Agent Texas watches the slow turn of the stars and wonders how Allison died.

The Pelican's running lights are at minimum power, doing nothing to smother the brilliant sea of pinpricked light. The spin the ship's picked up from its damaged port thruster isn't enough to override the artificial gravity inside the hull, but the way the stars wheel across the cockpit's viewports is dizzying all the same. Tex presses the back of her helmet against the headrest of the pilot's seat, digs her gloved fingers deep into the plush foam of the armrests, and clings grimly to the illusion of weightlessness, to the sick free-falling feeling.

So, hey, you're an artificial intelligence in an artificial body. You're not even one of the real A.I.s, the ones based on the inside of somebody's brain. Nah, you had to go and be one extra level removed from reality, a memory of a memory. What's even better? You don't remember a damn thing about Allison. There's nothing inside you to remind you of who you used to be.

Agent Texas, this isn't your life.

Connie's files were incomplete in many ways. They'd showed pictures and video clips and news stories confirming that Allison had been young and brave and had crammed a whole lot of mean-spirited humor into the mock-serious mien she adopted in every one of her official photoshoots. They'd listed disciplinary actions and commendations side-by-side. They'd accounted for every official leave, including the ones Allison had refused to take, the ones where she'd insisted on extra tasks, extra missions. And they'd mentioned a date of death, KIA notice, belongings returned to family. Details not only classified, but unknown. She'd disobeyed orders, moved ahead and cut radio contact with her entire squad. Not one of them had survived.

These are the facts. Nothing else is a matter of official record. It isn't even clear whether she'd been on-planet at the time of her death. She could, conceivably, have been piloting a fighter that moved up too far. She could, conceivably, have fallen victim to explosive decompression.

Tex swallows, gives in to vertigo for a moment and closes her eyes, feels the ghost of movement a second longer in the chair beneath her before her sense of balance reasserts itself and assures her body that, despite what may be happening outside that window, the interior of the ship has an Up and a Down that are clear and consistent. She may as well be sitting on the surface of a planet. Everything's fine. These are the facts.

"Wow," says York, softly. "That is one hell of a view."

Without opening her eyes, she says, "It's enough to make you wanna hurl."

"I dunno." She hears him settle into the copilot's seat behind her. "I think it's kinda soothing. Hypnotic, right?"

"Oh, good, we got hypnosis. You gonna bark like a dog if someone tells you to?"

"Meow," York says, deadpan. He's quiet for a while. She has no idea how long. So hey, good news, you're not one of those robots who can always tell how much time is passing. Awkward silences are still interminable. Chalk one up for humanity. She's relieved when he finally pushes past some inner emotional constipation to say, "Hey. You okay? You're acting all quiet-like. And I'm not saying I'm averse to a good companionable silence where nobody's trying to kill anybody else, but I'm really not sure what step two is here..."

Tex opens one eye, then narrows it to squint out at the pinwheeling stars. "Well," she says, "we managed to escape the creepy and corrupt experimental military project more or less intact, but now we're stranded and spinning out into the unknown, so. Step two is probably just to die slowly and painfully."

York gives an exaggerated sigh. "You know, it always is?"

A flicker of green reflects in the viewport; Tex half-turns in her chair to see Delta appear next to York. "At least we had not yet entered slipspace when the engine failed. If that had occurred, we would have been torn apart instantly."

"Yikes," says York. "Way to kill the mood, D."

Tex shrugs, still watching Delta. He's not looking directly at her, she thinks. He's avoiding her eyes. Hell of a thing for a hologram to do... "Guess it depends on whether you prefer a quick death or a slow one," she says.

York groans, pressing his face into his hands, scraping his fingertips against his helmet's faceplate. "Wow. Real bundle of laughs here. Welcome to the party ship."

"For us," says Delta, "remaining aboard the Mother of Invention would likely have resulted in a slow and painful death regardless. Depending on how you define living."

York freezes in place for a moment, then brings his hands back to rub them at the base of his skull. Tex resists the urge to reach for her own implant port, a strangely convincing piece of cosmetic trickery for a false mind inside a false body. "We had to try," he says, like he's convincing himself. "We'll come back for them."

Delta's voice is gently insistent, like he's prodding at an old wound to assess pain levels. "If the later A.I. fragments are as unstable as recent events suggest, it is unlikely that Agent Carolina or Agent Washington will ever truly recover. They may already be—"

Tex stands up, walks past them to the cargo hold. No viewports here, no window out to the slow-spinning stars. She doesn't bother with a jumpseat, just sits on the deck with her knees pulled up to her chest, feels the small vibrations of the ship beneath her.

Allison. Even though Omega's been pulled for days, she feels the link between them stir sluggishly at the name. She pulls off a gauntlet, then a glove, stares at her hand under the dim running lights. Three of the nails on her left hand are jagged and uneven where she's bitten them to the quick. There's a scar in the web of her hand between thumb and forefinger, maybe an injection point. She doesn't remember what it's from. Probably doesn't matter.

There are fine hairs on the back of her hand. She watches them stand on end in the chilly air. Who puts that level of detail into a simulation, an android? A shadow? There are so many parts of her that are normal, she knows, after the first frantic self-examination following her skyrocket to full consciousness in the wake of Connie's words, I know that I can trust you the most. She thinks about the training sessions, always supervised by the Director, about their casual conversations, the times he'd smiled or laughed at something she'd said and then caught himself and looked away. Her stomach turns at the thought, and for a moment she's freewheeling again, spinning slowly among the stars.

She pulls off her helmet, listens to the hiss of escaping air, breathes in the cold staleness. York, standing at the entrance to the hold, says, "You look..." and trails off.

Gravity reasserts itself. Tex smirks at him. "What? Human? Normal?"

York's quiet for a moment, then pulls off his own helmet in awkward solidarity, scrubbing back his hair until it's standing on end. The jagged scarring stands out bright against his pallor. Neither of them's talked about the grenade. Not much to say. "I was gonna go with 'oddly familiar'. Do I owe you money or something?"

Tex snorts. "Never did get in on one of those poker games," she says. It comes out a little more wistful than she intends it. "Probably would've owned the whole ship by the end of the night."

"Pff, big talker," says York, leaning more casually against the wall. "I'll have you know I cleaned up at a few of those nights myself."

"Without Delta secretly cheating for you?"

"Running probabilities is not cheating," Delta says, a little stiffly. "It is a time-saving measure to—"

"Cheating at cards," Tex says, and sighs, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. "I bet you don't even know the Sanghelios Handover."

York taps his finger to his chin. "That the one where you spit acid in your opponents' faces and steal their cards while they're busy screaming?"

Tex grins. "I take it back, there's hope for you yet." She watches him for a moment, then says, "You're scared of me."

"Sure," says York, carefully. "But it's not because you're actually a robot or whatever it is that's going on with you. I've been scared of you a whole lot longer. Promise."

"Delta's scared of me, too."

"Yeah, okay," says York. "That one's a bit more unsettling."

"Uneasy," Delta says, by way of correction. "I... we reacted strongly at the sound of your name."

"Allison," York says. Tex watches Delta, but he doesn't so much as flinch. Trying too hard to be calm there, buddy. From one robot to another, you're a shitty liar.

"You say you have Agent Connecticut's files," Delta says. "If we could examine those documents, we could perhaps work together to—"

"Nope," says Tex. "Not gonna happen. You know what you need to know."

York sighs, slides into a jumpseat. "Better than knowing nothing, I guess." He looks at her sidelong, then says, "Can you die? I mean, assuming we run out of air or food or water or get all space-bloaty or whatever."

Tex shrugs. "I don't know. I do know this body can be damaged. And I know it hurts."

"Somebody made that a deliberate choice," York says. His voice has gone low, thoughtful, but she's pretty sure there's anger smoldering just beneath the surface, and for a moment she thinks she can feel the weightless spin of the stars.

"The sensation of pain can be a positive thing," Delta says. "Especially in a soldier, the knowledge of damage to one's body is essential for optimal performance."

"That's bullshit," York says. "If you had the ability to... to create someone, you'd want to spare them feeling pain."

"When we are in combat," Delta says, slowly and carefully, "I sometimes interface with your neurological system to improve my combat recommendations. When you feel pain, York, so do I."

York gives an explosive sigh. His helmet, in his hand, makes a little abortive motion, like he's just caught himself short of throwing it.

Tex rolls her eyes. "Great, yeah, meaning-of-humanity stuff, what a wonderful way to start the evening. Existential crises all around. Be sure to grab your party bags on the way out, they're full of angst."

"I would submit," Delta says, "that imminent death is an ideal time to ponder existential questions."

Tex squints. "You know your A.I.'s kind of a little shit, right?"

"He does that," York says, wearily. "Hey, D. I know I'm gonna regret asking, but how long do we have left? I mean, me specifically, I guess?"

"Approximately twenty minutes."

Tex's spine goes rigid. "The hell? We leaking air or something?"

"I do not believe so."

York leans down to stage-whisper, "He's got that smug tone of voice. He's being needlessly literal to mess with us."

"We've got twenty minutes," Tex deadpans, "until..."

"Until the salvage vessel patrolling this region notices us. I imagine they'll be pleased to tow us to the nearest station in exchange for any of the less sensitive intel we acquired from Freelancer."

York waves a hand, theatrically. "There it is."

"Fucker," Tex says, and tries to ignore the way her surge of exasperated fondness brings up a disquieting sense of déjà vu.