Nice to meet you," I croak. "I think my eyes have hemorrhaged."

She nods. "That was a close call."