The heavy door clicked and swung open.

The cockpit was bathed in the pale green and blue glow of the primary flight displays.

Malachi was sitting in the captain’s seat, his small frame swallowed by the sheepskin-lined chair.

His hands were wrapped tightly around the control yoke, his shoulders tense as the plane bumped through a pocket of rough air.

Beside him, Captain Pierce remained motionless, his head slumped onto his chest.

First Officer Danny Cole was lying on the floor of the flight deck, his back supported by the base of the observer’s seat.

His eyelids fluttered, and a thin line of sweat ran down his temple.

Dr. Aris Thorne was kneeling beside him, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the light from the altimeter.

“The cabin air is compromised,” I said, closing the heavy cockpit door behind me.

Dr. Thorne did not look up immediately; his fingers were pressed against Danny’s neck, checking his pulse.

“Yes, I can feel the change in pressure and the scent,” Thorne said, his voice remarkably calm. “The co-pilot is sliding into a deep coma.”