I froze, holding the notebook tightly against my chest.

The blue light inside the hatch flickered off, leaving the hole in the floor pitch black.

A hand reached out of the darkness and gripped the metal edge of the opening.

The hand was pale, the fingers long and stained with a dark, greasy smudge across the knuckles.

I stepped back, my boots scraping against the metal tracks of the jumpseat.

Dr. Aris Thorne hauled himself out of the hatch, his shoulders rising first, followed by his lean torso.

He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his rumpled linen shirt.

“What were you doing down there?” I asked, my voice trembling but sharp.

Thorne did not answer immediately. He looked at Malachi, then at the sprawling control panel, his eyes darting over the glowing screens.

“The air,” Thorne gasped, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I was trying to find the source of the toxin. The lower compartments are flooded with it.”

“The avionics bay doesn’t handle cabin air,” Malachi said.